A GRAVE ILLNESS
Illness—Convalescence—Musical Discrimination.
He was suffering from a cold, and complained of feeling ill. Mrs.
Fawcett had been called away by the fatal illness of her cousin. When
she returned to London, it was to hear that her husband’s illness was
pronounced to be diphtheria, and it was rendered more serious later by
typhoid and other complications.
[Sidenote: Through the Valley and Back.]
Until the end of December his condition was grave. During the first
stage of the illness he had frequently been delirious, and remembered
little of what had happened. His mind was made up that he would not
recover, and he insisted on hearing the bulletins. They were read to him
with omissions.
There was to be an important election at Liverpool, and he, remembering
its date, asked about the prospect. It was his habit at Christmas to
send to a list of country labourers whom he knew, or whose names had
been given to him by his father, envelopes each containing a card on
which was written ‘Please give to bearer John Smith [so many] pounds of
beef or mutton.’ With the card he sent a personal letter after this
fashion: ‘Dear John, I enclose a ticket for Christmas beef. Hoping you
and the children are well, I am,’ etc. The entire list of these
benefactions he kept clearly in his mind. Before he was out of his
delirium, he asked his secretary to send out the Christmas letters and
food tickets as usual.
A little later, when he was just beginning to recover, a Cambridge crony
was permitted to stand for a short time by his bedside. In the midst of
his own weakness, Fawcett’s thoughts flew to a Cambridge friend in
trouble, and he charged his guest to do the utmost to give whatever help
was possible.
The course of Fawcett’s illness was watched with extraordinary anxiety.
It was the dominant theme at working men’s meetings and in third-class
railway carriages. The Royal Family showed the same interest as the
labourers who discussed the latest bulletin in the market-place of
Salisbury. The Queen telegraphed for news, at times twice a day.
Gradually the patient improved, and the danger was pronounced over.
[Sidenote: Convalescing with _Vanity Fair_.]
The convalescent was permitted to see his friends, who in relays read to
him the whole of _Vanity Fair_. After three weeks’ inaction, he was
allowed to write to his parents, and amidst great rejoicing the cat and
dog were permitted to resume their usual place in the family circle. In
the early part of January he went to stay at his father-in-law’s, on the
Suffolk coast.
His friend Mr. Sedley Taylor came to play to him. Fawcett would listen
to him often for an hour at a time. Though he had little acquaintance
with music, he showed for it a genuine appreciation and discrimination.
There were two compositions which he particularly enjoyed, one by
Mendelssohn and one by Bach, which Mr. Taylor often played in that
sequence. One day, however, he inverted the order. After listening with
interest, Fawcett remarked: ‘I don’t know how it is, Taylor, but somehow
that Bach seems to have taken the taste out of the Mendelssohn.’
[Sidenote: Visits he enjoyed.]
At the end of this visit, Fawcett sent for all the servants, so that he
might personally give each a gratuity and shake of the hand, while
thanking them individually for the kindness they had shown him. When no
more were forthcoming, Fawcett said: ‘Where is that boy that blacks the
shoes? I should like to give him a tip too.’ Whereupon the boy, who had
been overlooked, was sent for and duly rewarded.
Fawcett went on to pay some other visits in the west of England, which
seemed to help him regain his strength. It was at this time that he
first successfully amused himself by playing cards, though his former
attempts had been so unpromising. His secretary devised the simple and
ingenious method of marking the cards, which has been described, so that
he could tell each one by touch. Thus he was able with great
satisfaction to spend hours at cribbage, écarté and loo.
In February he went to stay with his parents at Salisbury, and there
used his enforced leisure to prepare a new edition of his book on
Political Economy. It was there that a stranger to the town, not knowing
his way, questioned a tall scholarly man who approached briskly. He was
given minute directions; the streets and their windings were described
in detail, and it was only after an amusing chat that the stranger
discovered that his guide was the learned Professor Fawcett, and that
therefore he must be blind! It was extraordinary how his own attitude to
his affliction caused others to forget it. Not infrequently his cottage
friends would tidy up and put things in order ‘in case Mr. Fawcett
should drop in.’
[Sidenote: With his Parents again.]
It was a great joy to his old parents in the Salisbury Close to have
their busy, cheery ‘boy’ back again; and Miss Fawcett, that brave
understanding friend in his affliction and throughout his life, was very
happy in his companionship. One day they had been talking together as
only those who have always understood each other can, lovingly they had
gone over reminiscences of Salisbury and Cambridge, and had fought
Parliamentary battles over again. Fawcett told his sister that above all
his other work, he cherished his privilege of winning the forests and
commons free for the people, theirs to the end of time.
[Sidenote: His Sister and the Cathedral.]
The two sauntered together into the near-by cathedral where, as a tiny,
half-scared boy, Harry had gone clinging to his big sister’s hand. Now
the tall blind man held her arm, and his cane on the pavement was echoed
by the high arches; suddenly a great glory of music broke forth from the
organ, magic uplifting notes shook the walls, and piercing with gladness
the shadows of centuries, rehallowed the old sanctuary with melody.
Fawcett stood leaning slightly against a column, his heroic head
uplifted as if he were looking through the vaulting, his whole being
suffused with an inward light, and his sensitive ear revelling in the
lovely harmonies. The voices of men and women raised in chorus burst
forth in a mighty Hallelujah; the organ thrilled in glorious fulness,
and again the voices repeated the refrain until it echoed from the wall
like a song of triumph of good over evil, of light over darkness. A glad
smile broke over the blind man’s face as, pressing his dear companion’s
hand, he exclaimed: ‘Oh, how beautiful that is!’
[Sidenote: Back to his Post.]
He returned to his work in March, seemingly in fully restored health.
His reception at the Post Office and the House of Commons showed how
deep had been the love and anxiety called forth by his illness. He lived
in the hearts of all classes—his bitterest antagonists, Conservatives as
well as Socialists, loved and trusted him; never was a man more of a
democrat and less of a demagogue.
[Sidenote: Humble friends.]
The old woman who for many years had the care of Fawcett’s rooms at
Cambridge had been much distressed by his illness, and had said to the
Master of Trinity Hall, ‘Poor Mrs. Fawcett would miss him so terribly.’
‘Why should she miss him more than any woman would miss the husband she
loved?’ sympathetically asked the Master. ‘Because he is such a happy
noisy man; whenever he is in the house you know it, he is always
shouting so,’ was the tearful reply.
A poor old shoemaker who had never spoken to Fawcett, but whose shop the
Postmaster-General passed daily on his way to his work, gave voice to
the public feeling when he said, ‘If Professor had died, I should have
missed him dreadfully. He always looked so pleased and cheery, it did
one good.’