The Rose Garden

Also by Maeve Brennan

The Springs of Affection

Stories of Dublin

The Long-Winded Lady

Notes from The New Yorker

Copyright © 2000 by The Estate of Maeve Brennan

Copyright © 1950, 1952, 1953, 1954, 1955, 1956, 1959, 1961, 1962, 1963, 1966, 1967, 1968 by Maeve Brennan

The contents of this book were selected and arranged by Christopher Carduff of Counterpoint Press. Grateful acknowledgment is made to Houghton Mifflin Company for permission to reprint the preface (“A Daydream”) and “A Snowy Night on West Forty-ninth Street” from
The Long-Winded Lady: Notes from The New Yorker.
Copyright © 1998 by The Estate of Maeve Brennan.

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the Publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brennan, Maeve.

The rose garden : short stories / Maeve Brennan.—1st ed.

p. cm.

1. United States—Social life and customs—20th century—Fiction. 2. Ireland—Social life and customs—20th century—Fiction. 3. Country life—Ireland—Fiction. I. Title

PS3552.R38 R6 2000

Book design by David Bullen

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper that meets the American National Standards Institute z39–48 Standard

COUNTERPOINT

P.O. Box 65793

Washington, D.C. 20035-5793

Counterpoint is a member of the Perseus Books Group.

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e-book ISBN 978-1-61902-653-7

Contents

Preface

The View from the Kitchen

The Anachronism

The Gentleman in the Pink-and-White Striped Shirt

The Joker

The Stone Hot-Water Bottle

The Divine Fireplace

The Servants' Dance

The Bride

The Holy Terror

The Bohemians

The Rose Garden

The Beginning of a Long Story

The Daughters

A Snowy Night on West Forty-ninth Street

I See You, Bianca

The Door on West Tenth Street

A Large Bee

The Children Are Very Quiet When They Are Away

In and Out of Never-Never Land

The Children Are There, Trying Not to Laugh

Note

Preface

This is a daydream. I am lying in the sand just below the dunes on the beach in East Hampton, where I lived for several years. It is a warm, sunless day, with a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean. My eyes are closed. I like the beach, and the sand. There is a big Turkish towel between me and the sand, and I am quite alone. The cats and my dog, Bluebell, walked over here with me, but two of the cats dropped out at the walled rose garden a short distance back, and the four others are hiding in the long dune grass just above me. Bluebell is down by the water. She is a black Labrador retriever, and she swims and rolls in the water and watches for a sea gull to play with, but the gulls fly off shrieking with outrage at the sight of her. I won't stay here much longer. In a few minutes, I'll get up and start for home—a five-minute walk through dune and grass and between trees and across the wide, sloping lawn that leads to the big house where the walled rose garden is. I live at the foot of that lawn. I'll just lie here a few more minutes and then I'll go back.

But I opened my eyes too suddenly, for no reason at all, and the beach at East Hampton has vanished, along with Bluebell and the cats, all of them dead for years now. The Turkish towel is in reality the nubbly white counterpane of the bed I am lying on, and the cool ocean breeze is being provided by the blessed air conditioner. It is ninety-three degrees outside—a terrible day in New York City. So much for my daydream of sand and sea and roses. The daydream was, after all, only a mild attack of homesickness. The reason it was a mild attack instead of a fierce one is that there are a number of places I am homesick for. East Hampton is only one of them.

Maeve Brennan, 1976

The View from the Kitchen

H
erbert's Retreat is a snug community of forty or so houses that cluster together on the east bank of the Hudson thirty miles above New York City. Some of the houses are small and some are middle-sized. No two are alike, and because they are separated by trees, hedges, wooden fences, or untidy vestiges of ancient woods, and because of the vagaries of the terrain, they all seem to be on different levels. Some of the houses certainly reach much higher into the air than others, because a few roofs can be glimpsed from the highway, and in wintertime, when the trees are bare, an occasional stretch of wall is disclosed to passing motorists, but otherwise the community is secluded. One characteristic all the houses have in common: They all eye the river. This does not mean that they all face the river. Some of them face vaguely toward the highway, as though they were not sure exactly where it was. Some face the private roadway, hardly more than a path, that strings them all together. Some face each other, while keeping their distance, and a few seem to stand sideways to everything. But in every house the residents have contrived and plotted and schemed and paid to bring the river as intimately as possible into their lives. The people
with houses directly on the river are in luck, of course. The most any of them had to do was to knock out a side wall, widen a window, or build a porch. Those fortunate enough to have houses facing directly on the river had no problem, since the view was theirs for the taking. It is among the people with houses set back from the river that the competition for its favors is keenest. The tallest of these houses have had square wooden balconies balanced on their roofs, where the host and hostess and their guests may perch and drink and admire the view. Occupants of the smaller houses have been very ingenious in devising ways to trap and hold their own particular glimpse of the water. Some have centipede-like porches creeping sideways from their houses to the nearest break in the wall of trees and buildings that cuts them off from the river, so that the vantage point gained, while not exactly natural to the house, is still part of the establishment. It is of no advantage to repair to a neighbor's house in order to see the water and show it off to visitors; each householder feels he must have a view of his own to offer. Several tree houses have been built. One man went so far as to erect a slender round tower of brick in his garden. Only one person can squeeze up the steep spiral staircase of the tower, and only one can stand in the tiny room that tops it, but sooner or later each guest, glass in hand, makes the solitary, claustrophobic ascent and returns to report on the merits of the view from the tower, and to compare it favorably with all other points of survey around.

All the people who live at Herbert's Retreat own their own houses. Newcomers can seldom get a foot in, except in the summertime, when a few residents let their places for two or three months. The tone and welfare of the community are guarded by a board of trustees. There are almost no restrictions on the behavior of children and animals belonging to the community, but there are iron restrictions against strange children and strange animals.
The general atmosphere of the place is one of benevolent freedom. The life there is casual and informal, but gracious. A good deal of quiet entertaining is done. All the residents know each other very well or fairly well. There are no strangers. Living there is rather like living in a club.

Late one November afternoon, a splendid dinner for three was in the first stages of preparation in the kitchen of one of the houses at the Retreat. This house was long, low, and white. It was not large, but it was charming. It was the property of Mrs. George Harkey, who was generally said to be a very romantic-looking young woman, although her face was not pretty. In her kitchen, Bridie and Agnes, the maids, were taking their time about getting the dinner. They knew that the guest of the evening had only just arrived, that drinks had only started, and that they had plenty of time before they need bother with the dining room, where the table was already set with silver and glass and linen, and with candles ready for lighting.