My dearest Fanny,—Doubly dear to me now for her dear sake whom we have lost. She did love you most sincerely, and never shall I forget the proofs of love you gave her during her illness[326] in writing those kind, amusing letters at a time when I know your feelings would have dictated1 so different a style. Take the only reward I can give you in the assurance that your benevolent2 purpose was answered; you did contribute to her enjoyment3.
Even your last letter afforded pleasure. I merely cut the seal and gave it to her; she opened it and read it herself, afterwards she gave it to me to read, and then talked to me a little and not uncheerfully of its contents, but there was then a languor4 about her which prevented her taking the same interest in anything she had been used to do.
Since Tuesday evening, when her complaint returned, there was a visible change, she slept more and much more comfortably; indeed, during the last eight-and-forty hours she was more asleep than awake. Her looks altered and she fell away, but I perceived no material diminution5 of strength, and though I was then hopeless of a recovery, I had no suspicion how rapidly my loss was approaching.
I have lost a treasure, such a sister, such a friend as never can have been surpassed. She was the sun of my life, the gilder6 of every pleasure, the soother7 of every sorrow; I had not a thought concealed8 from her, and it is as if I had lost a part of myself. I loved her only too well,—not better than she deserved, but I am conscious that my[327] affection for her made me sometimes unjust to and negligent9 of others; and I can acknowledge, more than as a general principle, the justice of the Hand which has struck this blow.
You know me too well to be at all afraid that I should suffer materially from my feelings; I am perfectly10 conscious of the extent of my irreparable loss, but I am not at all overpowered and very little indisposed,—nothing but what a short time, with rest and change of air, will remove. I thank God that I was enabled to attend her to the last, and amongst my many causes of self-reproach I have not to add any wilful11 neglect of her comfort.
She felt herself to be dying about half an hour before she became tranquil12 and apparently13 unconscious. During that half-hour was her struggle, poor soul! She said she could not tell us what she suffered, though she complained of little fixed14 pain. When I asked her if there was anything she wanted, her answer was she wanted nothing but death, and some of her words were: "God grant me patience, pray for me, oh, pray for me!" Her voice was affected15, but as long as she spoke16 she was intelligible17.
I hope I do not break your heart, my dearest Fanny, by these particulars; I mean to afford you gratification whilst I am relieving my own feelings. I could not write so to anybody else; indeed you are the only person I have written to at all, excepting[328] your grandmamma,—it was to her, not your Uncle Charles, I wrote on Friday.
Immediately after dinner on Thursday I went into the town to do an errand which your dear aunt was anxious about. I returned about a quarter before six, and found her recovering from faintness and oppression; she got so well as to be able to give me a minute account of her seizure18, and when the clock struck six she was talking quietly to me.
I cannot say how soon afterwards she was seized again with the same faintness, which was followed by the sufferings she could not describe; but Mr. Lyford had been sent for, had applied19 something to give her ease, and she was in a state of quiet insensibility by seven o'clock at the latest. From that time till half-past four, when she ceased to breathe, she scarcely moved a limb, so that we have every reason to think, with gratitude20 to the Almighty21, that her sufferings were over. A slight motion of the head with every breath remained till almost the last. I sat close to her with a pillow in my lap to assist in supporting her head, which was almost off the bed, for six hours; fatigue22 made me then resign my place to Mrs. J. A. for two hours and a half, when I took it again, and in about an hour more she breathed her last.
I was able to close her eyes myself, and it was a great gratification to me to render her those last[329] services. There was nothing convulsed which gave the idea of pain in her look; on the contrary, but for the continual motion of the head she gave one the idea of a beautiful statue, and even now, in her coffin23, there is such a sweet, serene24 air over her countenance25 as is quite pleasant to contemplate26.
This day, my dearest Fanny, you have had the melancholy27 intelligence, and I know you suffer severely28, but I likewise know that you will apply to the fountain-head for consolation29, and that our merciful God is never deaf to such prayers as you will offer.
The last sad ceremony is to take place on Thursday morning; her dear remains30 are to be deposited in the cathedral. It is a satisfaction to me to think that they are to lie in a building she admired so much; her precious soul, I presume to hope, reposes31 in a far superior mansion32. May mine one day be reunited to it!
Your dear papa, your Uncle Henry, and Frank and Edwd. Austen, instead of his father, will attend. I hope they will none of them suffer lastingly33 from their pious34 exertions35. The ceremony must be over before ten o'clock, as the cathedral service begins at that hour, so that we shall be at home early in the day, for there will be nothing to keep us here afterwards.
Your Uncle James came to us yesterday, and is[330] gone home to-day. Uncle H. goes to Chawton to-morrow morning; he has given every necessary direction here, and I think his company there will do good. He returns to us again on Tuesday evening.
I did not think to have written a long letter when I began, but I have found the employment draw me on, and I hope I shall have been giving you more pleasure than pain. Remember me kindly36 to Mrs. J. Bridges (I am so glad she is with you now), and give my best love to Lizzie and all the others.
I am, my dearest Fanny,
Most affectionately yours,
Cass. Eliz. Austen.
I have said nothing about those at Chawton, because I am sure you hear from your papa.
点击收听单词发音
1 dictated | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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2 benevolent | |
adj.仁慈的,乐善好施的 | |
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3 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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4 languor | |
n.无精力,倦怠 | |
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5 diminution | |
n.减少;变小 | |
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6 gilder | |
镀金工人 | |
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7 soother | |
n.抚慰者,橡皮奶头 | |
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8 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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9 negligent | |
adj.疏忽的;玩忽的;粗心大意的 | |
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10 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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11 wilful | |
adj.任性的,故意的 | |
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12 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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13 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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14 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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15 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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16 spoke | |
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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17 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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18 seizure | |
n.没收;占有;抵押 | |
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19 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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20 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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21 almighty | |
adj.全能的,万能的;很大的,很强的 | |
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22 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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23 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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24 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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25 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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26 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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27 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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28 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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29 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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30 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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31 reposes | |
v.将(手臂等)靠在某人(某物)上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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33 lastingly | |
[医]有残留性,持久地,耐久地 | |
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34 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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35 exertions | |
n.努力( exertion的名词复数 );费力;(能力、权力等的)运用;行使 | |
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36 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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