Angels and Absences: Child Deaths in the Nineteenth Century (7 page)

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Authors: Laurence Lerner

Tags: #History, #Modern, #19th Century, #Social Science, #Death & Dying, #test

BOOK: Angels and Absences: Child Deaths in the Nineteenth Century
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Page 15
Mrs. Tait appears to have had a premonition of the next death. When the children were reading to her out of the Bible, "just then there rushed to my heart a feeling of separation from them which I could not bear, and an intense faintness." Both she and her husband attributed this to her own illness, accentuated by weakness from the recent childbirth, but when she was told that Susan was ill she immediately felt well again, "and this came like light to my mind, 'We are in God's hands.'"
As death moves inexorably through the children, the narrative grows more and more painful to read. "It seemed, now," she writes at one point, "as if every look of health was of untold value to us." To the modern reader, the distress is increased by the obvious helplessness of medical science. Attempts to prevent the disease spreading by removing each child from the others as she falls sick are quite ineffective; there are no drugs that will help, and all that the doctor can prescribe is something to "strengthen" the patient (usually port wine); when more distinguished doctors are brought in to consult, there is obviously no further expertise that they can bring. As each child fell ill, her hair was cut off, which may have increased her comfort, and certainly saddened the mother, but can have done little else. The ineffectualness of the palliatives makes distressing reading:
He then desired us to give her a vapour-bath by bottles filled with hot water, and wrapped in damp flannel put all about her; but alas! no relief to the fever; no moisture on the skin.
Mrs. Tait's religious faith was intense:
Craufurd said even little children were martyrs. I, putting my arms round Chatty, said, "Yes, even such little ones as Chatty died gladly, that they might go to be with Jesus." She looked up with a look I never shall forget, it was so sweet. Yes, my little lamb was ready for her Saviour's call! Before the week was half over, she was with him.
This moment takes place before any of the children fall ill, though it was of course written afterwards. By inserting it at the beginning of her account, Mrs. Tait (with perhaps half-conscious artistry) is providing a framework for our acceptance of the ensuing tragedy.
She cannot think about death except as a reuniting, and she speaks of it in that way to the children: when the dying May asks, "Where is Catty?"
 
Page 16
I said, "May dear, the Good Shepherd has come and taken your dear Catty." She said with a voice of astonishment, "What!" I said, "The Lord Jesus Christ has taken your dear Catty to heaven. He has taken her to Chatty and Frances and Susan; shall you like to go to her?" She became very silent, and did not answer me, but her mind seemed satisfied.
Though her role as a clergyman's wife may have laid on her an especial duty of faith, and of being seen to have faith, there is no reason to doubt the genuineness of these assertions. Such language, which seems clearly to spring from her own beliefs, and not to be there merely to comfort the children, recurs constantly in Victorian accounts of child death. Later we shall be confronted with attempts to resist it.
One glimpse of Mrs. Tait's theology is interesting, more interesting perhaps than she would have been comfortable with. It occurs half way through the series of deaths:
Earnestly we prayed that God would now stay His hand and spare to us the rest. No doubt he heard that prayer, though he could not grant us what we so earnestly asked for.
The revealing words here are "could not." The dilemma of postulating a God who is both all-powerful and all loving is as old as Christian theodicy; and in her need to cling to her God as all-loving she seems to glide, probably without noticing, into a belief that he is not omnipotent.
How much can we know about Catherine Tait's suffering? How much, indeed, can we know about the suffering of any of the mothers in this book? There are some strong and heart-rending expressions of grief, often accompanied by equally firm statements of religious faith. Elizabeth Prentiss, wife of the Reverend George Prentiss, who published a posthumous memoir of her in 1883, lost two children in 1852, her young son Eddy, and, five months later, her baby daughter Elizabeth. Her journal alternates outbursts of grief with assertions that "it would be most unchristian and ungrateful in us to even wonder at that Divine will which has bereaved us of our only boythe light and sunshine of our household." The most painful outburst of grief comes after the second death:
Here I sit with empty hands. I have had the little coffin in my arms, but my baby's face could not be seen, so rudely had death marred it. Empty hands,

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