The Secret Places of the HeartWells, H. G. (Herbert George)
General
The Secret Places of the Heart
Wells, H. G. (Herbert George)
England -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Psychological fiction
“But the reason why I abuse her is perfectly plain. I abuse her because
she distresses me by her misfortunes and instead of my getting anything
out of her, I go out to her. But I DO go out to her. All this time at
the back of my mind I am worrying about her. She has that gift of making
one feel for her. I am feeling that damned carbuncle almost as if it had
been my affair instead of hers.
“That carbuncle has made me suffer FRIGHTFULLY.... Why should I? It
isn’t mine.”
He regarded the doctor earnestly. The doctor controlled a strong desire
to laugh.
“I suppose the young lady--” he began.
“Oh! SHE puts in suffering all right. I’ve no doubt about that.
“I suppose,” Sir Richmond went on, “now that I have told you so much
of this affair, I may as well tell you all. It is a sort of comedy, a
painful comedy, of irrelevant affections.”
The doctor was prepared to be a good listener. Facts he would always
listen to; it was only when people told him their theories that he would
interrupt with his “Exactly.”
“This young woman is a person of considerable genius. I don’t know if
you have seen in the illustrated papers a peculiar sort of humorous
illustrations usually with a considerable amount of bite in them over
the name of Martin Leeds?
“Extremely amusing stuff.”
“It is that Martin Leeds. I met her at the beginning of her career. She
talks almost as well as she draws. She amused me immensely. I’m not
the sort of man who waylays and besieges women and girls. I’m not the
pursuing type. But I perceived that in some odd way I attracted her
and I was neither wise enough nor generous enough not to let the thing
develop.”
“H’m,” said Dr. Martineau.
“I’d never had to do with an intellectually brilliant woman before. I
see now that the more imaginative force a woman has, the more likely she
is to get into a state of extreme self-abandonment with any male thing
upon which her imagination begins to crystallize. Before I came along
she’d mixed chiefly with a lot of young artists and students, all doing
nothing at all except talk about the things they were going to do. I
suppose I profited by the contrast, being older and with my hands full
of affairs. Perhaps something had happened that had made her recoil
towards my sort of thing. I don’t know. But she just let herself go at
me.”
“And you?”
“Let myself go too. I’d never met anything like her before. It was her
wit took me. It didn’t occur to me that she wasn’t my contemporary
and as able as I was. As able to take care of herself. All sorts of
considerations that I should have shown to a sillier woman I never
dreamt of showing to her. I had never met anyone so mentally brilliant
before or so helpless and headlong. And so here we are on each other’s
hands!”
“But the child?
“It happened to us. For four years now things have just happened to us.
All the time I have been overworking, first at explosives and now at
this fuel business. She too is full of her work.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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