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Some Notes On Marriage
by
It is true that early joys may unite, especially if one can believe that there is only one fountain of joy. I think of many cases,–M 5, M 33,–where there is only one cry: “It is cruel to have had delights, for the glamour of the past makes the day darker.” They will live to see the past differently when they are older and the present matters less. But until then, the dead joy poisons the animate present; the man must drift away to his occupation, for there is nothing else, and the woman must harden by wanting what she cannot have. She will part herself from him more thoroughly by hardening, for one cannot count upon a woman’s softness; it can swiftly be transmuted into malicious hatred.
This picture of pain is the rule where two strangers wed, but there are some who, taking a partner discover a friend, many who develop agreeable acquaintanceship. Passion may be diverted into a common interest, say in conchology; if people are not too stupid, not too egotistic, they very soon discover in each other a little of the human good will that will not die. They must, or they fail. For whereas in the beginning foolish lips may be kissed, a little later they must learn to speak some wisdom. In this men are most exacting; they are most inclined to demand that women should hold up to their faces the mirror of flattery, while women seem more tolerant, often because they do not understand, very often because they do not care, and echo the last words of Mr. Bernard Shaw’s Ann: “Never mind her, dear, go on talking;” perhaps because they have had to tolerate so much in the centuries that they have grown expert. One may, however, tolerate whilst strongly disapproving, and one must disapprove when one’s egotism is continually insulted by the other party’s egotism. There is very little room for twice “I” in what ought to have been “We”, and we nearly all feel that the axis of the earth passes through our bodies. So the common interests of two egotisms can alone make of these one egotism. The veriest trifle will serve, and pray do not smile at Case M 4, who forgive each other all wrongs when they find for dinner a risotto a la Milanaise. A slightly spasmodic interest, and one not to be compared with a common taste for golf, or motoring, or entertaining, but still it is not to be despised. It is so difficult to pick a double interest from the welter of things that people do alone; it is so difficult for wives truly to sympathize with games, business, politics, newspapers, inventions; most women hate all that. And it is still more difficult, just because man is man and master, for him really to care for the fashions, for gossip, for his wife’s school friends, and especially her relations, for tea parties, tennis tournaments at the Rectory, lectures at the Mutual Improvement Association, servants’ misdeeds, and growths in the garden. Most men hate all that. People hold amazing conversations:
She: “Do you know, dear, I saw Mrs. Johnson again to-day with that man.”
He: (Trying hard) “Oh! yes, the actor fellow, you mean.”
She: (Reproachfully) “No, of course not, I never said he was an actor. He’s the new engineer at the mine, the one who came from Mexico.”
He: “Oh! yes, that reminds me, did you go to the library and get me Roosevelt’s book on the Amazon?”
She: “No dear, I’m sorry I forgot. You see I had such a busy day, and I couldn’t make up my mind between those two hats. The very big one and the very small one. You know. Now tell me what you really think–” and so on.
It is exactly like a Tchekoff play. They make desperate efforts to be interested in each other’s affairs, and sometimes they succeed, for they manage to stand each other’s dullness. They assert their egotism in turns. He tells the same stories several times. He takes her for a country walk and forgets to give her tea, and she never remembers that he hates her dearest friend Mabel. Where the rift grows more profound is when trifles such as these are overlooked, and particularly where a man has work that he loves, or to which he is used, which is much the same thing. In early days the woman’s attitude to a man’s work varies a good deal, but she generally suspects it a little. She may tolerate it because she loves him, and all that is his is noble. Later, if this work is very profitable, or if it is work which leads to honour, she may take a pride in it, but even then she will generally grudge it the time and the energy it costs. She loves him, not his work. She will seldom confess this, even to herself, but she will generally lay down two commandments: