It wasn’t clear how he, the lover of Frankie, could have so conducted
himself with Minnie. And why he felt so little remorse or shame or even
regret?
He fancied that it must be because he loved Minnie. In spite of thirty
years in the world, he was still so sentimental, so ignorant, that he
had no comprehension of the base and sensual passion which had
overwhelmed him. Minnie was his wife; a fellow couldn’t feel that way
toward his wife. He was obliged to call it love. He couldn’t imagine
that Minnie, so serious and sensible, Minnie who didn’t even take much
interest in how she dressed her hair, could be just as carnal, as gross,
as any scarlet woman. He couldn’t see, in all her endless plans for his
“comfort,” the hidden snare, the net that bound him closer. She thought
of his food, his tobacco, that his bed should be comfortable, his linen
mended. This ignorant and unbeautiful Circe was not content with his
metamorphosis; the wretched swine must be taught to be more swinish.
He thought he was happy. She was very loving, very cheerful,
inordinately devoted. There was a sort of joy in coming back to a home
of his own after a day’s futile search for something to do, no matter if
the home were a furnished flat daily growing dirtier and dustier. He
enjoyed the bright welcome and her soothing interest in his adventures.
She always agreed with him, always approved of what he did.
Her condition touched him, too. He felt that she had given up everything
for him, had sacrificed herself with a splendid ardour. He believed that
he should, and did, admire all this, that there was something noble in
that greedy violence, that reckless seizure of what she desired.
She had been aware of the great advantage she had obtained from not
being married. It made her more pathetic, more helpless. He had
suggested it more than once, but she only cried and said she was
ashamed.
“I know you despise me,” she insisted.
“But, dearest, I don’t! I _honour_ you!” he always answered.
At last she tearfully confided her “secret” to him, and agreed to be
married at once. She pretended to be glad, but she wasn’t. She hadn’t
enough imagination to love an unseen child, and she certainly had no
desire for one as a matter of principle. No more than an animal. And,
like an animal, she was sure to love it when it came. Except for the
fact that it gave her a hold on Lionel, she looked upon the whole affair
as a bother and an expense. His delight seemed to her more or less
absurd.
He really was delighted; really happy for the time being. He was lost in
an utter and gross satisfaction.