# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 58

CHAPTER XXXI.
"Droop not, sister, and thy weeping For my fated end give o'er. **** Mourn not—dying is not dying Unto those who love not life, But a hope to the relying, And a glad relense from strife." Cornelius Webbe..
Francesca marked the beloved features grow rigid even while she gazed,—she felt the deadly chill of the hand which she clasped; hut still she stood beside the corpse, when the old servant, who had come in, whispered, "It is all over!—let me bind up the head." The sense of her loss thus brought before her was too overwhelming, and she sank insensible on the bed. They carried her into her own room, where it was long before she recovered; and when at last she revived, it was in a state of stupified exhaustion that ended in sleep—the deep heavy sleep of those utterly worn out both in body and mind. It was broad daylight the next morning before she awoke: she was roused ​in a moment by the shadowy gleams glimmering through the green branches of an old elm-tree which almost hid her window. She started up—her first thought was of Guido, and that she had slept too long; but a terrible consciousness rushed over her, and her head sank on her pillow, while she closed her eyes, as if to shut out her fear. She was still dizzy with sleep, and the many visions of the night rose confusedly before her. For the moment she essayed to slumber again—suddenly the very suspense she had sought became too dreadful. She sprang out of bed, and ran to Guido's room; it was darkened—the curtains were closed around him who had so loved the light and air. The truth instantly flashed upon her, and she staggered against the wall for support. For a few moments she stood as if stunned, and then drew nigh towards the bed, where lay the remains, insensible and cold, of him who but yesterday was alive to her affection, and anxious for her welfare. She could not look upon him, but, flinging herself on her knees, hid her face in the bed-clothes, and wept passionately. All her early life crowded upon her memory—the old palazzo, amid whose deserted chambers each had a favourite haunt; their wandering rambles ​through the adjacent woods; their unbroken confidence; their constant union of interests; that future which they always painted together, but now so utterly separated. Not one word of unkindness, nor even of coldness, had ever passed between them; there was not a single recollection unstamped by affection. Love, which so often rends asunder the gentler ties of domestic attachment, had only drawn theirs more closely; each had had such cause to value the deep and true sympathy of the other. As these remembrances arose, Francesca's tears flowed the more bitterly; and the very consciousness that they flowed in vain—that never tear nor prayer could bring back breath to those beloved lips, or light to those once watchful eyes, gave them but added agony.
The vanity of weeping, which in time works out its own consolation, is at first but the aggravation of sorrow. Still, grief exhausts its expression; and Francesca at length raised her eyes,—she would look once more upon her brother; and again the very thought—"Once more!"—subdued her into a fresh burst of tears. It was long before she could compose herself sufficiently to gaze upon the face; but when she did at length command herself to turn towards the pillow, it was strange how sorrow became merged in awe. ​She felt that she dared not give way to human emotion in the still and solemn presence of the dead. She trembled to disturb the beautiful composure—as if it could be disturbed!
It is wonderful how, for the day or two after death, all that was lovely in life comes back to the face; the pure marble whiteness of the skin, the closed eyes, the features in such deep stillness, like those of a statue wrought in the highest ideal of art, but with that impressed upon them which was never yet the work of mortal hand. Guido's regular and classic features suited well with this state of entire repose. The calm and sweet serenity belonged to their nature. It was as if the countenance were for a brief while allowed to wear the likeness of the peaceful and spiritual world whither the soul had departed.
Francesca remained watching him with an inexpressible feeling of consolation. He brought to her mind those glorious works of art which they had witnessed together. His dream of their grace and noble beauty was realised in himself; and yet there was something too sad and too tender for marble. The cheek and lip were white, and the hair showed the only vestige of colour—the hair, which retains its gloss and flexibility to the last, when all else is faded and rigid—how much of ​humanity did it still impart! The rich black curls lay in profusion round the graceful head, and the long dark lash yet rested on the pallid cheek, and gave a semblance of life to the statue-like form.
Many have a horror of looking upon the dead—they are wrong; futurity and peace are written on the composed and beautiful countenance; it suggests the idea of an intellectual slumber. The sleep of the living is feverish and agitated; the passion and the sorrow are on the flushed cheek and the tremulous lip—but that of death is the sleep of the soul. No one can gaze upon the dead, and not feel, indeed, that they are gone to a land where "the wicked cease from troubling,and the weary are at rest."
Still, that is a dreadful week which elapses before the burial. We defer too long the returning of earth to earth; the loathsome work of corruption should begin in the dust. The darkened house, the stealing steps, the subdued voices, and the haunting consciousness that there is that under the same roof with yourself which is not of this world, all combine to keep the mind in a state of terrible excitement. And yet, with this vague atmosphere of dread around you, how strangely is the ludicrous mingled! The mocking and the absurd is stamped upon the funeral preparations. ​The matter-of-fact solemnity, the careless gravity, of those whose employment it is to furnish the coffin, &c.—the customary compliment of "Such a fine corse!" as if the appearance of the dead were their own doing—the importance attached to the trimmings of the shroud and the nails on the lid—the professional pleasantries, ay, pleasantries! handed down from time immemorial—the utter indifference of their proceedings—all natural enough when we think how familiar the spectacle is to them at which our own blood grows cold; but all which is absolute torture to the eye and ear of the survivor.
Francesca took her last look at the muffled figure in the long and narrow coffin, the death-clothes hiding the head, and only allowing the mouth, nose, and brow to be seen, on which were now impressed the ghastly tints of livid decay; and then left the room, sick and shuddering. Yet again she yearned to see that beloved face, even though changed and loathsome. Good God! how dreadful a penalty exacted of mortality, to think that we must turn with unconquerable disgust from all that was once so dear, and with that affection strong in our hearts as ever! And yet the revolting triumphs over the spiritual and the tender feeling. With a hasty step she re-​re-entered the chamber. A sound of most jarring cheerfulness struck upon her ear—a glare of unwelcome light poured upon her eyes—and in the very act of fitting on the lid to the coffin stood a man, singing one of the popular political songs of the time; having previously unclosed the shutters, that he might see to do his work! Hurriedly she retreated to her own room, the careless singing of the workman smiting her with a bitter sense of desolation.
In the first exaggeration of sorrow, it seemed as if every thing must sympathise with her great grief; and in the equal exaggeration of disappointment, it now seemed as if there was no sympathy in the world. She paced the room in a passionate burst of weeping, from which she was first recalled by the quiet entrance of Lucy, who, marking her agitation, took her hand kindly, and, leading her to the window seat, sought to soothe her by the most gentle tenderness. Ah! the magic of a few kind words! how unutterably dear they are! Francesca felt their full value; and her tears flowed less bitterly in the presence of her affectionate and kind companion.