[In the following essay, Kiely states that the Irish stories in Christmas Eve are far superior to the American stories in the volume.]

To collect and publish stories written over a period of 20 years is a risk for any author. Readers can hardly avoid making comparisons, noticing inconsistencies and remarking the slightest signs of unevenness. In the case of Maeve Brennan, the risk is particularly great because of the sharp distinction in the subject matter of her stories. Roughly half of the works in this new volume [Christmas Eve] by the New Yorker writer are American—upper-middle-class exurban New York; the other half are Irish—lower-middle-class County Wexford. Perhaps some contrast is intended between the styles and values of the two cultures. If so, the point of the contrast is lost in the extreme artistic disparity between the two groups of stories. The American pieces are shallow, obvious, ill-composed and all but devoid of fresh observation, intellectual subtlety and emotional depth. The Irish stories, though unsensational, have a fine, mature, well-knit quality to them. The lyrics may be mournful and repetitious, but the best of them do sing.

The American stories mostly have to do with the residents of Herbert's Retreat, a community of large, white-frame houses and well-kept lawns on the banks of the Hudson River within commuting distance of New York City. Wandering in and out of these houses is Charles Runyon, an aging bachelor and “literary gentleman” who lives in the city and enjoys playing the sharp-witted sophisticate on weekends for his exurban hosts and hostesses. He is the Noël Coward of Herbert's Retreat.

The catch—it is much too plain to call an irony—is that Charles Runyon is a tenth-rate Noël Coward. His “scathing witticisms” are silly, his erudition is superficial, even his vanity is childish and transparent. In case we don't notice this, Maeve Brennan reminds us of it in the first few paragraphs of each story in which Runyon figures. She also makes sure to remind us—often—that his admirers are too ignorant and vain themselves to know the difference. The result of mixing these well-lighted, well-marked signs of vulgarity and superficiality with a chorus of comments and asides from a few caricature Irish maids is as lacking in satirical spark, originality and human interest as a cocktail party at Herbert's Retreat. An author cannot claim much sympathy from a reader when her own style and method too closely ape the dullness and triviality of a subject for which she feels contempt. In this sense, art always ought to be better than life.

Yet these American stories abound with passages like the following:

“They were in Leona's living room, and Charles, in narrow black slacks and saffron velvet jacket, was sitting in his favorite armchair, which was covered in a pale-blue linen. His silky gray head was inclined toward the firelight, and his sharp gray eyes glinted with thought. Leona watched him respectfully from a chintz-sofa. Charles must never be disturbed when he was musing, although he did not dislike having a witness to his silence, which was impressive, if studied. Leona, whose mind was uncomplicated, although her appearance was not, never ceased to be grateful that he allowed her the privilege of his friendship.”

That kind of prose is not the fault of Charles Runyon.

If the American themes—money, divorce, and flirtations in the suburbs—seem to have been well-worn by O'Hara, Updike and others, the Irish themes—poverty, sexual repression, anger and domestic sterility—have been unforgettably explored by Synge, O'Casey and Joyce. But Maeve Brennan demonstrates that familiar, even shopworn subjects and themes, are not necessarily an impediment to fine writing. Nor does it really seem to matter that the author more or less dislikes all of her characters. Oh, it would be nice if now and then a likable character would stick his head in and say “boo” to the tedious, pompous, whining, ill-tempered, selfish, and stupid multitudes. One doesn't expect heroism, but a glimpse of goodnatured intelligence would have been refreshing. But Maeve Brennan does not choose to refresh us that way in her Irish stories any more than she did in the American ones. Still—and here, then, is genuine artistry—the Irish characters do earn our sympathy, and their grim, gray, hopeless situations awaken our interest.

I think the reason for this is that Maeve Brennan is a lyrical rather than a dramatic writer. In the American stories, she writes against her own grain. They are full of dialogue and scenes and sets. They are stagey in an unsatisfactory way. Characters are forever making entrances and exits, maids are in and out opening doors, eccentric guests burst out with one-liners and then retreat to a corner, various groups gather for climactic “showdowns.” One feels the author laboring beneath the weight of all this theatrical paraphernalia and wishes that she and we could find somewhere to unload it.

In the Irish stories, she finds and keeps her own voice. There is little dialogue, a phrase or a word here and there. The drab row houses and the lovely Irish countryside are not treated as sets. They pervade the thoughts and feelings of the people who inhabit them. There are no clumsily artful build-ups to momentous scenes, largely because nothing momentous ever happens. Life, birth, marriage, death—all seem to become muted, if not stifled, by a vague mixture of fear and nostalgia.

All of the Irish stories deal with family life and the various forms of loneliness which can exist within it. The final piece, “Family Walls,” is the triumph of the collection. It is a fictional meditation on a marriage that begins in fragile expectation and ends in vacuity. As in all the Irish stories, it is not a scene or a moment but a mood which is the creative center. After fragments and scraps of the couple's life together, the story concludes with the aftermath of a petty quarrel:

“The day was almost worn out. The light was thin—fading light that left everything visible. That evening's light was helpless, the day in extremity, without strength enough left to dissemble with sun and shade, with only strength enough left to touch the world as it withdrew forever from the world. The evening light spoke and what it said was ‘There is nothing more to be said.’ There is nothing more to be said because what remains to be said must not be said. It is too late for Rose. Hubert was silent. He had nothing to say, and in any case, there was no one to hear him.”

Anyone who can write a prose that balanced and simple ought to waste no more weekends at Herbert's Retreat.