Work Text:
[Two excerpts from the diaries of Dr Stephen E Maturin, Esq.: the first dated 29 June 1803 - just after the end of the Peace of Amiens - and the second 23 October, 1847 - the day of Admiral Jno. Aubrey’s death. These fragments were first published by his (and Admiral Jno. Aubrey’s) 5th great-granddaughter, Diana Niamh Lambert, in a collection exploring Dr Maturin’s complex relationship with the Aubreys; they are provided here in both their original encoded Catalan and an English translation.]
[the writing on these pages is hasty and sprawling, but neater than anything dated after 1805]
I hardly know how to write - I am aflutter like a girl. My hand is miserable - it sprawls across the page with no respect for the cost of bound pages - but I must sort my thoughts.
JA - he is not yet well, of course, the creature; he will not be for many weeks still, so weak and exhausted is he. But he recovers as well as I could hope, though he is occasionally still delirious for some time after waking.
I had thought his endearments to me a symptom of his delirium - perhaps he thought me to be SW, the dear girl, or another of his acquaintance, and so he clung to my hand and called me beloved out of his confusion. And yet today, in his waking dream, he called out “Stephen, my soul and love,” when he could not find me.
I felt as if I should die to hear it - I had not considered even the idea of my affections returned. I know I am letting my heart run away with my head (a state more familiar these last months than since before the failed Uprising) but- If he should-
Will I ask him, when he is well? His friendship means so very much to me that I fear risking it on such a chance - I am ever a coward in affairs of the heart, as shown by MO'C and DV both before now - and yet my breast feels so light at the possibility that I cannot imagine staying silent.
[the writing on these pages shows evidence of severe arthritis and tremours, as well as what appears to be damage from tears]
He is gone. Jack Aubrey has breathed his last - SA and the children were with him at the end, as was I; even SP was able to make the trip, having relocated to Ireland with Jack’s decline. SP and I sit with him now - there are no Church of England rites to be performed, and SA was kind enough to allow us our heathenish, Papist rituals to-night.
I have feared this day for so long - an abstract fear near as long as we have known each other (for the atrocities of war are blindingly apparent to a surgeon), and a far more real horror since the death of my beloved Diana. The Dear knows I did not cope well with her loss; I was not a good father to BA for many years after - for she is so like her mother as to have hurt to look at - and I thank Mary every day for CO and PC and SA for caring for my little bird when I could not.
Yet I find age has tempered the pain, though I grieve him more fully than I thought possible. He has not been entirely himself these last two or three years together, and I find myself thankful he regained clarity in his last weeks; we could all say our goodbyes in peace with the man we love. His spirits were not unnaturally high nor miserable - he remembered his grandchildren, even our dear little girl - B and G’s darling daughter - and doted upon her most sweetly.
[there are a few lines here, blurred with water-damage and scratched over too many times to be made out]
Oh, Jack- SA and I will not be long behind you, I believe. She is stronger than I, though, and I fear she will soon be alone; my hands - never truly recovered from the French - tremble and ache so fierce I have neglected my writings for many years, my breath rattles in my lungs. I am dying, my love, my loves; I will see you soon, if the Lord has any mercy in his heart for me.
I think, perhaps, I have been dying since last night, joy. SA was so kind to give us an hour alone. You called me your soul, your dearest soul, Jack - you called me your love - and I knew you should never do so again; a part of me died to hear you name me such and know it was the final time. Farewell, my captain; give Diana my truest love, and tell her I shall see you both again in less time than it seems.