‘Lord Kilgobbin’ was published in three volumes early in 1872. “In
finishing it,” its author said, “I have also finished my own career as
a story-writer. Time was when the end of a journey only heralded the
preparation for another. Now the next must be a longer road.... I do
so long for rest--rest.” The novel was dedicated “to the memory of one
whose companionship made the happiness of a long life.... The task
that was once my joy and pride I have lived to find associated with
my sorrow. It is not then without a cause I say--I hope this may be
my last.” In May Mr and Mrs Blackwood, accompanied by Miss Blackwood
(afterwards Mrs Porter), set out from Edinburgh. They visited Vienna,
and here a rumour reached them that Charles Lever was dangerously ill. A
few days later, while the Blackwoods were visiting Robert Lytton (“Owen
Meredith “) at his country seat near Vienna, they heard that Lever was
better. Mrs Porter (in ‘The House of Blackwood’) gives her impressions
of the visit to Lever’s home, and her memories of the novelist’s last
days, vividly and with genuine feeling:--
“We set off to Trieste,” writes Mrs Porter, “to see him, but not to stay
in his house. Early the morning after our arrival Miss Lever called with
the welcome news that Mr Lever was much better, and she took my father
back with her to see him. When he returned to us he said it was arranged
we should all dine with the Levers, and shortly before four we set off
to drive to their villa, which was at the top of a hill and near some
public gardens--so near that we could hear the German waltzes the band
played as we sat out in the Levers’ own garden, which was remarkably
pretty, and full of shady trees. When we arrived Lever was sitting in a
bright cheerful room with a large window, and a balcony opening off it
covered with roses and creepers. He looked better and stronger than we
had expected to see him, and the sight of his friend seemed to bring
back a flicker of the old spirit, and he talked and laughed gaily during
the dinner, which was at four o’clock. Lever’s appearance did not give
the impression of ill-health any more than it suggested the hardworking
man of letters or denizen of the Consulate, but rather one would have
imagined him to be a big, jolly, country gentleman, with his stalwart
frame and ruddy face--his air of hearty hospitality and welcome still
further strengthening the impression. The rest of the party were,
besides his two daughters, Mr Monson and Mr Smart.
“After dinner we adjourned to the garden for coffee and cigarettes, and
Mr Lever sat up till very late. The second evening the same pleasant
party, with the addition of the clergyman, Mr Callaghan; the same amount
of laughing and talking, perhaps rather more. Many were the jokes about
their neighbours, the society being mainly composed of wealthy Jewish
merchants and their families; but the impression was that the jokes were
all kindly, the wit without sting, and that the Jews had been made the
best of in that cheery happy-go-lucky household. Indeed he mentioned
that on some festive occasion Lord Dalling, in an amiable whisper, had
remarked at last, ‘Lever, I like your Jews,’ and this, of course, made
everybody feel quite happy. My father had a great wish to see Miramar,
the home of the ill-fated Archduke Maximilian, and Lever was as anxious
to show it to him; but though we put it off till the last day of our
visit, he was unequal to the exertion of driving so far, so Miss Lever
drove with us to the house.
“And now comes the sad part, our last evening at the Villa Gasteiger.
My father had dreaded this parting: he knew his friend was not really
better--that the heart complaint he suffered from might prove fatal at
any time; but he put the thought away from him when they were meeting
every day. It was only now, as we approached his house for the last
time, that we felt weighed down by something impending. Mr Lever was in
the garden when we arrived, but soon dinner T was announced, and we went
into the house, the same party as the first evening. The laughter and
chaff at dinner had been as usual, and Mr Lever had been most delightful
and amusing--the life and soul of the party. Afterwards we sat out in
the garden under the trees, the band over the way playing as usual. Mr
Lever said he was very proud of it. He asked for tea to be brought
out there, and when told it was coming said, half to himself, ‘So is
Christmas,’ with a smile to us. They were all smoking, and he sat in
the middle of the group in an arm-chair, wearing his big shady hat, my
father and mother on each side of him. He would not have the lamp they
usually had in the garden, so it was nearly dark when the other guests
sauntered away, leaving him alone with the friends who were soon to bid
him farewell. He spoke very despairingly of himself, as though he should
not recover, and said that always about that time after dinner he had a
‘false feeling of health,’ which he knew could not last. A great sadness
came over us as we sat on, not talking much, listening to the band,
which was playing all the time, giving an unreality to the scene, as
though we were taking part in a drama. Our carriage meanwhile had come
up, and had gone round to the back of the house. We heard it, but did
not know how to get up and say good-bye. At last my father rose, and
there was the usual stir and looking for cloaks and wraps, which seemed
to help off our departure, poor Lever joking and laughing as he helped
to wrap us up, and escorted us to the carriage. We shook hands with him,
and said good-bye to the others there. As we drove away we looked back
and saw him standing with his daughters watching us and waving farewell.
We knew it was really good-bye, and our drive was a silent one.
“Our apprehensions about Lever’s health were only too well founded, for
on our reaching Venice at five o’clock the following afternoon we were
met by a telegram saying he had died during the day [1st June]. My
father immediately returned to Trieste by a steamer which was just
starting, to be of what use he might to his friend’s daughters. The
journey by sea occupied twelve hours, and he wrote the next morning as
follows: ‘I got here about seven this morning, after a not unpleasant
voyage, considering the company and the circumstances. After bath and
breakfast I went to Smart’s room and found him and Monson. They said at
once how pleased the daughters would be. They had not liked to ask me to
come in the telegram, but hoped and expected I would come. I went up and
sat for more than an hour with the two mourners. Poor souls! it was most
affecting to hear them pouring forth about all their father’s goodness
and kindness. Poor Lever had sat talking about us after we left until
about his usual hour, twelve. He had the usual restless night until
about five, when he fell asleep. He awoke at the usual time for his
letters, and after reading them and chatting he lay down to rest. They
looked in from time to time as they were in the habit of doing, and
found him sleeping quietly, until Miss Lever, going in towards three,
found he had apparently passed away without struggle or pain.... It
is most melancholy to think of our fine bright friend. Sitting in that
drawing-room to-day looking out on the garden, I could hardly help
bursting out crying. It seemed hardly realisable. However, his last
evening was a bright one, and it was an end such as he had wished. He
had a perfect horror of living on weakened in and mind, a weariness to
himself and others.’” At six o’clock on the evening of June 3, 1872,
all that was mortal of Charles Lever was laid in the British Cemetery
at Trieste, alongside the remains of her “whose companionship made the
happiness of a long life.”