Smith, or whatever it was, so that one half of the hyphen withered off entirely.
Shortly after this union, Furnival sold his city apartment and decided on a wholesale move to the country, where he already owned a property. Elias, who had longsince given up the lease on his own home, found the idea of a rural life very congenial to his quiet habits, and was pleased with the scheme. Besides, on the few occasions he had visited the out-of-town house, he had been charmed by it, and longed for a life of rustic ease there. His wish was his husband’s command, and soon they were happily ensconced.
The circular garden attached to the property quickly became Elias’s delight. Serenity reigned there, not to speak of great beauty, and he felt more at home within that wall, even in rain and foul weather, than he had ever felt anywhere. The birds were forever twittering in the trees of the spring and autumn quadrants, which brought the life and bustle that music or conversation had supplied in the city, and the constant requirements of horticultural attendance gave him a sense of fulfilling purpose unlike the tedious vocations he had formerly attempted to pursue. Two goldfish, living in the large round urn at the crossing of the paths, were his especial care, and he took as much interest and delight in them, perhaps, as he had in any person he had ever known, save Furnival.
That man was less inclined to immerse himself in gardening— it was a pretty place to sit in fine weather, of course, but he derived most pleasure from its ability to occupy and delight Elias, while he interested himself more lucratively in business, from the control centre of his study.
One bright spring afternoon, however, he ventured out to sit with his spouse in the sunshine, and found Elias relaxing in the arbour that faced the gate. Here, a generous bench filled the niche and gave a splendid view of the spring and summer gardens to right and left; and set into the wall behind was a tablet, inscribed with the old saw:
ET IN ARCADIA EGO
which Elias did not understand, so he took the word added beneath it, ‘Belamis’, to be part of the same phrase. However, underneath again was a date, which of course he could read, but not interpret; so that afternoon he asked Furnival what it signified.
‘Is that the year the garden was completed?’ he wondered.
‘No,’ came the answer, slightly cautiously. ‘I had the stonemason add the year and name as a kind of— well, memorial. It seemed appropriate. That was the year he died.’
‘Oh,’ said Elias, turning around to study the inscription anew. There was no need to enquire who Furnival was referring to. ‘But what do you mean, “his name”? Where’s that?’
‘Here,’ and he rubbed at the B of ‘Belamis’ with his finger.
‘That’s a name? Really? It’s very unusual.’
Furnival merely nodded, with a smile, but Elias was frowning for sure.
‘Why did you think to put his memorial here— I mean, it’s a bit gloomy, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I suppose you could look at it like that, but this was his garden, you know— he designed and built it himself, so I reckoned he’d like to be remembered here. I guess I was a bit sentimental, but I thought it was apt. I certainly didn’t mean it to make the place gloomy— that’s why I didn’t put both years on, birth and death— so it wouldn’t look like a tombstone.’
‘I see,’ said Elias, and sat musing for a little while, eyeing his surroundings with less comfort than formerly. ‘But I thought you built this garden?’
‘Me!’ he laughed. ‘Can you imagine that? You know I’ve no head for plants and whatnot, let alone all that artistry it takes. No way— Belamis was the genius of this place.’
Elias stopped asking questions, and remained in apparently peaceful silence until Furnival went indoors. But all the while, within, his thoughts were loud and vocal. Suddenly this dead man began to take a real shape, and become a personality— indeed, the pattern of his character, his taste, was laid out at Elias’s feet. The new spouse felt intimidated by the old. But of course that was absurd, unfounded: Furnival’s affection was constant, lively, it left no room to doubt his love— Belamis was nothing but a fond memory. The intimidation remained, however, and he searched himself to understand it. Maybe the very name undermined him? Elias had always prided himself on his own moniker, as unique, and special— it helped him to feel special too, on account of it. But now, here was his predecessor with a Belamis to boast— more peculiar, more intriguing, more special still— so that ‘Elias’ almost sounded like a ruin, the rubble-letters that remained when ‘Belamis’ passed away.
Yes, this was the issue, this was what unsettled him— the hint that Belamis had been something better, somehow superior, to what Elias felt himself to be. Belamis was the first to gain Furnival’s love— so did that make Elias a poor second? Belamis was inventive, a maker of beauty— and Elias was the mere caretaker of the former’s creation. He knew he had no such creativity in him, no such vision, no such craft, to compare, let alone compete. No-one, however generous, would describe him as a genius. Furnival might love him, indeed, but surely loving Elias was a poor decline from having loved Belamis.
The garden suddenly became intolerable, and he fled from it, retreating indoors where the rooms had been freshly redecorated, and his few possessions shared the shelves alongside those of his husband. This, at least, was his own space, and here he stayed, and meant to stay.
A succeeding week of rain and a cold wind promoted this resolve, and at last three weeks followed before he ventured forth— and even then, it was reluctantly. Furnival happened to remark, over breakfast, that Elias had not been out much, even to feed the goldfish— and it was the plight of these poor fish that finally lured him back into the garden.
Furnival was pleased to see him go, pleased to see him occupied, and not moping— so with a sense of satisfaction he turned his attention to the more intriguing subject of his business affairs. These were in such an encouraging state as to engross him entirely, and it was not until midsummer that he looked up (as it were) to notice his husband’s absence for the first time. Elias was not physically absent, of course; he was usually to be found in the circular garden, or musing by a window in the house, or curled up asleep in bed. But he was, somehow, emotionally absent— he had quietly withdrawn the warmth of his affection over the months, so ebbingly that Furnival had overlooked the change, taking it for granted that his lover was the same as always. But now, setting aside a moment to consider it fully, Furnival felt the loss. Elias had become almost remote, as though his heart had grown indistinct and out of focus.
Furnival pondered this, but could not remember a particular incident that had caused the difference. However, in review, he wondered whether the youth’s confidence had begun to dwindle again, as it was prone to do. He was oppressed, perhaps, by some idea, some sense of doubt. Yes, of course— he must feel overshadowed by his predecessor. Furnival nodded to himself. That was it, certainly; after all, he spent so much time in the garden that Belamis had made, to the exclusion of any other part of the grounds— he was dwelling on the past, and letting it weigh him down. Well, enough was enough, and it was easily resolved. Poor Elias only needed to be relieved of that weight, and he would recover. Who knew he would be so sensitive about Belamis? ‘What a funny little thing he is,’ Furnival thought.
There and then he made some arrangements. In the past he had employed a gardener, on occasion, to mow the grass and tend to the place while it stood empty. This same gardener was recruited again now, and Furnival gave him directions to overhaul everything— ‘Beginning with the walled garden,’ he said. ‘Listen, there’s a pond in the middle of it, with two goldfish— start by getting rid of them, will you? They’ve had their day.’
Without the goldfish to attend to, Furnival reasoned, Elias would have no need to go into the round garden so often; and besides, those fish had been Belamis’s pets, which probably grated somewhat— one for himself and one for Furnival (though Furnival had no interest in such things). Elias could have new pets of his own to look after, without the
associations.
And so it was that this gardener faithfully carried out his orders, and marched directly through the gate up to the broad urn at the crossed paths. Elias was not disturbed by the intrusion, as he happened to be away, and the goldfish were promptly dispossessed of their abode and carried off in a bucket. Furnival had not specified what to do with them next, so the gardener (an unsentimental fellow) decided on the fate most convenient to himself, and threw them into the dustbin.
Furnival was satisfied, and reassured himself that Elias would soon recover his cheer; but he could not have been more wrong. While engrossed in the coils of some tax loophole, his study door sprang open and Elias rushed in, white-faced and staring.
‘What have you done?’ he demanded.
The older man stared back in surprise.
‘What have you done?’ Elias repeated. ‘Or why have you done it? I asked that man, and he said you told him to— why? Why would you do it?’
‘I suppose you mean the goldfish,’ he replied, a touch annoyed at the interruption. ‘I thought you’d prefer not to have the bother of looking after them.’
‘They were no trouble to me,’ Elias insisted, with emphasis.
‘Well then, if you don’t mind it, he can put them
The Widower's New Bridegroom: A Modern Folktale Page 2