Fragment from Gilbert Earle
Posted on July 7, 2007 - Filed Under Forgotten Tales
A few years before I left India, a young man had brought to me some very strong letters of recommendation from some of my connections in England, whom I was most happy and desirous to oblige. He had, in consequence, remained some time under my roof; during which period, his fine disposition and talents, his amiable heart, and his winning fascination of manner, had created between us a friendship very unlike anything which usually exists between men of such different ages as we were. He was above twenty years my junior, — and yet our liasion was more like that of contemporaries than of two men of separate generations. This may be considered the more strange on account of the habits and temperament which I have described as being mine, from so very early a period of my life-and I at first thought it so myself. But I found that the buoyant animations and liveliness of my young friend were of the greatest benefit to me; and, while they gave relief to the usual gloomy condition of my spirits and demenour, they concurrently diminished its unpleasantness to himself. On the other hand, I had made a point of exerting myself to render my house agreeable to him at first,— and, afterwards, he equally strove to prevent my relapsing into my usual state. To effect this, he so modified his youthful feelings and manner, as to enliven without shocking the mind of a melancholy man. If he had been less delicate, considerate, and (intuitively) skillful, — he probably would have produced diametrically the contrary effect from that which it was his endeavour to work. But, as it was, during the time he was with me, I certainly was better at ease than I had been for years; — and when we parted, it was, as I have mentioned, with sentiments of friendship very unusual to arise between two men in every point so dissimilar. The very difference, however, of our ages was, I suspect, rather of advantage than detriment to the feelings with which L—– regarded me. I had more and better influence over him than a man of his own standing could ever have acquired-while there was none of the constraint and awkwardness which young people usually experience in any very constant intercourse with companions more advanced in life.
It certainly would not be imagined, from what I have said, that this young man could have any connection with the disappointments and pain which attended my return to England-but so it was. About a year and a half before I finally quitted India, he was about to be married to a young and charming person, to whom he was attached with all the characteristic ardour of his disposition, — and who, from the little I saw of her, appeared equally to deserve and repay his affection. I was to have been present at their marriage; — but alas! a few days before that on which it was to take place, the poor girl was carried off by one of those violent and rapid diseases which are, in that country, so common. In tropical climates, too, decomposition follows death so speedily, that internment is necessarily almost immediate. She was accordingly to be buried the morning after her decease; and I went to assist and support L—– during the ceremony, at which, in despite of all I could urge, he insisted on being present.
I found him in the room with the corpse. He was sitting beside it when I entered; but the moment he beheld me, he ran towards me, fell upon my neck, and wept - for the first time since the catastrophe had happened. He wept very long; but at last he seemed, in some degree, relieved; — and, raising himself, he took me by the hand, and led me to the coffin.
The freshness of life had passed away- but even now she was surpassingly beautiful. Cold, marble-pale, and rigid, she looked like one of the beautiful sculptures which are placed upon old tombs, in effigy of those who sleep below. The face alone was uncovered- long grave clothes closely enveloped the whole frame to the neck- and a napkin was over her brow. So smooth and softly white was the flesh, that it could scarcely be distinguished where the one ended, and the other began. From beneath this, however, one long tress of hair escaped, which, passing across the cheek, rested upon the shroud. This struck me more than all, — for this gave the contrast of life with the perfect deadliness of all else. So still in the stillness of peace, — so calm in the calmness of purity, — was this corpse of loveliness and virtue, that one scarce could think that the King of Terrors had claimed it for its own. It looked, as I have said, more like one in a deep, a very deep sleep - than the soulless wreck of a passed humanity. But this one tress of bright hair, shining on the white skin - like a fling of golden sun-light upon the snow-recalled the terrible truth at once. The hair is the latest portion of the human frame to betray the consequence of death. While the eyes become glazed, and the nerves fixed, and the flesh grows colourless and icy cold,–the hair is the same that it was when it added so much beauty to beautiful life - when it waved in the wind, or gleamed in the sun, as the quick motion of youth might influence.
Yes, she was, indeed, lovely! - and what was this loveliness now? - almost already touched by that decay, from which, though we know it to be inevariable, our nature causes us to shrink so sickeningly! Sad, indeed, is to gaze upon a face we love, beaming in all the brightness of beautiful youth, and to reflect that that flesh will moulder, and finally become dust, - that those eyes will cease to be, and nothing remain but an hideous and revolting bone undistinguishable from that which formed the head of the coarsest or most brutal. What, then, must it be to look upon a countenance thus beautiful and thus loved, when this terrible and disgusting process has nearly begun?-but this is a part of the subject too horrid to be dwelled upon.
There is, however, another idea, which has always arisen within me, with a revolted feeling, when I have gazed on one thus about to be placed in the grave. I mean all the preparations (I might almost say decoration) which the senseless clay has undergone, to be laid to its fellow-earth. Why that livery of death-that uniform of the grave, in which all are equally wraped? The ruling passion even of Narcissa is not strong after death; - we then, surely, need no adornment. The dress in which we chanced to be habited when the spirit passed, might, one would think, suffice to decorate the physical body which is left behind. But this coffin, into which I looked, was, besides all this, quilted throughout with satin; and a pillow of the same material supported the head, as if the fair cheek could now taste its softness! Alas! alas! how paltry do these mockeries appear to us at such a moment!
I had ample time to gaze my fill, and to think of all these things, and many more; for L—– placed himself at the head of the coffin, and remained there, with his head bowed in his hands upon its edge. Low deep groans struggled from him at intervals - and the cold sweat was clammy on his brow. At length they came to fasten down the coffin. I wanted him to go with me from the room,–but the paroxysms of his despair were so terrible, when I strove to draw him towards the door, that I thought it better to desist. He flung himself upon the body, and fastened his lips upon hers - now so damp and rigid. There he lay, as if he would have lain forever; — at last I gently raised him up, and signed to the men to replace the lid. They did so at once. L—– gazed at them as if he had been changed to stone; but when he heard the grinding sound of the first screw, as it was driven down into the wood, he uttered a loud and terrible shriek, and fell senseless into my arms.
[From Gilbert Earle]
