The Feast’s End

"The Feast's End" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a nuanced exploration of the complexities of human relationships and social dynamics in a small New England town. Set against the backdrop of a festive gathering, the narrative delves into the subtleties of conversation, unspoken emotions, and the fragile connections between the characters. Jewett's keen observations and richly detailed prose illuminate the interplay of joy and melancholy, as the characters navigate their personal hopes and disappointments, ultimately reflecting on the fleeting nature of happiness and community. Through this intimate portrait, Jewett captures the essence of life’s transient moments and the enduring bonds that tie us together.

• Short story

								
The feast was a noble feast, as has already been said. There was an
elegant ingenuity displayed in the form of pies which delighted my
heart. Once acknowledge that an American pie is far to be preferred to
its humble ancestor, the English tart, and it is joyful to be reassured
at a Bowden reunion that invention has not yet failed. Beside a
delightful variety of material, the decorations went beyond all my
former experience; dates and names were wrought in lines of pastry and
frosting on the tops. There was even more elaborate reading matter on an
excellent early-apple pie which we began to share and eat, precept upon
precept. Mrs. Todd helped me generously to the whole word Bowden, and
consumed Reunion herself, save an undecipherable fragment; but the
most renowned essay in cookery on the tables was a model of the old
Bowden house made of durable gingerbread, with all the windows and doors
in the right places, and sprigs of genuine lilac set at the front. It
must have been baked in sections, in one of the last of the great brick
ovens, and fastened together on the morning of the day. There was a
general sigh when this fell into ruin at the feast’s end, and it was
shared by a great part of the assembly, not without seriousness, and as
if it were a pledge and token of loyalty. I met the maker of the
gingerbread house, which had called up lively remembrances of a childish
story. She had the gleaming eye of an enthusiast and a look of high
ideals.

“I could just as well have made it all of frosted cake,” she said, “but
’twouldn’t have been the right shade; the old house, as you observe, was
never painted, and I concluded that plain gingerbread would represent it
best. It wasn’t all I expected it would be,” she said sadly, as many an
artist had said before her of his work.

There were speeches by the ministers; and there proved to be a historian
among the Bowdens, who gave some fine anecdotes of the family history;
and then appeared a poetess, whom Mrs. Todd regarded with wistful
compassion and indulgence, and when the long faded garland of verses
came to an appealing end, she turned to me with words of praise.

“Sounded pretty,” said the generous listener. “Yes, I thought she did
very well. We went to school together, an’ Mary Anna had a very hard
time; trouble was, her mother thought she’d given birth to a genius, an’
Mary Anna’s come to believe it herself. There, I don’t know what we
should have done without her; there ain’t nobody else that can write
poetry between here and ’way up towards Rockland; it adds a great deal
at such a time. When she speaks o’ those that are gone, she feels it
all, and so does everybody else, but she harps too much. I’d laid half
of that away for next time, if I was Mary Anna. There comes mother to
speak to her, an’ old Mr. Gilbraith’s sister; now she’ll be heartened
right up. Mother’ll say just the right thing.”

The leave-takings were as affecting as the meetings of these old friends
had been. There were enough young persons at the reunion, but it is the
old who really value such opportunities; as for the young, it is the
habit of every day to meet their comrades,—the time of separation has
not come. To see the joy with which these elder kinsfolk and
acquaintances had looked in one another’s faces, and the lingering touch
of their friendly hands; to see these affectionate meetings and then the
reluctant partings, gave one a new idea of the isolation in which it was
possible to live in that after all thinly settled region. They did not
expect to see one another again very soon; the steady, hard work on the
farms, the difficulty of getting from place to place, especially in
winter when boats were laid up, gave double value to any occasion which
could bring a large number of families together. Even funerals in this
country of the pointed firs were not without their social advantages and
satisfactions. I heard the words “next summer” repeated many times,
though summer was still ours and all the leaves were green.

The boats began to put out from shore, and the wagons to drive away.
Mrs. Blackett took me into the old house when we came back from the
grove: it was her father’s birthplace and early home, and she had spent
much of her own childhood there with her grandmother. She spoke of those
days as if they had but lately passed; in fact, I could imagine that the
house looked almost exactly the same to her. I could see the brown
rafters of the unfinished roof as I looked up the steep staircase,
though the best room was as handsome with its good wainscoting and touch
of ornament on the cornice as any old room of its day in a town.

Some of the guests who came from a distance were still sitting in the
best room when we went in to take leave of the master and mistress of
the house. We all said eagerly what a pleasant day it had been, and how
swiftly the time had passed. Perhaps it is the great national
anniversaries which our country has lately kept, and the soldiers’
meetings that take place everywhere, which have made reunions of every
sort the fashion. This one, at least, had been very interesting. I
fancied that old feuds had been overlooked, and the old saying that
blood is thicker than water had again proved itself true, though from
the variety of names one argued a certain adulteration of the Bowden
traits and belongings. Clannishness is an instinct of the heart,—it is
more than a birthright, or a custom; and lesser rights were forgotten in
the claim to a common inheritance.

We were among the very last to return to our proper lives and lodgings.
I came near to feeling like a true Bowden, and parted from certain new
friends as if they were old friends; we were rich with the treasure of a
new remembrance.

At last we were in the high wagon again; the old white horse had been
well fed in the Bowden barn, and we drove away and soon began to climb
the long hill toward the wooded ridge. The road was new to me, as roads
always are, going back. Most of our companions had been full of anxious
thoughts of home,—of the cows, or of young children likely to fall into
disaster,—but we had no reasons for haste, and drove slowly along,
talking and resting by the way. Mrs. Todd said once that she really
hoped her front door had been shut on account of the dust blowing in,
but added that nothing made any weight on her mind except not to forget
to turn a few late mullein leaves that were drying on a newspaper in the
little loft. Mrs. Blackett and I gave our word of honor that we would
remind her of this heavy responsibility. The way seemed short, we had so
much to talk about. We climbed hills where we could see the great bay
and the islands, and then went down into shady valleys where the air
began to feel like evening, cool and damp with a fragrance of wet ferns.
Mrs. Todd alighted once or twice, refusing all assistance in securing
some boughs of a rare shrub which she valued for its bark, though she
proved incommunicative as to her reasons. We passed the house where we

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