he does it,” I remarked, and we changed the subject. I got to tolerate
Sam after a time, because he finished up James’s cigar ends. An
ash-tray full of horrors vanished in a moment before his all-embracing
slobber--but enough--the dinner-gong will sound in vain for me if I
allow my mind to dwell on Sam’s habits. The only dog I have ever loved
is dear to me because he is less like a dog than anything else. He is
known to his friends as the “occasional table,” because that is what
he is like. He has a highly polished oblong surface, and stands on
Chippendale legs, and people trip over him, which always amuses me.
There is no high-class amusement like this to be got out of Sam; he
merely barges into people like a drunken hippopotamus, which is not
in the least funny. But the “occasional table” is the only dog I know
who appears to possess a pocket-handkerchief and use it, and I have
never seen him eat in public. Dearest quality of all, he knows that
burglars are not announced in the drawing-room, even that they do not
ring the front door bell. What a truly blessed thing life would be if
he could spread these glad tidings amongst the rest of his shrieking
brotherhood! This seems to be a chapter on race-meetings and dogs
rather than on Louise, my maid; but there is very little Louise apart
from horses, dogs, good temper and lace, and all these points have been
touched upon. I now understand better why Perrin does not like her.
As one of the young ladies she would have done well enough; he would
have tucked her up in her high dog-cart with a certain admiration, and
been pleased with her successes at the Agricultural and Kennel Club
shows. But for his own after-dinner conversation he prefers something
of a fluffier and less independent nature; something of the tea-making,
“Lord, Mr. Perrin, be off with you!” sort.
Louise has excellent taste in clothes. She steers through yards of
drapery with the delicate assurance of a surgeon finding his way
amongst the cobweb creations of the human body, and she does it all
in the same impersonal way. The Claras of this world suggest lumps of
animated matter rolling about, spluttering, and disturbing things that
would do very well as they are; the Louises seem to be furthering the
end of some pleasant universal desire and disentangling the prejudices
that cumber its path.
_CHAPTER XX_: RELATIONS-IN-LAW
Since I have had a son and daughter-in-law, I have begun to think
that it is absurd to reflect on the nature of this or that class of
individual, because members of the same class are of opposite sexes.
I often thought I had found a theory about such and such a class of
people, such as servants, cousins, relations-in-law, &c., until one
day, when I was being quite truthful with myself, I understood that a
great many of my theories were reversible according to sex. This was
most strikingly apparent with regard to my children-in-law. I decided
that it is very objectionable for strange people to marry into a family
and then idealise the being they have married, without reference to the
lifelong knowledge of that being’s character possessed by the other
members of the family. It seemed to me that my son-in-law made himself
ridiculous about Anne; he really sickened me sometimes. He said that
she was so delicate and sensitive he was sometimes afraid of crushing
her with his blundering, thoughtless criticisms when she appeared
to differ from him. That was nonsense, and I told him to go ahead
fearlessly, and say what he thought; even if she was my own daughter,
I was not blind to her faults. Therefore, logically, according to
this theory, my daughter-in-law, Constance, would be not only wise in
pointing out his faults to Tom, but she would be neglecting a duty
were she not to speak out. Then I saw the reversible nature of my
feeling. To be blinded by love is undoubtedly a fault, but in the case
of married people both are not equally to blame. As in this diagram,
taking A as the mother-in-law, those with a cross representing children
of the male sex. The children-in-law are D and E.
[Illustration]
Criticism that is right in my child-in-law D (male) is reprehensible
and altogether out of the question in my other child-in-law E (female).
The blame for idiotic partiality is transferred from my child-in-law
D to C (one of the family). In fact, to put it still more simply,
I don’t mind my son-in-law criticising my daughter up to a certain
point, but if my daughter-in-law begins to criticise my son, I shall
probably wring her neck. Constance has no idea how sensitive Tom is,
and the way he idealises her is ridiculous. He told me how impossible
it was to get her to spare herself at all, she was always thinking of
others. Just what Robert said about Anne, but I had different methods
of dealing with them. “Stuff and nonsense,” I said to my son-in-law,
“Anne is not so delicate as you think, she won’t mind what you say in
the least; it is not shrinking that makes her silent, it is because she
has not made up her mind what she intends to do. If you do not want to
go to the South of France while your partner is ill, don’t go. Anne
travelled about alone for three years before you knew her.” I did not
mind if he thought me a heartless pig; he was not mine to lose, and
Anne, of course, belonged to herself as she always had. But Tom was
mine and Constance’s, and the only way in which I could keep my share
in him was to make her also mine. We could not pull him in two, and she
would pull strongest, so I must change my metaphor and regard her as a
growth upon Tom. I could not operate on her, so she must just come with
him. Therefore, when he made the same remark about her as Robert made
about Anne, I assured him that all really good women worked too hard,
and that I had been thinking perhaps a little motor would save her
running about so much; would she like one as a Christmas present? Of
course, Constance felt that Tom could be safely trusted for week-ends
with such a parent. Besides, I never asked him questions about her
(to be truthful I wasn’t interested), and I always sent back fowls,
and asparagus, and hats, and other useful articles, according to the
length of time she let me have him.
I know that Robert would have liked me to show a little more nice
feeling about Anne; indeed, once, I was obliged to be quite frank about
it. “Anne and I understand each other very well,” I told him, “and you
cannot have everything. If I showed nice feeling she would not like it,
and although you would be the gainer by her annoyance----”
“I don’t see that,” he interrupted. “How could I be the gainer by
Anne’s annoyance?”
“Because you would be the dearer by contrast. You would say, ‘Never
mind, darling, you have me.’ But please let me go on. I was going to
dwell on your mercies which you do not seem to be counting. Suppose,
now, that I sat about in your drawing-room with fancy-work and asked
how you were going to manage about the spring cleaning. That would mean
telling you at great length how I always did it and how excellent my
dear husband thought the arrangement. I should add that, of course, it
was for you and Anne to decide.”
“Well, I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it?” he asked foolishly.
“Not if I said it was for you to decide. That would mean that unless
you allowed me to arrange it in my own way I should say that no doubt
you were right; everything was so altered since my day that I could
not attempt to judge. And then I should be ill for a fortnight in your
house and have all my meals carried upstairs, and the servants would
give notice.”
“Good Lord!” remarked Robert.
“Exactly, then do not complain about my not showing nice feeling,
because I don’t make myself a nuisance to Anne.”
Another day I told him just to look, for instance, at Constance’s
mother. He said he thought she seemed a very nice old lady. “All
right,” I said, “Tom is outside, and he is likely to be open with us
to-day, because his mother-in-law is staying for the week-end with
Constance--come along.” I dragged him out under the trees where Tom
was lying in a hammock, reading. When we had got chairs and explained
that we had ordered tea outside to save him the trouble of coming in, I
said: “I suppose you can’t stay to dinner if Constance’s mother is with
you?”
“Poor girl!” said Tom, “I suppose I had better go and give her a hand.”
“But she is a very nice old lady, isn’t she?” I asked.
“Oh, very,” he agreed flabbily. Then he saw my face, and noticed also
Robert’s intelligent, inquiring expression. “What’s the matter with you
two?” he asked.
“The fact is, darling,” I explained, “that Robert was a little
dissatisfied with me because he thinks I do not take enough part in his
household arrangements, so we came out, less to save you the trouble of
coming to tea than that you should save me the trouble of explaining to
him.”
Tom flung down his book. “I will tell you all about it from beginning
to end,” he promised us. “People talk about the mind being a
storehouse, but hers is the bottomless pit. And the only things that
will go into it are details; if you give her the sort of things that
are in most people’s minds they lie about outside the pit and make her
uncomfortable. But I get so done up filling her with the stuff, and so
does Con. She wants to know every detail of our lives, from the kind
of shaving soap I use to whether I put the lights out myself or leave
it to the servants. Constance has to tell all hers too. The old lady
starves if she doesn’t get it, and no amount of it seems to satisfy
her.”
“But, surely, she must know your day pretty well by now,” suggested
Robert, taking my hand affectionately.
“You would think so,” said Tom, “but you see you are wrong, because
there is just a shade of difference sometimes in what I do every day.
For instance, when I go home to-night I shall have to tell her where we
all sat this afternoon, and when you came out, and why.” (He tore his
hair.) “And what the devil shall I say when she asks what we talked
about? I get so giddy with it, you know, that I just keep the scene in
my mind and give it her all faithfully. I dare not invent or I should
contradict myself.”
Robert apologised to me, and, of course, I said it was nothing; there
was no pleasure like setting matters of opinion right. But I returned
to Tom for confirmation of my theories of sex.
“What about your father-in-law? He asks a good many questions, too, so
far as I remember.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Tom, “his are quite harmless questions.
I like telling him what he wants to know; it is generally quite
interesting, about my job and things of that sort.”
I turned to Robert and asked: “You never thought my husband wanting in
nice feeling towards Anne did you?”
“Oh dear, no,” he said, “of course not. One doesn’t expect a man to
take much interest in a house.”
There are two great rocks on which relationships by marriage often
split. The first, which is also the chief source of danger to
blood-relationships, is the presumption that because we are relations
we must love one another; the second is the presumption that because
we are relations-in-law we must loathe one another. The only safe
line is to avoid any mention of the connection, even to oneself. If,
in spite of this absence of prejudice, there is still great natural
antipathy, it is possible to think of ourselves as fellow-guests at a
boarding-house, obliged to meet pretty constantly at the same table.
For the sake of the mistress of the house, who so rashly brought us
together, we may as well try to find some redeeming interest in each
other’s vices. I never suggested to Constance that we should learn
to love one another. It was impossible for me to love anyone because
she was Tom’s wife, I could only loathe her for it; so I shut my eyes
tight and said the alphabet backwards to myself when the idea of our
relationship came into my head. Instead, I thought--or tried to: “This
is a person whom Tom has brought with him to the house. I expect she
will stay a long time. She must enjoy her visit, and it is horrid to
stay in a house where one is entertained. She shall have the best we
can give her; we will try not to be rude or dull, and she shall do as
she likes.” When she returned my hospitality, I tried to be a good
guest and not leave my umbrella and sponge behind me when I went away,
and I always remembered her birthday. So we got on all right. I behaved
to Robert in the same way. If I allowed myself a little more freedom
in advising him about his colds, and so on, that is because any man
staying in the house likes to be given ammoniated quinine when he needs
it. But I never kissed him unless I wanted to, nor allowed myself to
dwell on the involuntary tie between us.
_CHAPTER XXI_: GENIUS
When Mrs. Van Dieman was describing the neighbourhood to me she
mentioned, among other people, a Mr. Figgins who wrote books. She said
that she would like to get to know him better, but she did not think he
liked her, as she was not clever enough.
“He probably thinks you do not like him because he is not rich enough,”
I said.
“Oh, but what utter nonsense,” she protested. “When a man has an
intellect like that he can’t suppose one considers his money.”
“There you are,” I replied, “that is exactly what I have been saying.
He probably says to himself, ‘When a woman has a purse like that she
can’t suppose one considers her brains.’ He must dislike you on other
grounds if he does at all; perhaps it is your politics, or the fact
that your house faces north.”
“You see, he is so interesting,” pursued Mrs. Van Dieman. “I should
love to know him better, but I don’t know what to talk about, I read so
little.”
“So does Mr. Figgins, probably,” I said. “But, anyhow, if you are
interested in him, talk about that; he will like it far better than
anything else--unless you talk about yourself. If you were as candid
with him as you are with me, he would think about nothing else for
weeks, you would open his eyes such a lot.”
“Anyhow,” I began again presently, “when you meet your baker out at
dinner do you read up ‘Bread’ in the ‘Encyclopædia Britannica’ first?”
“We certainly do seem to get on the subject of bread whenever we meet,”
she said. “Perhaps that is why I am not interested in him.”
“According to you, the baker’s friends, when they ask him to their
houses, would think it complimentary to powder their hair, and
embroider their dresses with currants. As for your Mr. Figgins, how
could the poor man write books if there were nothing but books to write
about?”
By and by, when Mrs. Van Dieman had plucked up courage and invited most
of us to an embarrassing tea-party to meet the man of letters, I found
that Mrs. Figgins was a friend of my childhood, and we took up our
relation to one another just where we had left it. It matured rapidly,
and I became very fond of both of them. Their house was often full of
people whom Mrs. Van Dieman classified according to the nature of their
public life. This habit of classification, which is the county method
of making a social order out of the chaos of individual taste, is very
infectious. I began to look at geniuses as a class, and to think I
noticed certain stripes and spots in their characters which marked them
as belonging to one family, however much they differed in other ways. I
presented an ode on the subject to the Figginses, and watched them as
they read it in turn:
“_My Agnes! Did I hear you say
You will not stop to hear us play
The trio I composed to-day?
What! Let Maria come and dust!
I’d sooner starve--yet, Love, I trust
You’ll pardon me, for say I must_
That’s _not the way to treat a genius!_
“_Here’s something good by Malloray,
I’ll read it if you’ll only stay.
(Damnation! Take that child away!)
Say I will dine at six to-night,
Something both nourishing and light.
No, dear--my pocket’s empty quite._
That’s _not the way to treat a genius!_
“_Ask me not, Agnes dear, to think
Of anything but pen and ink
(Unless its something new to drink).
There is no need, my love, for you
To live at all, I’ll live for two.
In tears! My darling, that won’t do!_
That’s _not the way to treat a genius!_”
Mrs. Figgins was delighted. “There, Harry,” she exclaimed, “she’s
absolutely right, she has seen you through and through; I’ve always
told you you were the most selfish beast on earth. It doesn’t matter
what happens to me or the children so long as you get your wretched
stuff out of your head on to paper. And that about the reading aloud is
so good--and the dusting--and yet you complain the house is dirty! Oh
dear.”
Mr. Figgins rose, picked his wife out of her comfortable chair, and
transferred her to his own, which he said was more her size, then he
sat down and read the ode again.
“My dear Jane,” he said, “I have looked this over very carefully, and
you are absolutely wrong; it is you she means. Look at that about the
children being all over the house, and a beastly housemaid pottering
about his study, and no money in the house. He even has to order his
own dinner or she gives him indigestible stuff he can’t work on. He
does his best to amuse and entertain her, and then she bursts into
tears and says she wants to live; it seems to me to be an admirable
picture of the sort of thing I go through, only you haven’t the wit to
see it.”
I took a stroll round the garden for a quarter of an hour and when I
came back they were still disputing.
“Do I or do I not have to sit on the mat for hours at a time listening
to you talking? And if so, how can I be ordering dinner at the same
time?”
“You could order it the night before and tell them that, whatever
happens, I must have it at a certain time.”
“The certain time being anything between ten in the morning and three
in the afternoon.”
“Malloray’s wife gets her husband the most excellent food all ready in
five minutes, at any moment he may happen to come in.”
“Mr. Malloray gets paid for his dreary stuff and you don’t, so he can
afford to have sixteen parlourmaids all sitting about with nothing
else to do. And that about your living for two is so good. What life
do I have sitting round when you are there, and then working like a
galley-slave when you are not to make up for the lost time and clear up
the mess?”
“No man except a farm labourer ought to marry,” I heard Mr. Figgins
say as I went off again. “What I want is a dear old toothless, very
efficient housekeeper, and a mistress exquisitely beautiful, talented,
sympathetic----”
We had a great discussion that night at dinner. Several geniuses
and their wives were there, and civil war broke out. The geniuses’
complaints were trivial, but apparently rankled deeply. They all said
nearly the same thing: that their wives wanted too much, and prevented
them from getting on with their work, to which the wives retorted that
they also wanted to get on with their work, but it was not possible,
because they were always being called off to listen to something, or to
pack bags, or remove a spider from the ceiling. Then if they stayed
for a few minutes’ chat, they were accused of being in the way, and why
wasn’t lunch ready? and why couldn’t they see that the doors didn’t
bang upstairs? If they asked for love they were given a manuscript
as indigestible as a stone, but, on the other hand, when inspiration
had run out and love was required (they being busy at the time doing
something else) they were told that women were practical animals and
had no ideals; that polygamy was the only feasible arrangement in
domestic life, and would they kindly put on more coal, and make that
cheque last for six months. The geniuses maintained that we all live
much too elaborately. A simple, well-cooked fowl, done to a turn
at any minute of the day, was quite enough for anyone; a perfectly
proportioned room ascetically bare, save for a few necessary objects
of priceless value, was enough to content them. A village girl with
a graceful figure and sun-kissed complexion should maintain the room
in that spotless order which is essential to a quiet mind. The wife
should direct everything, do nothing, be always occupied, always at
hand and scarcely ever present. The children should have perfect
freedom, intelligence, health, education, no lessons, be full of gaiety
and make no noise, be one with their parents at heart, never present
(like the wife) for more than a few minutes at a time, occupied in
useful and beautiful handicrafts, and make no litter about the house.
This is what I gathered from notes made at the time. From what I
understand of the allegations brought against geniuses by their wives,
there was less detailed complaint and more profound disappointment. To
begin with, the work did not pay; the world did not appreciate it, or
if it did, it appreciated the wrong bits--the ones that George himself
cared least about. Secondly, they worked too hard, and then got so
dreadfully depressed; they never seemed able to throw down their work
and come out for a little bit of fun in the middle of a sentence. And
when something really serious, like the bailiffs, happened, one could
not get them to attend. Mrs. Malloray told us that her husband got so
interested in talking to the men about Australia that he never noticed
until they had gone that all the wrong things had been taken to pay the
debt; instead of getting rid of a lot of rubbish, as they had hoped,
some of the nicest bits of furniture in the house had gone, although
she kept telling him all the time.
We all agreed that a genius should not take his wife about with him.
She is there to fulfil ends which are of no interest to society, and
if she is the right wife for him she will be as unsocial as a lake by
moonlight. If she is the wrong kind she will make him fidgety and spoil
the party, so she should amuse herself in other circles, except in
houses where she can bring her knitting without exciting compassion. I
am told that the Figginses still fight over the spirit of that harmless
piece of doggerel, and both find it healing to their wounds. It is nice
to think of, isn’t it?
_CHAPTER XXII_: CHARITY
A few years after she left the cradle, Anne came to the decision that,
whatever else she did, she would not be charitable. I found that this
meant, more explicitly, that she would not wear a bonnet, nor gloves
that were too long in the fingers.
I wonder what it feels like to be one of the poor, and realise that
one’s only callers are sure to be people who wear gloves that are too
long in the fingers. I am never at home to that kind of visitor myself,
but for those who have to answer the door in person there can be no
escape. Also, how distressing it must be when the visitor sits down and
remarks how clever we have been to make this poky room so nice, and are
those our husband’s socks? How many does he get through in the week? I
tried it on Mrs. Van Dieman one day, because I know she has a district.
My entrance was rather spoilt by the butler being obliged to show me
in, but after he had shut the door I tripped up to Mrs. Van Dieman with
my most sympathetic smile and said: “What a sweet outlook you have. It
must be such a comfort in your sordid life to be able to grow flowers.”
I explained that I was district-visiting, and she happened to be first
on my list to-day. “I hope your poor husband has been keeping less
intoxicated lately?” I added.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said coldly.
“Well, well, we must take the good with the bad, I suppose, and be
thankful if he has his health,” I said, shaking my head gloomily,
“but you must tell him from me that I hope that he is going to try to
keep straight now. And you, dear Mrs. Van Dieman, must try to be less
extravagant; they tell me you spend a great deal on dress, you know. I
am sure you gave as much for that little thing you have on as I am able
to spend in the whole year on my clothes--though it is very pretty, of
course.”
Mrs. Van Dieman did not seem to understand about my district, and when
I explained again she said it was quite different with that sort of
people; they had no one to advise them, and it made a break in the day
having some one to take an interest. All the same, I thought I would
persevere. There ought not to be one law for the rich and another for
the poor, so I said I would continue my visits, and hoped to find her
in a better frame of mind next time I called.
I then went to the rector’s house and was shown into his study. He was
busy doing accounts.
“Ah, good morning, rector,” I said, “glad to see you at work. I just
called round to have a chat with you. Now tell me, do you find yourself
well and satisfactorily shepherded here?”
“Pardon me, I think there must be some mistake,” said my dear Mr. Tracy.
“No, indeed,” I said, “no mistake. I only wanted to be a help, if
possible. You are in my district, you know, and it is my duty to find
out if your spiritual welfare is being attended to. I should be sorry
if you suffered from neglect of anything I could do to help or advise.”
“It is very good of you, Mrs. Molyneux,” he replied, though he seemed
rather embarrassed. “Of course, I am only too grateful for any
assistance, but, indeed, I hardly understand----”
“Well, then,” I said, “let us sit down and talk it over. Do you find
you get enough mental stimulus in the town?”
“Do you mean that there is a lack of culture?” he asked. “Because if
so you have put your finger on the weakest point in our society. I
find an extraordinary lack of enthusiasm for anything really great
in literature or painting or music. It is quite deplorable; it has
evidently struck you----”
“It has, indeed.” (This was the most successful visit I had paid.) “I
should be so glad if there were anything in that direction that I could
throw light upon for you.”