Chapter 19: The Only Ane I Ere Thocht On


On Friday evening at five minutes to eight, Gilbert descended the familiar steps to the basement of St. James the Greater. He paid fifteen cents admission at the door, plus another five for a sprig of holly for his lapel, then slipped into the crowded hall. No examination tables today. Instead, the hall was set with row upon row of chairs, all of them occupied. Latecomers lined the walls and children had wriggled up to seat themselves on the floor before the stage. Gilbert wedged himself into a corner between a pillar and a skimpy fir tree decorated with paper chains. He scanned the crowd for Mary, but could not find her, not even in the front rows reserved for the performers. He did spy Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor, beaming and chattering in their seats with obvious delight. Gilbert was glad to note that Michael O'Connor was nowhere in evidence.

Soon, the electric lights went off, leaving the hall in the warmer, undulating light of gas lamps. Monsignor McQuaid stepped onto the stage to offer a welcome and a brief prayer before introducing the children's choir. Gilbert could not repress a smile as the choir shuffled onto the stage, their too-long robes obscuring hands and feet. Peggy was there, in front, her brown braids tied with the promised green and red ribbons. She waved energetically at several people in the crowd before the choirmaster hushed her and began the count.

As the children warbled their way through some haphazardly-timed Gloooooooooorias, Gilbert took in the scene with unbridled appreciation. He had attended many concerts in his life, including several featuring the handsome soprano Christine Stuart. Those had been elegant affairs, attended by men in white bowties and women encrusted with diamonds. The music had been enjoyable enough, if you went in for that sort of thing. Certainly Christine had been very impressive. Stately and poised, her voice raised in a majestic aria; Gilbert could recall with perfect accuracy the self-satisfied smile she wore while collecting her applause.

What would Christine think of this audience?

Gilbert chuckled to himself, knowing the answer full well. At the moment, the noise from the shifting, whispering crowd threatened to drown out the voices of the singers. Babies cried, mothers refereed furtive squabbles, and grandparents nodded along, enraptured by the sight of their little ones on stage.

After the children's choir came a comic recitation, a reenactment of the martyrdom of St. James, and a tableau vivant depicting the nativity. Gilbert was enjoying himself hugely. The hall was stuffy and the performers liable to mishap, but a feeling of good-natured camaraderie sanctified the proceedings. No audience could have applauded more lustily for such meager offerings.

Just when the concert threatened to overstay its welcome, a soloist took the stage. Gilbert knew at once that it was Mary, but had a rather difficult time believing it.

She wore a pomegranate silk gown, cut low and straight across the bodice, with little sleeves of black lace that showed the graceful, rounded lines of her arms. Her dark hair was piled in waves atop her head, pinned back with a gilded circlet. She wore no other jewelry. In the stage lights, her large, dark eyes were black, contrasting so starkly with the pale expanse of her throat that no other adornment was necessary. Gilbert was not the only person in the hall who found his attention toward the proceedings miraculously refreshed.

The restless crowd lapsed into something approaching silence. Someone played a spare, tinkling introduction on the sturdy upright piano and Mary began to sing.

A Neansaí, 'mhíle grá, a bhruinnrall 'tá gan smál . . .

She was good. Very good. Not trained, but her voice was clear without being sunny. There was something complex in Mary's rich alto, a tang of bitterness in the sweetness.

The hall was well and truly silent by the end of the first line, hanging breathlessly on every syllable. Gilbert had no idea what the lyrics might mean, but the mournful melody and Mary's melancholy delivery brought his heart into his throat. It was a song of love and loss, sweet and sad. The long, slow verses were desolate, but it was the soaring sections, when her voice seemed suspended over a great chasm, that kindled a sublime pain in his chest.

He was at another concert, long ago, at the White Sands hotel. Sitting in the back, trying to ignore Josie Pye beside him. He had smiled then, with appreciation of the whole affair in general and of the effect produced by a slender white form and spiritual face against a background of palms in particular.* Gilbert closed his eyes and breathed.

Anne had recited "The Maiden's Vow," and Gilbert had struggled to contain the nervous laughter that had threatened to overwhelm him.

I've made a vow, I'll keep it true,
I'll never married be;
For the only ane that I think on
Will never think o' me.

Decades ago, but moments only. Strange how poetry came back, in ghostly lines, the old words twisted into grotesque new meanings.

For the only ane I ere thocht on
Lies buried in the sea.**

Gilbert slowed his breathing, willing himself to calmness during the instrumental interlude. But a moment later, he opened brimming eyes to Mary's gorgeous finale, biting the inside of his cheek for control.

Aithris é dá súil, Aithris é dá cúl, Aithris é dá min mhaith chéilli . . .

If Gilbert managed to keep his tears in check, he was the only one. Around the hall, faces young and old smiled through streaming eyes, rapt by song or singer or both.

When the final note died away, the hall erupted in raucous applause. Mary bowed. The rapturous expression on her face was not a smile, but a deep, shining-eyed satisfaction. It radiated boundless love for the people before her, and never-ending remembrance of those who were not.

Mary moved to regain her seat, but her audience would have none of it. They cheered and stamped their feet, demanding an encore that she was reluctant to give. Gilbert could not see clearly, with so many people standing now, but he thought he caught a glimpse of Peggy's braids bouncing beside Mary's front-row chair. He joined in the noise, clapping along with the rest until Monsignor McQuaid ushered Mary onstage once more.

Her face was pink and she shook her head at the audience, but she was smiling. At her signal, the crowd settled itself, eager for her next selection.

Without accompaniment, Mary began to sing. This tune was different from the first: sombre, but with an irregular beat and a wild, weird melody that send a chill creeping up Gilbert's spine. He knew without being told that this was an older song, old even to the grandmother who had taught it and to her grandmother before her. Gilbert had never heard anything quite like it. The rest of the audience evidently had, as many of the listeners nodded along and moved their lips to form the ancient words.

Táim sínte ar do thuama agus gheobhair ann de shíor mé . . .

It was well that Gilbert spoke no Irish. He was able to enjoy the enthusiasm of the crowd, the skill of the singer, and the ominous tune for the little shiver it gave him, without having any inkling of what it said.***

The last verse repeated the first, and many voices joined in. They rose and fell in unison, sharing the heartache of the song as well as their pride in the singing. When it was over, Mary beamed at them all.

She's alive, thought Gilbert, not quite sure where the thought originated. But it was true; this was Mary O'Connor Parkman as she should have been always: beloved, triumphant, radiant.

What would Harvard be like if this incarnation of Mary were welcome there?

Now Monsignor McQuaid was back onstage announcing that the evening had raised over fifty dollars for the Poor Relief fund; now he was leading them all in singing Silent Night; now the crowd was pressing toward the doors, calling out for wayward children. The room emptied slowly, with little knots of admirers forming around the performers, congratulating them on their success.

Gilbert had meant to slip away once the pressing crowd had thinned, but Mr. O'Connor caught his eye and waved him over.

"Dr. Blythe!"

Gilbert greeted them warmly: "Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor."

"Fancy!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Connor. "We never looked for you! Come to see the singing?"

Gilbert smiled, "I was invited by one of my patients. Do you know Peggy Rourke?"

"Everyone knows Peggy Rourke," Mr. O'Connor laughed. "And if they don't, she'll soon set that to rights!"

"Yes, a delightful child. I found I could not resist her invitation."

"Did you enjoy yourself, Dr. Blythe?" asked Mrs. O'Connor with wary interest.

"Very much, yes," Gilbert nodded. "It's been a long while since I . . ."

"Here's our girl!" Mr. O'Connor interrupted. He gestured broadly, turning Gilbert to face a flushed and rather bedraggled Mary. She had been hugged and kissed by so many admirers that her hair was beginning to come down, falling low over her shoulders. She clutched a spray of carnations the same shade as her dress, one of which was hanging from a broken stem.

Mr. and Mrs. O'Connor moved as one to embrace their daughter, but Mary stood rooted to the spot. She blinked twice, her eyes gone wide.

"Dr. Blythe?"

This close, Gilbert was quite overawed. Mary still radiated the glamour of her performance, and he felt his heart pound away faster than it ought.

"Dr. Parkman. You were wonderful."

She seemed not to hear him.

"Why are you here? I thought you had gone home for Christmas."

"I leave in the morning," he shrugged, feeling suddenly overheated.

They stared at one another for a moment, oblivious to the curious look that passed between Mary's parents.

"Um . . . well . . . I'd best be off. Have to catch the ferry in the morning," Gilbert said, embarrassed to find himself tongue-tied in front of the O'Connors.

"Yes. Goodnight, Dr. Blythe."

"Merry Christmas, Dr. Parkman. Mrs. O'Connor. Mr. O'Connor."

Gilbert bowed himself out of the hall and hastened for the door, ignoring the holiday wishes shouted by half a dozen patients.

It was snowing. The dirty streets of Boston were glazed with a shimmer of beautifying white. Gilbert felt an icy snowflake melt against his burning cheek and turned his face toward the swirling sky.

What are you doing, Blythe? What are you doing?


*Anne of Green Gables, chapter 33

**Anne recited a poem called "The Maiden's Vow" at the White Sands concert. Since there are a couple of poems by that title that would have been available to her, I chose the one that suited my purposes. These quotations are from "The Maiden's Vow" by Carolina Oliphant, Baroness Nairne (1766-1845). It may not be the best candidate for Anne's actual recitation (it is probably too simple and short to be the piece described), but it is romantic and Scottish, which puts it right in Anne's wheelhouse as far as poetry goes. LMM does reference some of Baroness Nairne's other work in Rilla of Ingleside, so it was at least on her radar.

***Táim sínte ar do thuama is an Irish poem composed in the 17th century and set to several tunes over the years. One of its English translations is titled, "I Am Stretched on Your Grave." It is probably a good thing that Gilbert didn't catch any of this:

I am stretched on your grave
And I'll lie here forever;
If your hands were in mine
I'd be sure we would not sever.
My apple tree, my brightness,
It's time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather.

When my family think
That I'm safely in my bed
From dusk until dawn
I am stretched out at your head,
Calling out unto the earth
With tears hot and wild
For the loss of the girl
That I loved as a child.

Do you remember the night,
The night when we were lost
In the shade of the blackthorn
And the chill of the frost?
Oh, thanks be to Jesus
We did what was right
And your maidenhead still
Is your pillar of light.

The priests and the friars
Approach me in dread
Because I still love you,
All my life, and you're dead.
I still will be your shelter
Through rain and through storm;
With you in your cold grave,
I cannot sleep warm.

I am stretched on your grave
And I'll lie here forever;
If your hands were in mine
I'd be sure we would not sever.
My apple tree, my brightness,
It's time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather.