longer he lived the surer he was that the golden mean had more to do with meanness than with extravagance. And with all this, she was profoundly, painfully,
evidently unhappy. He had thought her a naturally happy person, once. And now she was as profoundly miserable as anyone he knew. Her state afflicted him beyond bearing. He could not, he supposed, be entirely responsible for her unhappiness, but he felt himself to be so: he had failed her, he had been inadequate, he had not even been able to satisfy her simple needs, and now he would have to go on and on failing her, because there was no way out, and he would have to go on and on helplessly witnessing the deterioration of her temper and her manner. If she could herself have been happy with the life she had imposed on him, then he would, obviously, have resented it less: it was the pointlessness of his loyalty to her that most depressed him. She needed him, he was indispensable to her, and that was that: there was no joy in it and no reciprocation, and no possibility of release. He fulfilled, for her, the highest attainable point of the acceptable – way, way below the desirable, way below anything that her voracious nature would have desired for its satisfaction – and as such, too adequate to be rejected, but utterly unsatisfactory to her, he would have to continue to exist. She did not dare to reject him. She knew she would never get anything that more closely resembled what she wanted. He should have known that she was forcing herself to accept him, as second best, in those distant days up North, when he had been forcing himself, out of pity and compromise, to accept her. No. That was not it. He had known. And it was because he had known that there had been the pity. He had sacrificed himself to her needs.
She had been completely perverted, poor Julie, somewhere, by someone, given desires that could never be assuaged, given the knowledge to know what she was missing, the sensitivity to suffer at the loss. Like talentless artists or writers, whose lack of talent in no way kindly diminishes their insatiable craving to succeed, she was doomed to disappointment. He was too moved by her to betray her. A stronger man than himself would not, in the first place, have married her, as he had done, but at least he had the strength to stick it out.
Her looks had not deteriorated as much as her temper, however. She still looked quite presentable. He thought of her, as a girl, in that
white jacket, her reddish hair all bouncy round her face. Now, as a woman, shiny with good health and lipstick, driving along in her big fat car. Julie on the telephone, giggling like a schoolgirl to her so-called friends: Julie betrayed by those same friends, furious about the betrayal, abusing them as wantonly as she had praised them, resorting to the gross terms of childhood – ‘Stinking bitch,’ she would say, violently, ‘Great fat old cow –’ referring to some smart young woman who had withdrawn her attendance or stood her up at some lunch date in favour of a more profitable, wealthier, more sophisticated host. And the childish crudity of these terms would horrify him: they reminded him of his own grandfather, if of anything, and of his mother’s pained wincing and refined agonies beneath such abuse – abuse directed not at her, because his grandfather was afraid of his mother, as who would not be, but at all the undistinguished world around. There was in Julie a coarseness and a lack of discrimination that must have attracted him to her, as one is attracted, compelled, to approach one’s own doom, to live out one’s own hereditary destiny: coarseness she had from his grandfather, coldness from his mother, and their good qualities she lacked. She must have good qualities of her own, he would tell himself, but he was too deeply entrenched in her, in his own past, to perceive them. He grieved for her: her disappointments and childish enthusiasms grieved him: but what could one do
evidently unhappy. He had thought her a naturally happy person, once. And now she was as profoundly miserable as anyone he knew. Her state afflicted him beyond bearing. He could not, he supposed, be entirely responsible for her unhappiness, but he felt himself to be so: he had failed her, he had been inadequate, he had not even been able to satisfy her simple needs, and now he would have to go on and on failing her, because there was no way out, and he would have to go on and on helplessly witnessing the deterioration of her temper and her manner. If she could herself have been happy with the life she had imposed on him, then he would, obviously, have resented it less: it was the pointlessness of his loyalty to her that most depressed him. She needed him, he was indispensable to her, and that was that: there was no joy in it and no reciprocation, and no possibility of release. He fulfilled, for her, the highest attainable point of the acceptable – way, way below the desirable, way below anything that her voracious nature would have desired for its satisfaction – and as such, too adequate to be rejected, but utterly unsatisfactory to her, he would have to continue to exist. She did not dare to reject him. She knew she would never get anything that more closely resembled what she wanted. He should have known that she was forcing herself to accept him, as second best, in those distant days up North, when he had been forcing himself, out of pity and compromise, to accept her. No. That was not it. He had known. And it was because he had known that there had been the pity. He had sacrificed himself to her needs.
She had been completely perverted, poor Julie, somewhere, by someone, given desires that could never be assuaged, given the knowledge to know what she was missing, the sensitivity to suffer at the loss. Like talentless artists or writers, whose lack of talent in no way kindly diminishes their insatiable craving to succeed, she was doomed to disappointment. He was too moved by her to betray her. A stronger man than himself would not, in the first place, have married her, as he had done, but at least he had the strength to stick it out.
Her looks had not deteriorated as much as her temper, however. She still looked quite presentable. He thought of her, as a girl, in that
white jacket, her reddish hair all bouncy round her face. Now, as a woman, shiny with good health and lipstick, driving along in her big fat car. Julie on the telephone, giggling like a schoolgirl to her so-called friends: Julie betrayed by those same friends, furious about the betrayal, abusing them as wantonly as she had praised them, resorting to the gross terms of childhood – ‘Stinking bitch,’ she would say, violently, ‘Great fat old cow –’ referring to some smart young woman who had withdrawn her attendance or stood her up at some lunch date in favour of a more profitable, wealthier, more sophisticated host. And the childish crudity of these terms would horrify him: they reminded him of his own grandfather, if of anything, and of his mother’s pained wincing and refined agonies beneath such abuse – abuse directed not at her, because his grandfather was afraid of his mother, as who would not be, but at all the undistinguished world around. There was in Julie a coarseness and a lack of discrimination that must have attracted him to her, as one is attracted, compelled, to approach one’s own doom, to live out one’s own hereditary destiny: coarseness she had from his grandfather, coldness from his mother, and their good qualities she lacked. She must have good qualities of her own, he would tell himself, but he was too deeply entrenched in her, in his own past, to perceive them. He grieved for her: her disappointments and childish enthusiasms grieved him: but what could one do
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