The autumn was always a pleasant time to me, as I was extremely fond of both shooting and hunting: and now that Fay as well as Annabel was sitting by the fireside that beckoned2 me home after my long day's sport, my contentment was great indeed. My happiness would have been complete if only I had felt equally sure of Fay's.
That want of self-confidence which I must have inherited from my mother, since neither my father nor Annabel ever had a trace of it, made it impossible for me to believe in my own power of filling my young wife's life with joy and interest; but I had great faith in the soothing3 powers of Annabel, to say nothing of the increasingly absorbing little pleasures and interests which go to make up the sum of country life. Surely all these were enough to make any woman content. And in the depths of my soul I cherished an unspoken hope that there was a greater and more satisfying joy still in store for Fay in the dim and distant future—that highest joy of all, without which no woman's life is complete, and the lack of which had created the only cloud that ever dimmed the brightness of Isabel Chayford's blue eyes.
So I possessed4 my soul in patience, and prayed that in the years to come my darling might be as happy as she deserved and as I desired her to be. And I loved her so well that I was content to stand aside, if I thought others could succeed where I had failed. I only prayed that she might be happy: I never added a petition that her happiness might be found in me. It would have seemed to me presumption5 to do so.
Perhaps I was wrong in this: I dare say I was, as I nearly always am. It is the people who make the greatest demands that get the largest supplies. But it was not in me either to make the one or to claim the other; and we can only act according to our kind.
In looking back on past events I once used to think: "How much better things would have turned out, if only I had acted differently." But as I grew older and wiser I changed the formula to: "How much better things would have turned out, if only I had had the power to act differently." And at the back of my mind I knew that I never had had the power.
Of course this does not apply to wrongdoing: we are always able to avoid that if we wish. We are to blame for our sins, as they are caused by temptations which are outside us, and therefore possible to be resisted; but I do not think we are to blame for our blindness and our blunders, as they arise from our own limitations, which are inside us and part of ourselves. If I had my life to live over again, I hope—and believe—that I should not repeat the wrong things I have done; but I very much fear that I should repeat all the stupid things, given that I remained myself. Grace and Wisdom are both gifts from on high: but Grace is a far more common gift than Wisdom.
There was one thing that gave me great pleasure in that autumn, and that was the increasing friendliness6 between Fay and Annabel. Now that Fay was so much quieter, she naturally shocked Annabel much less frequently than she did in her high-spirited moods, though I adored Fay when she was wild and reckless and defiant7, I knew that such qualities were far from exercising an ingratiating effect upon Annabel.
But when Frank came home for Christmas things once more began to hum; and he and Fay threw themselves with great zest8 into a succession of theatrical9 entertainments. Again the Loxleys invaded the house, and there were plays acted for the villagers and for our personal friends. And this time the plays were not Shakspere's. Fay and Frank always took the leading parts, and it amazed me to note how very quickly and with how little apparent trouble they learnt a new piece. But the histrionic art was in their blood, and all things connected with acting10 came easy to them.
It was the very opposite with Annabel and me. In our early youth anything connected with the theatre had been Anathema11 to our extremely Evangelical parents: and although in later years we so far broadened down as to be able now and again to attend the theatre in comparative spiritual comfort, there was always a lurking12 feeling at the back of our minds—and in Annabel's mind it frequently did more than merely lurk—that we were meddling13 with the accursed thing. Of course, my mature judgment14 repudiated15 and laughed at this archaic16 idea; but in nine cases out of ten early training is stronger than mature, judgment, and I was one of the nine.
Therefore in the secret recesses17 of my heart there sprang up a tiny doubt as to whether all this theatrical excitement was good for Fay. Naturally I did all in my power to trample18 upon this horrid19 little weed, and hid it away in darkness where neither light nor air could encourage its unhealthy growth; but suddenly Annabel threw all my precautions to the wind by remarking one day—
"Reggie dear, I don't want to interfere20, and I suppose it really is no concern of mine, although everything that concerns you must concern me: but do you think it is wise to allow this acting spirit to take such possession of Fay?"
"I don't know what you mean," I said coldly: although I did know perfectly21 well.
"Of course I don't want to say a word against Fay——"
"Of course not," I interrupted, "and if you did, of course I should not listen." By this time I was striding up and down the great hall, while Annabel sat placidly22 by the fire.
"Now, Reggie, you are losing your temper, and it is such a pity to do that when I am only speaking for your good and Fay's. But you know as well as I do that her mother and her mother's people were on the stage."
"I don't see what that has got to do with it," I retorted hotly.
But Annabel remained unperturbed. "Then it is because you won't see. Everybody knows that what is bred in the bone comes out in the flesh."
"And I think it is horrid of you to throw the poor child's mother in her teeth in this way," I went on, lashing23 myself into greater fury.
"I'm not throwing her mother in her teeth—I'm only throwing her into yours, which is quite a different thing, and can't possibly hurt you as you never saw her," replied Annabel, with her usual clearness of thought and confusion of expression. "I shouldn't think of mentioning her mother's profession to Fay. There's nobody thinks more of the sacredness of motherhood than I do: I couldn't bear anybody to say even now that poor mamma hadn't any spirit or any go in her, though you and I know perfectly well that she hadn't, and that you are exactly like her in this respect. But I cannot see that there is anything particularly sacred about a mother-in-law—and especially a mother-in-law that you have never seen. And although Fay is a married woman she is really only a child, and an orphan24 at that: and I cannot help feeling that you and I, who are so much older, have a sort of responsibility about her."
"I, perhaps; but hardly you." I was still very angry.
Annabel's temper, however, continued unruffled. "That is so," she said, "but as you have never accepted your responsibilities, and never will, I am obliged to take them on to my shoulders, as I always have done. If Fay were an older woman, I shouldn't bother about her, but should leave her to shift for herself: and if you had ever managed your own affairs, I should expect you to manage them now. But as it is, I cannot see a young girl going into danger and temptation under my own roof, and not stretch out a helping25 hand to her."
I jibbed at Annabel's reference to her own roof, but did not say anything.
"Besides," she went on, "Fay told me that if she hadn't married, she and Frank would have gone on the stage as soon as they were of age and independent; and that shows the theatrical craving26 is in them both."
I wished with all my heart that Fay had confided27 this idea to me instead of to Annabel; but it was impossible to teach my darling wisdom. And even if it had been possible, grey heads on green shoulders are not an attractive combination. I loved Fay just as she was, and would not have had her different for anything, but I could not deny that that particular remark of hers to Annabel might have been omitted with advantage.
"I am not sure that Frank has a very good influence upon her," my sister continued, looking thoughtfully into the fire.
"Oh, so it's Frank's turn now," I replied, viciously kicking back a log of wood that slightly protruded28 from the hearth29: "I thought you were so fond of Frank." Because I was jealous of Frank, I was all the more determined30 to do him justice.
"So I am, Reggie; extremely fond: but being fond of people doesn't blind me to their faults."
I could testify to the truth of this. "Far from it," I muttered.
"The fact that I am fond of Frank does not prevent my seeing that he is volatile31 and flighty and lacking in any sense of responsibility: any more than the fact that I am fond of you prevents my seeing that you are over-sensitive and over-indulgent, and have so exaggerated a sense of responsibility that you are frightened of it, and therefore inclined to shirk it."
"Pray, don't mind me!" I interrupted, with a harsh laugh. The fact that I knew my sister was speaking the truth in no way added to my relish32 for her remarks.
"Reggie, don't be foolish! I am not thinking about either you or Frank just now, but about Fay: and I feel bound to say that I do not think it does her any good to be so much under Frank's influence."
"He provides the only bit of young life she sees, and I want her to have as much youthful society as she can get. Does it never strike you that you and I are somewhat old and dull companions for a girl of nineteen?" I still struggled against my own inclinations33.
"Of course it strikes me," replied Annabel in her smooth and even tones: "it struck me so forcibly at one time, if you remember, that I tried to dissuade34 you from marrying her. I thought she was much too young for you, and said so; and I think so still. But that's all over and done with. You have married her, and you've got to take the consequences, just as she has got to take the consequences of marrying you. You knew you were taking a young wife, and she knew she was taking a middle-aged35 husband; and it is nonsense now to be struck all of a heap with surprise to find that you and she are not identical in tastes and interests. I knew you wouldn't be, and you ought to have known it too."
"But it so happened that we loved each other," I retorted drily.
"Of course you did: otherwise you wouldn't have been so foolish as to marry each other. But marrying one another hasn't altered your own selves. It always amazes me to see how people imagine that a quarter-of-an-hour's service in church will entirely36 change the characters of a man and a woman. How could it? Especially as they are generally quite opposite characters, or they wouldn't have fallen in love with one another at all. You and Fay had the idea that the minute you put the wedding-ring on to her finger you would become eighteen and she would become forty-two."
"In which case we should have been exactly as far apart as we are at present. I cannot see that the fulfilment of that idea would have mended matters at all."
"Oh, Reggie, how tiresome37 you are in always tripping people up! You know perfectly well what I mean. My point is that having persisted, in opposition38 to my advice, in marrying a young girl, your duty is to make her as happy and contented39 as possible."
I was amazed at the incapacity of the feminine mind to apprehend40 justice. "That is what I am trying to do," I replied; "and what you are abusing me for doing."
"Not at all. You are trying to make her happy apart from you: you are not trying to make yourself the principal factor in her happiness. You are blundering—as you have so often blundered—through too great unselfishness. You are standing41 aside for fear you should cast a shadow over her pleasure: and standing aside is not at all the proper attitude for a husband. If you'd been so set on standing aside, you should have stood aside altogether and not married her: but having married her, the time for standing aside has gone by."
Indignant as I was I could not help admiring Annabel's power of grasping a situation. In ordinary conversation she often appeared distraite—at times almost stupid; but when once her bed-rock of common sense was touched, her judgment was excellent.
"For my part, as you know," she continued inexorably, "I do not approve of old men marrying young wives. But if they do so, the wife must not take her own young way and leave the husband to take his old one. They must merge42, and hit on a comfortable via media, or whatever it is called in Latin. You are letting Fay go her own way too much, Reggie: and mark my words—you will live to regret it."
"I don't agree with you," I said shortly, once more venting43 my righteous indignation on the smouldering logs in the great fire-place.
"Don't do that, Reggie," said Annabel in her most elder-sisterly tone: "you'll burn holes in the bottom of your boot, besides sending sparks all over the carpet. And I know I'm right, whether you agree with me or whether you don't. The first thing you have got to do is not to have Frank here so much. Let him go back to live with Mr. Blathwayte at the Rectory."
"I shall do nothing of the kind," I retorted angrily: "I couldn't very well send away Frank as long as you are living here! What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander: and my wife's brother has as much right here as my sister."
"What utter nonsense!" exclaimed Annabel; "there is no parallel between the two cases. This is my home: I have a right to be here; but Frank is only a guest partaking of your hospitality, and therefore has no claim to stay on longer than you choose."
This was more than I could stand. So as I did not want a final rupture44 with my sister, I strode out of the hall, and flung myself into the library. The fact that in my inmost heart I wanted Frank out of the house made me all the more determined not to send him.
For the first time in my life I was furious with Annabel. How dared she try to come between my wife and me?—I asked myself in my rage. Yet all the time my better self whispered to me that it was not fair to accuse Annabel of trying to separate us: according to her lights she was doing her best to keep us together.
But on another score I felt that I did well to be angry. Her last remark had put my back up with a vengeance45. I should have been within my rights had I allowed Annabel to leave the Manor46 on the occasion of my marriage—as indeed she herself had suggested: I should not have been in any way behaving shabbily to her had I adopted this suggestion: but I felt I could not do it after all the years that she and I had lived there together. But the fact that Fay and I had not the heart to turn her out in no way altered the truth that it was a favour on our part to keep her in. And she ought not to have forgotten this, I kept repeating to myself, or to have regarded our kindness as something to which she was entitled, and which—in my present fury—I considered she had abused.
It is strange how quickly a favour develops into a right. We show a kindness to some one, and the first time it is received with gratitude47: the second time it is accepted as a matter of course: and the third time we are given to understand that any deviation48 from its accustomed rendering49 would be regarded as a cause of justifiable50 offence.
There is another problem which has always puzzled me, and which I have never been able to explain: and that is that we all behave so much better to other people than other people behave to us. It would seem as if there must be a converse51 to this, to set the balance right; but there isn't; or, at any rate, nobody that I ever knew has been able to find it. I have never yet met the man or the woman who, in common parlance52, got as good as they gave. So I have no doubt that while I was aghast at Annabel's ingratitude53 to me, she was equally aghast at my ingratitude to her. Such is that queer compound which we call human nature.
And as I mused54 upon these mysteries my anger gradually evaporated; and when its departing mists cleared away, I tried to look at the whole matter calmly and dispassionately.
An old friend of mine used to say: "If any one says anything disagreeable to you, see what good you can get out of it. You have had the pain of it: so don't dismiss it from your mind until you have got the profit as well."
Therefore I set about seeing what profit I could derive55 from my sister's most unpleasant remarks.
Although she had irritated me almost beyond endurance, I knew that Annabel possessed too much sound sense for her opinion to be lightly set aside. Her words were worthy56 of consideration, even if consideration did not induce me to agree with them. So I considered them with as much impartiality57 as I could muster58 at the moment.
I was perfectly aware that certain kinds of men have sufficiently59 strong personalities60 to make marriage with them a profession in itself—a profession absorbing enough to occupy a wife's entire time and thoughts. But I was not that kind of man; and it was no use pretending that I was.
I hesitate before setting up my humble61 opinion in opposing that of Shakspere: but I cannot believe that to "assume a virtue62 if you have it not" is at all a wise course to pursue: for the reason that every quality has its corresponding defect, and one is so apt to assume the defect and to leave out the quality. When old women pose as young ones, they assume the follies63 of youth without its compensating64 charms: when dull men set up as wits, they indulge in the gaseousness65 of repartee66 without its accompanying sparkle. Therefore it was of no use for me to act as if I were an interesting or absorbing husband, while all the time I was only a rather dull and very devoted67 one. I felt it was not in me to be a profession for any lively and intelligent woman. I was only fit for a pastime—or at best a hobby.
Now if Annabel had been a man, she would have been quite different. She would have married a quiet, pliable68 sort of girl, and then would have moulded the girl's character, and filled the girl's thoughts, and ordered the girl's actions, until the girl's whole world would have been summed up in Annabel. And the girl would have been quite content and happy, and would have asked for nothing else. But it was out of my power to do any of these things. Again I was brought face to face with my old mistake of being the boy and letting Annabel be the girl: it seemed as if I should never outlive the consequences of that early error.
Things being as they were—that is to say, I being the quiet and uninteresting person that I was—I did not see that I was justified69 in taking away from Fay any legitimate70 source of pleasure and interest in her life which might in some way make up for my limitations and deficiencies.
So having carefully weighed Annabel's most unpalatable suggestions, I decided71 to take no notice of them—at any rate, for the present: but to leave my darling to go her own sweet way, unfettered by the rules and restrictions72 of a middle-aged husband.
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1
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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61
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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64
compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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65
gaseousness
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| 气态 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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67
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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69
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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