She’s welcome for me… . Listen now, you two. I said to myself when I came in: “I daresay I’ve given them both a rotten time.” I know you’re both more nuts on me than I deserve. And I said I’d sit and listen to all the pi-jaw you wanted to give me if I sat till dawn. And I will. As a return. But I’d rather you let my friends alone.’
Both the elder people were silent. There came from the shuttered windows of the dark room a low, scratching rustle.
‘You hear!’ the priest said to Mrs. Satterthwaite.
‘It’s the branches,’ Mrs. Satterthwaite answered.
The Father answered: ‘There’s no tree within ten yards! Try bats as an explanation.’
‘I’ve said I wish you wouldn’t, once,’ Mrs. Satterthwaite shivered. Sylvia said:
‘I don’t know what you two are talking about. It sounds like superstition. Mother’s rotten with it.’
‘I don’t say that it’s devils trying to get in,’ the Father said. ‘But it’s just as well to remember that devils
are
always trying to get in. And there are especial spots. These deep forests are noted among others.’ He suddenly turned his back and pointed at the shadowy wall. ‘Who,’ he asked, ‘but a savage possessed by a devil could have conceived of
that
as a decoration?’ He was pointing at a life-sized, coarsely daubed picture of a wild boar dying, its throat cut, and gouts of scarlet blood. Other agonies of animals went away into all the shadows.
‘
Sport!
’ he hissed. ‘It’s devilry!’
‘That’s perhaps true,’ Sylvia said. Mrs. Satterthwaite was crossing herself with great rapidity. The silence remained.
Sylvia said:
‘Then if you’re both done talking I’ll say what I have to say. To begin with …’ She stopped and sat rather erect, listening to the rustling from the shutters.
‘To begin with,’ she began again with impetus, ‘you spared me the catalogue of the defects of age; I know them. One grows skinny – my sort – the complexion fades, the teeth stick out. And then there is the boredom. I know it; one is bored … bored … bored! You can’t tell me anything I don’t know about that. I’m thirty. I know what to expect. You’d like to have told me, Father, only you were afraid of taking away from your famous man of the world effect – you’d like to have told me that one can insure against the boredom and the long, skinny teeth by love of husband and child. The home stunt! I believe it! I do quite believe it. Only I hate my husband … and I hate … I hate my child.’
She paused, waiting for exclamations of dismay or disapprobation from the priest. These did not come.
‘Think,’ she said, ‘of all the ruin that child has meant for me; the pain in bearing him and the fear of death.’
‘Of course,’ the priest said, ‘child-bearing is for women a very terrible thing.’
‘I can’t say,’ Mrs. Tietjens went on, ‘that this has been a very decent conversation. You get a girl … fresh from open sin, and make her talk about it. Of course you’re a priest and mother’s mother; we’re
en famille
. But Sister Mary of the Cross at the convent had a maxim: “Wear velvet gloves in family life.” We seem to be going at it with the gloves off.’
Father Consett still didn’t say anything.
‘You’re trying, of course, to draw me,’ Sylvia said. ‘I can see that with half an eye… . Very well then, you shall.’
She drew a breath.
‘You want to know why I hate my husband. I’ll tell you; it’s because of his simple, sheer immorality. I don’t mean his actions; his views! Every speech he utters about everything makes me – I swear it makes me – in spite of myself, want to stick a knife into him, and I can’t prove he’s wrong, not ever, about the simplest thing. But I can pain him. And I will… . He sits about in chairs that fit his back, clumsy, like a rock, not moving for hours… . And I can make him wince. Oh, without showing it… . He’s what you call … oh, loyal.
Both the elder people were silent. There came from the shuttered windows of the dark room a low, scratching rustle.
‘You hear!’ the priest said to Mrs. Satterthwaite.
‘It’s the branches,’ Mrs. Satterthwaite answered.
The Father answered: ‘There’s no tree within ten yards! Try bats as an explanation.’
‘I’ve said I wish you wouldn’t, once,’ Mrs. Satterthwaite shivered. Sylvia said:
‘I don’t know what you two are talking about. It sounds like superstition. Mother’s rotten with it.’
‘I don’t say that it’s devils trying to get in,’ the Father said. ‘But it’s just as well to remember that devils
are
always trying to get in. And there are especial spots. These deep forests are noted among others.’ He suddenly turned his back and pointed at the shadowy wall. ‘Who,’ he asked, ‘but a savage possessed by a devil could have conceived of
that
as a decoration?’ He was pointing at a life-sized, coarsely daubed picture of a wild boar dying, its throat cut, and gouts of scarlet blood. Other agonies of animals went away into all the shadows.
‘
Sport!
’ he hissed. ‘It’s devilry!’
‘That’s perhaps true,’ Sylvia said. Mrs. Satterthwaite was crossing herself with great rapidity. The silence remained.
Sylvia said:
‘Then if you’re both done talking I’ll say what I have to say. To begin with …’ She stopped and sat rather erect, listening to the rustling from the shutters.
‘To begin with,’ she began again with impetus, ‘you spared me the catalogue of the defects of age; I know them. One grows skinny – my sort – the complexion fades, the teeth stick out. And then there is the boredom. I know it; one is bored … bored … bored! You can’t tell me anything I don’t know about that. I’m thirty. I know what to expect. You’d like to have told me, Father, only you were afraid of taking away from your famous man of the world effect – you’d like to have told me that one can insure against the boredom and the long, skinny teeth by love of husband and child. The home stunt! I believe it! I do quite believe it. Only I hate my husband … and I hate … I hate my child.’
She paused, waiting for exclamations of dismay or disapprobation from the priest. These did not come.
‘Think,’ she said, ‘of all the ruin that child has meant for me; the pain in bearing him and the fear of death.’
‘Of course,’ the priest said, ‘child-bearing is for women a very terrible thing.’
‘I can’t say,’ Mrs. Tietjens went on, ‘that this has been a very decent conversation. You get a girl … fresh from open sin, and make her talk about it. Of course you’re a priest and mother’s mother; we’re
en famille
. But Sister Mary of the Cross at the convent had a maxim: “Wear velvet gloves in family life.” We seem to be going at it with the gloves off.’
Father Consett still didn’t say anything.
‘You’re trying, of course, to draw me,’ Sylvia said. ‘I can see that with half an eye… . Very well then, you shall.’
She drew a breath.
‘You want to know why I hate my husband. I’ll tell you; it’s because of his simple, sheer immorality. I don’t mean his actions; his views! Every speech he utters about everything makes me – I swear it makes me – in spite of myself, want to stick a knife into him, and I can’t prove he’s wrong, not ever, about the simplest thing. But I can pain him. And I will… . He sits about in chairs that fit his back, clumsy, like a rock, not moving for hours… . And I can make him wince. Oh, without showing it… . He’s what you call … oh, loyal.
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