This FreedomHutchinson, A. S. M. (Arthur Stuart-Menteth)
General
This Freedom
Hutchinson, A. S. M. (Arthur Stuart-Menteth)
Marriage -- Fiction; Women -- Social and moral questions -- Fiction
As if he had touched something and been burnt he very sharply drew in
his breath.
She said, “Ah, you’d be hurt, I told you. Dear, I can’t be other than I
am on this. Upon her resignation, Harry. Men call it domesticity. That’s
their fair word for their offence. It’s woman’s resignation is the
fabric of the married state. She lets her home be built upon her back.
She resigns everything to carry it. She has to. If she moves it shakes.
If she stands upright it crashes. Dear, not ours. I’ve stood upright all
the time. I’ve proved the fallacy. A woman can stand upright and yet
be wife, be mother, make home. Dear, you are not to ask me now--for
resignation.”
Therein, and through all the passage of this place where the footway
was uneven, the light not good, the quality of her voice was low and
noteless, sometimes difficult to hear. There is to say it was by that
the more assured, as is more purposeful in its suggestion the tide that
enters, not upon the gale, but in the calm and steady flow of its own
strength.
The quality of Harry’s voice was very deep and sometimes halting, as
though it were out of much difficulty that he spoke. He said, deeply,
“That you stand upright does not discharge you from responsibilities.”
She said, “Dear, nor my responsibilities discharge me from my
privileges.”
There was then a silence.
He spoke, “But I am going to press this, Rosalie. I say, with all
admitted, this thing--this ‘I could go but you should not go’--is
different as between us. I am a man.”
She made a movement in her chair. “Ah, let that go. I have a reply to
that.”
“What reply?”
“I am a woman.”
He began--“It’s nothing--.”
She said, “Oh, painful to give you pain. To me--everything.”
He got up from his position beside her and went to his chair and seated
himself. He sat on the edge of the chair, bowed forward, his forearms on
his knees, his hands clasped; not smoking; his pipe between his fingers,
his eyes upon the fire. Once or twice, his hands close to his face, he
slightly raised them and with his pipe-stem softly tapped his teeth.
CHAPTER IX
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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