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Title: Death In Life: A True Story
Author: J. C. Manning [
More Titles by Manning]
The following simple narrative is founded on fact. A young village couple married, and soon after their marriage went to live in London. Success did not follow the honest-hearted husband in his search for employment, and he and his young wife were reduced to actual want. In their wretchedness a child was born to them, which died in the midst of the desolate circumstances by which the young mother was surrounded. For three years the mother was deprived of reason--a gloomy period of Death in Life--and passionately mourned the loss of her first-born. An eminent London practitioner, to whom her case became known, was of opinion that reason would return should a second child be born to the disconsolate mother. This proved to be correct; and after three years of mental aberration the sufferer woke as from a dream. For many months after the awakening she was under the impression that her second child was her first-born, and only became aware of the true state of the case when it was gently broken to her by her husband.
I.
Lovely as a sunbright Spring is,
Yonder trembling maid advances,
Clothed in beauty like the morning--
Like the silver-misted morning--
With a face of shiny radiance,
Tinted with a tinge of blushes,
Like reflections from a goblet
Filled with wine of richest ruby.
Now she nears the low church portal--
Flickers through the white-washed portal,
Lighting up the sleepy structure,
As a sunbeam lights the drowsy
Blossom into wakeful gladness.
See! she stands before the altar,
With the chosen one beside her;
And the holy Mentor murmurs
Words that link their lives like rivets,
Which no force should break asunder.
Now the simple prayer is ended;
And two souls, like kissing shadows,
Mingle so no hand shall part them!
Mingle like sweet-chorded music;
Mingle like the sighs of Summer--
Like the breath of fruit and blossom;
Mingle like two kissing raindrops--
Twain in one. Thrice happy maiden!
Life to thee is like the morning,
As the fresh-faced balmy morning,
Full of melody and music;
Full of soft delicious fragrance;
Full of Love, as dew-soaked jasmins
Are of sweet and spicy odour;
Full of Love, as leaping streamlets
Are of life. Thrice happy maiden!
II.
Turn we to a lowly dwelling--
One amongst a million dwellings--
Where a mother silent rocketh
To-and-fro with down-let eyelids,
Gazing on her sleeping infant,
While the just-expiring embers
Smoulder through the gloomy darkness.
On the shelf a rushlight flickers
With a dull and sickly glimmer,
Turning night to ghostly, deathly,
Pallid wretchedness and sadness,
Just revealing the dim outline
Of a pale and tearful mother,
With a babe upon her bosom.
"Thus am I," she muttered, wailing,
"Left to linger lorn and lonely
In the morning of my being.
If 'twere not for thee, my sweet babe,
Lily of my life's dark waters--
Silver link that holds my sad heart
To the earth--I fain would lay me
Down, and sleep death's calm and sweet sleep.
Oh! how sweetly calm it must be.
In the green and silent graveyard,
With the moonlight and the daisies!
If 'twere not for thee, my loved one,
I could lay me down and kiss Death
With the gladness I now kiss thee.
Oh! how cold thy tiny lips are!
Like a Spring-time blossom frozen.
Nestle, dear one, in my bosom!"
And the mother presst the sleeper
Closer--closer, to her white breast:
Forward, backward--gently rocking;
While the rushlight flickered ghastly.
Hark! a footstep nears the dwelling;
And the door is flung wide open,
Banging backward 'gainst the table;
And a human being enters,
Flusht with liquor, drencht with water!
For the rain came down in torrents,
And the wind blew cold and gusty.
"Well, Blanche!" spake the thoughtless husband,
Not unkindly. "Weeping always."
"Yes, Charles, I could ne'er have slumbered
Had I gone to bed," she answered.
Then she rose to shut the night out,
But the stubborn wind resisted,
And, for spite, dasht through the crevice
Of the window. "Foolish girl, then,
Thus to wait for me!" he muttered.
When a shriek--so wild, so piercing--
Weirdly wild--intensely piercing--
Struck him like a sharp stiletto.
Then another--and another!
Purging clear his turbid senses.
"Blanche!" he cried; and sprang towards her
Just in time to save her falling;
And her child fell from her bosom,
Like a snow-fall from the house-top
To the earth. "Blanche! Blanche!" he gaspt out;
"Tell me what it is that pains thee."
But her face was still as marble.
Then he kissed her cheeks--her forehead--
Then her lips, and called out wildly:
"Blanche, my own neglected darling,
Look, look up, and say thou livest,
Speak, if but to curse thy husband--
Curse thy wretched, heartless husband."
Then her eyelids slowly opened,
And she gazed up in his white face,
White as paper as her own was!
"Charles!" she sighed, "I have been dreaming:
Is my child dead?" "No!" he answered,
"See, 'tis sleeping!" "Dead!" the mother
Murmured faintly, "Sleeping--sleeping!"
In a chair he gently placed her:
Then he stooped to take the child up,
Kisst and placed it on her bosom.
Frantic then the mother hugged it;
Gazed a moment; then with laughter
Wild, she made the room re-echo--
"They would take my bonny baby--
Rob me of my dainty darling,
Would they? Ha! ha! ha!" she shouted.
And she turned her large blue eyes up
With a strange and fitful gazing,
Laughing till the tears chased madly
Down her cheeks of pallid whiteness.
"Dear, dear Blanche!" her husband murmured,
Stretching out his hand towards her;
But she started wildly forward,
Crouched down in the furthest corner,
And, with face tear-dabbled over,
And her hair in long, lank tresses,
With a voice so low and plaintive
'Twould have won a brute to lameness,
Faintly sobbed she: "Do not take it!
Do not take it!--do not take it!"
And she hugged her infant closer,
Sobbing sadly, "Do not take it!"
"Blanche! dear Blanche!" her husband faltered,
With a voice low, husht, and chokeful,
"I--I am thy worthless husband!"
Then he walkt a step towards her;
But the girl with 'wildered features
Drew her thin hand o'er her forehead,
And in wandering accents muttered:
"Husband? Husband? No, not husband!
I am still a laughing maiden;
Yet methought I had been married,
And bore such a sweet, sweet baby--
Such a fair and bonny baby!
Baby--baby--hush; the wild winds
Sing so plaintive. Hush--h!" And then she
Laid the child upon the cold floor,
And, with hair in wild disorder,
Laughing, crying, sobbing, talking,
O'er it hung, like March a-shivering
O'er the birth of infant April.
Lightly then her husband toucht her
On the shoulder; but she look'd not--
Spake not--moved not. Slowly rose she
From her kneeling, crouching posture;
And she stood a hopeless dreamer,
With the child a corpse beside her!
III.
In a dry and sun-parch'd graveyard,
In a small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With the lurid sky above it,
With the smoke from chimneys o'er it,
With the din of life around it--
Din of rushing life about it;
Sat a girlish, grief-worn figure,
Croucht up in the darkest corner,
With her pallid face turned upwards;
To and fro in silence rocking
On a little mound of dark dirt.
Like a veiled Nun rose the pale moon,
Draped about with fleecy vapour;
And the stars in solemn conclave
Came to meet her--came to greet her,
To their convent home to bear her:
She had soared above the dingy
Earth, and left the world behind her.
As she passed she lookt down sadly,
Gazed with silent, noble pity,
At the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Sitting in the darkest corner
Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With her pallid face turned upwards,
On a little mound of dark dirt.
Round about from windows flickered
Lights, which told of inside revels;
Rooms, with mirth and banquets laden,
Sobbing kisses, soft embraces,
Feasts of Love, and feasts of Pleasure,
Ruby lips, and joyous laughter.
Then the buzz of life grew softer,
Broken only by the tramping
Of a troop of bacchanalians,
Reeling through the streets deserted,
With their loud uproarious language.
Still the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Croucht in dark and dreary corner
Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With her pallid face turned upwards,
On a little mound of dark dirt.
The gray herald of the Morning,
Dapple-clad, came forth to tell the
Sleepy world his Lord was coming.
Straight the drowsy buildings leapt up
Like huge giants from their slumber,
And, with faces flusht and ruddy,
Waited for the King of Morning!
Lo! he comes from far-off mountains,
With a glory-robe about him,
With a robe of gold and purple;
And a buzz of mighty wonder
Rises as, with step majestic,
And with glance sublime, he walks on,
Gathering his robe about him,
To his West-embowered palace,
Still the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Croucht in dark and dreary corner
Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With her pallid face turned upwards,
To and fro in silence rocking,
On a little mound of black dirt!
When the box which held her treasure
Had been borne from home and buried,
She had followed, undetected;
And when all had left the graveyard
She had crept to that small hillock,
Trembling like a half-crusht lily;
Yearning towards the child beneath her,
Yet, the while, to earth-life clinging
By a link--bruised but unbroken.
Whilst at home her frantic husband
Called aloud in vain for "Blanche!"
IV.
Hours flew by like honey-laden
Bees, with sting and honey laden:
Days, like ghostly shadows, flitted
By; and weeks and months rolled onward
With a never-ceasing rolling,
Like the blue bright waves a-rolling,
Never quiet--never ending!
Still the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Might be seen, with vacant glances,
Threading through life's rushing whirlpool--
Gliding, like a sunbeam, o'er it--
To that small corpse-crowded graveyard;
Where for hours she'd sit and murmur,
With a wild and plaintive wailing;
"Come back, darling! Come back, darling;
Come, for I am broken-hearted."
When at home, with nimble fingers
Oft she'd clothe a doll and call it
Her sweet babe--her darling baby--
Her long-absent, long-lost baby!
Her fair bonny-featured baby!
And her husband would bend o'er her,
With low words of pure affection--
As when first he woo'd and won her.
And her home was not the dungeon--
The sad, dark, and dismal dungeon--
The cold death-vault of her infant,
With the drear and ghastly rushlight:
But a home of cottage comfort,
Every sweet of love and loving.
Yes! the wan and pallid mother
Found on that dark night, a husband--
Found a home; but--lost her reason!
V.
"Do not, for the world, awake her!
'Twere her death-knell to awake her!"
Urged the old and careful nursewife.
"Let me look but for a moment--
Gaze but for one little moment!"
'Twas the voice of Charles that pleaded:
Softly, then, he drew the curtain,
Gently, fearful, drew the curtain--
"Charles!--dear Charles!" a faint voice murmured,
In a tone so weak and lowly,
Sweetly weak and soul-subduing.
"Blanche!--my sweet one!" gasp'd the husband,
"Dost thou know me?--God, I thank thee!"
Then he threw his arms around her,
And, amidst a shower of kisses,
Truest, purest, grateful kisses,
Drew the loved one to his bosom:
And the babe that nestled near her
Covered he with warm caresses.
Reason, like a golden sunbeam
On a lily-cup, had lightened
Her sweet soul so dark and turbid--
For three years so darkly turbid;
Three long years so dark and turbid.
"Charles, my dream has been a sad one,"
Spake she, like expiring music,
Shadowed with a mournful sadness.
"I have dreamt they stole my baby,
Buried my dear, darling infant!"
Then she took the babe and kiss'd it,
Presst it to her snowy bosom;
And, with voice low, soft, and grateful,
Murmured, "Charles, I am so happy!
Do not weep--I'm very happy!"
VI.
Reader! 'tis no idle fiction:
Once a lovely, laughing maiden--
Lovely as a Summer morning,
Lived and loved, as I have told thee;
Lost her babe, as I have told thee;
And a mental night came o'er her
Like a ghastly, gaping fissure,
Like a chasm of empty darkness.
As a new-made grave in Summer
Bulges up dark and unsightly,
With the bright blue sky above it,
And the daisies smiling round it,
So, with all its doleful darkness,
Fell the dream of that fair suff'rer
O'er her mind with inward canker,
Like a slug upon the rose-leaf!
Then she woke, as I have told thee,
After three years' trance-like sleeping,
Knowing not she had been sleeping;
And for months she never doubted
That the child she loved and fondled
Was lier long-dead darling first-born!
Happy hearts all feared to tell her:
Death in Life again they dreaded.
Now no Death in Life they fear;
Blanche is happy all the year.
[The end]
J. C. Manning's poem: Death In Life: A True Story
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