R. Browning.
Strangers might easily receive the impression that Miss Buss was one of those happy persons who, being blessed with an iron constitution, do not know what illness means. This was, however, very far from the fact; for with a temperament2 so intensely sensitive, she was in reality one of the women who can be as ill as they choose to be; and a good deal of her apparent vigour3 lay in the strength of the will which elected not to be ill. “Great minds have wills, where feeble ones have wishes.” It was just because she so well knew what could be done by self-control that she exacted so much self-control from all around her. From experience she knew how largely the body may be made the instrument of the spirit, and for much of her time she kept going by sheer force of that indomitable will.
It was because she carried this effort too far, in exacting4 from her woman’s strength the work that might have contented5 several strong men, that she grew old before her time, and finally broke down, paying 367the price of overstrain for some years before the end came.
All that we can hear of her early life gives the impression of perfect temper, of unfailing composure, of unbroken self-command. It is only in later years, when her great work was completed, that we find the nervous irritability7 that is the price paid for over-work, or, more truly, of over-worry, since it is not work that kills, but worry.
So much did all around her rely on her strength and vigour that it is with surprise we note the recurrence8 in her letters of such passages as these, even so many years ago:—
“September, 1872.
“It is simply sickening to think of the crowds who come to me, and I have been so ailing6 in health that I have only managed to get along at all by sitting with Berlin woolwork in the evening, going to no meetings, and getting to bed at ten o’clock. Also, though to tell you this is dreadful, I have got through this week only on champagne9 twice a day, with doses of iron!
“The champagne has, I trust, done its work and set me up, so I hope to go on without any more until next time! My throat has been affected10 without intermission this term, and the sleepless11 nights have almost driven me to opiates or to a doctor. But I think I am better, and the holidays are coming near.
“This is the history of every term, however, and the question will arise, how long such a strain can be borne? I do my best to keep in health, but over-strained nature will have her way sometimes. This is perhaps a new light on my inner life. But, my dear Annie, remember every one thinks I am a proper person on whom to make claims....”
This inability to meet claims to which she would so gladly have given full space was a very wearing part of the overcrowding of her life. Here is a regret that she was compelled to seem to neglect a friend for whom she would have done anything in her power:—
“Her letter pains me, in a sense, because I know how heavy is the trial of waiting and doing nothing when there is the will to 368work. If only I had some leisure I might go to her and talk with her.
“But I can give nothing except to those who can come to me, and not always, or even often, then. Do not say anything. As the work goes on, we may see a way to keep her interested in, and cognizant of, our part of it.
“I had no idea of how much she had cared for me in the past days, and it is very touching12 to know it.”
“March, 1873.
“... I hope you have not been thinking harshly of me for not answering your note or calling, but if you have, you must in imagination take my place, which is at all times fit to be occupied by ten ordinary women, but which, at the end of the school year, with all the examinations and prizes, is large enough for twenty.”
“December 9, 1873.
“I am going to bed now (eight o’clock), and hope to be better for a night’s rest.
“Here I am again a prisoner in my room! A sore throat is the main cause....
“But I am generally out of sorts. I am learning that I cannot do as I used, and that body will dominate mind and will.
“I fear you are no better. You had my news? It seems to me quite foolish for me to be ill and unable to do my work when the path became suddenly clear, and all so quiet too!...
“Dearest Annie, my love to you. Lately I have often seemed to want you, but I have never been so long and so completely broken down—except there was organic disease, when I had fever—as I have this term, and therefore unable to go to you.
“There is a lecture at the College of Preceptors to-morrow night, on ‘English as a Means of Philological13 Instruction,’ by Dr. Morris—the Morris. 7.30. Could you go? If so, could you join me here a few minutes before seven? Only Miss Fawcett is going.
“I am better in myself, but cannot yet stand upright or walk about. Patience is teaching me a great lesson, and I hope I am learning it, in part, at least.
“... I really think there have never been so many petty worries crowded together.
“It is all very well for men to say ‘never mind.’ However, what is to be will be, and strength comes with the need.
“I am much better in health. Why, do you think? I went 369on Saturday to my uncle’s perfectly14 quiet house, and out of the 48 hours slept 25!—2? hours each afternoon, and 10 hours each night.
“I am feeling so much better to-day—I slept well last night. But one of the distressing15 signs of over-work is disturbed and light sleep, and my brain is so constantly at work in day-time that I need deep sleep. So cause and effect act and react.
“My heart has been wrung16 too by Mr. Payne’s death. Life seems so full of anguish17 as one gets older, that at times I seem to have no power of being bright and cheerful.”
In addition to the regular work of the school, and all the claims of outside work and of pupils and friends, there was a large amount of wear and tear inevitable18 in any undertaking19 on so vast a scale. There was also much that was painful connected with the success of the public movement, so far as it affected small private schools or the work of ordinary governesses, who all seemed to urge some moral claim to compensation. It was impossible for the kind heart not to suffer even when the clear head denied the validity of the cause of the suffering, as in this letter in reference to one such case:—
“I wonder dear A. does not remember that when a man makes a new invention, and thereby20 ruins many individuals, he is not expected to compensate21 them.
“They suffer in the interests of the greater number, and, if wise, direct their efforts towards working the new invention or improving on it. This may seem cruel, but it is not so in the end. There is no reason, human or divine, why A. B. C., etc., should put aside a direct benefit to themselves and others in order to prevent Z. from turning his attention to some other field of work than that he already occupies. It is certain that three hundred girls in one school want as much teaching as thirty girls in ten schools—only they want different teaching.
“Moral—the big school displaces labour, but does not crush it.”
In the mere23 fact of success itself there was trial enough in many ways. The intensity24 of her feeling might be sometimes out of due proportion to the cause 370of suffering, but none the less did she suffer acutely. At the time of greatest triumph—the opening of the new schools in 1879—there chanced to be one example which gave rise to an outbreak of indignation on her part, letting us see how much had hitherto been hidden even from her friends. Of this incident she writes—
“It is of no use to try to please people! I do not mean to try. I will do what seems to me right, and then learn to be content to be abused, if I can! What with every one’s ‘claims,’ and with people’s ‘rights’ to a seat, always the best!—friends, family, parents, old pupils, etc., it is all the same! Every one is dissatisfied, do what one will; some one else is preferred, some one is neglected.... And so the stings go on, till I nearly break down under the wounds they inflict25. When barely able to get about again through the work, I hear of my neglect, etc., of one to whom, in my heart of hearts, it never occurred to me as possible that any one could accuse me of ingratitude26.
“Pray forgive me, dear Annie, but you can never know the bitter price one pays for success. I think it as heavy as that of failure! This has stirred up a depth of scorn and anger of which I feel ashamed, though I feel almost ashamed, too, of the race of beings to which I belong.
“I do not know whether it will do any good to have it out, so to speak, with you. I fear perhaps it will worry you. But as I have written it, it shall go, and I hope you and I shall meet next Saturday, when the keenness of the stroke has passed. I do not, however, think that just now I can write to our friends. I should not wish to pain them, so silence will be my best refuge. Do not please say anything. I will fight my fight out with myself alone.
“God’s law of compensation comes in; He will neither suffer one to be unduly27 elated nor depressed28.
“It is part of our discipline in life that we should constantly fail, and I earnestly hope that I may be permitted to try and try again.
“But the old days have gone, and it would be better as well as easier for me for no visitors to be allowed to enter except the few on the platform and the mothers of girls taking prizes high in the school.
“Trying to please every one, and to recognize his or her rights, 371is not of the least use. Like the miller29 in the fable30, one only succeeds in pleasing no one.
“There is so much to be grateful and thankful for that I am really ashamed of myself for feeling vexed31. I have not told you half the vexations to which people subject me, certainly not because I ignore them, but because by trying to please it seems impossible to succeed.”
Earlier in this “year of triumph” there is a pathetic little note to her sister, showing how much stronger was the “domestic” than the public woman in her—
“February 18, 1879.
“Dearest little Mother,
“Don’t be unhappy, but you did not think how much I miss your loving little hug and petting.
“No one pets me but you, and occasionally Mrs. Bryant. Darling boy allows me graciously to pet him, but he does not make advances to me.
“I want you sometimes, if only to look at!
“Where are we to go at Easter? I was thinking of Hastings. Let me know.
“Your very loving old
“Arnie.”
It is not necessary to say that no change really took place in Miss Buss’ endeavours to respond to even the most unreasonable32 of demands. When she met me at Ben Rhydding soon afterwards, she was just as sweet and bright as ever, and her nerves rapidly recovered tone again. This power of recuperation after even the severest strain was always remarkable33, even to the very last. We had a striking proof of it in the spring of 1893, when Miss Buss joined my sister and me at Bordighera. We had tried to get her to take the complete rest of a whole winter abroad after her illness in the autumn before, holding out the attractions of Florence, Siena, and the Italian lakes. Every one wanted her to give up work for a time, and take the 372chance of real recovery. Our efforts were all wasted, and all she would do was to come, with her cousin, Miss Mary Buss, and a friend, late in the spring, stopping at various points in the Riviera on the way. She was far from well on her arrival, but a drive to San Remo in an open carriage on a windy day gave her a chill, followed by the inevitable attack of influenza34. There was also a passing giddiness which gave us anxiety. She was certainly very ill for five days, with a threatening of pneumonia35. But, thanks to her power of sleeping day and night, the attack passed off as rapidly as it had come on, when nothing we could say could persuade her that there had been ground for alarm; an opinion she maintained in the face of the most authoritative36 medical support of our view. On the Sunday she had certainly been very ill, but on Tuesday she would have been downstairs if we had not made too strong a protest. On Thursday, however, she insisted on starting for England, and accomplished37 the journey to London without a break, and apparently38 with no ill consequences.
She had already suffered from frequent attacks of influenza of a more or less serious character, leaving behind them more and more weakness. The first attack dated from the winter of 1889–90, when we were all in Rome together. I had suffered from what seemed a sudden sharp cold, but was nearly well when Miss Buss and her party arrived in Rome on Christmas Eve. Christmas Day was very wet, and as my room was large and airy all assembled there for afternoon tea and talk, Miss Buss being full of fun and interest. But after a few days she and several others developed the same kind of cold, which, even then, we never identified with the mysterious disease of which every one heard so much that year. But for us both it proved the 373beginning of a series of attacks extending through the next four years. More than once when she was at the worst, I was too ill even to be told of it till the danger had passed. This was the case in the autumn of 1893, and I had been suffering during the summer, and able to see her only when she came to visit me.
It was during this summer that she finally moved from Myra Lodge39 to No. 87, next door, leaving the boarders with Miss Edwards. The door of communication was still left, that Miss Buss might see her friends and the girls when she felt able. She had her own companion, Miss Newman, and, later, Miss Millner; but Miss Edwards, having been so many years with her, still went often to see her. There seemed every prospect40 of years of rest and ease, amid a circle which could profit by her experience and wisdom.
There were all the inevitable delays, in getting into the new house, even though the workmen worked with all their hearts for an employer who took very special care of their creature comforts, and made them wish “for more like her.” She was not accustomed to summer in London, and the consequence of it all was the very serious attack, already mentioned, in the autumn. She recovered, however, with something of the rapidity of the experience in the spring, and was able to go to Bournemouth, and afterwards to spend Christmas at her cottage at Epping.
When my sister and I returned from Italy, in May, 1894, we were very much grieved to see the change in our friend. She looked many years older, and was quite unfit for any sort of exertion41. It was surprising how easily she accepted the changed conditions, and, after her life of so much activity, was quite content to be amused, finding special pleasure in Miss Millner’s lovely little Persian kitten. It was very touching to 374see her intense amusement in her subjection to her new medical attendant, Dr. Cobbett, the successor to her old friend Dr. Evershed. She even seemed to find a lively satisfaction in the discovery of a will which could dominate her own.
There was one bright spot in this summer, in a visit to “The Haven,” near Hythe, the pleasant home of her friend Mrs. Pierson, from which she returned so well that she went to the Norfolk coast with Miss Millner and Mr. and Mrs. W. K. Hill. But the weather was cold, and Mr. and Mrs. Septimus Buss, who joined her at Overstrand, were thankful to get her safely home again.
The change in our dear friend, with the manifest certainty that she must soon retire from her work, had made me look out her old letters, and begin to arrange the material she had prepared for the long-talked-of story of the school, which I wished to have ready when the day of retirement42 should come. On my last visit to her, early in November, she was so much stronger that she talked in quite the old way, telling me that she intended to amuse herself by dictating43 her reminiscences to a shorthand writer. I then told her what I had been doing, and she became quite eager that we should do it together. On November 12th I had a note fixing the next day for the first of these meetings. I was unfortunately prevented from going, thus losing that last precious evening of her active life—a lasting44 regret.
Early the next day the fatal illness began with an attack of unconsciousness. In a letter from the Rev22. Alfred J. Buss, he says—
“Though my sister had been in ill health for a long time, she had rallied so often that much hope still remained. She had been at the school several times during last term, and attended a meeting of ‘old pupils.’ This last may have been too much for her. She 375had an attack from which she was unable to rally. There had been a consultation45 a few days before, and the medical men saw no reason why she should not then be better—and allowed me to inform the governors so—though she would still be liable to relapses. So that the end came unexpectedly.”
She had recovered from several similar attacks, and had latterly seemed so much stronger that there had been every reason for hope during the periods of consciousness that came from time to time, although a new symptom had appeared in the extreme restlessness that alternated with the lethargy.
For six weeks hope came and went, everything being done that love could devise or devotion carry out. In addition to the two constant companions, there were two trained nurses: and the dear patient, in the quiet intervals46, was her sweetest self; so careful about giving trouble, and so courteous47 in her acknowledgment of service rendered, so grieved that the nurses should be kept up at night, and so anxious that Miss Millner and Miss Edwards should know how much she felt their kind attention.
Miss Edwards gives some interesting details of these last months after the return home from this last holiday, when, after a few weeks of care and nursing, she had seemed better than at any time during the year:—
“Three weeks of peaceful, quiet enjoyment48 followed this illness, during which Miss Buss received many of her friends at her own house, and was further made happy by a visit from her old and intimate friend, Mrs. Hodgson, who has since written: ‘I am very thankful that I had such a sweet, happy time with my friend before the last illness came, and when she could in a measure enjoy life.’
“During this period of improved health Miss Buss paid her last three visits to the school she loved so dearly, visits that will not soon be forgotten by those who then saw her. On October 31st she was present in the evening at the ‘old pupils’’ meeting, and on November 2nd, during part of the school concert, and, with 376her usual sympathetic thought of others, sent on each occasion for several of the music teachers and others of the staff to sit by her in turn and exchange a few words.
“The last occasion on which our dear head-mistress was at Sandall Road was on November 7th, when she distributed the holiday prizes, making kindly49 inquiries50, as each girl whom she knew came before her, for parents and brothers and sisters at home, and taking special notice of the little ones, for whom she had brought a large packet of sweets.
“Before this illness came on she had with her own hands arranged all her Christmas gifts and ordered her Christmas cards, received by many of her friends on that sad Christmas Day. There were also some packets addressed by herself of mementoes to friends, all the more precious for this evidence of thoughtful foresight51.
“On Saturday, November 10th, friends came to lunch, and Miss Buss was well enough to enjoy their society, and show particular interest in the children, finding games and other amusement for them.
“On this day also she had a visit from an old pupil—and colleague—who brought her little baby-girl, asking permission to call her Frances Mary, a request which greatly touched Miss Buss. Constantly during her illness she spoke52 of her ‘little namesake baby,’ who once, at the dear invalid’s special wish, was brought to see her.
“On November 11th Miss Buss attended the short morning service at the church of St. Mary the Virgin53, almost next door to Myra Lodge.
“On Monday evening she was able to be with the girls at No. 89, enjoying, as she always did, to see them happy in playing games.
“The next day two old pupils took tea with her, and for the Wednesday a luncheon-party of some of the clergy54 and workers of Holy Trinity had been arranged. But this, by the doctor’s orders, had to be postponed55.”
On the Thursday before the end there was a return of consciousness for some hours, with full recognition of her nephew, the Rev. Charles Caron Buss, the “Charlie boy” of olden days, whom she now questioned tenderly about his little curly-headed Kenneth, 377her latest delight. She also recognized and talked with Mrs. Alfred Buss. Then came her “own boy,” the Rev. Francis F. Buss, and she was able to follow the Service for the Visitation of the Sick, and to join once more in the Veni Creator, and then, for the last time, in the words of the Collect, so often on her lips, to seek from the “Fountain of all Wisdom those things which for our unworthiness we dare not, and for our blindness we cannot, ask”—a prayer so meet for one who had walked from earliest days so humbly56 with her God—a prayer so soon to be answered by the revelation of “the things prepared for them that love.”
With this last self-surrender she let go her hold on earth, sinking again into a state of coma57 that grew deeper and deeper till it merged58 into the sleep of death. It lasted for three whole days longer, during which her family and a few intimate friends were unremitting in their visits, though there was nothing to be done but take a sad look at the dear face, and go away with the terrible sense of change, as they thought of that still form, those closed eyes, those unanswering lips from which came now only that slow laboured breathing, and remembered their friend as they had always known her before, so alert, so alive to every touch, so quick of response to the faintest appeal. The only break in this long stillness came in the hymns59 which from time to time were sung softly by the watchers at the bedside, in the hope that those familiar sounds might penetrate60, beneath the silence.
All Sunday night the family remained in expectation—almost in hope—of the release which seemed so near, waiting as they that watch for the morning. Christmas Eve dawned, and, as the day advanced to high noon, the heavy breathing grew more and more quiet, till at length came perfect peace, and the 378watchers knew that their beloved had passed from death to life.
“For fifty years with dauntless heart
Step after step she won her way,
Through times of cloud, and barren praise,
Up to the well-earned golden days
Of proud success, and prouder fame;
Where no high thought of self had part,
No poor ambition of display,
Was sown the seed; and many a waste
Broke into blossom; fields grew white
To harvest that she lived to see,
Though not the fuller fruit to taste
(Which ages yet to come shall reap)
Ere fell the shadow of the night,
And, dauntless still, she sank to sleep.
“To busy hands and weary brain
Thus comes at last the dawn of peace,
Beyond the shadows, infinite;
Yea, life in Him who once again
By death for ever lives: release
From bonds to freedom. None may tell
(Rev. B. G. Johns.)
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1
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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ailing
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irritability
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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philological
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| adj.语言学的，文献学的 | |
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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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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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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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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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thereby
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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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mere
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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ingratitude
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unduly
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depressed
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miller
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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authoritative
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accomplished
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apparently
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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46
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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47
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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48
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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49
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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50
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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51
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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52
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
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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54
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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55
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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56
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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57
coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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58
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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59
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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60
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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61
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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62
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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63
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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64
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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