WINCHESTER, Sunday.
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 in writing those kind,
amusing letters at a time when I know your feelings would have dictated
so different a style. Take the only reward I can give you in the
assurance that your benevolent purpose was answered; you did contribute
to her enjoyment.
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 languor 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 diminution 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 gilder of every
pleasure, the soother of every sorrow; I had not a thought concealed
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
affection for her made me sometimes unjust to and negligent 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 perfectly 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 wilful
neglect of her comfort.
She felt herself to be dying about half an hour before she became
tranquil and apparently 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 fixed 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 affected, but as long as she spoke she was
intelligible.
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 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 seizure, 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 applied 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 gratitude to the Almighty, 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; fatigue 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 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 coffin, there is such a sweet, serene air
over her countenance as is quite pleasant to contemplate.
This day, my dearest Fanny, you have had the melancholy intelligence,
and I know you suffer severely, but I likewise know that you will apply
to the fountain-head for consolation, 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
remains 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, reposes in a far superior mansion. 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 lastingly
from their pious exertions. 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 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 kindly 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.