章节正文
life-work--``FAILURE IS IMPOSSIBLE.''
The next morning she was taken to her home in
Rochester, and one month from that day we con-
ducted her funeral services. The nurse who had
accompanied her from Baltimore remained with
her until two others had been secured to take her
place, and every care that love or medical science
could suggest was lavished on the patient. But
from the first it was plain that, as she herself had
foretold, ``Aunt Susan's'' soul was merely waiting
for the hour of its passing.
One of her characteristic traits was a dislike to
being seen, even by those nearest to her, when she
was not well. During the first three weeks of her
last illness, therefore, I did what she wished me to
do--I continued our work, trying to do hers as well
as my own. But all the time my heart was in her
sick-room, and at last the day came when I could
no longer remain away from her. I had awakened
in the morning with a strong conviction that she
needed me, and at the breakfast-table I announced
to her niece, Miss Lucy Anthony, the friend who for
years has shared my home, that I was going at once
to ``Aunt Susan.''
``I shall not even wait to telegraph,'' I declared.
``I am sure she has sent for me; I shall take the
first train.''
The journey brought me very close to death. As
we were approaching Wilkes-Barre our train ran into
a wagon loaded with powder and dynamite, which
had been left on the track. The horses attached to
it had been unhitched by their driver, who had spent
his time in this effort, when he saw the train coming,
instead of in signaling to the engineer. I was on
my way to the dining-car when the collision occurred.
and, with every one else who happened to be stand-
ing, I was hurled to the floor by the impact; flash
after flash of blinding light outside, accompanied by
a terrific roar, added to the panic of the passengers.
When the train stopped we learned how narrow had
been our escape from an especially unpleasant form
of death. The dynamite in the wagon was frozen,
and therefore had not exploded; it was the ex-
plosion of the powder that had caused the flashes
and the din. The dark-green cars were burned
almost white, and as we stood staring at them, a
silent, stunned group, our conductor said, quietly,
``You will never be as near death again, and escape,
as you have been to-day.''
The accident caused a long delay, and it was ten
o'clock at night when I reached Rochester and Miss
Anthony's home. As I entered the house Miss
Mary Anthony rose in surprise to greet me.
``How did you get here so soon?'' she cried.
And then: ``We sent for you this afternoon. Susan
has been asking for you all day.''
When I reached my friend's bedside one glance
at her face showed me the end was near; and from
that time until it came, almost a week later, I re-
mained with her; while again, as always, she talked
of the Cause, and of the life-work she must now lay
down. The first thing she spoke of was her will,
which she had made several years before, and in
which she had left the small property she possessed
to her sister Mary, her niece Lucy, and myself, with
instructions as to the use we three were to make of
it. Now she told me we were to pay no attention
to these instructions, but to give every dollar of her
money to the $60,000 fund Miss Thomas and Miss
Garrett were trying to raise. She was vitally in-
terested in this fund, as its success meant that for
five years the active officers of the National Ameri-
can Woman Suffrage Association, including myself
as president, would for the first time receive salaries
for our work. When she had given her instructions
on this point she still seemed depressed.
``I wish I could live on,'' she said, wistfully.
``But I cannot. My spirit is eager and my heart
is as young as it ever was, but my poor old body is
worn out. Before I go I want you to give me a
promise: Promise me that you will keep the presi-
dency of the association as long as you are well
enough to do the work.''
``But how can I promise that?'' I asked. ``I can
keep it only as long as others wish me to keep
it.''
``Promise to make them wish you to keep it,''
she urged. ``Just as I wish you to keep it.''
I would have promised her anything then. So,
though I knew that to hold the presidency would tie
me to a position that brought in no living income,
and though for several years past I had already
drawn alarmingly upon my small financial reserve,
I promised her that I would hold the office as long
as the majority of the women in the association
wished me to do so. ``But,'' I added, ``if the time
comes when I believe that some one else can do
better work in the presidency than I, then let me
feel at liberty to resign it.''
This did not satisfy her.
``No, no,'' she objected. ``You cannot be the
judge of that. Promise me you will remain until
the friends you most trust tell you it is time to with-
draw, or make you understand that it is time.
Promise me that.''
I made the promise. She seemed content, and
again began to talk of the future.
``You will not have an easy path,'' she warned
me. ``In some ways it will be harder for you than it
has ever been for me. I was so much older than the
rest of you, and I had been president so long, that
you girls have all been willing to listen to me. It
will be different with you. Other women of your
own age have been in the work almost as long as you
have been; you do not stand out from them by age
or length of service, as I did. There will be inevi-
table jealousies and misunderstandings; there will
be all sorts of criticism and misrepresentation. My
last word to you is this: No matter what is done
or is not done, how you are criticized or misunder-
stood, or what efforts are made to block your path,
remember that the only fear you need have is the
fear of not standing by the thing you believe to be
right. Take your stand and hold it; then let come
what will, and receive blows like a good soldier.''
I was too much overcome to answer her; and
after a moment of silence she, in her turn, made me
a promise.
``I do not know anything about what comes to us
after this life ends,'' she said. ``But if there is a
continuance of life beyond it, and if I have any
conscious knowledge of this world and of what you
are doing, I shall not be far away from you; and in
times of need I will help you all I can. Who knows?
Perhaps I may be able to do more for the Cause
after I am gone than while I am here.''
Nine years have passed since then, and in each
day of them all it seems to me, in looking back, I
have had some occasion to recall her words. When
they were uttered I did not fully comprehend all
they meant, or the clearness of the vision that had
suggested them. It seemed to me that no position
I could hold would be of sufficient importance to
attract jealousy or personal attacks. The years have
brought more wisdom; I have learned that any one
who assumes leadership, or who, like myself, has
had leadership forced upon her, must expect to bear
many things of which the world knows nothing.
But with this knowledge, too, has come the memory
of ``Aunt Susan's'' last promise, and again and yet
again in hours of discouragement and despair I have
been helped by the blessedconviction that she was
keeping it.
During the last forty-eight hours of her life she
was unwilling that I should leave her side. So day
and night I knelt by her bed, holding her hand and
watching the flame of her wonderful spirit grow dim.
At times, even then, it blazed up with startling sud-
denness. On the last afternoon of her life, when she
had lain quiet for hours, she suddenly began to utter
the names of the women who had worked with her,
as if in a final roll-call. Many of them had preceded
her into the next world; others were still splendidly
active in the work she was laying down. But young
or old, living or dead, they all seemed to file past
her dying eyes that day in an endless, shadowy re-
view, and as they went by she spoke to each of them.
Not all the names she mentioned were known in
suffrage ranks; some of these women lived only in
the heart of Susan B. Anthony, and now, for the
last time, she was thanking them for what they had
done. Here was one who, at a moment of special
need, had given her small savings; here was another
who had won valuable recruits to the Cause; this
one had written a strong editorial; that one had
made a stirring speech. In these final hours it
seemed that not a single sacrifice or service, however
small, had been forgotten by the dying leader. Last
of all, she spoke to the women who had been on her
board and had stood by her loyally so long--Rachel
Foster Avery, Alice Stone Blackwell, Carrie Chap-
man Catt, Mrs. Upton, Laura Clay, and others.
Then, after lying in silence for a long time with her
cheek on my hand, she murmured: ``They are still
passing before me--face after face, hundreds and
hundreds of them, representing all the efforts of
fifty years. I know how hard they have worked
I know the sacrifices they have made. But it has
all been worth while!''
Just before she lapsed into unconsciousness she
seemed restless and anxious to say something, search-
ing my face with her dimming eyes.
``Do you want me to repeat my promise?'' I
asked, for she had already made me do so several
times. She made a sign of assent, and I gave her
the assurance she desired. As I did so she raised
my hand to her lips and kissed it--her last conscious
action. For more than thirty hours after that I
knelt by her side, but though she clung to my hand
until her own hand grew cold, she did not speak
again.
The next morning she was taken to her home in
Rochester, and one month from that day we con-
ducted her funeral services. The nurse who had
accompanied her from Baltimore remained with
her until two others had been secured to take her
place, and every care that love or medical science
could suggest was lavished on the patient. But
from the first it was plain that, as she herself had
foretold, ``Aunt Susan's'' soul was merely waiting
for the hour of its passing.
One of her characteristic traits was a dislike to
being seen, even by those nearest to her, when she
was not well. During the first three weeks of her
last illness, therefore, I did what she wished me to
do--I continued our work, trying to do hers as well
as my own. But all the time my heart was in her
sick-room, and at last the day came when I could
no longer remain away from her. I had awakened
in the morning with a strong conviction that she
needed me, and at the breakfast-table I announced
to her niece, Miss Lucy Anthony, the friend who for
years has shared my home, that I was going at once
to ``Aunt Susan.''
``I shall not even wait to telegraph,'' I declared.
``I am sure she has sent for me; I shall take the
first train.''
The journey brought me very close to death. As
we were approaching Wilkes-Barre our train ran into
a wagon loaded with powder and dynamite, which
had been left on the track. The horses attached to
it had been unhitched by their driver, who had spent
his time in this effort, when he saw the train coming,
instead of in signaling to the engineer. I was on
my way to the dining-car when the collision occurred.
and, with every one else who happened to be stand-
ing, I was hurled to the floor by the impact; flash
after flash of blinding light outside, accompanied by
a terrific roar, added to the panic of the passengers.
When the train stopped we learned how narrow had
been our escape from an especially unpleasant form
of death. The dynamite in the wagon was frozen,
and therefore had not exploded; it was the ex-
plosion of the powder that had caused the flashes
and the din. The dark-green cars were burned
almost white, and as we stood staring at them, a
silent, stunned group, our conductor said, quietly,
``You will never be as near death again, and escape,
as you have been to-day.''
The accident caused a long delay, and it was ten
o'clock at night when I reached Rochester and Miss
Anthony's home. As I entered the house Miss
Mary Anthony rose in surprise to greet me.
``How did you get here so soon?'' she cried.
And then: ``We sent for you this afternoon. Susan
has been asking for you all day.''
When I reached my friend's bedside one glance
at her face showed me the end was near; and from
that time until it came, almost a week later, I re-
mained with her; while again, as always, she talked
of the Cause, and of the life-work she must now lay
down. The first thing she spoke of was her will,
which she had made several years before, and in
which she had left the small property she possessed
to her sister Mary, her niece Lucy, and myself, with
instructions as to the use we three were to make of
it. Now she told me we were to pay no attention
to these instructions, but to give every dollar of her
money to the $60,000 fund Miss Thomas and Miss
Garrett were trying to raise. She was vitally in-
terested in this fund, as its success meant that for
five years the active officers of the National Ameri-
can Woman Suffrage Association, including myself
as president, would for the first time receive salaries
for our work. When she had given her instructions
on this point she still seemed depressed.
``I wish I could live on,'' she said, wistfully.
``But I cannot. My spirit is eager and my heart
is as young as it ever was, but my poor old body is
worn out. Before I go I want you to give me a
promise: Promise me that you will keep the presi-
dency of the association as long as you are well
enough to do the work.''
``But how can I promise that?'' I asked. ``I can
keep it only as long as others wish me to keep
it.''
``Promise to make them wish you to keep it,''
she urged. ``Just as I wish you to keep it.''
I would have promised her anything then. So,
though I knew that to hold the presidency would tie
me to a position that brought in no living income,
and though for several years past I had already
drawn alarmingly upon my small financial reserve,
I promised her that I would hold the office as long
as the majority of the women in the association
wished me to do so. ``But,'' I added, ``if the time
comes when I believe that some one else can do
better work in the presidency than I, then let me
feel at liberty to resign it.''
This did not satisfy her.
``No, no,'' she objected. ``You cannot be the
judge of that. Promise me you will remain until
the friends you most trust tell you it is time to with-
draw, or make you understand that it is time.
Promise me that.''
I made the promise. She seemed content, and
again began to talk of the future.
``You will not have an easy path,'' she warned
me. ``In some ways it will be harder for you than it
has ever been for me. I was so much older than the
rest of you, and I had been president so long, that
you girls have all been willing to listen to me. It
will be different with you. Other women of your
own age have been in the work almost as long as you
have been; you do not stand out from them by age
or length of service, as I did. There will be inevi-
table jealousies and misunderstandings; there will
be all sorts of criticism and misrepresentation. My
last word to you is this: No matter what is done
or is not done, how you are criticized or misunder-
stood, or what efforts are made to block your path,
remember that the only fear you need have is the
fear of not standing by the thing you believe to be
right. Take your stand and hold it; then let come
what will, and receive blows like a good soldier.''
I was too much overcome to answer her; and
after a moment of silence she, in her turn, made me
a promise.
``I do not know anything about what comes to us
after this life ends,'' she said. ``But if there is a
continuance of life beyond it, and if I have any
conscious knowledge of this world and of what you
are doing, I shall not be far away from you; and in
times of need I will help you all I can. Who knows?
Perhaps I may be able to do more for the Cause
after I am gone than while I am here.''
Nine years have passed since then, and in each
day of them all it seems to me, in looking back, I
have had some occasion to recall her words. When
they were uttered I did not fully comprehend all
they meant, or the clearness of the vision that had
suggested them. It seemed to me that no position
I could hold would be of sufficient importance to
attract jealousy or personal attacks. The years have
brought more wisdom; I have learned that any one
who assumes leadership, or who, like myself, has
had leadership forced upon her, must expect to bear
many things of which the world knows nothing.
But with this knowledge, too, has come the memory
of ``Aunt Susan's'' last promise, and again and yet
again in hours of discouragement and despair I have
been helped by the blessedconviction that she was
keeping it.
During the last forty-eight hours of her life she
was unwilling that I should leave her side. So day
and night I knelt by her bed, holding her hand and
watching the flame of her wonderful spirit grow dim.
At times, even then, it blazed up with startling sud-
denness. On the last afternoon of her life, when she
had lain quiet for hours, she suddenly began to utter
the names of the women who had worked with her,
as if in a final roll-call. Many of them had preceded
her into the next world; others were still splendidly
active in the work she was laying down. But young
or old, living or dead, they all seemed to file past
her dying eyes that day in an endless, shadowy re-
view, and as they went by she spoke to each of them.
Not all the names she mentioned were known in
suffrage ranks; some of these women lived only in
the heart of Susan B. Anthony, and now, for the
last time, she was thanking them for what they had
done. Here was one who, at a moment of special
need, had given her small savings; here was another
who had won valuable recruits to the Cause; this
one had written a strong editorial; that one had
made a stirring speech. In these final hours it
seemed that not a single sacrifice or service, however
small, had been forgotten by the dying leader. Last
of all, she spoke to the women who had been on her
board and had stood by her loyally so long--Rachel
Foster Avery, Alice Stone Blackwell, Carrie Chap-
man Catt, Mrs. Upton, Laura Clay, and others.
Then, after lying in silence for a long time with her
cheek on my hand, she murmured: ``They are still
passing before me--face after face, hundreds and
hundreds of them, representing all the efforts of
fifty years. I know how hard they have worked
I know the sacrifices they have made. But it has
all been worth while!''
Just before she lapsed into unconsciousness she
seemed restless and anxious to say something, search-
ing my face with her dimming eyes.
``Do you want me to repeat my promise?'' I
asked, for she had already made me do so several
times. She made a sign of assent, and I gave her
the assurance she desired. As I did so she raised
my hand to her lips and kissed it--her last conscious
action. For more than thirty hours after that I
knelt by her side, but though she clung to my hand
until her own hand grew cold, she did not speak
again.
- funeral [´fju:nərəl]
n.葬礼，丧葬；困难 (初中英语单词) - medical [´medikəl] a.医学的；医疗的 (初中英语单词)
- dislike [dis´laik] vt.&n.不喜爱，厌恶 (初中英语单词)
- illness [´ilnis] n.生病，不健康，疾病 (初中英语单词)
- therefore [´ðeəfɔ:] ad.&conj.因此；所以 (初中英语单词)
- conviction [kən´vikʃən] n.定罪；确信，信服 (初中英语单词)
- conductor [kən´dʌktə] n.指导者；向导者 (初中英语单词)
- financial [fi´nænʃəl] a.金融的，财政的 (初中英语单词)
- resign [ri´zain] v.辞职；放弃；委托 (初中英语单词)
- willing [´wiliŋ] a.情愿的，乐意的 (初中英语单词)
- criticism [´kritisizəm] n.批评；评论(文) (初中英语单词)
- standing [´stændiŋ] n.持续 a.直立的 (初中英语单词)
- overcome [,əuvə´kʌm] vt.战胜，克服 (初中英语单词)
- vision [´viʒən] n.视觉；想象力；幻影 (初中英语单词)
- wisdom [´wizdəm] n.智慧，聪明，才智 (初中英语单词)
- despair [di´speə] vi.&n.绝望 (初中英语单词)
- valuable [´væljuəbəl, -jubəl] a.有价值的，贵重的 (初中英语单词)
- editorial [,edi´tɔ:riəl] a.编辑的 n.社论 (初中英语单词)
- restless [´restləs] a.没有休息的 (初中英语单词)
- anxious [´æŋkʃəs] a.担忧的；渴望的 (初中英语单词)
- baltimore [´bɔ:ltimɔ:] n.巴尔的摩 (高中英语单词)
- characteristic [,kæriktə´ristik] a.特有的 n.特性 (高中英语单词)
- terrific [tə´rifik] a.可怕的；极大的 (高中英语单词)
- learned [´lə:nid] a.有学问的，博学的 (高中英语单词)
- unpleasant [ʌn´plezənt] a.不愉快的；不合意的 (高中英语单词)
- suffrage [´sʌfridʒ] n.投票(权)，选举权 (高中英语单词)
- presidency [´prezidənsi] n.总统的职位(任期) (高中英语单词)
- comprehend [,kɔmpri´hend] vt.了解；领会；包含 (高中英语单词)
- jealousy [´dʒeləsi] n.妒忌；猜忌 (高中英语单词)
- leadership [´li:dəʃip] n.领导(能力) (高中英语单词)
- startling [´stɑ:tliŋ] a.惊人的 (高中英语单词)
- shadowy [´ʃædəui] a.有阴影的；模糊的 (高中英语单词)
- assent [ə´sent] vi.&n.同意，赞成 (高中英语单词)
- assurance [ə´ʃuərəns] n.保证；自信；信任 (高中英语单词)
- trying [´traiiŋ] a.难堪的；费劲的 (英语四级单词)
- bedside [´bedsaid] n.床边 a.护理的 (英语四级单词)
- blessed [´blesid] a.享福的；神圣的 (英语四级单词)
- unwilling [ʌn´wiliŋ] a.不愿意的；不情愿的 (英语四级单词)
- stirring [´stə:riŋ] a.活跃的；热闹的 (英语四级单词)
- dynamite [´dainəmait] n.&vt.(用)炸药(爆破) (英语六级单词)
- collision [kə´liʒən] n.碰幢；冲突；互撞事件 (英语六级单词)
- impact [´impækt] n.影响，作用；冲击 (英语六级单词)
- clearness [´kliənis] n.清楚；明白；明确 (英语六级单词)
- discouragement [dis´kʌrridʒmənt] n.挫折，气馁 (英语六级单词)
- holding [´həuldiŋ] n.保持，固定，存储 (英语六级单词)
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章节正文
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