passions—’
‘Then let him wreak them on the likes of me,’ she said, ‘and not on a cringing, innocent little girl like you.’
‘He’s a normal man,’ I said. ‘It’s not his fault if I came to him—unprepared.’
‘No, my honey,’ she said. ‘He is not a normal man. I know something about men and you do not. He is a normal man in the one sense, but in the other, his passions are not what you, in your innocence, call strong, but very violent, very uncontrolled, with a violence and uncontrol that could very soon turn to actual brutality
‘I know all this,’ I said. ‘But surely it’s between himself and his God? It’s not for me to punish him.’
‘I don’t ask you to punish him,’ she said. ‘What would you punish him for? Many women would—’ I thought she was about to say something more positive, and I believe now with hindsight that I was right; but she said, instead, ‘Some women would accept, would not object. He’s no monster, he’s just—less controlled than many men. But this is not for you to endure; you should protect yourself.’
‘If I’m patient…’ And I implored her: ‘Do nothing! I’ll accept what I must and—you’ve given me strength, Mary, just by talking to you I’ve gained understanding and strength. I’ve spoken back, I’ve argued my case with him. You see now that I’ve got a corner of my own up on deck. And the rest I begin better to understand and therefore I can deal with it. I came to him—to marriage—so entirely unprepared. My father’s a minister, very good, but very—high-minded, he would never speak of such things; and my mother… She’s a simple woman, occupied with the house; she has little time for silly shrinking violets, stupid and vague, not taking in what they’re told.’
She looked at me pityingly, curled up in her corner there. ‘And what were you told?’
‘Well, that I should…’ Up came the flush of colour again. ‘That my—my nightdress would be disarranged, that I wouldn’t understand but I must accept as—right, whatever my husband should do because—men understood these matters and women did not but it was necessary so that one might bear children.’
‘Not a word to suggest that you might find some delight in such embraces?’
‘Oh, Mary!’ I said. ‘How could one?’ And yet… I had known that she herself had taken pleasure in my husband’s arms as well as giving it.
She reached out and took my hand and held it in her own, laying her warm cheek for a moment against the curl of my fingers. ‘Poor little Sarah! What’s right for a man—may that not be right for a woman also? In your eyes, Sarah, I’m a bad woman, I know, because I love with men I’m not married to—’
‘Love?’ I cried. ‘Do you call that love?’
‘Yes, I do call it love,’ she said. ‘I lie with no man I can’t at least a little, and for a little while, love. Others do—others have to and perhaps I may one day come to that—that I must offer myself to any low creature who approaches me, simply for my bread—’
‘You told me when first I talked to you that that was what you must do. I saw you go up to a man and actually ask him for food. And then you went with him
She laughed, biting her lip in a sort of self-reproach. ‘Poor little one, don’t you know yet that that was all a game? I made a bet with Davey Morehouse of the Dei Gratia that I would entrap your husband—and the wager was this gold cross that your husband gave back to me when at last I had him, sick with desire for me, flinging himself on my body. And indeed I tell a story when I say that I go with no man I can’t like, for I can’t like him, sanctimonious, preaching, self-deceiving prig that he is, and yet I lay with him. But that was not for money; that was for fun, to win my bet with Davey. And Davey—now there’s a man! Do you know, Sarah, that the very first man in my life was a man just like Davey Morehouse—ten long years
‘Then let him wreak them on the likes of me,’ she said, ‘and not on a cringing, innocent little girl like you.’
‘He’s a normal man,’ I said. ‘It’s not his fault if I came to him—unprepared.’
‘No, my honey,’ she said. ‘He is not a normal man. I know something about men and you do not. He is a normal man in the one sense, but in the other, his passions are not what you, in your innocence, call strong, but very violent, very uncontrolled, with a violence and uncontrol that could very soon turn to actual brutality
‘I know all this,’ I said. ‘But surely it’s between himself and his God? It’s not for me to punish him.’
‘I don’t ask you to punish him,’ she said. ‘What would you punish him for? Many women would—’ I thought she was about to say something more positive, and I believe now with hindsight that I was right; but she said, instead, ‘Some women would accept, would not object. He’s no monster, he’s just—less controlled than many men. But this is not for you to endure; you should protect yourself.’
‘If I’m patient…’ And I implored her: ‘Do nothing! I’ll accept what I must and—you’ve given me strength, Mary, just by talking to you I’ve gained understanding and strength. I’ve spoken back, I’ve argued my case with him. You see now that I’ve got a corner of my own up on deck. And the rest I begin better to understand and therefore I can deal with it. I came to him—to marriage—so entirely unprepared. My father’s a minister, very good, but very—high-minded, he would never speak of such things; and my mother… She’s a simple woman, occupied with the house; she has little time for silly shrinking violets, stupid and vague, not taking in what they’re told.’
She looked at me pityingly, curled up in her corner there. ‘And what were you told?’
‘Well, that I should…’ Up came the flush of colour again. ‘That my—my nightdress would be disarranged, that I wouldn’t understand but I must accept as—right, whatever my husband should do because—men understood these matters and women did not but it was necessary so that one might bear children.’
‘Not a word to suggest that you might find some delight in such embraces?’
‘Oh, Mary!’ I said. ‘How could one?’ And yet… I had known that she herself had taken pleasure in my husband’s arms as well as giving it.
She reached out and took my hand and held it in her own, laying her warm cheek for a moment against the curl of my fingers. ‘Poor little Sarah! What’s right for a man—may that not be right for a woman also? In your eyes, Sarah, I’m a bad woman, I know, because I love with men I’m not married to—’
‘Love?’ I cried. ‘Do you call that love?’
‘Yes, I do call it love,’ she said. ‘I lie with no man I can’t at least a little, and for a little while, love. Others do—others have to and perhaps I may one day come to that—that I must offer myself to any low creature who approaches me, simply for my bread—’
‘You told me when first I talked to you that that was what you must do. I saw you go up to a man and actually ask him for food. And then you went with him
She laughed, biting her lip in a sort of self-reproach. ‘Poor little one, don’t you know yet that that was all a game? I made a bet with Davey Morehouse of the Dei Gratia that I would entrap your husband—and the wager was this gold cross that your husband gave back to me when at last I had him, sick with desire for me, flinging himself on my body. And indeed I tell a story when I say that I go with no man I can’t like, for I can’t like him, sanctimonious, preaching, self-deceiving prig that he is, and yet I lay with him. But that was not for money; that was for fun, to win my bet with Davey. And Davey—now there’s a man! Do you know, Sarah, that the very first man in my life was a man just like Davey Morehouse—ten long years
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