Elizabeth Gilbert and Her Work for the Blind Part 25

"By two wings a man is raised above the earth, namely by Simplicity and Purity."--THOMAS a KEMPIS.

There was still much within Bessie's power; and in tracing her work at this period we find little diminution in her correspondence. She received letters almost daily from Colonel Fyers on the business of the Inst.i.tution. Levy wrote frequently and fully to her. She had given him great a.s.sistance in writing a book on _Blindness and the Blind_, and her own notes were made over to him.

A letter which she received in March 1872 is interesting as a description of preparations made by a blind man, Levy, carried out by a blind carpenter, Farrow, and related to the blind lady, Miss Gilbert.

The occasion was the Thanksgiving for the Restoration of the Prince of Wales in February 1872, when the streets were gay with decorations and every window full of spectators. No house showed more bravely than the Inst.i.tution for Promoting the Welfare of the Blind in Oxford Street; subscribers and their friends, the Committee and their friends, filled every window, and the blind were keenly alive to all that was going on around them, and to the distinction of the Prince's plume and gas jets and the letters V.R., "each about four feet long in gold paper."

"The decorations," writes Levy, "consisted of a Union Jack flag at the top of the house, and about half way up a crown and Prince's plume, made of gold paper, projecting from the wall, and the letters V.R., each about four feet long and two feet broad, made in thick rossets in silver paper on crimson ground, also projecting some distance from the wall, a wreath of flowers extended from the house to the post at the curb of the pavement, the lamp of which contained a transparency.

"At night the illumination consisted of a Prince's plume in gas jets, which we bought for three pounds ten instead of hiring a similar one for ten pounds; the wood used for seats will be made into housemaids' boxes, etc. and the American cloth with which they were covered made available for dress baskets.

"I think if you give five pounds it will be enough, as ten pounds will cover the whole expense. The goods and gla.s.s cases were taken out of the shop windows and three rows of seats, which gradually receded and increased in height, were formed. The same kind of seats were in the Committee room and the apartments above, out of which the windows were taken. A rail was put to keep people from going on to the balcony, as it was not safe; tables with wine and biscuits were placed, and Mr. Osmond had something more substantial in his rooms, with which Mr. Reid and others were well pleased."

On the 1st April 1872 the Rev. Frederick Denison Maurice died. Bessie had been but slightly acquainted with him, but he was the brother of her old and dear friends, Mrs. Powell and Mrs. Julius Hare. She had been less startled by his written and spoken words than many of those in her own circle, and on his death she recognised that a great power had gone from amongst us, and sincerely mourned his loss.

She worked as usual at the arrangements for the annual meeting in 1872, and on the 22d June the Archbishop of York, who presided, wrote to tell her of its success.

_22d June 1872._

MY DEAR MISS GILBERT--I attended the meeting and made my short speech. There never was a nicer meeting, the speakers were full of grat.i.tude to you for all you had done. We could have had twice the number of speakers if we had wanted them.

I hope, my dear Miss Gilbert, that G.o.d will strengthen you and enable you to carry on for many years your excellent a.s.sociation.--Ever with much regard, yours truly, W. EBOR.

The Princess Edward of Saxe-Weimar, sister of the Duke of Richmond, conveyed a request from Bessie to the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Teck, whose interest she hoped to enlist for the annual meeting of 1872. They were abroad in the spring, but the Duke returned in time to preside at the June meeting. Bessie never dropped any of the links in her chain, and her early life at Chichester had given her many valuable allies.

In her long days of enforced inactivity she would recall to mind visits to Goodwood, to Arundel, interest expressed and shown in the objects she had at heart, and would redouble her efforts to raise up friends for the blind.

Meantime there was a steady deterioration in her own physical condition.

The malady which had been making insidious progress for so long was degeneration of the spinal cord. The disease is one that generally owes its origin to accident or injury, but so far as could be ascertained Bessie had never met with either.

The physicians who attended her throughout the last years of her life inclined to the view that the poison in the blood left by scarlet fever was the cause not only of the condition of the throat, from which she suffered throughout her whole life (it will be remembered that she could only drink in sips), but also of this degeneration of the spinal cord.

Looking back, the members of her family recalled to mind that her powers of motion had not for many years been free and unimpeded. The significant entries in diary and letters, as to her moving and walking better, will not be forgotten. But the true cause of this had not been suspected, except by Dr. Little; for mischief to the spinal cord may be carried very far before there is any outward sign to manifest it. The power of motion and merely animal functions are affected by it; but intelligence remains alert and the brain power unaffected. The symptoms which accompany it are at first attributed to weakness, overwork, physical fatigue, any of which would be sufficient to account for them before the disease has reached the stage in which its true nature is unmistakably revealed. Mental trouble will often accelerate the progress of this malady, and occasion its more rapid development. This cause had also been at work.

The death of her father in 1870 was sudden and most unexpected to Bessie. The subsequent giving up of the two homes, at Chichester and in London, which long years had endeared to her; the necessity of planting herself in and learning to accommodate herself to a new house, with all the old familiar landmarks swept away--all these things were sources of suffering to one of her delicate nervous organisation; and doubtless they gave an added impetus to the progress of disease.

She met her troubles with great courage; she bore them with unmurmuring patience; but they produced their inevitable result, and flung her aside when the storm was over as a weed is cast up by an angry sea.

There were a few months during which various remedies were suggested and tried, but all unsuccessfully. The two sisters, who henceforward devoted their whole life to her, now took it in turns to sleep on a sofa in her room, so as to help her to move and turn in bed during the night. But when she realised that loss of power was not a phase but one of the conditions of her illness, she would not allow them to do this, saying she must have them "fresh for the daytime." A sick nurse was engaged, and, with Charlotte Gadney, ministered to her.

For a little time she was able occasionally to be taken into Hyde Park in an easy bath chair and always rec.u.mbent, but she could only bear the vibration of the movement for a very short distance. When she reached the park she would remain for some hours enjoying the air.

Quiet and fresh air (two things that London cannot give) seemed more and more essential; and in August 1872 her sister Mary (Mrs. Bowles) wrote to propose that she should pay a long visit to Milton Hill, in Berkshire. Her doctors warmly approved of the proposal, if only she could bear the journey; and Mr. Bowles, to whom she was warmly attached, busied himself with preparations for her comfort.

After many anxious inquiries and careful arrangements, it was settled that, accompanied by her sister Sarah, she should undertake the journey in an invalid carriage, "by road and rail," being lifted in at her own door and lifted out at Milton Hill.

This was done; but the railway officials attached the carriage to the end of an express train; the oscillation and vibration were insupportable, and she reached Milton Hill almost unconscious from pain and fatigue. In the hope of lessening her suffering she had been held in the nurse's arms all the latter part of the railway journey; but even this could do little to diminish the agony she endured. She was carried to bed as soon as she reached Milton Hill, and after some days of complete rest she began to rally. It was then a great pleasure to her to note all that had been done by the "best and kindest brother-in-law that any one ever had."

"Did you ever know such a brother-in-law!" she used to say.

Rooms for her and her servants had been arranged on the ground floor, with easy access to the beautiful garden and grounds. She arrived in August, and as soon as she had somewhat recovered, she was carried every day that the weather allowed, to a tent that had been put up in a pleasant part of the garden. She enjoyed being read aloud to; she had great delight in her nephews and nieces; but most of all she appreciated the opportunity of uninterrupted intercourse with her sister. They were again the "Mary and Bessie" of youthful days; not friends learning to know and love each other, but sisters with a wealth of buried recollections to be brought out to the light of day; interests, tastes, and affections in common; only a spark, an electric flash of memory, needed to illuminate the whole. No wonder that the time pa.s.sed happily, and "life between four walls" dawned upon the sufferer, not without promise of alleviation.

For, in spite of the hours spent in the tent, it was practically already life within four walls. All thought of work or occupation outside her own home had to be abandoned; she must keep only that which she could guide and control from the sick-room. "I feel like a train which has been left upon a siding," she used to say.

Throughout the winter of 1872-73 she gave all the strength and time at her disposal to the interests and occupations of the blind. A fresh anxiety troubled her. Levy's health was failing seriously, and several members of the Committee wished him to take a long leave of absence. The work connected with his book, added to his ordinary duties as manager of the a.s.sociation, had exhausted his strength. Bessie received letters from friends on the Committee telling her that Levy must have rest, and from Levy saying it was impossible for him to take it during her absence. The year 1873 was pa.s.sing on with this, which seemed a heavy cloud, hanging over her, when suddenly a storm burst, which swept away all other anxiety in the one engrossing sorrow which it brought.

After less than a week's illness her beloved sister Mary, Mrs. Bowles, died on 20th October at Milton Hill. Bessie was in the same house, but was too ill to be taken to her sister's room; and they never met after the day on which Mrs. Bowles was attacked by a fatal malady. Bessie's sick-nurse, and an old and faithful servant of the Gilbert family, who happened to be staying at Milton Hill, were unremitting in their attention to Mrs. Bowles; and from them Bessie heard of the variations in her condition almost from hour to hour. When all was over Bessie, in her weak condition, was crushed and exhausted. She seemed unable to endure the shock of this sudden blow, and at first could only lie and moan, "Oh, why was she taken and I left?"

Archdeacon Atkinson, a near neighbour and old friend of her sister's, did his best to soothe and comfort her. The grief of Mr. Bowles and the children roused her. She saw how much they needed help, and before long she was the old brave Bessie, full of thought for the sorrow of others, and engrossed by her endeavours to console and comfort them.

Before the death of Mrs. Bowles it had been arranged that Bessie should spend the winter at Torquay. This plan was adhered to; and in November 1873, travelling in one of the railway companies invalid carriages, she bore the journey fairly well, and reached Torquay without the terrible suffering caused by her previous journey.

She had bright and sunny rooms in Sulyarde Terrace, and on fine days she was still able to spend a few hours out of doors, reclining in an invalid chair; sometimes also she could sit up in her chair for an hour or two, and at this time, when her food was duly prepared, she was still able to feed herself. Her sister Lucy, Mrs. Ca.s.son, with husband and many children, resided at Torquay; and she found here, also, a kind brother-in-law, unremitting in his attentions, and numerous young nephews and nieces, whom she knew and loved. In January 1874 Levy died.

Father, mother, and sister; house and home and health had been taken from Bessie; and now the faithful servant and friend of her whole life followed. She had put great constraint upon herself at the time of her sister's illness and death, but she was powerless against this blow.

Deep depression settled down upon her, which took the form of constant self-reproach. She, the most unselfish and considerate of women, was given over, as it were, to an avenging spirit, which upbraided her with faults never committed, and exacted expiation for imaginary crimes of selfishness and self-seeking. Such dark pa.s.sages may be borne in mind by other sufferers, tortured with self-questionings and doubt.

The first thing to rouse her was the desire to say some words to the blind men and women on whose behalf Mr. Levy had worked for so many years. As soon as she had somewhat recovered, she wrote perhaps the most touching record we have of her work, her hope, her sorrow, and her submission.

2 SULYARDE TERRACE, TORQUAY, _10th February 1874_.

MY DEAR FRIENDS--I feel that both you and I have had a very great loss indeed, and my heart yearns to say to you that you do not know how grieved I am for you; you know full well what the loss is to yourselves, but you can hardly tell what it is to me; you cannot know how he who is now taken and I have worked together with the self-same end of helping you, and now I am left, deprived of all the help that your dear and true friend gave me, and it is impossible for me to tell you how deeply I feel the loss.

Mr. Levy never spared himself when your interest was at stake, and now that he is taken from us, and I am left alone, I feel that I must ask you all to give me all the help in your power, and you can help me by giving me your confidence, by showing me that you feel I will do the best I can for you, and, above all, by trying, with G.o.d's help, to become the men and women He would have you to be.

Nothing gives me greater joy than for the a.s.sociation to be the means of helping you, by G.o.d's blessing, to lead really Christian lives. This means that you should have in your hearts the love of G.o.d and the love of your neighbour, which love will prevent you hurting anybody by word or deed, make you true and just in all your dealings, and temperate and sober in your living. My earnest desire is that the a.s.sociation should help you to learn and labour truly to get your own living; but you know that this must be a work of time. If I could prevent it there should not be one blind person begging, but all should have the blessing of earning their living; but, as I say, it will take a long time to bring this to pa.s.s. Had I been asked I should have said, "You would do better without me than without him who is taken from us; but G.o.d does not ask us, and does what He sees and knows to be best, and He has taken Mr. Levy to his rest and reward, and has left me."

If it is His will that I should have strength, I will, with His help and with the aid of the friends engaged in the work, do the best I can. Many of you I have never seen; I wish this were not so, but I cannot help it; but to you all I earnestly say: please think of me as of one who has your truest interest at heart, who is, like yourselves, without sight, and who tries, to the best of her power, to understand what it is to be poor as well as blind, and who longs for your help and co-operation in the work of endeavouring to help you to help yourselves. You will help me, will you not?--Believe me, my dear friends, to be most sincerely yours, ELIZABETH GILBERT.

_P.S._--I have signed my name with the pen which Mr. Levy invented for us. You and I must pray that G.o.d will help me to do what will be best for you. I know G.o.d will not leave us, for He loveth the blind, as He doth all human beings, more than we can possibly understand or know, so that we must try and trust in Him fully in all our trials. May G.o.d bless you all!

With advancing spring the cloud of depression was dispelled. She became more cheerful, began to talk of a return to London, and to look forward to her life there. The return journey was undertaken in the second week in June. It was safely accomplished, though at the cost of very great weariness and exhaustion. When she reached Stanhope Place and had been carried to her room, she said, "No more journeys for me." This was indeed her last journey, for though in 1877 she had such a longing for fresh country air that there was a consultation, and her physicians sanctioned removal, yet when the time came her heart failed, and she remained at home.

On her return from Torquay she went into Hyde Park about half a dozen times in an invalid chair, but after October 1874 she left the house no more. She was, however, still able for a time to be dressed, to sit up for an hour or two, and to be carried up and down stairs. As the winter advanced a sitting-room was arranged on the same floor as her bedroom, and then she came downstairs daily no more. In spite of all precautions against cold she had a severe attack of bronchitis in 1875, and was attended by Dr. Hawkesley, whom she knew and liked as a fellow-worker on the Council of the Normal College for the Blind. He was struck by the manner in which she threw off the attack. "She is doing so gallantly,"

he said. But she did not regain the strength lost during this illness, and resumed life after every access of sorrow and suffering on a lower level, as it were, and with diminished vital powers. After the spring of 1875 she was not dressed again, and never sat up. Rec.u.mbent on one of Alderman's couches, in a pretty dressing-gown, with soft warm shawls, and lace, and bright colour, such as she loved, about her, she spent her good days. On the bad ones she was not lifted from her bed.

She had indeed become like a train that is left upon a siding, and all her busy life was hushed and silent.

When the summer came, and her rooms were to be repapered and painted, she was carried downstairs. The drawing-rooms were specially prepared as her bed and sitting-rooms, and she would stay in these her "country quarters" for six weeks or two months. After that she was taken upstairs in the same way for the autumn, winter, and spring. This removal required great care and very skilful management, as the couch on which she reclined had to be lifted over the bannisters, and any jerk or unexpected movement caused both pain and apprehension.

A fresh sorrow awaited her. In 1876 Charlotte Gadney, her faithful and affectionate attendant, had a paralytic seizure, and it was necessary for the sake both of mistress and maid that they should part. Bessie could not at first acquiesce in separation; she reproached herself as the cause of Charlotte's illness, and could not rest until she was informed of all the minutest details connected with her.

But when the parting was over Bessie's anxiety gradually diminished, and Charlotte's recovery was more rapid than had been expected. She was never well enough to resume attendance upon her beloved mistress, but from time to time she came on a short visit, much to her own and Bessie's delight.