Chapter XIII (3)

Don't be alarmed at my pencil--I am not in bed but only bundled-up
on the piazza by order of the doctor.... I started for New York
feeling a good deal knocked up, but hoping to get better from the
change; I was to stay there over Sunday and see Dr. Metcalfe, who
has a high reputation and was a friend of my father's. I left a
request at his office that he would come to me on Sunday P.M.; but
in the meantime my cousin Mrs. Minturn Post, with whom I was
staying, urged upon me her physician, Dr. Taylor, who came on
Saturday night, just as I was going to bed, and, after sounding my
lungs, told me very dreadful things about them. As his verdict was
worse than Metcalfe's proved I will tell you what he said first. He
began very solemnly: "My dear young lady, your right lung is
diseased; all your hemorrhages have come from there. It must have
been bad for at least a year before they began. You must go to
Europe as soon as possible." This was not cheerful, as I had been
idiot enough to believe some time ago such a different explanation.
But of course I wanted to learn what he absolutely thought, and
told him I wasn't a bit afraid. If there weren't tubercles was I
curable and if there _were_• was I hopeless? I asked him for the
very worst view he had conscientiously to take, but didn't mean
definitely to ask how long I should live, and so was rather
unprepared for his reply of "Two or three years." I didn't however
wish to make him regret his frankness, so I said, "Well, Doctor,
even if my right lung were all gone I should make a stand with my
left," and then, by way of showing how valiant the stand would be,
fainted away. This, I should say, was owing a good deal to my
previous used-up condition from want of sleep. It made him at any
rate hasten to assure me that there was every possibility of my
case being not after all so bad--with which he took his departure;
to my great relief as I didn't think him at all nice. His grammar
was bad, and he made himself generally objectionable.

The next night dear Dr. Metcalfe came, whom I love for the gentlest
and kindest soul I have ever seen. To start with he's a gentleman,
as well as an excellent physician, and to end with he and my father
were fond of each other at West Point, and he takes a sort of
paternal interest in me. He told me that my right lung is decidedly
weaker than my left, which is quite sound, and that the hemorrhage
has been a good thing for it and kept it from actual disease; and
also that if I can keep up my general health I may get all right
again. He has known a ten times worse case get entirely well. He
urged me not to go to Washington, but decidedly to go to Europe; so
this last is what I am to do with my cousin Mrs. Post if I am not
dead before June. In a fortnight I'm to go back to New York to be
for some time under Metcalfe's care. I feel tired out and hardly
able to stir, but my courage is good, and I don't propose to lose
it if I can help, for I know it all depends on myself whether I get
through or not. That is if I begin to be indifferent to what
happens I shall go down the hill fast. I have fortunately, through
my mother's father, enough Irish blood in me rather to enjoy a good
fight. I feel the greatest longing for summer or spring; I should
like it to be always spring for the rest of my life and to have all
the people I care for always with me! But who _wouldn't_ like it
so? Good-bye.

To the gallantry and beauty of which there is little surely to add. But there came a moment, almost immediately after, when all illusion failed; which it is not good to think of or linger on, and yet not pitiful not to note. One may have wondered rather doubtingly--and I have expressed that--what life would have had for her and how her exquisite faculty of challenge could have "worked in" with what she was likely otherwise to have encountered or been confined to. None the less did she in fact cling to consciousness; death, at the last, was dreadful to her; she would have given anything to live--and the image of this, which was long to remain with me, appeared so of the essence of tragedy that I was in the far-off aftertime to seek to lay the ghost by wrapping it, a particular occasion aiding, in the beauty and dignity of art. The figure that was to hover as the ghost has at any rate been of an extreme pertinence, I feel, to my doubtless too loose and confused general picture, vitiated perhaps by the effort to comprehend more than it contains. Much as this cherished companion's presence among us had represented for William and myself--and it is on _his_ behalf I especially speak--her death made a mark that must stand here for a too waiting conclusion. We felt it together as the end of our youth.

THE END

* * * * *

The following typographical errors have been corrected by the etext transcriber:

which I left in one of the of the library's mantelpiece=>which I left in one of the library's mantelpiece

qui s'est allongee malgre moi. Ton frere, James William.=>qui s'est allongee malgre moi. Ton frere, James William.

At about 5 the fearful reveille calls us>=At about 5 the fearful reveille calls us

quand meme>=quand meme

my own that it should beeome so=>my own that it should become so

I dont care much what it may be=>I don't care much what it may be

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _A Small Boy and Others._ New York, 1913.

[2] _A Small Boy and Others_, 1913.

[3] A Small Boy and Others, 1913.

[4] Expressive drawing alas irreproducible.

[5] A drawing of figures in evening lamplight.

[6] Literary Remains of Henry James, Boston, 1885. The portrait accompanying the volume gave us, alas, but the scantest satisfaction.

[7] _Past and Present_, 1843.

[8] "But, Sir, we have yet one more scene to visit together, connected with all we have previously witnessed: a home scene, Sir Benjamin; and we must now ascend a mountain of pity high enough to command the dewy extense of three kingdoms. From thence we have to look down from every point of our warm hearts with a sight as multifold as the cherubic eyes. We are to see with equal penetration through the diverse thickness of castles, mansions, and cottages, through London and through hamlet, at young wives and at aged mothers, little children, brothers and sisters--all groups and ties that are; and at affianced maidens, ties that were to be. There are rents and tears to-day in the general life: the bulletin of the dead has come, and the groups of sorrow are constituted. Splendid Paris bends as a Niobe or as a Rachel while the corse of her much-enduring Hero is borne to the marble Invalides; other corses go earthward with a shorter procession, helped away by the spades of ruder but more instant sculptors; the rucked sod of the Alma is their urn and monument in one; yet every warrior among them is also buried to-day with swelling greatness of obsequies, if we could see them, in the everlasting ruby vaults of some human heart. You are touched, Sir Benjamin, and are justly religious on this summit. Struck down for a moment from worldliness, we both discourse without an afterthought on the immortal state; we hope that the brave are already welcomed in the land of peace; that our laurels they could not stop to take, and our earned promotion they seem to have missed are clad upon them now by the God of battles in front of the shining armies of the just. We hope also that if their voices could now speak to the mourners, the oil of their sure gladness would heal our faithless sorrow. It is a true strain no doubt, and yet but of momentary power." War, Cholera, and the Ministry of Health. An Appeal to Sir Benjamin Hall and the British People. London, 1854.

[9] An eminent Unitarian pastor.

[10] My youngest brother's ingenuity was to know as little rest during much of his life as his strong faculty of agitation--to the employment of which it was indeed not least remarkably applied. Many illustrations of it would be to give, had I more margin; and not one of them anything less than striking, thanks to the vivacity of his intelligence, the variety of his gifts and the native ability in which he was himself so much less interested than was the case with everyone he met, however casually, that he became, many years before his death in 1910, our one gentleman of leisure: so far as this condition might consort with the easiest aptitude for admirable talk, charged with natural life, perception, humour and colour, that I have perhaps ever known. There were times when Bob's spoken overflow struck me as the equivalent, for fine animation, of William's epistolary. The note of the ingenious in him spent itself as he went, but I find an echo of one of its many incidents in the passage of verse that I am here moved to rescue from undue obscurity. It is too "amateurish" and has too many irregular lines, but images admirably the play of spirit in him which after ranging through much misadventure could at last drop to an almost effective grasp of the happiest relation.

Although I lie so low and still
Here came I by the Master's will;
He smote at last to make me free,
As He was smitten on the tree
And nailed there. He knew of old
The human heart, and mine is cold;
And I know now that all we gain
Until we come to Him is vain.
Thy hands have never wrought a deed,
Thy heart has never known a need,
That went astray in His great plan
Since far-off days when youth began.
For in that vast and perfect plan
Where time is but an empty span
Our Master waits. He knows our want,
We know not his--till pale and gaunt
With weariness of life we come
And say to Him, What shall I be?
Oh Master, smite, but make me free
Perchance in these far worlds to know
The better thing we sought to be.

And then upon thy couch lie down
And fold the hands which have not sown;
And as thou liest there alone
Perhaps some breath from seraph blown
As soft as dew upon the rose
Will fall upon thee at life's close.
So thou wilt say, At last, at last!
All pain is love when pain is past!
And to the Master once again:
Oh keep my heart too weak to pray;
I ask no longer questions vain
Of life and love, of loss and gain--
These for the living are and strong;
I go to Thee, to Thee belong.
Once was I wakened by Thy light,
But years have passed, and now the night
Takes me to Thee. I am content;
So be it in Thy perfect plan
A mansion is where I am sent
To dwell among the innocent.

End of Project Gutenberg's Notes of a Son and Brother, by Henry James