“One who never turned his back, but marched straightforward; Never doubted clouds would break; Never deemed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph; Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake!” 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 temperament 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 vigour 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 exacting from her woman’s strength the work that might have contented 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 irritability 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 recurrence 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 ailing 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 champagne 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 affected without intermission this term, and the sleepless 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 touching 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 Philological 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 perfectly 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 distressing 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 wrung too by Mr. Payne’s death. Life seems so full of anguish 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 inevitable in any undertaking 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 thereby ruins many individuals, he is not expected to compensate 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 mere fact of success itself there was trial enough in many ways. The intensity 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 inflict. 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 ingratitude.
“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 unduly elated nor depressed.
“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 miller in the fable, 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 vexed. 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 unreasonable 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 remarkable, 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 o............