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resuming his chair. ‘I will be as short as I can. Mr Armadale’s case is briefly this: He has passed the greater part of his life in the West Indies – a wild life and a vicious life, by his own confession. Shortly after his marriage – now some three years since – the first symptoms of an approaching paralytic affection began to show themselves, and his medical advisers ordered him away to try the climate of Europe. Since leaving the West Indies, he has lived principally in Italy, with no benefit to his health. From Italy, before the last seizure attacked him, he removed to Switzerland; and from Switzerland he has been sent to this place. So much I know from his doctor’s report; the rest I can tell you from my own personal experience. 3 Mr Armadale has been sent to Wildbad too late: he is virtually a dead man. The paralysis is fast spreading upwards, and disease of the lower part of the spine has already taken place. 4 He can still move his hands a little, but he can hold nothing in his fingers. He can still articulate, but he may wake speechless to-morrow or next day. If I give him a week more to live, I give him what I honestly believe to be the utmost length of his span. At his own request, I told him – as carefully and as tenderly as I could – what I have just told you. The result was very distressing; the violence of the patient’s agitation was a violence which I despair of describing to you. 5 I took the liberty of asking him whether his affairs were unsettled. Nothing of the sort. His will is in the hands of his executor in London; and he leaves his wife and child well provided for. My next question succeeded better: it hit the mark: “Have you something on your mind to do before you die, which is not done yet?” He gave a great gasp of relief, which said, as no words could have said it, Yes. “Can I help you?” “Yes. I have something to write that I
must
write – can you make me hold a pen?” He might as well have asked me if I could perform a miracle. I could only say, No. “If I dictate the words,” he went on, “can you write what I tell you towrite?” Once more, I could only say, No. I understand a little English, but I can neither speak it, nor write it. Mr Armadale understands French, when it is spoken (as I speak it to him) slowly, but he cannot express himself in that language; and of German he is totally ignorant. In this difficulty, I said, what any one else in my situation would have said: “Why ask
me?
there is Mrs Armadale at your service, in the next room.” Before I could get up from my chair to fetch her, he stopped me – not by words, but by a look of horror, which fixed me by main force of astonishment, in my place. “Surely,” I said, “your wife is the fittest person to write for you as you desire?” “The last person under heaven!” he answered. “ What!” I said, “you ask me, a foreigner and a stranger, to write words at your dictation which you keep a secret from your wife!” Conceive my astonishment, when he answered me, without a moment’s hesitation – “Yes!” I sat lost; I sat silent. “If
you
can’t write English,” he said, “find somebody who can.” I tried to remonstrate. He burst into a dreadful moaning cry – a dumb entreaty, like the entreaty of a dog. “Hush! hush!” I said, “I will find somebody.” “To-day!” he broke out, “before my speech fails me, like my hand.” “To-day, in an hour’s time.” He shut his eyes; he quieted himself instantly. “While I am waiting for you,” he said; “let me see my little boy.” He had shown no tenderness when he spoke of his wife, but I saw the tears on his cheeks when he asked for his child. My profession, sir, has not made me so hard a man as you might think; and my doctor’s heart was as heavy, when