My Mistress's Sparrow Is Dead: Great Love Stories, From Chekhov to Munro

by Jeffrey Eugenides

  —And do you mean to say, asked Mr Browne incredulously, that

  a chap can go down there and put up there as if it were a hotel and live on the fat of the land and then come away without paying a farthing?

  —O, most people give some donation to the monastery when they

  leave, said Mary Jane.

  —I wish we had an institution like that in our church, said Mr Browne candidly.

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  He was astonished to hear that the monks never spoke, got up at two in the morning and slept in their coffins. He asked what they did it for.

  —That ’s the rule of the order, said aunt Kate firmly.

  —Yes, but why? asked Mr Browne.

  Aunt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that was all. Mr Browne still seemed not to understand. Freddy Malins explained to him, as best he could, that the monks were trying to make up for the sins committed by all the sinners in the outside world. The explanation was not very clear for Mr Browne grinned and said:

  —I like that idea very much but wouldn’t a comfortable spring bed do them as well as a coffin?

  —The coffin, said Mary Jane, is to remind them of their last end.

  As the subject had grown lugubrious it was buried in a silence of the table during which Mrs Malins could be heard saying to her neighbour in an indistinct undertone:

  —They are very good men, the monks, very pious men.

  The raisins and almonds and figs and apples and oranges and chocolates and sweets were now passed about the table and aunt Julia invited all the guests to have either port or sherry. At first Mr Bartell D’Arcy refused to take either but one of his neighbours nudged him and whispered something to him upon which he allowed his glass to be filled.

  Gradually as the last glasses were being filled the conversation ceased. A pause followed, broken only by the noise of the wine and by unsettlings of chairs. The Misses Morkan, all three, looked down at the tablecloth.

  Someone coughed once or twice and then a few gentlemen patted the table gently as a signal for silence. The silence came and Gabriel pushed back his chair and stood up.

  The patting at once grew louder in encouragement and then ceased

  altogether. Gabriel leaned his ten trembling fingers on the tablecloth and smiled nervously at the company. Meeting a row of upturned faces he raised his eyes to the chandelier. The piano was playing a waltz tune and he could hear the skirts sweeping against the drawingroom door. People perhaps were standing in the snow on the quay outside, gazing up at the lighted windows and listening to the waltz music. The air was pure there. In the distance lay the park where the trees were weighted with

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  snow. The Wellington monument wore a gleaming cap of snow that

  flashed westward over the white field of Fifteen Acres.

  He began:

  —Ladies and gentlemen.

  It has fallen to my lot this evening as in years past to perform a very pleasing task, but a task for which I am afraid my poor powers as a speaker are all too inadequate.

  —No, no, said Mr Browne.

  —But, however that may be, I can only ask you tonight to take the will for the deed and to lend me your attention for a few moments while I endeavour to express to you in words what my feelings are on this occasion.

  —Ladies and gentlemen. It is not the first time that we have gathered together under this hospitable roof, around this hospitable board. It is not the first time that we have been the recipients—or, perhaps I had better say, the victims—of the hospitality of certain good ladies.

  He made a circle in the air with his arm and paused. Everyone

  laughed or smiled at aunt Kate and aunt Julia and Mary Jane who all turned crimson with pleasure. Gabriel went on more boldly:

  —I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country

  has no tradition which does it so much honour and which it should guard so jealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is unique so far as my experience goes (and I have visited not a few places abroad) among the modern nations. Some would say, perhaps, that with us it is rather a failing than anything to be boasted of. But granted even that, it is, to my mind, a princely failing and one that I trust will long be cultivated among us. Of one thing, at least, I am sure. As long as this one roof shelters the good ladies aforesaid—and I wish from my heart it may do so for many and many a long year to come—the tradition of genuine warmhearted courteous Irish hospitality, which our forefathers have handed down to us and which we in turn must hand down to our descendants, is still alive among us.

  A hearty murmur of assent ran round the table. It shot through

  Gabriel’s mind that Miss Ivors was not there and that she had gone away discourteously: and he said with confidence in himself:

  —Ladies and gentlemen.

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  A new generation is growing up in our midst, a generation actuated by new ideas and new principles. It is serious and enthusiastic for these new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when it is misdirected, is, I believe, in the main sincere. But we are living in a sceptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thoughttormented age: and sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated or hypereducated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humour which belonged to an older day. Listening tonight to the names of all those great singers of the past it seemed to me, I must confess, that we were living in a less spacious age. Those days might without exaggeration be called spacious days: and if they are gone beyond recall let us hope, at least, that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of them with pride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of those dead and gone great ones whose fame the world will not willingly let die.

  —Hear! hear! said Mr Browne loudly.

  —But yet, continued Gabriel, his voice falling into a softer inflection, there are always in gatherings such as this sadder thoughts that will recur to our minds: thoughts of the past, of youth, of changes, of absent faces that we miss here tonight. Our path through life is strewn with many such sad memories: and were we to brood upon them always we could not find the heart to go on bravely with our work among the living. We have all of us living duties and living affections which claim, and rightly claim, our strenuous endeavours.

  Therefore I will not linger on the past. I will not let any gloomy mor-alising intrude upon us here tonight. Here we are gathered together for a brief moment from the bustle and rush of our everyday routine. We are met here as friends, in the spirit of good fellowship, as colleagues also, to a certain extent, in the true spirit of camaraderie, and as the guests of—what shall I call them?—the three Graces of the Dublin musical world.

  The table burst into applause and laughter at this sally. Aunt Julia vainly asked each of her neighbours in turn to tell her what Gabriel had said.

  —He says we are the three Graces, aunt Julia, said Mary Jane.

  Aunt Julia did not understand but she looked up, smiling, at Gabriel who continued in the same vein:

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  —Ladies and gentlemen.

  I will not attempt to play tonight the part that Paris played on another occasion. I will not attempt to choose between them. The task would be an invidious one and one beyond my poor powers. For when I view them in turn, whether it be our chief hostess herself, whose good heart, whose too good heart, has become a byword with all who know her, or her sister, who seems to be gifted with perennial youth and whose singing must have been a surprise and a revelation to us all tonight, or, last but not least, when I consider our youngest hostess, talented, cheerful, hard-working and the best of nieces, I confess, ladies and gentlemen, that I do not know to which of them I should award the prize.

  Gabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeing the large smile on aunt Julia’s face and
the tears which had risen to aunt Kate ’s eyes, hastened to his close. He raised his glass of port gallantly while every member of the company fingered a glass expectantly and said loudly:

  —Let us toast them all three together. Let us drink to their health, wealth, long life, happiness and prosperity and may they long continue to hold the proud and selfwon position which they hold in their profession and the position of honour and affection which they hold in our hearts.

  All the guests stood up, glass in hand and, turning towards the three seated ladies, sang in unison with Mr Browne as leader:

  —For they are jolly gay fellows,

  For they are jolly gay fellows,

  For they are jolly gay fellows

  Which nobody can deny.

  Aunt Kate was making frank use of her handkerchief and even aunt Julia seemed moved. Freddy Malins beat time with his pudding fork and the singers turned towards one another as if in melodious conference, while they sang with emphasis:

  —Unless he tells a lie,

  Unless he tells a lie.

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  Then turning once more towards their hostesses they sang:

  —For they are jolly gay fellows,

  For they are jolly gay fellows,

  For they are jolly gay fellows

  Which nobody can deny.

  The acclamation which followed was taken up beyond the door of

  the supper room by many of the other guests and renewed time after time, Freddy Malins acting as officer with his fork on high.

  The piercing morning air came into the hall where they were standing so that aunt Kate said:

  —Close the door, somebody. Mrs Malins will get her death of cold.

  —Browne is out there, aunt Kate, said Mary Jane.

  —Browne is everywhere, said aunt Kate lowering her voice.

  Mary Jane laughed at her tone.

  —Really, she said archly, he is very attentive.

  —He has been laid on here like the gas, said aunt Kate in the same tone, all during the Christmas.

  She laughed herself this time good-humouredly and then added

  quickly:

  —But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close the door. I hope to goodness he didn’t hear me.

  At that moment the halldoor was opened and Mr Browne came in

  from the doorstep, laughing as if his heart would break. He was dressed in a long green overcoat with mock astrakhan cuffs and collar and wore on his head an oval fur cap. He pointed down the snowcovered quay whence the sound of shrill prolonged whistling was borne in.

  —Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out, he said.

  Gabriel advanced from the little pantry behind the office, struggling into his overcoat and, looking round the hall, said:

  —Gretta not down yet?

  —She ’s getting on her things, Gabriel, said aunt Kate.

  —Who’s playing up there? asked Gabriel.

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  —Nobody. They’re all gone.

  —O no, aunt Kate, said Mary Jane. Bartell D’Arcy and Miss

  O’Callaghan aren’t gone yet.

  —Someone is strumming at the piano, anyhow, said Gabriel.

  Mary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr Browne and said with a

  shiver:

  —It makes me feel cold to look at you two gentlemen muffled up like that. I wouldn’t like to face your journey home at this hour.

  —I’d like nothing better this minute, said Mr Browne stoutly, than a rattling fine walk in the country or a fast drive with a good spanking goer between the shafts.

  —We used to have a very good horse and trap at home, said aunt

  Julia sadly.

  —The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny, said Mary Jane laughing.

  Aunt Kate and Gabriel laughed too.

  —Why, what was wonderful about Johnny? asked Mr Browne.

  —The late lamented Patrick Morkan, our grandfather that is,

  explained Gabriel, commonly known in his later years as the old gentleman, was a glue boiler.

  —O now, Gabriel, said aunt Kate laughing, he had a starch mill.

  —Well, glue or starch, said Gabriel, the old gentleman had a horse by the name of Johnny. And Johnny used to work in the old gentleman’s mill walking round and round in order to drive the mill. That was all very well; but now comes the tragic part about Johnny. One fine day the old gentleman thought he ’d like to drive out with the quality to a military review in the park.

  —The Lord have mercy on his soul, said aunt Kate compassionately.

  —Amen, said Gabriel. So the old gentleman, as I said, harnessed

  Johnny and put on his very best tall hat and his very best stock collar and drove out in grand style from his ancestral mansion somewhere near Back Lane, I think.

  Everyone laughed, even Mrs Malins, at Gabriel’s manner and aunt

  Kate said:

  —O now, Gabriel, he didn’t live in Back Lane really. Only the mill was there.

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  —Out from the mansion of his forefathers, continued Gabriel, he

  drove with Johnny. And everything went on beautifully until Johnny came in sight of King Billy’s statue: and whether he fell in love with the horse King Billy sits on or whether he thought he was back again in the mill, anyhow he began to walk round the statue.

  Gabriel paced in a circle round the hall in his goloshes amid the laughter of the others.

  —Round and round he went, said Gabriel, and the old gentleman,

  who was a very pompous old gentleman, was highly indignant. Go on, sir! What do you mean, sir? Johnny! Johnny! Most extraordinary conduct!

  Can’t understand the horse!

  The peals of laughter which followed Gabriel’s imitation of the incident were interrupted by a resounding knock at the halldoor. Mary Jane ran to open it and let in Freddy Malins. Freddy Malins, with his hat well back on his head and his shoulders humped with cold, was puffing and steaming after his exertions.

  —I could only get one cab, he said.

  —O, we ’ll find another along the quay, said Gabriel.

  —Yes, said aunt Kate. Better not keep Mrs Malins standing in the

  draught.

  Mrs Malins was helped down the front steps by her son and Mr

  Browne and, after many manoeuvres, hoisted into the cab. Freddy Malins clambered in after her and spent a long time settling her on the seat, Mr Browne helping him with advice. At last she was settled comfortably and Freddy Malins invited Mr Browne into the cab. There was a good deal of confused talk, then Mr Browne got into the cab. The cabman settled his rug over his knees and bent down for the address. The confusion grew greater and the cabman was directed differently by Freddy Malins and Mr Browne, each of whom had his head out through a window of the cab. The difficulty was to know where to drop Mr Browne along the route and aunt Kate, aunt Julia and Mary Jane helped the discussion from the doorstep with cross-directions and contradictions and abun-dance of laughter. As for Freddy Malins he was speechless with laughter. He popped his head in and out of the window every moment, to the great danger of his hat, and told his mother how the discussion was pro-

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  gressing till at last Mr Browne shouted to the bewildered cabman above the din of everybody’s laughter:

  —Do you know Trinity College?

  —Yes, sir, said the cabman.

  —Well, drive bang up against Trinity College gates, said Mr Browne, and then we ’ll tell you where to go. You understand now?

  —Yes, sir, said the cabman.

  —Make like a bird for Trinity College.

  —Right, sir, cried the cabman.

  The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled off along the quay

  amid a chorus of laughter and adieus.

  Gabriel had not gone to the door with the o
thers. He was in a dark part of the hall gazing up the staircase. A woman was standing near the top of the first flight in the shadow also. He could not see her face but he could see the terracotta and salmonpink panels of her skirt which the shadow made appear black and white. It was his wife. She was leaning on the banisters listening to something. Gabriel was surprised at her stillness and strained his ear to listen also. But he could hear little save the noise of laughter and dispute on the front steps, a few chords struck on the piano and a few notes of a man’s voice singing.

  He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air that the voice was singing and gazing up at his wife. There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter.

  The halldoor was closed and aunt Kate, aunt Julia and Mary Jane

  came down the hall, still laughing.

  —Well, isn’t Freddy terrible? said Mary Jane. He ’s really terrible.

  Gabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairs towards where his wife was standing. Now that the halldoor was closed the voice and the piano could be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up his hand for them to be silent. The song seemed to be in the old Irish tonality and the singer

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  seemed uncertain both of his words and of his voice. The voice made plaintive by the distance and by the singer’s hoarseness faintly illuminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief:

  —O, the rain falls on my heavy locks

  And the dew wets my skin,

  My babe lies cold . . .

  —O, exclaimed Mary Jane. It ’s Bartell D’Arcy singing and he

  wouldn’t sing all the night. O, I’ll get him to sing a song before he goes.

  —O do, Mary Jane, said aunt Kate.

  Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase but before she reached it the singing stopped and the piano was closed abruptly.