Historical fiction, American; New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
“And yet,” said my friend the sculptor, embodying in this image the
thoughts that had been passing through my own mind, “that broken rose
has shed its sweet smell through forty years of the good woman’s life.”
It was seldom that I could find such pleasant food for contemplation as
in the above instance. None of the applicants, I think, affected me
more disagreeably than an old man who came, with his fourth wife
hanging on his arm, to bespeak gravestones for the three former
occupants of his marriage-bed. I watched with some anxiety to see
whether his remembrance of either were more affectionate than of the
other two, but could discover no symptom of the kind. The three
monuments were all to be of the same material and form, and each
decorated in bas-relief with two weeping willows, one of these
sympathetic trees bending over its fellow, which was to be broken in
the midst and rest upon a sepulchral urn. This, indeed, was Mr.
Wigglesworth’s standing emblem of conjugal bereavement. I shuddered at
the gray polygamist who had so utterly lost the holy sense of
individuality in wedlock that methought he was fain to reckon upon his
fingers how many women who had once slept by his side were now sleeping
in their graves. There was even—if I wrong him, it is no great matter—a
glance sidelong at his living spouse, as if he were inclined to drive a
thriftier bargain by bespeaking four gravestones in a lot.
I was better pleased with a rough old whaling-captain who gave
directions for a broad marble slab divided into two compartments, one
of which was to contain an epitaph on his deceased wife and the other
to be left vacant till death should engrave his own name there. As is
frequently the case among the whalers of Martha’s Vineyard, so much of
this storm-beaten widower’s life had been tossed away on distant seas
that out of twenty years of matrimony he had spent scarce three, and
those at scattered intervals, beneath his own roof. Thus the wife of
his youth, though she died in his and her declining age, retained the
bridal dewdrops fresh around her memory.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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