Erewhonians' Views on 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.

The Erewhonians fear death less than disease. If death is an offence at all, it is beyond the reach of the law. The law therefore says nothing about it. But they insist that most people who are said to die have never yet been born. At least, they have not been born into the unseen world, the only world worth considering. As I understand it, they say that some miscarry before they even reach the visible world, and some afterward. Few are ever truly born into the unseen world at all. Most men and women throughout the country miscarry before they reach it. And the Erewhonians say that this matters less than we think.

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.

As for what we call death, they argue that we make too much of it. Simply knowing that we will die someday does not make us very unhappy. No one expects to escape death, so no one is disappointed. We do not care greatly even when we know we have little time left to live. Only one thing would seriously affect us: knowing the exact moment when death will strike. Or rather, thinking we know it. Happily, no one can ever know that moment for certain. Yet many try to make themselves miserable by trying to find it out. It seems as though some power somewhere mercifully prevents us from adding that sting to death's tail. We would add it if we could. That power ensures that, though death must always be a frightening prospect, it can never be more than that under any conceivable circumstances.

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.

Even if a man is sentenced to die in a week, he will always hope for a reprieve before the week is over. He will hope even if he is locked in a prison he cannot possibly escape. Besides, the prison might catch fire, and he might be suffocated by ordinary smoke instead of a rope. Or lightning might strike him dead while he is exercising in the prison yard. On the morning of his hanging, the poor wretch might choke on his breakfast. Or his heart might fail before the trapdoor drops. Even after the trapdoor drops, he cannot be quite certain that he is going to die. He cannot know that until he has actually died. By then, it will be too late for him to discover that he was going to die at the appointed hour after all. The Erewhonians therefore believe that death, like life, is more frightening than painful.

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 cremate their dead, and the ashes are soon scattered over any piece of ground the deceased may have chosen. No one is allowed to deny the dead this hospitality. So people generally choose a garden or orchard they knew and loved when they were young. Superstitious people believe that those whose ashes are scattered over a piece of land become its jealous guardians from then on. The living like to think they will become part of a place where they were once 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.

They do not put up monuments or write epitaphs for their dead, though in earlier times they did much as we do. But they have a custom that amounts to much the same thing. The desire to keep one’s name alive after the body dies seems common to all mankind. Those who can afford it have statues of themselves made while they are still alive. They write inscriptions beneath the statues, which are often just as false as our epitaphs, only in a different way. They do not hesitate to describe themselves as victims of bad temper, jealousy, greed, and the like. But they almost always claim to be beautiful, whether they are or not. They also often claim to own a large amount of the country’s government debt. If a person is ugly, he does not pose for his own statue, although it bears his name. He gets the most handsome of his friends to pose for him. Asking someone to pose for such a statue is one way of paying him a compliment. Women generally pose for their own statues, naturally reluctant to admit that a friend is more beautiful. But they expect to be made more beautiful than they are. I understood that the great number of these statues was beginning to feel like a burden in almost every family. The custom would probably die out before long.

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 côterie 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 côterie 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.

Indeed, this has already happened with statues of public figures, to everyone’s satisfaction. No more than three can be found in the whole capital. I expressed my surprise and was told that, about five hundred years before my visit, these pests had overrun the city. There was no way to get around. People were annoyed beyond endurance by having their attention drawn to something at every turn. And whenever they looked, they found it had nothing to do with them. Most of these statues were mere attempts to do for a man or woman what a taxidermist does more successfully for a dog, bird, or pike. They were generally imposed on the public by some clique trying to elevate itself by elevating someone else. Quite often, a statue began simply because a clique member wanted to find work for a young sculptor engaged to his daughter. Statues conceived in this way could only be monstrosities. And they are sure to be conceived in this way once the art of making them becomes widely practiced.

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.

I do not know why, but all the noblest arts remain perfect for only a very short time. They soon reach a peak and then begin to decline. Once an art begins to decline, it is a pity that it cannot be put out of its misery. For an art is like a living organism, better dead than dying. There is no way to make an old art young again. It must be born again and grow from infancy as something new. It must work out its own salvation, one effort at a time, in 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 côteries, 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.

Five hundred years ago, the Erewhonians understood none of this. I doubt whether they even understand it now. They wanted the closest thing they could get to a stuffed man whose stuffing would not grow moldy. They should have had something like our Madame Tussaud’s, where the figures wear real clothes and are painted to look lifelike. Such a place might have paid for itself, because people could have been charged for admission. Instead, they had left their poor, cold, grimy, colorless heroes and heroines standing idle in squares and street corners in all weathers. They made no attempt at artistic sanitation. There was no provision for burying their dead works of art out of sight. There was no drainage, so to speak, to carry statues out of the system once they had been sufficiently absorbed into the country’s lasting impression of itself. So the Erewhonians put statues up readily, prompted by the cackling of their little cliques. They and their children then had to live, often enough, with some pompous windbag whose cowardice had cost the country untold 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.

At last, the evil grew so great that the people rose up and destroyed good and bad alike in their fury. Most of what they destroyed was bad, but a few works were good. Sculptors today wring their hands over some of the fragments preserved in museums throughout the country. For about two hundred years, not a single statue was made anywhere in the kingdom. But the urge to have stuffed men and women was so strong that people eventually began trying to make them again. They did not know how, and they had no academics to mislead them. So the earliest sculptors of this period worked things out for themselves. Once again, they produced works full of interest. Within 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.

Then the same problems returned. Sculptors earned high prices, and art became a trade. Schools sprang up, claiming to sell the holy spirit of art for money. Students flocked from far and near to buy it, hoping to sell it later. They were struck nearly blind as punishment for the sin of those who sent them. Before long, a second furious wave of statue-smashing would surely have followed, but for one far-sighted statesman. He succeeded in passing a law about statues of public men and women. No such statue could remain intact for more than fifty years without a jury’s approval. At the end of that time, a jury of twenty-four men chosen at random from the street could approve another fifty years. This review was to be repeated every fifty years. Unless at least eighteen jurors voted to keep 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.

Perhaps a simpler plan would have been to forbid statues of public figures until they had been dead for at least one hundred years. Even then, their claims to a statue and the statue’s merit could have been reconsidered every fifty years. But the Act produced results that were satisfactory on the whole. First, many public statues that would have been approved under the old system were never ordered. People knew that the statues would almost certainly be broken up after fifty years. Second, public sculptors knew their work would be so short-lived. So they put so little effort into it that it offended even the most uncultured eye. Before long, people raising money for statues of their dead statesmen began paying sculptors on condition that they did not make the statues. Respect was thus paid to the dead, the public sculptors lost no money, 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.

I was told, however, that this custom is increasingly being abused. Competition for the commission not to make a statue is so fierce that sculptors have sometimes returned a considerable part of the payment to the subscribers. They make these arrangements with the subscribers beforehand, but such dealings are always kept secret. A small inscription is set into the pavement where the public statue would have stood. It tells the reader that a statue has been ordered for the person, whoever he or she may be, but that the sculptor has not yet been able to complete it. No law has been passed to ban statues intended for private use, but, as I have said, the custom is dying out.

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.

Returning to Erewhonian customs surrounding death, there is one I can hardly pass over. When someone dies, family friends do not write condolence letters, attend the scattering, or wear mourning clothes. Instead, they send small boxes filled with artificial tears. The sender’s name is neatly painted on the outside of each lid. The boxes contain anywhere from two to fifteen or sixteen tears, depending on how close the sender was to the deceased. People sometimes find it a delicate point of etiquette to decide exactly how many to send. Strange as it may seem, this gesture is highly valued. When someone who might be expected to send tears fails to do so, the family feels the omission keenly. In the past, the bereaved stuck these tears to their cheeks with adhesive plaster. They wore them in public for a few months after a relative’s death. Later, the tears were banished to the hat or bonnet, and now they are 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 birth of a child is regarded as a painful subject that is kinder not to mention. The mother’s illness is carefully concealed until the birth-formula must be signed, making further secrecy impossible. I will explain the birth-formula later. For some months before the birth, the family lives in seclusion and sees very few visitors. Once the offence is over, it is forgiven thanks to the usual lack of logic. This merciful gift of nature exists here as elsewhere. It is a buffer against collisions, a friction that upsets our calculations but without which life would be intolerable. It is the crowning glory of human invention, allowing us to be blind and see at the same moment. It is blessed inconsistency. The strictest moral writers have argued that it is wicked for a woman to have children at all. They say it is wrong to be ill so that good may come of it. Yet necessity has led people generally to pass over such events in silence. They assume that births do not happen, except in such flagrant cases as force themselves on public notice. Society’s condemnation of those cases is relentless. If the illness is believed to have been dangerous and prolonged, a woman can hardly 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.

The conventions described above struck me as arbitrary and cruel, but they put a stop to many imagined ailments. Pregnancy, far from being thought interesting, is seen as a sign of something more or less seriously wrong. Women therefore take care to hide it as long as they can, even from their own husbands. They expect a severe scolding as soon as their offense is discovered. The baby, too, is kept out of sight until it can walk and talk, except on the day the birth-formula is signed. If the child unhappily dies, a coroner’s inquest is inevitable. But the family may have been respected until then, and the inquest must not disgrace it. So the finding is almost always that the child was over seventy-five years old and died of old age.