The Last Judgment, the river Acheron, "The Ferry of Souls" and the "Autumn" of Life
I often end up talking about something different from where I started. This is that.
I do not have any morbid fascination with death, but I do probably think about it more than most. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I have been going to funerals all my life. My first was my granddad’s, now almost sixty years ago. I remember that trip vividly; the little stone schoolhouse where my dad graduated high school, the old cistern next to where the homeplace once stood, my cousins and I running in and around the monuments, the cape jasmine marking my great-grandad’s grave, the ubiquitous horny toads darting all over the sandy cemetery (now just a memory thanks to fire ants), and being introduced to the wife of my grandad’s cousin, who was quite literally the biggest woman I had ever seen.
My dad’s first cousin preached the graveside service. This relative had caused no little concern with some in my grandmother’s Church-a-Christ family. It seems he had become a boy Baptist preacher, and a good one at that. He was a prince of a fellow. My dad always chuckled at the concern, and it certainly would not have bothered my grandad, who was raised Presbyterian and married Church of Christ. Perhaps a Baptist funeral split the difference. But the main thing I remember was that the graveyard was full of people. Henry had been everyone’s favorite relative.
From that beginning at eight years of age, the floodgates were opened to a lifetime of funeral attending. It was simply what you did as a responsible member of a family or community. My parents were good teachers in this respect. I can count over a hundred family funerals alone. I have attended at least that many more for people I am unrelated to. After my parents died, I would be the one to represent our family at funerals, and in time-as nobody else really stepped up to the plate-our entire branch of the family. I remember once missing a great-uncle’s funeral. I had never really met the man and saw him maybe twice in my life, so I talked myself out of it. At the next family funeral, two of my mother’s cousins asked where I was, for my absence was noted.
My mother could be quite stoic at funerals, and I guess that rubbed off on me. Now over fifty years ago, I remember her commenting on the unnecessary emotionalism of my dad’s cousin at each of her aged parents’ funerals. My mother’s expression for such public displays was “carrying-on.” She did not “carry-on’ about anything. I now realize that she could not help being how she was, but in this regard at least, she was wrong. While everyone cannot grieve in public, grief over loss is an honest and heartfelt acknowledgment of our common humanity and of our common destiny. I find that my behavior often imitates my mother’s, even though I would wish it otherwise. I justify my stoicism as a preference for dignity.
The wife says I am too critical about obituaries and funerals these days. Perhaps she is right, but I suspect she really means that I am simply more vocal about it than she is. I do not respond to cheap sentimentality, nor am I a fan of “Celebrations of Life,” or slide show presentations. But in the general sluffing-off of most everything these days, I suppose it is really to be commended when a funeral is held at all.
I attended my most recent service just last week. An old business acquaintance of mine had died in his mid nineties, after having led a very respectable and successful life, in the way these things are usually measured. He had certainly always been a gentleman to me. My criticism is directed only at the church venue. Back in the day, this was one of the two big mainline “social” churches downtown. I have taken a jaundiced view of them ever since being taken to a “Young Life” rally in middle school. Obviously, that did not take. My interactions with them in subsequent decades have done nothing to move me from my initial prejudicial stance.
I sat in a side pew of the main sanctuary, a spry youngster amidst a crowd of largely octogenarian business leaders and spouses. The church takes pride in its huge stained glass windows, which I had time to inspect, having arrived early. Puzzlingly, they contained neither lamb nor angel nor shepherd, just an assortment of random geometric designs, meaning, well, nothing at all. In time they cranked up the pipe organ so that it could, I suppose, drown out the maudlin evangelical standard that began the service. That’s the problem with these churches caught in the middle—low church sentimentality all gussied-up in high church finery.
But the kicker came with the eulogy. Up to that point it was all very nice: very nice things said about a very nice man, though the template they used for all these services clearly showed through. The fast-talking head pastor strode out in front on the pulpit and began to zip through the eulogy, almost as if he had somewhere he needed to be. This was the day after that Super Bowl thing. I had theretofore successfully dodged the event, knowing neither who played nor who won. The pastor burst through all my defenses.
He noted that “he knew everyone had been glued to the game yesterday, and we all worried about Patrick Mahomes in the third quarter, whether he would be able to pull it out since he was clearly hurting.” My jaw dropped just a little. By this time, I am accustomed to Orthodox funerals, where the subject is Jesus Christ, rather than the deceased. But, as I already know that football has nothing to do with Heaven, I also wondered what it could possibly have to do with the deceased. The pastor addressed my confusion. He concluded that young Mr. “Mahomes reminded him of the Apostle Paul who fought the good fight and finished the race.” This, in turn, reminded him of the deceased. And with that he (mercifully) concluded. One wonders, how the deep and clearly impenetrable message of 2 Timothy 4:7 was ever truly understood before the advent of modern American football.
***
I was on more familiar ground at church last weekend, for the Sunday of the Last Judgment in the Orthodox calendar—sheep and goats and that sort of thing. Later in church school, I shared with my middle-schoolers a bit about our Orthodox iconographical tradition that depicts the Last Judgment. I have always been fascinated by this particular iconography, from the very first time—now twenty years ago— when I craned my neck to take in all the dancing demons at the Rila Monastery church in Bulgaria. Since then, I have collected such images from countless Orthodox churches across numerous countries. I was able to share with my students some examples from St. Stephen’s Monastery in Meteora, and from the Neamt monastic complex in Romania.
(A classic icon: St. Stephen’s, Meteora, Greece)
When in the British Isles, I spend a lot of time poking around old churches, searching for signs of pre-Reformation continuity between East and West. A meagre few of what they call “wall paintings” survive, but they are weaker in design and execution than in the East. Wherever they are found, however, these depictions are generally at the rear of the church—the west wall, if possible—to serve as a parting admonition to parishioners as they leave the sanctity and safety of the temple and enter the world at large.
As a stoic no-nonsense old lady of our acquaintance used to say forty years ago, “You either live or you die.” Throughout human history-or at least until First World Modernity undertook to redefine things, including the very nature of life itself-Death was always an ever-present reality, without feeding-tubes or funeral home preparation rooms. So everywhere in the old Christian tradition, images of the Last Judgment were the norm; whether you were a herdsman in the shadow of the Caucasus, returning to your flocks after lighting a candle in the glorious cathedral church at Nikortsminda, or a Welsh pilgrim, 3,000 miles to the west, trekking onward from humble St. Issui’s on his way to the shrine of Dewi Sant. The image you saw as you crossed yourself and left the church was not at all jarring, as it might be today, but that which was never far from your consciousness to begin with. Today, even some Orthodox iconographers seem to have an aversion to these depictions, but I would hope that one might one day grace our temple.
(The English take on it, at Chaldon)
***
Beginning with the Renaissance emphasis on classicalism, those artists brave enough to tackle the subject increasingly abandoned any iconographical constraints, mainly by way of mythological representations of Death and Dying. The 1898 painting at the top of this post, Souls on the Bank of the Acheron, by Hungarian artist Adolf Himery-Hirschl is a favorite and an excellent example of this sort of thing. I believe it hangs in the Belvedere in Vienna.
This painting interests me in particular as it also adorns the cover of a stunning new publication by Tartarus Press (seen below—well, actually hidden underneath the dust jacket.) I became acquainted with the publishers through membership in the Friends of Arthur Machen. We visited last summer, and plan to do so again this year.
Tartarus Press has established a reputation for rescuing worthy writers in danger of being forgotten, as well as showcasing superb contemporary authors within their genre. And their genre is a unique one-what is often simply termed, for lack of anything better, as weird fiction. This is a broad characterization. Machen certainly qualifies, as does Poe, and much of Hawthorne’s work, and of course H. P. Lovecraft; and then tons of writers I am only now coming to know—contemporary authors such as Ray Russell, Rosalie Parker, Mark Valentine and John Howard, among others. It would be simplistic to characterize these as supernatural or “ghost stories,” although there is that. Nor are they just fantasies, though there is plenty of that as well. There is also Evil and malevolence, the breeding ground of terror, but not what passes today as horror (gore).
Beginning with my discovery of Machen a few years ago, my reading interests in fiction took a sharp turn away from mainstream literature, and in the direction of the type of books they publish. For example, Jane Austen was a superb wordsmith. Her books are replete with vicars and curates. They could have just as easily have been accountants. There is not a whiff of transcendence in any of her work, which ultimately speaks to a hollowness at the heart of the novels. Mind you, I think everyone should ready Austen,—but then move on to deeper waters. I spent six months tracking down a copy of Nina Antonia’s haunting The Greenwood Faun, for example. I do not think I could go mainstream again.
I am surprised at how gentle and subtle these stories can be. In the half-world of forgotten byways and lingering memories, “endings” are never quite that. Questions remain unresolved amidst mystery and wonder, often disquieting, a bit off-kilter or strange. As in life itself, we seldom have it all figured out. What unites all such authors is a recognition of the unseen realm which sometimes overlaps with that which is seen, a something more that can what can merely be reasoned.
I have never been the least bit superstitious. I don’t “see” things. But after a number of years, I have realized that Creation is such that people and things and objects can acquire sanctity. And likewise, cursedness. Logic and Reason, in the scientific sense of the word, can prove much, yet explain very little. Meaning is measured in other ways. I find that the weird fiction authors who write of that which cannot be seen or reasoned are swimming in the same misty waters as I am as an Orthodox believer.
A few days ago I took my dog out to the farm to have a run in the bottom. We were following the edge of a patch of woods along a small creek. Within a couple of minutes I witnessed three things: the first two were inexplicable; the last was understandable, but took on sinister aspects in relation to the first two. I have thought about it every day since. What did it mean, if anything? Was it some sort of sign? I do not know. I just know that I cannot explain it.
The book that generated this ramble is shown below, The Ferry of Souls: Fantasies, Sketches, Realities and Dreams, by A. L. Salmon; first published in 1927, but reprinted by Tartarus Press last year. He was certainly multi-talented; a lyricist, music critic, journalist, poet and biographer, in addition to being a writer. Salmon died in 1952 and writing is largely forgotten today. He deserves to be rediscovered. Any author who can leave a lasting impression in only three or four pages is one to remember.
One such story he entitled simply “Autumn.” A lad, on the cusp of adulthood, wondered what the future held in store for him. A voice within him answered:
‘It will be given you, if you will, to journey far and see great sights, and do great deeds. You shall go to the heart of life’s mystery and wonder, you shall see the eternal beauty, you shall hear voices to which many do not listen. This, if you will.’
And the boy replied, ‘I will.’
His youth passed, and throughout his manhood, he awaited the “great moment” that had been promised him.
Duties came to him, but they inspired no ardour; labours, but they seemed merely the dull necessities of existence. He had the customary obligations that come to all–people to love, the young to help and encourage, the aged to comfort and care for. But he was waiting. Some day, he said, I will journey far; some day I will do big things. The time has not yet come. Why is my chance so long in its delay?
And so, he waited.
But he was waiting for a revelation that had not come. Some day, he said, I will see the spirit of beauty unveiled, the eternal beauty. I have been promised the great vision. Why has it not come to me? I must wait a little longer.
And he waited.
No one, seeing him now, would have supposed that his eyes had once looked towards far horizons, or his ears listened eagerly to drink the new word. He appeared as other men were, not better or worse.
Middle age, “the half-way house of life” came and passed, and he mistook the beginnings of autumn for the “freshness and energy of a second spring.”
There came a reviving idea that even now something was possible, that the great opportunity might come yet, but late. But then came the rainfall and the tempest of the decaying months; and the man was too tired to resist them. The true end of life may come before its finish.
And so, the man met his visitor again. He accused it of being a deluding spirit. The voice replied.
‘The opportunities were given; each morning brought them to you. The great deeds were waiting to be done. The journey that a man may take, though he does not leave his own small country, was yours to command. The beauty was all around you day by day. The voices were speaking continually. When a man might do and see and hear, you waited.’
Sadly for this man, it was “the fall of the year, the sunset of a self-wrought destiny.”1 Too late he learned that the great deeds of life are seldom the ones that make the annals of history; and that great moments of life await our attention every day. And so, my thoughts return to where I started, my grandfather's funeral sixty years ago next week. Compared to how we often judge a life, his might be seen as something of a failure, one characterized by foolish decisions. Those who would do so, judge wrongly. For how unlike my grandad was from the man in the story. What a grand, glorious life he lived, full of "great moments" that were played out in "his own small country."
Salmon, A. L., “Autumn,” The Ferry of Souls: Fantasies, Sketches, Realities and Dreams, Tartarus Press, 2022, pp. 70-73.
Terry: My wife and I watch a lot of British Mysteries and they go further than Austen by despising religion when not ignoring it.
So what one or two Tartarus-type books would you recommend as samples to an even older guy who has read the late-60s/early 70s evangelical canon of Lewis and Tolkein?
Ahhhh... only an old man could write this beautifully. Thank you, my Old Brother.