us?” said the pretty girl with a sigh and a little shudder.
“He doesn’t, dear Carmilla, it is the very furthest thing from his mind.”
“Are you afraid, dearest?”
“I should be very much if I fancied there was any real danger of my being attacked as those poor people were.”
“You are afraid to die?”
“Yes, every one is.”
“But to die as lovers may—to die together, so that they may live together. Girls are caterpillars while they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes; but in the meantime there are grubs and larvae, don’t you see - each with their peculiar propensities, necessities and structure. So says Monsieur Buffon, in his big book, in the next room.”
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19
Later in the day the doctor came, and was closeted with papa for some time. He was a skilful man, of sixty and upwards, he wore powder, and shaved his pale face as smooth as a pumpkin. He and papa emerged from the room together, and I heard papa laugh, and say as they came out:
“Well, I do wonder at a wise man like you. What do you say to hippogriffs and dragons?”
The doctor was smiling, and made answer, shaking his head—
“Nevertheless life and death are mysterious states, and we know little of the resources of either.”
And so they walked on, and I heard no more. I did not then know what the doctor had been broaching, but I think I guess it now.
– Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (1814 - 1873), 'Chapter IV', from Carmilla, first published in 1871 as a serial narrative in The Dark Blue. It tells the story of a young woman's susceptibility to the attentions of a female vampire named Carmilla – predating Bram Stoker's Dracula by twenty-six years. Sheridan Le Fanu was an Irish writer of gothic tales and mystery novels, central to the development of the genre in the Victorian era.
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20
Death, to the dead for evermoreA King, a God, the last, the best of friends - Whene'er this mortal journey endsDeath, like a host, comes smiling to the door;Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shoreWhere neither piping bird nor peeping dawnDisturbs the eternal sleep,But in the stillness far withdrawnOur dreamless rest for evermore we keep.
For as from open windows forth we peepUpon the night-time star besetAnd with dews for ever wet;So from this garish life the spirit peers;And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread,
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21
Where breathe the sleepers evenly; and lo!After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tearsAnd clamour of man's passion, Death appears,And we must rise and go.Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears
Weary of utterance, seeing all is said;Soon, racked by hopes and fears,The all-pondering, all-contriving head,Weary with all things, wearies of the years;And our sad spirits turn toward the dead;And the tired child, the body, longs for bed.
– Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894), the Scottish novelist, poet, essayist and travel writer, famed for Treasure Island, Kidnapped and the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. 'Death, To The Dead For Evermore' (date unknown).
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22
From the winter's grey despair,From the summer's golden languor,Death, the lover of Life,Frees us for ever.
Inevitable, silent, unseen,Everywhere always,Shadow by night and as light in the day,Signs she at last to her chosen;And, as she waves them forth,Sorrow and JoyLay by their looks and their voices,Set down their hopes, and are madeOne in the dim Forever.
Into the winter's gray delight,Into the summer's golden dream,Holy and high and impartial,Death, the mother of Life,Mingles all men for ever.
– William Ernest Henley (1849 - 1903), a British poet, critic and editor, best remembered for his 1875 poem 'Invictus'. These lines come from In Hospital ('XIV: Ave, Caesar'), a collection of poems written during Henley's many and lengthy stays in the infirmary. His left leg had been amputated at the age of nineteen, and during the three years that he was in hospital, penning these works (1873 - 75), he successfully avoided having his right leg amputated as well.
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23
Whenever anybody whom we love dies, we discover that although death is commonplace it is terribly original. We may have thought about it all our lives, but if it comes close to us, it is quite a new, strange thing to us, for which we are entirely unprepared. It may, perhaps, not be the bare loss so much as the strength of the bond which is broken that is the surprise, and we are debtors in a way to death for revealing something in us which ordinary life disguises.
– William Hale White (1831 - 1913), better known by his pseudonym 'Mark Rutherford'. White was a British writer and civil servant, who trained for the Congregational Ministry but soon disagreed with their teachings. Clara Hopgood (1896).
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And what does it mean – "you'll die"? Perhaps man has a hundred senses, and when he dies only the five known to us are destroyed and the remaining ninety-five are left alive.
– Anton Chekhov (1860 - 1904), the Russian author and playwright considered to be among the greatest writers of short stories in history. Trofimov speaking in The Cherry Orchard; Chekhov's last play which opened at the Moscow Art Theatre on 17th January 1904. The play possesses a dual nature – part tragic and part comic; a characteristic directors have had to contend with ever since its first production.
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25
Before us great Death standsOur fate held close within his quiet hands.When with proud joy we lift Life’s red wineTo drink deep of the mystic shining cupAnd ecstasy through all our being leaps—Death
