Did we not know that Miss Mitford was incapable of a harsh thought towards her father, we should be inclined to read a satire into these lines. Who smoothed the way for her? What time had she wherein to wait and pray? Her days she spent in treading the flinty path of duty, made more rugged and hard by that one who, had he done his duty, would have exerted himself rather in smoothing the way.
Writing to Haydon late in the year to congratulate him on a success, she said:—“Be quite assured that my sympathy with you and with art is as strong as ever, albeit the demonstration have lost its youthfulness and its enthusiasm, just as I myself have done. The fact is that I am much changed, much saddened—am older in mind than in years—have entirely lost that greatest gift of nature, animal spirits, and am become as nervous and good-for-nothing a person as you can imagine. Conversation excites me sometimes, but only, I think, to fall back with a deader weight. Whether there be any physical cause for this, I cannot tell. I hope so, for then perhaps it may pass away; but I rather fear that it is the overburthen, the sense that more is expected of me than I can perform, which weighs me down and prevents me doing anything. I am ashamed to say that a play bespoken last year at Drury Lane, and wanted by them beyond measure, is not yet nearly finished. I do not even know whether it will be completed in time to be produced this season. I try to write it and cry over my lamentable inability, but I do not get on. Women were not meant to earn the bread of a family—I am sure of that—there is a want of strength.... God bless you and yours! Do not judge of the sincerity of an old friendship, or the warmth of an old friend, by the unfrequency or dulness of her letters.”
Added to all this weight of work and the forbearance exacted of her by her father, there was the worry consequent upon Mrs. Mitford’s failing health. Judging by the letters of the period it is evident that the mother’s condition was growing serious. Her mind was often a blank and, as the winter drew on, there was a recurrence of the asthma which sapped the little strength remaining to her. “My mother, whom few things touch now, is particularly pleased,” wrote Miss Mitford to William Harness à propos of a visit he had promised to pay them, and concerning which she added:—“You don’t know how often I have longed to press you to come to us, but have always been afraid; you are used to things so much better, and I thought you would find it dull.”
On Boxing-Day, 1829, Mrs. Mitford’s condition was very grave, for she was seized with apoplexy, and had to be put to bed. There she lingered hovering between life and death until the morning of January 2, 1830, when she passed away, in the eightieth year of her age. The account of her last illness and death is amongst the most touching things ever penned by her daughter—to whom sentimentality was abhorrent. It is too long for extensive quotation, but we cannot forbear making a brief extract describing the last sad moments.
“She was gone. I had kissed her dear hand and her dear face just before. She looked sweet, and calm, and peaceful: there was even a smile on her dear face. I thought my heart would have broken, and my dear father’s too.
“On Saturday I did not see her; I tried, but on opening the door I found her covered by a sheet, and had not courage to take it down.... On Thursday I saw her for the last time, in the coffin, with the dear face covered, and gathered for her all the flowers I could get—chrysanthemums (now a hallowed flower), white, yellow and purple—laurustinus, one early common primrose, a white Chinese primrose, bay and myrtle from a tree she liked, verbena, and lemon-grass also. I put some of these in the coffin, with rosemary, and my dear father put some.
“We kissed her cold hand, and then we followed her to her grave in Shinfield Church, near the door, very deep and in a fine soil, with room above it for her own dear husband and her own dear child. God grant we may tread in her steps!... No human being was ever so devoted to her duties—so just, so pious, so charitable, so true, so feminine, so industrious, so generous, so disinterested, so lady-like—never thinking of herself, always of others—the best mother, the most devoted wife, the most faithful friend.... Oh, that I could but again feel the touch of that dear hand! God forgive me my many faults to her, blessed angel, and grant that I may humbly follow in her track!... She told Harriet Palmer (of whom she was fond) that she meant to get a guinea, and have her father’s old Bible—the little black Bible which she read every day—beautifully bound, with her initials on it, and give it to me. She told me, when Otto should be performed, she wanted a guinea—but not why—and would not take it before. It shall be done, blessed saint!”
CHAPTER XXII
“THE WORKHOUSE—A FAR PREFERABLE DESTINY”
“For my own part I have plenty that must be done; much connected painfully with my terrible grief; much that is calculated to force me into exertion, by the necessity of getting money to meet the inevitable expenses. Whether it were inability or inertness I cannot tell, but Otto is still but little advanced. I lament this of all things now; I grieve over it as a fault as well as a misfortune.”
So wrote Miss Mitford to William Harness on January 9, 1830, the day following her mother’s funeral. And truly there was plenty to be done and she would need all her woman’s courage, for now “the weight which Dr. Mitford had divided between two forbearing women had to be borne by one.”