At five o’clock in the morning of the day of delivery, she felt what she conceived to be some notices of the approaching labour. Mrs. Blenkinsop, matron and midwife to the Westminster Lying in Hospital, who had seen Mary several times previous to her delivery, was soon after sent for, and arrived about nine. During the whole day Mary was perfectly7 cheerful. Her pains came on slowly; and, in the morning, she wrote several notes, three addressed to me, who had gone, as usual, to my apartments, for the purpose of study. About two o’clock in the afternoon, she went up to her chamber — never more to descend8.
The child was born at twenty minutes after eleven at night. Mary had requested that I would not come into the chamber till all was over, and signified her intention of then performing the interesting office of presenting the new-born child to its father. I was sitting in a parlour; and it was not till after two o’clock on Thursday morning, that I received the alarming intelligence, that the placenta was not yet removed, and that the midwife dared not proceed any further, and gave her opinion for calling in a male practitioner9. I accordingly went for Dr. Poignand, physician and man-midwife to the same hospital, who arrived between three and four hours after the birth of the child. He immediately proceeded to the extraction of the placenta, which he brought away in pieces, till he was satisfied that the whole was removed. In that point however it afterwards appeared that he was mistaken.
The period from the birth of the child till about eight o’clock the next morning, was a period full of peril10 and alarm. The loss of blood was considerable, and produced an almost uninterrupted series of fainting fits. I went to the chamber soon after four in the morning, and found her in this state. She told me some time on Thursday, “that she should have died the preceding night, but that she was determined not to leave me.” She added, with one of those smiles which so eminently11 illuminated12 her countenance13, “that I should not be like Porson,” alluding14 to the circumstance of that great man having lost his wife, after being only a few months married. Speaking of what she had already passed through, she declared, “that she had never known what bodily pain was before.”
On Thursday morning Dr. Poignand repeated his visit. Mary had just before expressed some inclination15 to see Dr. George Fordyce, a man probably of more science than any other medical professor in England, and between whom and herself there had long subsisted16 a mutual17 friendship. I mentioned this to Dr. Poignand, but he rather discountenanced the idea, observing that he saw no necessity for it, and that he supposed Dr. Fordyce was not particularly conversant18 with obstetrical cases; but that I would do as I pleased. After Dr. Poignand was gone, I determined to send for Dr. Fordyce. He accordingly saw the patient about three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. He however perceived no particular cause of alarm; and, on that or the next day, quoted, as I am told, Mary’s case, in a mixed company, as a corroboration19 of a favourite idea of his, of the propriety20 of employing females in the capacity of midwives. Mary “had had a woman, and was doing extremely well.”
What had passed however in the night between Wednesday and Thursday, had so far alarmed me, that I did not quit the house, and scarcely the chamber, during the following day. But my alarms wore off, as time advanced. Appearances were more favourable21, than the exhausted22 state of the patient would almost have permitted me to expect. Friday morning therefore I devoted23 to a business of some urgency, which called me to different parts of the town, and which, before dinner, I happily completed. On my return, and during the evening, I received the most pleasurable sensations from the promising24 state of the patient. I was now perfectly satisfied that every thing was safe, and that, if she did not take cold, or suffer from any external accident, her speedy recovery was certain.
Saturday was a day less auspicious25 than Friday, but not absolutely alarming.
Sunday, the third of September, I now regard as the day, that finally decided26 on the fate of the object dearest to my heart that the universe contained. Encouraged by what I considered as the progress of her recovery, I accompanied a friend in the morning in several calls, one of them as far as Kensington, and did not return till dinner-time. On my return I found a degree of anxiety in every face, and was told that she had had a sort of shivering fit, and had expressed some anxiety at the length of my absence. My sister and a friend of hers, had been engaged to dine below stairs, but a message was sent to put them off, and Mary ordered that the cloth should not be laid, as usual, in the room immediately under her on the first floor, but in the ground-floor parlour. I felt a pang27 at having been so long and so unseasonably absent, and determined that I would not repeat the fault.
In the evening she had a second shivering fit, the symptoms of which were in the highest degree alarming. Every muscle of the body trembled, the teeth chattered28, and the bed shook under her. This continued probably for five minutes. She told me, after it was over, that it had been a struggle between life and death, and that she had been more than once, in the course of it, at the point of expiring. I now apprehend29 these to have been the symptoms of a decided mortification30, occasioned by the part of the placenta that remained in the womb. At the time however I was far from considering it in that light. When I went for Dr. Poignand, between two and three o’clock on the morning of Thursday, despair was in my heart. The fact of the adhesion of the placenta was stated to me; and, ignorant as I was of obstetrical science, I felt as if the death of Mary was in a manner decided. But hope had re-visited my bosom31; and her chearings were so delightful32, that I hugged her obstinately33 to my heart. I was only mortified34 at what appeared to me a new delay in the recovery I so earnestly longed for. I immediately sent for Dr. Fordyce, who had been with her in the morning, as well as on the three preceding days. Dr. Poignand had also called this morning but declined paying any further visits, as we had thought proper to call in Dr. Fordyce.
The progress of the disease was now uninterrupted. On Tuesday I found it necessary again to call in Dr. Fordyce in the afternoon, who brought with him Dr. Clarke of New Burlington-street, under the idea that some operation might be necessary. I have already said, that I pertinaciously35 persisted in viewing the fair side of things; and therefore the interval36 between Sunday and Tuesday evening, did not pass without some mixture of cheerfulness. On Monday, Dr. Fordyce forbad the child’s having the breast, and we therefore procured37 puppies to draw off the milk. This occasioned some pleasantry of Mary with me and the other attendants. Nothing could exceed the equanimity38, the patience and affectionateness of the poor sufferer. I intreated her to recover; I dwelt with trembling fondness on every favourable circumstance; and, as far it was possible in so dreadful a situation, she, by her smiles and kind speeches, rewarded my affection.
Wednesday was to me the day of greatest torture in the melancholy39 series. It was now decided that the only chance of supporting her through what she had to suffer, was by supplying her rather freely with wine. This task was devolved upon me. I began about four o’clock in the afternoon. But for me, totally ignorant of the nature of diseases and of the human frame, thus to play with a life that now seemed all that was dear to me in the universe, was too dreadful a task. I knew neither what was too much, nor what was too little. Having begun, I felt compelled, under every disadvantage, to go on. This lasted for three hours. Towards the end of that time, I happened foolishly to ask the servant who came out of the room, “What she thought of her mistress?” she replied, “that, in her judgment, she was going as fast as possible.” There are moments, when any creature that lives, has power to drive one into madness. I seemed to know the absurdity40 of this reply; but that was of no consequence. It added to the measure of my distraction41. A little after seven I intreated a friend to go for Mr. Carlisle, and bring him instantly wherever he was to be found. He had voluntarily called on the patient on the preceding Saturday, and two or three times since. He had seen her that morning, and had been earnest in recommending the wine-diet. That day he dined four miles out of town, on the side of the metropolis42, which was furthest from us. Notwithstanding this, my friend returned with him after three-quarters of an hour’s absence. No one who knows my friend, will wonder either at his eagerness or success, when I name Mr. Basil Montagu. The sight of Mr. Carlisle thus unexpectedly, gave me a stronger alleviating43 sensation, than I thought it possible to experience.
Mr. Carlisle left us no more from Wednesday evening, to the hour of her death. It was impossible to exceed his kindness and affectionate attention. It excited in every spectator a sentiment like adoration44. His conduct was uniformly tender and anxious, ever upon the watch, observing every symptom, and eager to improve every favourable appearance. If skill or attention could have saved her, Mary would still live. In addition to Mr. Carlisle’s constant presence, she had Dr. Fordyce and Dr. Clarke every day. She had for nurses, or rather for friends, watching every occasion to serve her, Mrs. Fenwick, author of an excellent novel, entitled Secrecy45, another very kind and judicious46 lady, and a favourite female servant. I was scarcely ever out of the room. Four friends, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montagu, Mr. Marshal, and Mr. Dyson, sat up nearly the whole of the last week of her existence in the house, to be dispatched, on any errand, to any part of the metropolis, at a moment’s warning.
Mr. Carlisle being in the chamber, I retired47 to bed for a few hours on Wednesday night. Towards morning he came into my room with an account that the patient was surprisingly better. I went instantly into the chamber. But I now sought to suppress every idea of hope. The greatest anguish48 I have any conception of, consists in that crushing of a new-born hope which I had already two or three times experienced. If Mary recovered, it was well, and I should see it time enough. But it was too mighty49 a thought to bear being trifled with, and turned out and admitted in this abrupt50 way.
I had reason to rejoice in the firmness of my gloomy thoughts, when, about ten o’clock on Thursday evening, Mr. Carlisle told us to prepare ourselves, for we had reason to expect the fatal event every moment. To my thinking, she did not appear to be in that state of total exhaustion51, which I supposed to precede death; but it is probable that death does not always take place by that gradual process I had pictured to myself; a sudden pang may accelerate his arrival. She did not die on Thursday night.
Till now it does not appear that she had any serious thoughts of dying; but on Friday and Saturday, the two last days of her life, she occasionally spoke52 as if she expected it. This was however only at intervals53; the thought did not seem to dwell upon her mind. Mr. Carlisle rejoiced in this. He observed, and there is great force in the suggestion, that there is no more pitiable object, than a sick man, that knows he is dying. The thought must be expected to destroy his courage, to co-operate with the disease, and to counteract54 every favourable effort of nature.
On these two days her faculties55 were in too decayed a state, to be able to follow any train of ideas with force or any accuracy of connection. Her religion, as I have already shown, was not calculated to be the torment56 of a sick bed; and, in fact, during her whole illness, not one word of a religious cast fell from her lips.
She was affectionate and compliant57 to the last. I observed on Friday and Saturday nights, that, whenever her attendants recommended to her to sleep, she discovered her willingness to yield, by breathing, perhaps for the space of a minute, in the manner of a person that sleeps, though the effort, from the state of her disorder58, usually proved ineffectual.
She was not tormented59 by useless contradiction. One night the servant, from an error in judgment, teazed her with idle expostulations, but she complained of it grievously, and it was corrected. “Pray, pray, do not let her reason with me,” was her expression. Death itself is scarcely so dreadful to the enfeebled frame, as the monotonous60 importunity61 of nurses ever-lastingly repeated.
Seeing that every hope was extinct, I was very desirous of obtaining from her any directions, that she might wish to have followed after her decease. Accordingly, on Saturday morning, I talked to her for a good while of the two children. In conformity62 to Mr. Carlisle’s maxim63 of not impressing the idea of death, I was obliged to manage my expressions. I therefore affected64 to proceed wholly upon the ground of her having been very ill, and that it would be some time before she could expect to be well; wishing her to tell me any thing that she would choose to have done respecting the children, as they would now be principally under my care. After having repeated this idea to her in a great variety of forms, she at length said, with a significant tone of voice, “I know what you are thinking of,” but added, that she had nothing to communicate to me upon the subject.
The shivering fits had ceased entirely65 for the two last days. Mr. Carlisle observed that her continuance was almost miraculous66, and he was on the watch for favourable appearances, believing it highly improper67 to give up all hope, and remarking, that perhaps one in a million, of persons in her state might possibly recover. I conceive that not one in a million, unites so good a constitution of body and of mind.
These were the amusements of persons in the very gulph of despair. At six o’clock on Sunday morning, September the tenth, Mr. Carlisle called me from my bed to which I had retired at one, in conformity to my request, that I might not be left to receive all at once the intelligence that she was no more. She expired at twenty minutes before eight.
Her remains68 were deposited, on the fifteenth of September, at ten o’clock in the morning, in the church-yard of the parish church of St. Pancras, Middlesex. A few of the persons she most esteemed69, attended the ceremony; and a plain monument is now erecting70 on the spot, by some of her friends, with the following inscription71:
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,
AUTHOR OF
A VINDICATION72
OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.
BORN, XXVII APRIL MDCCLIX.
DIED, X SEPTEMBER MDCCXCVII.
The loss of the world in this admirable woman, I leave to other men to collect; my own I well know, nor can it be improper to describe it. I do not here allude73 to the personal pleasures I enjoyed in her conversation: these increased every day, in proportion as we knew each other better, and as our mutual confidence increased. They can be measured only by the treasures of her mind, and the virtues74 of her heart. But this is a subject for meditation75, not for words. What I purposed alluding to, was the improvement that I have for ever lost.
We had cultivated our powers (if I may venture to use this sort of language) in different directions; I chiefly an attempt at logical and metaphysical distinction, she a taste for the picturesque76. One of the leading passions of my mind has been an anxious desire not to be deceived. This has led me to view the topics of my reflection on all sides; and to examine and re-examine without end, the questions that interest me.
But it was not merely (to judge at least from all the reports of my memory in this respect) the difference of propensities78, that made the difference in our intellectual habits. I have been stimulated79, as long as I can remember, by an ambition for intellectual distinction; but, as long as I can remember, I have been discouraged, when I have endeavoured to cast the sum of my intellectual value, by finding that I did not possess, in the degree of some other men, an intuitive perception of intellectual beauty. I have perhaps a strong and lively sense of the pleasures of the imagination; but I have seldom been right in aligning80 to them their proportionate value, but by dint81 of persevering82 examination, and the change and correction of my first opinions.
What I wanted in this respect, Mary possessed83, in a degree superior to any other person I ever knew. The strength of her mind lay in intuition. She was often right, by this means only, in matters of mere77 speculation84. Her religion, her philosophy, (in both of which the errors were comparatively few, and the strain dignified85 and generous) were, as I have already said, the pure result of feeling and taste. She adopted one opinion, and rejected another, spontaneously, by a sort of tact86, and the force of a cultivated imagination; and yet, though perhaps, in the strict sense of the term, she reasoned little, it is surprising what a degree of soundness is to be found in her determinations. But, if this quality was of use to her in topics that seem the proper province of reasoning, it was much more so in matters directly appealing to the intellectual taste. In a robust87 and unwavering judgment of this sort, there is a kind of witchcraft88; when it decides justly, it produces a responsive vibration89 in every ingenuous90 mind. In this sense, my oscillation and scepticism were fixed91 by her boldness. When a true opinion emanated92 in this way from another mind, the conviction produced in my own assumed a similar character, instantaneous and firm. This species of intellect probably differs from the other, chiefly in the relation of earlier and later. What the one perceives instantaneously (circumstances having produced in it, either a premature93 attention to objects of this sort, or a greater boldness of decision) the other receives only by degrees. What it wants, seems to be nothing more than a minute attention to first impressions, and a just appreciation94 of them; habits that are never so effectually generated, as by the daily recurrence95 of a striking example.
This light was lent to me for a very short period, and is now extinguished for ever!
While I have described the improvement I was in the act of receiving, I believe I have put down the leading traits of her intellectual character.
The End
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1
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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alleviating
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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53
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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compliant
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| adj.服从的，顺从的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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aligning
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| n. (直线)对准 动词align的现在分词形式 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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