Part 19 (1/2)

It was during this time in Switzerland that Burton made his wife his literary executrix. He called her into his room one day, and dictated to her a list of private papers which he wished to be burned in the event of his death, and gave her three signed doc.u.ments, one of which ran as follows:

”In the event of my death, I bequeath especially to my wife, Isabel Burton, every book, paper, or ma.n.u.script, to be overhauled and examined by her only, and to be dealt with entirely at her own discretion, and in the manner she thinks best, having been my sole helper for thirty years.

(Signed) ”RICHARD F. BURTON.”

On September 7 they returned to Trieste together for the last time.

They were both very much better for the good air in Switzerland, and settled down again to their quiet literary life, full of occupations for the present and plans for the future. Lady Burton was especially busy during these six weeks in helping her husband to sort and arrange his ma.n.u.scripts and papers, and he worked as usual at three or four books at a time, especially his _Scented Garden_, which was now nearing completion.

I should like to interpolate here a beautiful and characteristic letter Lady Burton wrote, on October 10, to a friend, Madame de Gutmansthal- Benvenuti, who had just lost her husband:

”You need no letter from me to tell you how my heart is grieving for you, and with you, in this greatest trial woman can ever know--the trial before which my own head is ever bowed down, and my heart shrinking from in terror. And it has fallen on you, my best and dearest friend. But you have such consolations. He was a religious man, and died with the Sacraments, and you are sure of a happy meeting, just as if he had gone on a journey to wait for you; but _more surely to meet_ than if he had gone on an earthly journey. You have your dear children to live for, and that must now be your _only_ thought, and taking care of your health for that purpose. All of us, who love you, are thinking of you and praying for you.”

Ten days later the trial she so much dreaded had come upon her. And here for a s.p.a.ce Lady Burton will speak in her own words.

NOTES:

1. He actually compiled a book of quotations from the Bible and Shakspeare for use in case of need, which he called _The Black Book_.

2. Letter to Miss Bishop from Tangiers, Morocco, February 16, 1886.

3. The late Lord Gerard.

4. Letter to Miss Bird from Trieste, April 10, 1887.

5. The d.u.c.h.ess of Fife.

6. Letter to Miss Bishop, July 21, 1890.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE SWORD FALLS. 1890.

Life is a sheet of paper white, Whereon each one of us may write His word or two, and then comes night.

LOWELL.

”Let me recall the last happy day of my life. It was Sunday, October 19, 1890. I went out to Communion and Ma.s.s at eight o'clock, came back, and kissed my husband at his writing. He was engaged on the last page of _The Scented Garden_, which had occupied him seriously only six actual months, not thirty years, as the press said. He said to me, 'To-morrow I shall have finished this, and I promise you that I will never write another book on the subject. I will take to our biography.'

And I said, 'What a happiness that will be!' He took his usual walk of nearly two hours in the morning, breakfasting well.

”That afternoon we sat together writing an immense number of letters, which, when we had finished, I put on the hall table to be posted on Monday morning. Each letter breathed of life and hope and happiness; for we were making our preparations for a delightful voyage to Greece and Constantinople, which was to last from November 15 to March 15. We were to return to Trieste from march 15 till July 1. He would be a free man on March 19, and those three months and a half we were to pack up, make our preparations, wind up all our affairs, send our heavy baggage to England, and, bidding adieu to Trieste, we were to pa.s.s July and August in Switzerland, arrive in England in September, 1891, look for a little flat and a little cottage, unpack, and settle ourselves to live in England.

”The only difference remarkable on this particular Sunday, October 19, was, that whereas my husband was dreadfully punctual, and with military precision as the clock struck we had to be in our places at the table at half-past seven, he seemed to dawdle about the room putting things away.

He said to me, 'You had better go in to table'; and I answered, 'No, darling, I will wait for you'; and we went in together. He dined well, but sparingly; he laughed, talked, and joked. We discussed our future plans and preparations, and he desired me on the morrow to write to Sir Edmund Monson, and several other letters, to forward the preparations.

We talked of our future life in London, and so on. About half-past nine he got up and went to his bedroom, accompanied by the doctor and myself, and we a.s.sisted him at his toilet. I then said the night prayers to him, and whilst I was saying them a dog began that dreadful howl which the superst.i.tious say denotes a death. It disturbed me so dreadfully that I got up from the prayers, went out of the room, and called the porter to go out and see what was the matter with the dog. I then returned, and finished the prayers, after which he asked me for a novel. I gave him Robert Buchanan's _Martyrdom of Madeleine_. I kissed him and got into bed, and he was reading in bed.

”At twelve o'clock, midnight, he began to grow uneasy. I asked him what ailed him, and he said, 'I have a gouty pain in my foot. When did I have my last attack?' I referred to our journals, and found it was three months previously that he had had a real gout, and I said, 'You know that the doctor considers it a safety-valve that you should have a healthy gout in your feet every three months for your head and your general health. Your last attack was three months ago at Zurich, and your next will be due next January.' He was then quite content; and though he moaned and was restless, he tried to sleep, and I sat by him magnetizing the foot locally, as I had the habit of doing, to soothe the pain, and it gave him so much relief that he dozed a little, and said, 'I dreamt I saw our little flat in London, and it had quite a nice large room in it.' Between whiles he laughed and talked and spoke of our future plans, and even joked.

”At four o'clock he got more uneasy, and I said I should go for the doctor. He said, 'Oh no, don't disturb him; he cannot do anything.'