It is a
strange coincidence that I read Evelyn Waugh’s The Loved One shortly
after my first experience with leading funerals. The Loved One is a book
about, well, funerals, or more precisely, the funeral industry. To an extent,
it is a book about religion, or the lack thereof. It is a tragedy, which like
all good tragedies looks like it’s going to end well, until the fateful moment
of anagnōrisis when everything suddenly comes crashing down with
calculated precision.
A friend of
mine once said that Waugh was a misanthropist, and after reading The Loved
One, I am inclined to agree. Not that he isn’t funny. His comments on the
differences between Americans and Europeans are very flattering to Europeans.
And his satirical approach to individualistic secular rituals is very
gratifying to Catholics. So, as a European Catholic, I enjoyed the book
immensely…until the end, which still makes me angry.
At the
beginning of the book we meet Francis and his nephew Dennis. Dennis, a poet out
of work, has just accepted a new job. Although his new line of work raises some
eyebrows among his fellow British residents in California, he seems qualified
enough. As he says, ‘The man they had before caused offence by his gusto.
They find me reverent. It is my combination of melancholy with the English
accent.’
As it turns
out, his employer is the Happier Hunting Ground, a company that arranges
funerals for pets. Somewhat like this:
‘I have a
brochure here setting out our service. Were you thinking of interment or
incineration?’
‘Pardon
me?’
‘Buried or
burned?’
‘Burned, I
guess.’ …
‘And the
religious rites? We have a pastor who is always pleased to assist.’ …
‘Mr Barlow,
we’re neither of us what you might call very church-going people, but I think
on an occasion like this Mrs Heinkel would want all the comfort you can offer.’
‘Our Grade
A service includes several unique features. At the moment of committal, a white
dove, symbolizing the deceased’s soul, is liberated over the crematorium.’
‘Yes,’ said
Mr Heinkel, ‘I reckon Mrs Heinkel would appreciate the dove.’
‘And every
anniversary a card of remembrance is mailed without further charge. It reads:
“Your little Arthur is thinking of you in heaven today and wagging his tail.”’
His uncle
Francis, however, is not doing so well. Chief script-writer in Megalopolitan
Pictures (hē polis hē megalē, ‘the great city’, is a name used multiple
times in the Apocalypse that rarely bodes well), at one time he goes to his
office and finds it occupied. Apparently he has been fired, and, driven by
despair, he commits suicide.
That is the set-up
that brings Dennis to the awe-inspiring burial grounds of Whispering Glades, of
which his own Happier Hunting Ground is only an imitation (or, as the stern
people at Whispering Glades would say, a parody).
Whispering
Glades has been conceived by an artist known as the Dreamer. A huge marble
inscription at the entrance indicates that its purpose is to bring maximum
happiness to the Waiting Ones and to provide a happy resting place for the
Loved Ones, a euphemism for those who have passed away. Next to the marble
block is a wooden signboard with the text, ‘Prices on inquiry at
Administrative Building.’
As Dennis
enters through a florist’s shop, he hears a woman saying on the telephone, ‘I’m
really sorry but it’s just one of the things that Whispering Glades does not
do. The Dreamer does not approve of wreaths or crosses. We just arrange the
flowers in their own natural beauty.’
It is clear
that Whispering Glades offers all the comforts of religion but experiences
sharp discomfort with the idea of revelation.
It is at
Whispering Glades that Dennis meets Aimée Thanatogenos (‘Loved One Born to
Death’, of course). She is one of the cosmeticians whose job it is to make the
dead look presentable. The author says some rude things about American women in
general before describing Aimée as above average, indeed ‘decadent’:
Her hair
was dark and straight, her brows wide, her skin transparent and untarnished by
sun. Her lips were artificially tinctured, no doubt, but not coated like her
sisters’ and clogged in all their delicate pores with crimson grease; they
seemed to promise instead an unmeasured range of sensual converse. Her full
face was oval, her profile pure and classical and light. Her eyes greenish and
remote, with a rich glint of lunacy.
As the book progresses,
an absurd but endearing love triangle unfolds between
1) Dennis, the cynical
European imitator of beautiful things;
2) Aimée, the idealistic
young woman, who writes frequent letters to the local newspaper’s Guru Brahmin
at this critical time of her life; and
3) her great hero and
example, true artist cosmetician of Whispering Glades, beautifier of the dead,
austere and serene: Mr Joyboy.
The third party has not
been mentioned yet, but he definitely has an eye on Aimée, and the feeling is
mutual:
‘When I am working for
you there’s something inside me says “He’s on his way to Miss Thanatogenos” and
my fingers just seem to take control. Haven’t you noticed it?’
‘Well, Mr Joyboy, I
did remark it only last week. “All the Loved Ones that come from Mr Joyboy
lately,” I said, “have the most beautiful smiles.”’
‘All for you, Miss
Thanatogenos.’
In one sense, that makes
Aimée very lucky, as Mr Joyboy is a legend among the cosmetic staff:
As he passed among
them, like an art-master among his students, with a word of correction here or
commendation there, sometimes laying his gentle hand on a living shoulder or a
dead haunch, he was a figure of romance, a cult shared by all in common, not a
prize to be appropriated by any one of them.
However, against her own
will, Aimée falls in love with Dennis, who says all sorts of irreverent things
that scandalize and infuriate her, even as they secretly attract her. And he
also pretends to write poems for her – poems which he steals from famous
historical European poets, with varying degrees of success. But his ploys are
insufficient. So when he meets the non-sectarian pastor at the Happier Hunting
Ground, he asks him about the prerequisites for becoming a non-sectarian
pastor. It turns out there are only three: the Call, money, and an audience.
Will Dennis succeed? Read
the book and find out!
As the year approaches
its end, I will finish this blogpost with a properly meditative quote from the
non-sectarian pastor of the Happier Hunting Ground.
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