The Widower’s New Bridegroom: a modern folktale
by Benjamin Parsons
Copyright 2012 Benjamin Parsons
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There was an unseasonal snowfall in April, and winter, in overlapping spring, bit to death half the new shoots in my garden— so that when the thaw came, I had no heart to look out upon the desolation. Besides, a chill wind continued to blow, which drove me to retreat into my little green study, and wrap myself up in a friendly old book.
But though I intended to find distraction from garden-thoughts, I inadvertently started a tale that featured a garden more blooming and refulgent than mine would ever be. The lines before me depicted an ancient gate, over which were inscribed two verses: the first, above one half of the portal, was a cordial welcome into a blissful place where winter could not reach, and May endured always; but that was no pleasant reading for me, when I considered the poor state of my own wretched little realm, so I turned aside from the page in dissatisfaction. However, my reflections were no more congenial than my chatting author’s— his description immediately reminded me of another lovely garden, which I visited once, some years ago— and the memory brought with it a strangeish story, which you shall hear.
The garden I remembered was not vast or grand, but so elegantly designed and cultivated that, when its adjoining homestead was demolished, it survived destruction for a while to be opened to the public. It was a broad circular plot, enclosed by a high wall of mossy stones, and the entrance was through a round aperture, like a Chinese moon gate (there were no inscriptions here, however, except a sign to announce the fee). A path led straight to the centre from the threshold, where it branched into three lanes, each leading to the edge, so that the garden was divided into four by these thoroughfares— and indeed this notion of equal quarters was the ruling principle of the place. Each quadrant was planted to represent a season: on the left of the gate was the winter garden, formally set out with stones, edges of box and cold-flowering heathers; on from that lay the spring garden, with groves of blossoming cherry trees, peeking daffodils beneath, and clusters of foxgloves and bells. On again, and diagonally opposite winter, was the open and sunny summer garden, with flat parterres for sitting and eating, fountained pools for cooling, and scented lavenders, rosemary and droughty herbs. Finally, right of the gate, was another wooded and shrubby glade, an apt autumn garden laden with pears, berries and all manner of currants, thick and full of foliage. I forget the time of year it was when I visited, so I seem to picture all these seasons in the height of their splendour at once.
In the centre was a round, raised pond, and from here were vistas to each extremity, down the paths: ahead from the gate was a seated arbour, framed by columns and a pediment; the left avenue led to a statue of Mars, under an arch; and the right-hand thoroughfare terminated in an opposing figure of Venus.
Now, the last private owner of this miniature Eden was one Matthew Furnival, who in his prime was such an energetic, jovial and engaging fellow, that none of his friends were surprised when he secured himself a lover nearly twenty years his younger. Furnival made light of the difference in age, and laughed his critics out of their cynicism, declaring that he was twenty-three really, in his heart, while Elias (the youth he adored) was wise enough to be forty.
This Elias was indeed wise, or at least thoughtful— his temper was altogether very different from Furnival’s. Before he met his elder match he had settled into a quiet sort of melancholy where love was concerned, despite his green years. He had always been a foreigner to the warmer emotions, because although he felt deeply and keenly enough, nobody had ever taken the trouble feel the same about him, which, during the yearning teens, was a sad deprivation. Perhaps it was merely chance that he had been neglected in this way— certainly, he had looks enough to attract, if he could— but behind his charms was a hollow sense of shyness, and without confidence he was easily overlooked. Added to this, Elias had something of the stoic in his character, and was inclined to endure bravely, rather than rescue himself from himself; so, in the light of his loneliness he disowned love, since it had apparently disowned him, and resolved upon a life of emotional solitude.
That was just when Furnival found him, and shook him out of his apathy. Quiet, thoughtfulness, and that hint of dispirit were magnetic opposites to Furnival, who hankered to tease a laugh from the silence, conjure a dream from the thoughts, and light the dejection with desire. Elias felt thoroughly besieged and bewildered— but touched and intrigued too, and it was not long before he was flattered and fascinated enough to respond just as Furnival hoped, and step out of his hermit-crab shell into the arms of the older man.
Well, once he was out of it there was no going back in, if Furnival was to have his way (as he usually did); and before very much longer Elias was looking about him in amazement to have gained just that wealth of heart-fulfilment he had always supposed to be beyond his reach. In thanks, he returned the adoration with all his strength, and as a schoolboy might idolise the senior student who bullies him, in spite of hating the abuse, so Elias idolised Furnival (who had in a way bullied him from his loneliness), and could not help blessing the loss of his nurtured independence.
Even legal independence was sacrificed in the end, when Furnival planned and executed a splendid proposal. He asked the young man on bended knee to be his life-partner, and ‘marry’ him, as the old phrase has it— to which the proposee only turned white, and buried his face in the other’s shoulder. Nevertheless, fireworks exploded and fine champagne arrived, so an acceptance was taken for granted— which made Elias wonder whether he was able to do anything anymore but yield predictably to Furnival’s love.
Then, close to the day of the civil ceremony, something unexpected happened— or was revealed to have happened long ago. The celebrant noted that Furnival was, in effect, a widower. Elias was shocked.
‘You were married before?’ he asked, as soon as they were alone.
‘That’s right,’ Furnival replied, reaching an arm around his shoulders.
‘You never mentioned it— married! Was it to a woman?’
He laughed: ‘Now why would I marry a woman?’ and kissed his forehead.
‘But a man— you mean—?’
‘I did the deed the year it became legal. I’m a very modern fellow, you know.’
Elias briefly wondered whether a woman would have been easier to contend with.
‘But who did you marry?’ he pressed. ‘Who was he?’
‘He’s nobody anymore,’ came the answer. ‘I’m a widower, remember?’
‘But he was somebody— he was somebody, to you.’
‘Yes he was, of course. For ten years he was, and we tied the knot that last year.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘What do you think? He died.’
Elias sat up and studied Furnival’s slightly amused face. Naturally the amusement was on account of Elias’s astonishment, rather than the demise of this erstwhile partner, but Elias thought the whole conversation ought to have a more serious tone.
‘And you never told me, all this time! How could you forget him? I don’t think— if that happened to me— I would ever recover.’
‘No, I doubt you would,’ said the widower. ‘But I was lucky enough to meet someone new, and he’s all that’s important to me now.’
This reassurance was almost enough to satisfy the anxious young man, but the revelation of such an unusual history was too affecting to be dismissed in a few words.
‘But why didn’t you say?’
‘Why would I say? He’s not alive anymore. I’m sad for that, but I’m not going to be sad for the rest
of my life, when I have you in it, and so much to look forward to.’
‘But you loved him.’
‘But I love you. Now, I can’t say more than that, can I? Come here, and give me a smile or I’ll tickle one out of you.’
Elias would not endure to be tickled, so he submitted to a hug and bit his tongue. But in fact, in the morning, when the subject recurred to him, he realised that he actually had no real opinion about it— the past was the past, and the future was impending moment by moment. The idea of sharing his life with Furnival filled him with such excitement and awe that there was little room for anything else in his mind, and before the week was out the ceremony was over, and they were, in effect, two husbands together. Elias even went so far as to hyphenate his surname to his spouse’s, and become a Furnival himself— and as time passed, like a tall, strong tree overshadowing and beleaguering the sapling below, Matthew’s Furnival gained precedence over Elias’s Jones, or