Consolatio

Jessica Mitford on an outing with a recent widow

Edith Jenkins arrived same time I did, so we sat together. She started telling me about a big gathering...that she went to a few days ago-- her first real social outing since David died, so she was much looking forward to it.

Person after person came up to her with variations on the theme of "How are you feeling, my dear?" or "It must have been a terrible blow." "Are you all right?" "Are you over the worst of it?" and much more along same lines. Edith said that by the end of the evening, she felt as though she'd had open heart surgery-- which I thought was rather apt and clever. So the entire time was ruined.

So there are Edith and I sitting together, and just after she'd related this, someone came up to where we were and said to Edith "How are you feeling? It must have been such a terrible blow. I do hope you are over the worst of it..." literally, the exact words of the Edith gathering from several days before. Needless to say I was overcome with giggles and gave E. a sharp pinch in the behind. After that, she stayed by my side upon my promise to protect her from future well-wishers. (I can't remember the first person-- nobody I know; but lots more DID come up with similar mournful dirges, but I fended them off with "so sorry, Edith and I were just telling a few jokes.")

The crème de la crème was B..., who came up and said how sorry she was that David died and she had meant to write a letter, but was awfully busy. After she left, Edith said that next time anyone says that she'll say "As you were too busy to write, please shut up!"

However, as E. and I were giggling through it all, it turned out rather well and I think she really did enormously enjoy the party....I'm planning to write to Miss Manners to ask her opinion of correct behaviour on these occasions.

        --Jessica Mitford (1917-1996) in a letter, 22 August 1993, from Decca: The Letters of Jessica Mitford (ed. Peter Sussman, 2006)

Gerard Manley Hopkins: No worst, there is none

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,   
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.   
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?   
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?   
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief         
Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing—   
Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked "No ling-   
ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief."

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall   
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap          
May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small   
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,   
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all   
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

        --Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

Chingiz Aitmatov: Tanabai loses his friend

That very evening Tanabai returned to his camp in the mountains.

His wife met him in silence. She took the reins. She helped her husband dismount.

Tanabai turned to her, embraced her and buried his head on her shoulder. She embraced him and wept.

"We buried Choro. He's no more. I've lost my friend, Jaidar!" Tanabai said and once again gave vent to his tears.

Later he sat in silence on a large stone outside the tent.

He wanted to be alone, he wanted to watch the moon rising, appearing slowly from beyond the jagged crest of the white mountain range. His wife was putting the girls to bed inside. He could hear the fire cracking in the hearth. Then the humming string of her temir-komuz began its heart-rending song. It was as if the wind were howling anxiously, as if a man were running across a field weeping, singing his plaintive song, while all else was silence, waiting with bated breath, while all was soundless, and only the lonely voice of human sorrow and grief kept running on. It was as if it ran on, not knowing where to find shelter for its grief or how to find consolation in the silence and wilderness, and not a soul called out to him. And so it wept and harkened to its own grief. Tanabai knew his wife was playing "The Old Hunter's Song" for him.

        --Kirghiz writer Chingiz Aitmatov in "Farewell, Gyulsary!" (1959), translated by Fainna Glagoleva

Maurice Rollinat: The doe mourns her fawn

The doe brays in the moonlight
and cries till her eyes are melting:
her delicious little fawn
has disappeared in the brown night.

To tell her sad luck
to the forest of her forefathers,
the doe brays in the moonlight
and cries till her eyes are melting.

But no answer, none,
to her long anxious calls!
And with her neck stretched out to the skies,
mad with love and rancor,
the doe brays in the moonlight.

        --Maurice Rollinat (1846-1903)

La biche brame au clair de lune
et pleure à se fondre les yeux:
son petit faon délicieux
a disparu dans la nuit brune
   
Pour raconter son infortune
à la forêt de ses aïeux,
la biche brame au clair de lune
et pleure à se fondre les yeux.

Mais aucune réponse, aucune,
à ses longs appels anxieux !
Et, le cou tendu vers les cieux,
folle d'amour et de rancune,
la biche brame au clair de lune.

Seán Mac Aoidh [John McHugh]: Sail Óg Rua

Am I not the pity of Mary, going to the Little Rock of the Wilderness,
and I weeping and crying and lamenting?
Rearing my child in the crook of my arm,
and without even a drop of milk that I could give him.

If people knew the condition I am in
at the time I think about young red-haired Sal,
and the blood of my heart inside is being shed in drops,
and, oh God, what wonder, after my treasure?

At the age of sixteen is when I myself got her,
wasn't she the present for a man to get?
But, O treasure of my heart, it was you who left me by myself,
for you went into the clay from me, and you a young girl.

My love, your little mouth, it did not frame lies,
and your lovely breast was like a swan swimming;
your two bright breasts were (there) to soothe my child,
and my treasure, if I could help it, you would not die.

Oh, I would far far rather you behind me on the road,
milking my cow for me or in charge of my house,
than the wealth of (King) George to be got with a waster
and deep beneath the sod I left young red-haired Sal.

But no matter how far away from me you were in the lower country,
the night would be black or I would journey there;
but my side I will not stretch by any woman ever,
unless I get shelter under your white breast.

       --Composed by Seán Mac Aoidh [John McHugh] of County Mayo, Ireland, after the death of his young wife Sail Óg ní Mháille [Young Sally O'Malley], sometime before 1824. Translated by Brian O'Rourke in Pale Rainbow/ An Dubh ina Bhán, Gaelic folksongs with English translations (1990). One story is that Seán Mac Aoidh was accused of killing Sail, and composed this song in prison as proof that he had not. According to tradition, some of her family came to the prison to avenge Sail, but went away again after overhearing Mac Aoidh singing this song.

Nach mise an trua Mhuire 'dhul go Carraigín an Fhásaigh,
's mé a' gol agus a' gárrthaíl is a' déanamh bróin,
mé ag oiliúnt mo leanbh ar bhacán mo láimhe,
's gan fiú an braon bainne agam a thiúrfainn dhó.

Dhá mbeadh fhios ag daoine an ríocht ina mbímse,
san am a smaoiním ar Shail Óg Rua,
's go bhfuil fuil mo chroí istigh dhá tabhairt ina braonta,
'gus a Dhia cén t-íonadh i ndiaidh mo stóir?

In aois a sé déag sea fuair mé fhéin í,
nár dheas an féarín í ag fear le fáil?
Ach a stór mo chroí 's tú a d'fhag liom fhéin mé,
mar chuaigh tú i gcré uaim in do chailín óg.

Mo ghrá do bhéilín, 'sé nár chum na bréaga,
's bhí do bhrollach álainn mar an eala a' snámh;
bhí do dhá chíoch gléigeal le mo leanbh a bhréagadh,
'gus, a stór, dhá  bhféadfainn, ní bhfaighfeá bás.

Ó b'fhearr liom go mór mór i mo dhiaidh san ród thú,
a' bleán mo bhó dhom nó i mbun mo thí,
ná saibhreas Sheoirse is é fháil le stróinse,
's gur go domhain faoin bhfód a d'fhág mé Sail Óg Rua.

Ach dháfhaide uaim siar thú in íochtar tíre,
ba dubh í an oíche nó thriallfainn ann;
ach mo thaobh ní shínfead le haon bhean choíchin,
mara bhfá' mé dídean faoi do bhrollach bán.

John Synge: If the oaks and stars could die for sorrow

Deirdre is dead, and Naisi is dead; and if the oaks and stars could die for sorrow, it's a dark sky and a hard and naked earth we'd have this night in Emain.

        --Last line, spoken by Deirdre's old nurse, of "Deirdre of the Sorrows" (pub 1910) by John Synge (1871-1909). You can read the play here.

Friedrich Rückert: You do not die in my heart

You are a shadow in daytime,
and a light in the night;
you live in my mourning,
and you don't die in my heart.

Wherever I set up my tent,
you live close beside me;
you are my shadow in the daytime,
and my light in the night.

Wherever I ask about you,
I find news of you,
you live in my mourning,
and you don't die in my heart.

You are a shadow in the daytime,
but at night, a light;
you are alive in my mourning,
and you do not die in my heart.

      --Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866)

Du bist ein Schatten am Tage,
Und in der Nacht ein Licht;
Du lebst in meiner Klage,
Und stirbst im Herzen nicht.

Wo ich mein Zelt aufschlage,
Da wohnst du bei mir dicht;
Du bist mein Schatten am Tage,
Und in der Nacht mein Licht.

Wo ich auch nach dir frage,
Find' ich von dir Bericht,
Du lebst in meiner Klage,
Und stirbst im Herzen nicht.

Du bist ein Schatten am Tage,
Doch in der Nacht ein Licht;
Du lebst in meiner Klage,
Und stirbst im Herzen nicht.

Paula Meehan: Child Burial. I would spin time back

Your coffin looked unreal,            
fancy as a wedding cake.

I chose your grave clothes with care,
your favourite stripey shirt,

your blue cotton trousers.
They smelt of woodsmoke, of October,

your own smell there too.
I chose a gansy of handspun wool,

warm and fleecy for you. It is
so cold down in the dark.

No light can reach you and teach you
the paths of wild birds,

the names of the flowers,
the fishes, the creatures.

Ignorant you must remain
of the sun and its work,

my lamb, my calf, my eaglet,
my cub, my kid, my nestling,

my suckling, my colt. I would spin
time back, take you again

within my womb, your amniotic lair,
and further spin you back

through nine waxing months
to the split seeding moment

you chose to be made flesh,
word within me.

I'd cancel the love feast
the hot night of your making.

I would travel alone
to a quiet mossy place,

you would spill from me into the earth
drop by bright red drop.

        --Paula Meehan (1955- ), 20th Century Irish Poems   (2005)

Low tide, by the Widow Tarquine

I wasn't thinking about it.
I couldn't care less about turning forty years old.
One more year, so what?
Getting older is just proof that you're not dead.

Age is only fixed when you die.

But suddenly it isn't not my own age I think about but his. And his death.

Because this day is the exact day that I became older than my husband.

And I had the feeling that I was leaving him behind.
That I was abandoning him.

Older than my husband...
There are truths you gather like an overripe fruit, truths that hurt you as they fall.

I never imagined very long having to be faithful to him.
I didn't suffer too much guilt when I succeeded in not being.

Except that he's not here any more to protect me. And he was the only one from whom I could accept that.

And there are days when I would like so much to have a refuge.
Or even the illusion of a refuge.
That of two arms where I could let some tears fall.
Those tears that now know too well the way down to my keyboard.
Just some tears.

        --Post by Veuve Tarquine [the Widow Tarquine], who often writes about the loss of her husband or about her three beautiful young children on her blog De bric et de blog . (I'm proud to say I nominated her for best-written weblog in 2005, in the first annual European weblog awards, and she won.)

Marée basse

Je n'y pensais pas.
Moi je m'en foutais un peu d'avoir quarante ans.
Prendre un an, la belle affaire !
Vieillir c'est simplement la preuve que l'on ne meurt pas.

L'âge ne se fige que dans la mort.

Alors soudainement ce n'est plus à mon âge que j'ai pensé mais au sien.
Et à sa mort à lui.

Parce que ce jour-là c'est précisément le jour où je suis devenue plus vieille que mon époux.

Alors j'ai eu le sentiment que je le quittais.
Que je l'abandonnais.

Plus âgée que mon mari...
Il y a des vérités qui vous cueillent comme un fruit trop mûr, des vérités qui vous abîment en tombant.

Je n'ai jamais imaginé très longtemps devoir lui être fidèle.
Je n'ai pas trop souffert de culpabilité en réussissant à ne pas l'être.

Sauf que lui il n'est plus là pour me protéger.
Et c'était le seul dont je savais accepter cela.

Et il y a des jours où j'aimerai tant avoir un refuge.
Ou même l'illusion d'un refuge.
Celui de deux bras où je pourrais verser quelques larmes.
Celles qui connaissent dorénavant trop bien le chemin de mon clavier.
Juste quelques larmes.

The Iliad: Hector's wife Andromache hears of his death at the hand of Achilles

Hector's wife had as yet heard nothing, for no one had come to tell her that her husband had remained without the gates. She was at her loom in an inner part of the house, weaving a double purple web, and embroidering it with many flowers. She told her maids to set a large tripod on the fire, so as to have a warm bath ready for Hector when he came out of battle; poor woman, she knew not that he was now beyond the reach of baths, and that Minerva had laid him low by the hands of Achilles. She heard the cry coming as from the wall, and trembled in every limb; the shuttle fell from her hands, and again she spoke to her waiting-women. "Two of you," she said, "come with me that I may learn what it is that has befallen; I heard the voice of my husband's honoured mother; my own heart beats as though it would come into my mouth and my limbs refuse to carry me; some great misfortune for Priam's children must be at hand. May I never live to hear it, but I greatly fear that Achilles has cut off the retreat of brave Hector and has chased him on to the plain where he was singlehanded; I fear he may have put an end to the reckless daring which possessed my husband, who would never remain with the body of his men, but would dash on far in front, foremost of them all in valour."

Her heart beat fast, and as she spoke she flew from the house like a maniac, with her waiting-women following after. When she reached the and saw Hector being borne away in front of the city- the horses dragging him without heed or care over the ground towards the ships of the Achaeans. Her eyes were then shrouded as with the darkness of night and she fell fainting backwards. She tore the tiring from her head and flung it from her, the frontlet and net with its plaited band, and the veil which golden Venus had given her on the day when Hector took her with him from the house of Eetion, after having given countless gifts of wooing for her sake.

Her husband's sisters and the wives of his brothers crowded round her and supported her, for she was fain to die in her distraction; when she again presently breathed and came to herself, she sobbed and made lament among the Trojans saying, 'Woe is me, O Hector; woe, indeed, that to share a common lot we were born, you at Troy in the house of Priam, and I at Thebes under the wooded mountain of Placus in the house of Eetion who brought me up when I was a child- ill-starred sire of an ill-starred daughter- would that he had never begotten me. You are now going into the house of Hades under the secret places of the earth, and you leave me a sorrowing widow in your house. The child, of whom you and I are the unhappy parents, is as yet a mere infant. Now that you are gone, O Hector, you can do nothing for him nor he for you. Even though he escape the horrors of this woful war with the Achaeans, yet shall his life henceforth be one of labour and sorrow, for others will seize his lands. The day that robs a child of his parents severs him from his own kind; his head is bowed, his cheeks are wet with tears, and he will go about destitute among the friends of his father, plucking one by the cloak and another by the shirt. Some one or other of these may so far pity him as to hold the cup for a moment towards him and let him moisten his lips, but he must not drink enough to wet the roof of his mouth; then one whose parents are alive will drive him from the table with blows and angry words. 'Out with you,' he will say, 'you have no father here,' and the child will go crying back to his widowed mother- he, Astyanax, who erewhile would sit upon his father's knees, and have none but the daintiest and choicest morsels set before him. When he had played till he was tired and went to sleep, he would lie in a bed, in the arms of his nurse, on a soft couch, knowing neither want nor care, whereas now that he has lost his father his lot will be full of hardship- he, whom the Trojans name Astyanax, because you, O Hector, were the only defence of their gates and battlements. The wriggling writhing worms will now eat you at the ships, far from your parents, when the dogs have glutted themselves upon you. You will lie naked, although in your house you have fine and goodly raiment made by hands of women. This will I now burn; it is of no use to you, for you can never again wear it, and thus you will have respect shown you by the Trojans both men and women."

In such wise did she cry aloud amid her tears, and the women joined in her lament.

        --The Iliad of Homer, translated by Samuel Butler (1835-1902), online at the Internet Classics Archive. Achilles' son killed Hector's little son Astyanax by throwing him over the walls of Troy, and took Andromache as his slave.