Chapter XIII: The Views of the Erewhonians Concerning Death
The Erewhonians regard death with less abhorrence than disease. If
it is an offence at all, it is one beyond the reach of the law,
which is therefore silent on the subject; but they insist that the
greater number of those who are commonly said to die, have never
yet been born--not, at least, into that unseen world which is alone
worthy of consideration. As regards this unseen world I understand
them to say that some miscarry in respect to it before they have
even reached the seen, and some after, while few are ever truly
born into it at all--the greater part of all the men and women over
the whole country miscarrying before they reach it. And they say
that this does not matter so much as we think it does.
As for what we call death, they argue that too much has been made
of it. The mere knowledge that we shall one day die does not make
us very unhappy; no one thinks that he or she will escape, so that
none are disappointed. We do not care greatly even though we know
that we have not long to live; the only thing that would seriously
affect us would be the knowing--or rather thinking that we know--
the precise moment at which the blow will fall. Happily no one can
ever certainly know this, though many try to make themselves
miserable by endeavouring to find it out. It seems as though there
were some power somewhere which mercifully stays us from putting
that sting into the tail of death, which we would put there if we
could, and which ensures that though death must always be a
bugbear, it shall never under any conceivable circumstances be more
than a bugbear.
For even though a man is condemned to die in a week's time and is
shut up in a prison from which it is certain that he cannot escape,
he will always hope that a reprieve may come before the week is
over. Besides, the prison may catch fire, and he may be suffocated
not with a rope, but with common ordinary smoke; or he may be
struck dead by lightning while exercising in the prison yards.
When the morning is come on which the poor wretch is to be hanged,
he may choke at his breakfast, or die from failure of the heart's
action before the drop has fallen; and even though it has fallen,
he cannot be quite certain that he is going to die, for he cannot
know this till his death has actually taken place, and it will be
too late then for him to discover that he was going to die at the
appointed hour after all. The Erewhonians, therefore, hold that
death, like life, is an affair of being more frightened than hurt.
They burn their dead, and the ashes are presently scattered over
any piece of ground which the deceased may himself have chosen. No
one is permitted to refuse this hospitality to the dead: people,
therefore, generally choose some garden or orchard which they may
have known and been fond of when they were young. The
superstitious hold that those whose ashes are scattered over any
land become its jealous guardians from that time forward; and the
living like to think that they shall become identified with this or
that locality where they have once been happy.
They do not put up monuments, nor write epitaphs, for their dead,
though in former ages their practice was much as ours, but they
have a custom which comes to much the same thing, for the instinct
of preserving the name alive after the death of the body seems to
be common to all mankind. They have statues of themselves made
while they are still alive (those, that is, who can afford it), and
write inscriptions under them, which are often quite as untruthful
as are our own epitaphs--only in another way. For they do not
hesitate to describe themselves as victims to ill temper, jealousy,
covetousness, and the like, but almost always lay claim to personal
beauty, whether they have it or not, and, often, to the possession
of a large sum in the funded debt of the country. If a person is
ugly he does not sit as a model for his own statue, although it
bears his name. He gets the handsomest of his friends to sit for
him, and one of the ways of paying a compliment to another is to
ask him to sit for such a statue. Women generally sit for their
own statues, from a natural disinclination to admit the superior
beauty of a friend, but they expect to be idealised. I understood
that the multitude of these statues was beginning to be felt as an
encumbrance in almost every family, and that the custom would
probably before long fall into desuetude.
Indeed, this has already come about to the satisfaction of every
one, as regards the statues of public men--not more than three of
which can be found in the whole capital. I expressed my surprise
at this, and was told that some five hundred years before my visit,
the city had been so overrun with these pests, that there was no
getting about, and people were worried beyond endurance by having
their attention called at every touch and turn to something, which,
when they had attended to it, they found not to concern them. Most
of these statues were mere attempts to do for some man or woman
what an animal-stuffer does more successfully for a dog, or bird,
or pike. They were generally foisted on the public by some coterie
that was trying to exalt itself in exalting some one else, and not
unfrequently they had no other inception than desire on the part of
some member of the coterie to find a job for a young sculptor to
whom his daughter was engaged. Statues so begotten could never be
anything but deformities, and this is the way in which they are
sure to be begotten, as soon as the art of making them at all has
become widely practised.
I know not why, but all the noblest arts hold in perfection but for
a very little moment. They soon reach a height from which they
begin to decline, and when they have begun to decline it is a pity
that they cannot be knocked on the head; for an art is like a
living organism--better dead than dying. There is no way of making
an aged art young again; it must be born anew and grow up from
infancy as a new thing, working out its own salvation from effort
to effort in all fear and trembling.
The Erewhonians five hundred years ago understood nothing of all
this--I doubt whether they even do so now. They wanted to get the
nearest thing they could to a stuffed man whose stuffing should not
grow mouldy. They should have had some such an establishment as
our Madame Tussaud's, where the figures wear real clothes, and are
painted up to nature. Such an institution might have been made
self-supporting, for people might have been made to pay before
going in. As it was, they had let their poor cold grimy colourless
heroes and heroines loaf about in squares and in corners of streets
in all weathers, without any attempt at artistic sanitation--for
there was no provision for burying their dead works of art out of
their sight--no drainage, so to speak, whereby statues that had
been sufficiently assimilated, so as to form part of the residuary
impression of the country, might be carried away out of the system.
Hence they put them up with a light heart on the cackling of their
coteries, and they and their children had to live, often enough,
with some wordy windbag whose cowardice had cost the country untold
loss in blood and money.
At last the evil reached such a pitch that the people rose, and
with indiscriminate fury destroyed good and bad alike. Most of
what was destroyed was bad, but some few works were good, and the
sculptors of to-day wring their hands over some of the fragments
that have been preserved in museums up and down the country. For a
couple of hundred years or so, not a statue was made from one end
of the kingdom to the other, but the instinct for having stuffed
men and women was so strong, that people at length again began to
try to make them. Not knowing how to make them, and having no
academics to mislead them, the earliest sculptors of this period
thought things out for themselves, and again produced works that
were full of interest, so that in three or four generations they
reached a perfection hardly if at all inferior to that of several
hundred years earlier.
On this the same evils recurred. Sculptors obtained high prices--
the art became a trade--schools arose which professed to sell the
holy spirit of art for money; pupils flocked from far and near to
buy it, in the hopes of selling it later on, and were struck
purblind as a punishment for the sin of those who sent them.
Before long a second iconoclastic fury would infallibly have
followed, but for the prescience of a statesman who succeeded in
passing an Act to the effect that no statue of any public man or
woman should be allowed to remain unbroken for more than fifty
years, unless at the end of that time a jury of twenty-four men
taken at random from the street pronounced in favour of its being
allowed a second fifty years of life. Every fifty years this
reconsideration was to be repeated, and unless there was a majority
of eighteen in favour of the retention of the statue, it was to be
destroyed.
Perhaps a simpler plan would have been to forbid the erection of a
statue to any public man or woman till he or she had been dead at
least one hundred years, and even then to insist on reconsideration
of the claims of the deceased and the merit of the statue every
fifty years--but the working of the Act brought about results that
on the whole were satisfactory. For in the first place, many
public statues that would have been voted under the old system,
were not ordered, when it was known that they would be almost
certainly broken up after fifty years, and in the second, public
sculptors knowing their work to be so ephemeral, scamped it to an
extent that made it offensive even to the most uncultured eye.
Hence before long subscribers took to paying the sculptor for the
statue of their dead statesmen, on condition that he did not make
it. The tribute of respect was thus paid to the deceased, the
public sculptors were not mulcted, and the rest of the public
suffered no inconvenience.
I was told, however, that an abuse of this custom is growing up,
inasmuch as the competition for the commission not to make a statue
is so keen, that sculptors have been known to return a considerable
part of the purchase money to the subscribers, by an arrangement
made with them beforehand. Such transactions, however, are always
clandestine. A small inscription is let into the pavement, where
the public statue would have stood, which informs the reader that
such a statue has been ordered for the person, whoever he or she
may be, but that as yet the sculptor has not been able to complete
it. There has been no Act to repress statues that are intended for
private consumption, but as I have said, the custom is falling into
desuetude.
Returning to Erewhonian customs in connection with death, there is
one which I can hardly pass over. When any one dies, the friends
of the family write no letters of condolence, neither do they
attend the scattering, nor wear mourning, but they send little
boxes filled with artificial tears, and with the name of the sender
painted neatly upon the outside of the lid. The tears vary in
number from two to fifteen or sixteen, according to degree of
intimacy or relationship; and people sometimes find it a nice point
of etiquette to know the exact number which they ought to send.
Strange as it may appear, this attention is highly valued, and its
omission by those from whom it might be expected is keenly felt.
These tears were formerly stuck with adhesive plaster to the cheeks
of the bereaved, and were worn in public for a few months after the
death of a relative; they were then banished to the hat or bonnet,
and are now no longer worn.
The birth of a child is looked upon as a painful subject on which
it is kinder not to touch: the illness of the mother is carefully
concealed until the necessity for signing the birth-formula (of
which hereafter) renders further secrecy impossible, and for some
months before the event the family live in retirement, seeing very
little company. When the offence is over and done with, it is
condoned by the common want of logic; for this merciful provision
of nature, this buffer against collisions, this friction which
upsets our calculations but without which existence would be
intolerable, this crowning glory of human invention whereby we can
be blind and see at one and the same moment, this blessed
inconsistency, exists here as elsewhere; and though the strictest
writers on morality have maintained that it is wicked for a woman
to have children at all, inasmuch as it is wrong to be out of
health that good may come, yet the necessity of the case has caused
a general feeling in favour of passing over such events in silence,
and of assuming their non-existence except in such flagrant cases
as force themselves on the public notice. Against these the
condemnation of society is inexorable, and if it is believed that
the illness has been dangerous and protracted, it is almost
impossible for a woman to recover her former position in society.
The above conventions struck me as arbitrary and cruel, but they
put a stop to many fancied ailments; for the situation, so far from
being considered interesting, is looked upon as savouring more or
less distinctly of a very reprehensible condition of things, and
the ladies take care to conceal it as long as they can even from
their own husbands, in anticipation of a severe scolding as soon as
the misdemeanour is discovered. Also the baby is kept out of
sight, except on the day of signing the birth-formula, until it can
walk and talk. Should the child unhappily die, a coroner's inquest
is inevitable, but in order to avoid disgracing a family which may
have been hitherto respected, it is almost invariably found that
the child was over seventy-five years old, and died from the decay
of nature.
Erewhon : Chapter XIV - Mahaina
Erewhon