It was a far longer letter than Mary had ever written me in the old days, and in a handwriting as fine as ever but now rather smaller. I have it still, and here I open its worn folds and, except for a few trifling1 omissions2, copy it out for you.... A few trifling omissions, I say,—just one there is that is not trifling, but that I must needs make....
You will never see any of these letters because I shall destroy them so soon as this copy is made. It has been difficult—or I should have destroyed them before. But some things can be too hard for us....
This first letter is on the Martens note-paper; its very heading was familiar to me. The handwriting of the earlier sentences is a little stiff and disjointed, and there are one or two scribbled3 obliterations; it is like someone embarrassed in speaking; and then it passes into her usual and characteristic ease....
And as I read, slowly my long-cherished anger evaporated, and the real Mary, outspoken4 and simple, whom I had obscured by a cloud of fancied infidelities, returned to me....
"My dear Stephen," she begins, "About six weeks ago I saw in the Times that you have a little daughter. It set me thinking, picturing you with a mite6 of a baby in your arms—what little things they are, Stephen!—and your old face bent7 over it, so that presently I went to my room and cried. It set me thinking about you so that I have at last written you this letter.... I love to think of you with wife and children about you Stephen,—I heard of your son for the first time about a year ago, but—don't mistake me,—something wrings8 me too....
"Well, I too have children. Have you ever thought of me as a mother? I am. I wonder how much you know about me now. I have two children and the youngest is just two years old. And somehow it seems to me that now that you and I have both given such earnests of our good behavior, such evidence that that side of life anyhow is effectually settled for us, there is no reason remaining why we shouldn't correspond. You are my brother, Stephen, and my friend and my twin and the core of my imagination, fifty babies cannot alter that, we can live but once and then die, and, promise or no promise, I will not be dead any longer in your world when I'm not dead, nor will I have you, if I can help it, a cold unanswering corpse9 in mine....
"Too much of my life and being, Stephen, has been buried, and I am in rebellion. This is a breach10 of the tomb if you like, an irregular private premature11 resurrection from an interment in error. Out of my alleged12 grave I poke5 my head and say Hello! to you. Stephen, old friend! dear friend! how are you getting on? What is it like to you? How do you feel? I want to know about you.... I'm not doing this at all furtively13, and you can write back to me, Stephen, as openly as your heart desires. I have told Justin I should do this. I rise, you see, blowing my own Trump14. Let the other graves do as they please....
"Your letters will be respected, Stephen.... If you choose to rise also and write me a letter.
"Stephen, I've been wanting to do this for—for all the time. If there was thought-reading you would have had a thousand letters. But formerly15 I was content to submit, and latterly I've chafed16 more. I think that as what they call passion has faded, the immense friendliness17 has become more evident, and made the bar less and less justifiable18. You and I have had so much between us beyond what somebody the other day—it was in a report in the Times, I think—was calling Materia Matrimoniala. And of course I hear about you from all sorts of people, and in all sorts of ways—whatever you have done about me I've had a woman's sense of honor about you and I've managed to learn a great deal without asking forbidden questions. I've pricked19 up my ears at the faintest echo of your name.
"They say you have become a publisher with an American partner, a sort of Harmsworth and Nelson and Times Book Club and Hooper and Jackson all rolled into one. That seems so extraordinary to me that for that alone I should have had to write to you. I want to know the truth of that. I never see any advertisement of Stratton & Co. or get any inkling of what it is you publish. Are you the power behind the respectable Murgatroyd and the honest Milvain? I know them both and neither has the slightest appearance of being animated20 by you. And equally perplexing is your being mixed up with an American like that man Gidding in Peace Conferences and Social Reform Congresses and so forth21. It's so—Carnegieish. There I'm surer because I've seen your name in reports of meetings and I've read your last two papers in the Fortnightly. I can't imagine you of all people, with your touch of reserve, launching into movements and rubbing shoulders with faddists. What does it mean, Stephen? I had expected to find you coming back into English politics—speaking and writing on the lines of your old beginning, taking up that work you dropped—it's six years now ago. I've been accumulating disappointment for two years. Mr. Arthur, you see, on our side,"—this you will remember was in 1909—"still steers22 our devious23 party courses, and the Tariff24 Reformers have still to capture us. Weston Massinghay was comparing them the other night, at a dinner at the Clynes', to a crowded piratical galley25 trying to get alongside a good seaman26 in rough weather. He was very funny about Leo Maxse in the poop, white and shrieking27 with passion and the motion, and all the capitalists armed to the teeth and hiding snug28 in the hold until the grappling-irons were fixed29.... Why haven't you come into the game? I'd hoped it if only for the sake of meeting you again. What are you doing out beyond there?
"We are in it so far as I can contrive30. But I contrive very little. We are pillars of the Conservative party—on that Justin's mind is firmly settled—and every now and then I clamor urgently that we must do more for it. But Justin's ideas go no further than writing cheques—doing more for the party means writing a bigger cheque—and there are moments when I feel we shall simply bring down a peerage upon our heads and bury my ancient courtesy title under the ignominy of a new creation. He would certainly accept it. He writes his cheque and turns back at the earliest opportunity to his miniature gardens and the odd little freaks of collecting that attract him. Have you ever heard of chintz oil jars? 'No,' you will say. Nor has anyone else yet except our immediate31 circle of friends and a few dealers32 who are no doubt industriously33 increasing the present scanty34 supply. We possess three. They are matronly shaped jars about two feet or a yard high, of a kind of terra-cotta with wooden tops surmounted35 by gilt36 acorns37, and they have been covered with white paint and on this flowers and birds and figures from some very rich old chintz have been stuck very cunningly, and then everything has been varnished—and there you are. Our first and best was bought for seven-and-sixpence, brought home in the car, put upon a console table on the second landing and worshipped. It's really a very pleasant mellow39 thing to see. Nobody had ever seen the like. Guests, sycophantic40 people of all sorts were taken to consider it. It was looked at with heads at every angle, one man even kept his head erect41 and one went a little upstairs and looked at it under his arm. Also the most powerful lenses have been used for a minute examination, and one expert licked the varnish38 and looked extremely thoughtful and wise at me as he turned the booty over his gifted tongue. And now, God being with us, we mean to possess every specimen42 in existence—before the Americans get hold of the idea. Yesterday Justin got up and motored sixty miles to look at an alleged fourth....
"Oh my dear! I am writing chatter43. You perceive I've reached the chattering44 stage. It is the fated end of the clever woman in a good social position nowadays, her mind beats against her conditions for the last time and breaks up into this carping talk, this spume of observation and comment, this anecdotal natural history of the restraining husband, as waves burst out their hearts in a foam45 upon a reef. But it isn't chatter I want to write to you.
"Stephen, I'm intolerably wretched. No creature has ever been gladder to have been born than I was for the first five and twenty years of my life. I was full of hope and I was full, I suppose, of vanity and rash confidence. I thought I was walking on solid earth with my head reaching up to the clouds, and that sea and sky and all mankind were mine for the smiling. And I am nothing and worse than nothing, I am the ineffectual[Pg 290] mother of two children, a daughter whom I adore—but of her I may not tell you—and a son,—a son who is too like his father for any fury of worship, a stolid46 little creature.... That is all I have done in the world, a mere47 blink of maternity48, and my blue Persian who is scarcely two years old, has already had nine kittens. My husband and I have never forgiven each other the indefinable wrong of not pleasing each other; that embitters49 more and more; to take it out of each other is our rôle; I have done my duty to the great new line of Justin by giving it the heir it needed, and now a polite and silent separation has fallen between us. We hardly speak except in company. I have not been so much married, Stephen, I find, as collected, and since our tragic50 misadventure—but there were beautiful moments, Stephen, unforgettable glimpses of beauty in that—thank God, I say impenitently51 for that—the door of the expensively splendid cabinet that contains me, when it is not locked, is very discreetly—watched. I have no men friends, no social force, no freedom to take my line. My husband is my official obstacle. We barb52 the limitations of life for one another. A little while ago he sought to chasten me—to rouse me rather—through jealousy53, and made me aware indirectly54 but a little defiantly55 of a young person of artistic56 gifts in whose dramatic career he was pretending a conspicuous57 interest. I was jealous and roused, but scarcely in the way he desired. 'This,' I said quite cheerfully, 'means freedom for me, Justin,'—and the young woman vanished from the visible universe with an incredible celerity. I hope she was properly paid off and not simply made away with by a minion58, but I become more and more aware of my ignorance of a great financier's methods as I become more and more aware of them....
"Stephen, my dear, my brother, I am intolerably unhappy. I do not know what to do with myself, or what there is to hope for in life. I am like a prisoner in a magic cage and I do not know the word that will release me. How is it with you? Are you unhappy beyond measure or are you not; and if you are not, what are you doing with life? Have you found any secret that makes living tolerable and understandable? Write to me, write to me at least and tell me that.... Please write to me.
"Do you remember how long ago you and I sat in the old Park at Burnmore, and how I kept pestering59 you and asking you what is all this for? And you looked at the question as an obstinate60 mule61 looks at a narrow bridge he could cross but doesn't want to. Well, Stephen, you've had nearly—how many years is it now?—to get an answer ready. What is it all for? What do you make of it? Never mind my particular case, or the case of Women with a capital W, tell me your solution. You are active, you keep doing things, you find life worth living. Is publishing a way of peace for the heart? I am prepared to believe even that. But justify62 yourself. Tell me what you have got there to keep your soul alive."
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1
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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wrings
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| 绞( wring的第三人称单数 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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9
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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11
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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26
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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29
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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industriously
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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37
acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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38
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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39
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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40
sycophantic
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| adj.阿谀奉承的 | |
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41
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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42
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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43
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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44
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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45
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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46
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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47
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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48
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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49
embitters
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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50
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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51
impenitently
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| adv.不知悔改地 | |
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52
barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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53
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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54
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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55
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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56
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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58
minion
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| n.宠仆；宠爱之人 | |
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pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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60
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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62
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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