Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (2145 page)

JOURNAL CONTINUED.

“1845, April 27th, Sunday. — Intended to have gone to church, but prevented by fear of the weather. I have not entered a church for more than six months, owing to the state of my health. To-day, nervous and weak, having been too much excited, especially during the past week — even talking has a most injurious effect upon my nerves.

“May, 1845, Trinity Sunday. — Still prevented, by fear of the effect of the cold wind, from going to church this morning. From my visit to Dr. Chambers, I find — under the blessing of God that more strictness of life may be beneficial to my health. Dr. Chambers thinks my complaint to be more a stomach disorder, than the heart disease to which most of the other medical men — especially Mr. Richardson — have attributed all my maladies. The difficulty of breathing and the constant liability to colds, he says, proceed from derangement of the digestive organs. Indeed, he gave me more hope of recovery than any other doctor I have yet consulted; and he expressed an opinion that the heart has been in its present state for many years, without my being aware of it; and that malformation was quite possible in my case. By the help of God, I will be more careful for the future. Moderation, as a rule, has always been Dr. Chambers’ advice, rather than to attempt a cure by any confinement to weight and measure of diet too exclusively,

“June 1st, Sunday. — Praised be God, I was enabled to go to-day, for the second time these more than seven months, to church — this time, to the Morning Service. Mr. Archdeacon Manning preached a most searching sermon from the message of our Lord to the Church of Ephesus, from the Revelation of St. John. Monday, June 2nd. — The blessing of returning fine weather is vouchsafed to us — the temperature this morning at 77 degrees in the shade.”

The subjoined letter by the painter was written in answer to an application for a sketch to serve the charitable purposes of a “Fancy Bazaar,” in aid of the Southampton Infirmary, shortly after he had already executed one for the same object at the request of another friend:

“To Miss T —

“Devonport-street”
(no date).

“My dear Miss T — , The note directed Devonshire-street, never reached me. Surely, however, it cannot be of any consequence who has suggested the gift of a sketch from me; if the object — that of assisting the cause of charity — be eventually effected.

“Should any visitor to the Bazaar, stimulated by the various attractions spread out by the cleverness of our modern modes of provoking to good deeds, be entrapped into helping forward the ‘Infirmary’ and patronising painting at one blow; and should the one sketch I have already made for Mrs. Bullar produce a fair price, rely upon it such a good work would not be done, if by granting your request I became the means of producing
two
sketches, by the same painter, for sale. Getting something that your neighbour cannot, I know, from long experience, to be one of the strongest motives for the attainment of
bijouterie,
of all sorts.

“I think I hear you saying — how nicely my friend preaches, and yet, he encourages in his small way, the very system he denounces! I gave a sketch to the Bullars, in acknowledgment for great favours received from Mr. John Bullar, and much kindness from his brothers. They may do what they please with it, when it becomes theirs.

“Regretting that I am obliged to refuse you anything, and trusting that you will take in good part my explanation,

“Believe me, with great esteem,

“Ever yours faithfully,

“WILLIAM COLLINS.”

As the season advanced, finding no remedies of any permanent avail, the medical attendants of Mr. Collins again fixed their hopes for their patient upon change of air and country tranquillity — small as had been the influence of either during the last summer. Accordingly, early in June he left home, settling, after short visits to two other places, at Tollbridge Wells. Thence, however, he was obliged prematurely to depart. Highly as he enjoyed the beautiful scenery of his sojourn, the hilly nature of the place made even the short walking excursions which he was now enabled to take, and which it was even yet impossible to induce him wholly to resign, an effort too oppressive for his weakened frame. He returned therefore to London, to consult his medical attendants afresh; having acquired nothing by his journey, but a few beautiful additions to his collection of water-colour sketches, and the bitter conviction that his malady already threatened to gain the victory over his Art, while his mental capacity for its practice remained as powerful and as industrious as ever.

The mild air of Devonshire was next recommended to my father. On his way thither he paid a visit to his friend Mr. John Bullar, who, with his family, was then staying at Bembridge, in the Isle of Wight. The pretty scenery of this place, combining sea-shore with lane and meadowland; the quiet retired life he led there; and the kind and unremitting attentions of his friends, soon acted most favourably upon his spirits. He recovered all his former cheerfulness, and gained a partial release from some of the more distressing symptoms of his disorder. His progress towards convalescence at Bembridge, will, however* be best related in the following letter to his friend Doctor Joseph Bullar:

“To DOCTOR JOSEPH BULLAR.

“Bembridge, August 19th, 1845.

“Dear Bullar, — I am very sorry to find that you are not likely to join our pleasant party for some time — indeed, I fear not until after our departure from this exceedingly pretty place, where we are enjoying ourselves very much. Until to-day, I have spent a large portion of every morning out of doors, with much profit to my health. The change, however, which took place last night, and the windy wintry aspect of this day, is a sore trial to my weakened frame.

“Since I saw you in London, I have been prevailed upon to see Sir Benjamin Brodie, who, after a very careful examination, (and without my giving him the smallest intimation of what had been pronounced as the state of the heart,) declared the lungs to be perfectly sound, and the state of the heart to be the cause of all the mischief. He thought that although the ‘uvula’ was relaxed, cutting it would give me unnecessary pain, and answer no good object. A gargle, which he wrote for, would answer the purpose quite as well. He seemed disposed to recommend bleeding by cupping, to obtain present relief; which I ventured to combat, from the lowering effects which I thought must follow that mode of treatment.

“When I had dressed, and could pluck up courage for the question, I begged he would candidly tell me whether he thought there was any danger from the state of the heart. He very sincerely gave me to understand that there was; and impressed upon me the necessity of the greatest attention to quiet, both of mind and body.

“Neither Sir Benjamin’s matter nor manner, were calculated to produce at the moment much satisfaction; but I am now trying to make the most of his advice.

“My cough has not, since I have been here, proved so troublesome as in London — I get more sleep, and do not find it necessary to sit up in bed; I however feel extremely weak, and suffer from the cold weather. Everything that kindness and attention to my peculiarities of diet, etc. can do, is done to the utmost, by my most excellent host and hostess.

“One thing I want much to ask you about — If the lungs are sound, (I am not certain that you agree with Brodie that they are,) is Devonshire necessary? Or rather, is it not possible that the peculiar climate of that county might be too relaxing for my general health? When you are perfectly at leisure, pray do me the kindness to think of this matter, and favour me with a line on the subject.

“I shall not apologise for writing so much about myself, because I have already had such proofs of the kind interest which both your brother and yourself have taken in my case, and for which I feel truly grateful.

“With every wish for your comfort and happiness, in which Mrs. Collins most sincerely joins,

“Believe me, dear Bullar,

“Yours obliged and faithfully,

“WILLIAM COLLINS.”

Early in September my father proceeded from Bembridge to Torquay, with the intention of passing the winter there; but it was soon ascertained that the anticipations formed of the good influence of the air of this place would prove fallacious. The improvement that his sojourn in the Isle of Wight had effected in his health rapidly disappeared. Allured, however, by the beautiful coast scenery around Torquay, he determined to remain long enough to give the place a fair trial. During his residence there, he wrote the subjoined letter, on the subject of his health, to Mr. Richardson, who, it will be remembered, was described, in a former page, as the doctor who first discovered that he was labouring under disease of the heart:

“To WILLIAM RICHARDSON, ESQ.

“3, Beacon-terrace, Torquay, Oct. 8th, 1845.

“Dear Richardson, — I have been away in the difficult pursuit of health for a sufficient time to enable me to give you some account of my progress, — or, rather, no progress, — since I saw you last, now eight weeks. During our stay at Bembridge for about three weeks, although the weather was cold for the season of the year, I certainly felt better: the cough almost gone, and my breathing less difficult, with very little headache, and the action of the heart much as usual. Anxious to get on to this place, so far-famed for the perfection of its climate, we crossed from the Isle of Wight to Southsea, where we stayed a few days with our old friends, the Otters, and proceeded by night, in a capital vessel, to Torquay. I bore the voyage without the smallest inconvenience or injury to my health, and reached this place on a lovely morning; our friends here receiving us on the pier with a hearty welcome. We stayed under their hospitable roof a week, and then took very comfortable lodgings a few doors from their abode.

“Having been here nearly a month, I proceed to give you the result as regards my health. The cough is not quite so well as before my arrival; the action of the heart is certainly increased; the breathing is generally more difficult; on warm days I experience great lassitude and relaxation, accompanied by loss of flesh; and all this notwithstanding more than usual care in diet, and avoidance of causes of excitement as much as in me lies.

“I have taken some pains to describe, as accurately and as honestly as I can, the present aspect of my rickety case, in the hope that you will, with your usual kindness, give it your best consideration with a view to my future progress. Let me know whether, under the circumstances described, I had better return to Devonport-street, and live as quietly as I can, about the beginning of next month, (for I wish to give Torquay some weeks’ further trial,) or what other course you would recommend. I feel certain that this place would do well for a consumptive case; but as the difficulty about my lungs seems to arise, as Brodie and yourself, as well as Dr. Chambers, have said, from the action of the heart, ‘the seat of all the mischief,’ the moist climate of Torquay, as it appears to me, avails me little.

“I fear I have given you rather ‘a long screed;’ I trust, however, to your kindness for my excuse, and remain,

“Ever faithfully yours,

“WILLIAM COLLINS.”

At Torquay, as elsewhere, Mr. Collins’s sketch- book continued to be employed as often as his fast- failing strength would permit him to use it. His studies of coast scenery thus produced were few in number, and more than usually careful and elabourate in finish, — one of them serving to originate the picture of “Mede-foot Bay,” exhibited in the season of 1846. But a term was soon put to these sketching excursions; the imprudent over-exertion which they naturally produced, added to the relaxing effect of the air of Torquay, weakened him more and more as the autumn advanced, and impressed him, at length, with a melancholy conviction, that a further stay in Devonshire would be worse than useless. “This is not the place for me,” he confessed reluctantly to his friends; “the sight of the lovely scenes that I cannot now walk through to sketch as I used, is too tantalising; I shall never remain here the winter!” The doctor he consulted, evidently feeling that his case was hopeless, confirmed him in his opinion of the necessity of turning homewards; and at the end of October he came back to London, as he had come back the year before, — more shattered in frame and further advanced towards the grave than when he had left it.

On his return, to the astonishment of all who saw him, he again entered his painting-room, again ranged his sketches and canvasses round him, and again commenced the composition of new pictures as ambitiously and industriously as ever. Saving on those days when he was unable to leave his bed, or when utter exhaustion disabled him from moving hand or foot, he now sat regularly before his easel, eager and aspiring as in his student days. It was an impressive testimony to the superiority of mind over body, to watch him as he now worked. His heart was at this time fearfully deranged in its action, appearing not to beat, but to heave with a rushing, irregular, watery sound. His breathing was oppressed, as in the last stages of asthma, and prevented his ever attaining an entirely recumbent position for any length of time, night or day. His cough assailed him with paroxysms so violent and so constantly recurring, as to create apprehension that he might rupture a blood-vessel while under their influence. It was in spite of this combination of maladies, with all their accustomed consequences of sleepless nights, constant weakness, and nervous anxiety, that he disposed himself to labour in a pursuit exacting the most watchful and minute attention of head and hand, and that he succeeded in successfully accomplishing everything that he set himself to do. Sometimes the brush dropped from his hand from sheer weakness; sometimes it was laid down while he gasped for breath like one half suffocated, or while a sudden attack of coughing disabled him from placing another touch upon the canvas; but these paroxysms subdued, his occupation was resolutely resumed. His mind revived, his eye brightened, his hand became steady again, as if by magic. Sky, ocean, earth, assumed on his canvas their beauties of hue and varieties of form, readily and truthfully as of old. No touch was omitted from the objects of the picture in detail, no harmony of tint forgotten in the rendering of the general effect. The strong mind bent the reluctant body triumphantly to its will, in every part of the pictures, on which, already a dying man, he now worked. They were the last he produced.