(1826)
_Abbotsford, April 16, 1826._--I am now far ahead with _Nap_.[13] I
wrote a little this morning, but this forenoon I must write letters, a
task in which I am far behind. Lady Scott seems to make no way, yet
can scarce be said to lose any. She suffers much occasionally,
especially during the night. Sleeps a great deal when at ease; all
symptoms announce water upon the chest. A sad prospect.
_April 19._--Two melancholy things. Last night I left my pallet in our
family apartment, to make way for a female attendant, and removed to a
dressing-room adjoining, when to return, or whether ever, God only can
tell. Also my servant cut my hair, which used to be poor Charlotte's
personal task. I hope she will not observe it.
_April 21._--Had the grief to find Lady Scott had insisted on coming
down-stairs and was the worse of it. Also a letter from Lockhart,
giving a poor account of the infant. God help us! earth can not.
_May 2._--I wrote and read for three hours, and then walked, the day
being soft and delightful; but alas! all my walks are lonely from the
absence of my poor companion. She does not suffer, thank God, but
strength must fail at last. Since Sunday there has been a gradual
change--very gradual--but, alas! to the worse. My hopes are almost
gone. But I am determined to stand this grief as I have done others.
_May 4._--On visiting Lady Scott's sick-room this morning, I found her
suffering, and I doubt if she knew me. Yet, after breakfast, she
seemed serene and composed. The worst is, she will not speak out about
the symptoms under which she labors. Sad, sad work; I am under the
most melancholy apprehension, for what constitution can hold out under
these continued and wasting attacks.
_May 6._--The same scene of hopeless (almost) and unavailing anxiety.
Still welcoming me with a smile, and asserting she is better. I fear
the disease is too deeply entwined with the principles of life. Yet
the increase of good weather, especially if it would turn more genial,
might, I think, aid her excellent constitution. Still laboring at this
_Review_, without heart or spirits to finish it.
_May 10._--To-morrow I leave my home. To what scene I may suddenly be
recalled, it wrings my heart to think.
_Edinburgh, May 11._--Charlotte was unable to take leave of me, being
in a sound sleep, after a very indifferent night. Perhaps it was as
well. Emotion might have hurt her; and nothing I could have exprest
would have been worth the risk. I have foreseen, for two years and
more, that this menaced event could not be far distant. I have seen
plainly, within the last two months, that recovery was hopeless. And
yet to part with the companion of twenty-nine years when so very
ill--that I did not, could not foresee. It withers my heart to think
of it, and to recollect that I can hardly hope again to seek
confidence and counsel from that ear to which all might be safely
confided. But in her present lethargic state, what would my attentions
have availed? and Anne has promised close and constant intelligence. I
must dine with James Ballantyne to-day _en famille_. I can not help
it; but would rather be at home and alone. However, I can go out too.
I will not yield to the barren sense of hopelessness which struggles
to invade me. I past a pleasant day with J. B.,[14] which was a great
relief from the black dog which would have worried me at home. We were
quite alone.
_May 15._--Received the melancholy intelligence that all is over at
Abbotsford.
_Abbotsford, May 16._--She died at nine in the morning, after being
very ill for two days--easy at last.
I arrived here late last night. Anne is worn out, and has had
hysterics, which returned on my arrival. Her broken accents were like
those of a child, the language, as well as the tones, broken, but in
the most gentle voice of submission. "Poor mama--never return
again--gone forever--a better place." Then, when she came to herself,
she spoke with sense, freedom, and strength of mind, till her weakness
returned. It would have been inexpressibly moving to me as a
stranger--what was it then to the father and the husband? For myself,
I scarce know how I feel, sometimes as firm as the Bass Rock,
sometimes as weak as the wave that breaks on it.
I am as alert at thinking and deciding as I ever was in my life. Yet,
when I contrast what this place now is, with what it has been not long
since, I think my heart will break. Lonely, aged, deprived of my
family--all but poor Anne, an impoverished and embarrassed man, I am
deprived of the sharer of my thoughts and counsels, who could always
talk down my sense of the calamitous apprehensions which break the
heart that must bear them alone. Even her foibles were of service to
me, by giving me things to think of beyond my weary self-reflections.
I have seen her. The figure I beheld is, and is not, my Charlotte--my
thirty years' companion. There is the same symmetry of form, tho those
limbs are rigid which were once so gracefully elastic--but that yellow
mask, with pinched features, which seem to mock life rather than
emulate it, can it be the face that was once so full of lively
expression? I will not look on it again. Anne thinks her little
changed, because the latest idea she had formed of her mother is as
she appeared under circumstances of sickness and pain. Mine go back to
a period of comparative health. If I write long in this way, I shall
write down my resolution, which I should rather write up, if I could.
I wonder how I shall do with the large portion of thoughts which were
hers for thirty years. I suspect they will be hers yet for a long time
at least. But I will not blaze cambric and crape in the public eye
like a disconsolate widower, that most affected of all characters.
_May 18._--Another day, and a bright one to the external world, again
opens on us; the air is soft, and the flowers smiling, and the leaves
glittering. They can not refresh her to whom mild weather was a
natural enjoyment. Cerements of lead and of wood already hold her;
cold earth must have her soon. But it is not my Charlotte, it is not
the bride of my youth, the mother of my children, that will be laid
among the ruins of Dryburgh, which we have so often visited in gaiety
and pastime. No, no. She is sentient and conscious of my emotions
somewhere--somehow; _where_ we can not tell; _how_ we can not tell;
yet would I not at this moment renounce the mysterious yet certain
hope that I shall see her in a better world, for all that this world
can give me. The necessity of this separation--that necessity which
rendered it even a relief--that and patience must be my comfort. I do
not experience those paroxysms of grief which others do on the same
occasion. I can exert myself and speak even cheerfully with the poor
girls. But alone, or if anything touches me--the choking sensation. I
have been to her room: there was no voice in it--no stirring; the
pressure of the coffin was visible on the bed, but it had been removed
elsewhere; all was neat as she loved it, but all was calm--calm as
death. I remembered the last sight of her; she raised herself in bed,
and tried to turn her eyes after me, and said, with a sort of smile,
"You all have such melancholy faces." They were the last words I ever
heard her utter, and I hurried away, for she did not seem quite
conscious of what she said. When I returned, immediately (before)
departing, she was in a deep sleep. It is deeper now. This was but
seven days since.
They are arranging the chamber of death; that which was long the
apartment of connubial happiness, and of whose arrangements (better
than in richer houses) she was so proud. They are treading fast and
thick. For weeks you could have heard a foot-fall. Oh, my God!
_May 21._--Our sad preparations for to-morrow continue. A letter from
Lockhart; doubtful if Sophia's health or his own state of business
will let him be here. If things permit he comes tonight. From Charles
not a word; but I think I may expect him. I wish to-morrow were over;
not that I fear it, for my nerves are pretty good, but it will be a
day of many recollections.
_May 22._--Charles arrived last night, much affected of course. Anne
had a return of her fainting-fits on seeing him, and again upon seeing
Mr. Ramsay, the gentleman who performs the service. I heard him do so
with the utmost propriety for my late friend, Lady Alvanley, the
arrangement of whose funeral devolved upon me. How little I could
guess when, where, and with respect to whom I should next hear those
solemn words. Well, I am not apt to shrink from that which is my duty,
merely because it is painful; but I wish this day over. A kind of
cloud of stupidity hangs about me, as if all were unreal that men seem
to be doing and talking about.
_May 23._--About an hour before the mournful ceremony of yesterday,
Walter arrived, having traveled express from Ireland on receiving the
news. He was much affected, poor fellow, and no wonder. Poor Charlotte
nursed him, and perhaps for that reason she was ever partial to him.
The whole scene floats as a sort of dream before me--the beautiful
day, the gray ruins covered and hidden among clouds of foliage and
flourish, where the grave, even in the lap of beauty, lay lurking and
gaped for its prey. Then the grave looks, the hasty important bustle
of men with spades and mattocks--the train of carriages--the coffin
containing the creature that was so long the dearest on earth to me,
and whom I was to consign to the very spot which in pleasure-parties
we so frequently visited. It seems still as if this could not be
really so. But it is so--and duty to God and to my children must teach
me patience.
_May 24._--Slept wretchedly, or rather waked wretchedly, all night,
and was very sick and bilious in consequence, and scarce able to hold
up my head with pain. A walk, however, with my sons did me a great
deal of good; indeed their society is the greatest support the world
can afford me. Their ideas of everything are so just and honorable,
kind toward their sisters, and affectionate to me, that I must be
grateful to God for sparing them to me, and continue to battle with
the world for their sakes, if not for my own.
_May 26._--Were an enemy coming upon my house, would I not do my best
to fight, altho opprest in spirits; and shall a similar despondency
prevent me from mental exertion? It shall not, by Heaven!
_May 30._--This has been a melancholy day--most melancholy. I am
afraid poor Charles found me weeping. I do not know what other folks
feel, but with me the hysterical passion that impels tears is a
terrible violence--a sort of throttling sensation--then succeeded by a
state of dreaming stupidity, in which I ask if my poor Charlotte can
actually be dead.