Visions, Trips, and Crowded Rooms (9 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

D
EATHBED
V
ISIONS IN THE
A
RTS

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done;
it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.”
— final words of Sydney Carton,
from
A Tale of Two Cities
by Charles Dickens

Many people consider the notion of deathbed visions as either some type of New Age spiritualism or a by-product of the contemporary hospice era; however, we need only look to the arts to confirm the prevalence of such phenomena throughout history. The truth is that our novels and fi lms are filled with stories and references of visions.

Some could argue that artists employ deathbed visions in their work solely as literary devices—that is, they’re used to push the plot in a certain direction or create a special effect. But they’ve popped up so often throughout the ages and are so similar in style that their usage goes beyond a “tool” to foreshadow events or evoke an emotional response from the audience.

I’m reminded of the saying “Art imitates life” here— visions exist in our books and movies because they are part of the human experience. They’re tucked into our stories to make our uncertainty and fears more bearable—not only because they comfort us, but also because they reflect a truth that’s beyond our comprehension.

In this chapter, I’ll share just a brief sampling of deathbed visions (along with a few references to “trips” and “crowded rooms”) from some of our most popular classic and modern works.

Deathbed Visions in Literature

Readers in mid-19th-century America would have been horrified if Little Eva, from Harriet Beecher Stowe’s classic novel
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
(1852), had died in agony with no indication that her contribution to the fight against slavery would be rewarded. People all over the world were deeply affected by Stowe’s story of the American South and Little Eva’s fate—so it would have crushed the hearts of millions to see her abruptly slip into oblivion.

In the scene just prior to the young girl’s death, we find the smallest bit of consolation in the form of a vision, slipped into a conversation between Uncle Tom and Miss Feely:

“Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than usual to-night?”

“No but she telled me, this morning, she was coming nearer, — thar’s them that tells it to the child, Miss Feely. It’s the angels, — ‘it’s the trumpet sound afore the break o’ day,’” said Tom.

This exchange suggests that Eva had an angelic visit. It might not be exactly what we wanted most for her, but it’s still comforting to know that she’s in heaven. We’re grateful that the author didn’t abandon her audience or Little Eva.

Visions in literature are referred to by some as “consolation prizes”—that is, they’re concocted for the purpose of consoling a grieving loved one or someone who is dying.

Critics only see the concept of “deus ex machina” (an artificial or improbable device that resolves the difficulties of a plot), someone or something arriving in the eleventh hour to save the day . . . or at least affirm our faith and make us feel better about the situation.

The assumption exists that events in a story must be completely resolved so that readers are fulfilled and feel satisfied. When such an expectation appears to be blocked by a character’s imminent death, an otherworldly vision may be introduced. This supplies, both for the character and the reader, what acclaimed British critic Frank Kermode has elegantly called “the sense of an ending.”

A good example is the contemporary best-selling book
The Lovely Bones
by Alice Sebold, which was written from a visionary perspective. The narrator is a young girl, Susie Salmon, who had been brutally killed. From heaven, Susie is able to observe the life she left behind and comment on the events that follow her death. This technique provides comfort for readers: although her murder was shocking and horrific, we know right from the start that in a certain sense, she’s okay. Throughout the story, she is with us, watching her family cope, grow, and live. We’re left with an innate feeling that Susie is ever present and will most likely be there to greet her loved ones when they die.

I challenge the notion that visions in literature are simply made up to supply artificial solutions to problems in the plot. In real life, death is more than a “dramatic problem,” and deathbed visions appear to be a solution from an unseen world that have provided much comfort—to the dying as well as to those who are grieving.

Although deathbed visions are often regarded today as a product of weakness or psychosis, when we look back in time, the oldest storytellers regarded them (and their very close siblings, dreams) as forms of privileged information. In fact, visions date back to the very foundation of the Western literary tradition and belong to every age, including our own.

We can think of visions in literature as the FedEx of the gods, a means by which they communicate with and influence humanity. For instance, a vision might be ominously prophetic, especially when death is lurking around the corner. Take, for example, the
Epic of Gilgamesh
from ancient Mesopotamia, and one of the earliest known literary works. In this epic poem, Enkidu doesn’t celebrate when he and his beloved comrade Gilgamesh slay a monster because he had a terrifying dream (in the epic’s Book VII) that the gods would “take him away” if he destroyed the monster. Enkidu shares his premonition with Gilgamesh, eerily predicting: “I will sit with the dead in the underworld.”

Other visions lack the clarity of Enkidu’s; rather, they’re filled with symbolism, and it may take some time for their meaning to be revealed. In Sir Thomas Malory’s
Le Morte
d’Arthur
(1485), prior to his final cataclysmic battle against Mordred, King Arthur has an unsettling vision of his future in which he sees himself dressed “in the richest cloth of gold that might be made.” But in that same vision, he also observes himself sitting in a chair above “hideous deep black water, and therein was all manner of serpents.”

Although this image sends a clear (and ominous) message to the readers, Arthur isn’t certain of his fate. He goes forward with the battle, and in stopping Mordred’s forces, is himself mortally wounded. A boat carries him away to Avalon, the mystical realm that hovers between life and death. Arthur is gone, but his legend remains, glowing through the centuries like the rich cloth he wore in the dream.

The veil between the seen and unseen also lifts when we’re in dire need of encouragement or help. A good example of this can be seen in
The Goblet of Fire,
the fourth installment of the enormously popular Harry Potter series. Near the climactic end of the book, Harry sees the spirits of his parents and friend Cedric, who were killed by the evil Voldemort. Harry’s loved ones offer him comfort in a terrifying moment and even help him reach safety. It shouldn’t be surprising to find lots of these visions in young-adult fiction, as it mirrors our desire to believe in the afterlife and the notion that death cannot sever the bonds of love.

In Shakespeare’s
Henry V,
the beloved character Falstaff dies offstage, alone and miserable, yet there’s a suggestion of a vision he experienced, as accounted by Mistress Quickly:

Nay, sure, he’s not in hell: he’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. ’A made a finer end, and went away an it had been any christom child; ’a parted ev’n just between twelve and one, ev’n at the turning o’ th’ tide; for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers’ end, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and ’a babbl’d of green fields. ‘How now, Sir John!’ quoth I ‘What, man, be o’ good cheer.’ So ’a cried out ‘God, God, God!’ three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him ’a should not think of God; I hop’d there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So ’a bade me lay more clothes on his feet; I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, and so upward and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.

We expect that Falstaff is talking about a final redemptive glimpse of a world beyond, a world that will soon receive him.

Similarly, the character Artemio Cruz in Carlos Fuentes’s 1962 masterpiece,
The Death of Artemio Cruz,
recalls the formative moments of his life from his deathbed: “I touch . . . I smell . . . I see . . . I taste . . . I hear . . . they bring me. . . . I pass, touching, smelling, tasting, seeing, smelling the sumptuous carvings.”

“Sitting down, catching your breath,” Fuentes writes, “you will open to the vast, immediate panorama: the light of the sky crowded with stars will reach you constantly and forever . . . and the winking lights will go on bathing you.”

In these final jubilant moments of consciousness, Artemio expresses our deepest wishes about death: that it will be a door opening into something cosmic and transcendent. In this instance, rather than a message from the Divine, the vision conveys a powerful sense of yearning.

I’m also reminded of the gentle character Smike in Charles Dickens’s
Nicholas Nickleby
(1839). Smike is an enormously sympathetic figure, and his death is handled delicately by the author:

He fell into a light slumber, and waking smiled as before; then, spoke of beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and were filled with figures of men, women, and many children, all with light upon their faces; then, whispered that it was Eden—and so died.

In the modern musical play
Les Miserables,
which is based on the novel by Victor Hugo, a deathbed vision brings the tale full circle. Early on in the story, Fantine died and left her daughter in the loving care of Jean Valjean, pleading to him to give her daughter a better life than she’d had. Valjean honors her request. Years later, when he is dying, Fantine returns to him in a vision and leads him to heaven. In the novel, Valjean’s death is expressed in a similar otherworldly manner:

He had fallen back, the light from the candlesticks fell across him; his white face looked up toward heaven. . . . The night was starless and very dark. Without any doubt, in the gloom, some mighty angel was standing, with outstretched wings, waiting for the soul.

In his 1949 play
Death of a Salesman,
Arthur Miller embodies the deathbed vision in an actual character, Ben Loman, Willy’s deceased older brother. Toward the end, Ben convinces Willy that the best way to help his son Biff financially is to embark on an adventure to find diamonds (these are how Ben made his fortune, and they symbolize the tangible wealth that Willy was unable to attain for his family):

BEN (with promise): It’s dark there, but full of diamonds.

WILLY: Can you imagine that magnificence with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket?

LINDA (calling from her room): Willy! Come up!

WILLY (calling into the kitchen): Yes! Yes. Coming! It’s very smart, you realize that, don’t you, sweetheart? Even Ben sees it. I gotta go, baby. ’By! ’By! (Going over to Ben almost dancing.) Imagine? When the mail comes he’ll be ahead of Bernard again!

BEN: A perfect proposition all around.

WILLY: Did you see how he cried to me? Oh, if I could kiss him, Ben!

BEN: Time, William, time!

WILLY: Oh, Ben, I always knew one way or another we were gonna make it, Biff and I!

BEN (looking at his watch): The boat. We’ll be late. (He moves slowly off into the darkness.)

The “adventure” is Willy’s death; he ultimately decides that the only way he can provide for his family is to kill himself so they can collect his life-insurance policy. The boat in this vision represents the “trip” that Willy believes he must take, sealing his fate.

In
The Leopard
(Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa’s 1958 novel about a Sicilian prince), Don Fabrizio likewise experiences a deathbed vision as an impending trip. A melancholic figure out of sync with his wife, his family, and the changing political climate of his country, Fabrizio is comforted by an enigmatic, beautiful visitor who symbolizes an angel of death. The author describes the end of Fabrizio’s life as awaiting a train: