‘That was a way of expressing her exasperation. She was tired of his griping and she merely wanted him to get it off his chest quickly, and finish.’
‘I suppose the wife suffered,’ said Ruth. ‘But whoever wrote the book made nothing of her. Job deserved all he got.’
‘That was the point that his three friends tried to get across to him,’ Harvey said. ‘But Job made the point that he didn’t deserve it. Suffering isn’t in proportion to what the sufferer deserves.’
Ruth wrote in September:
Dear Edward,
I suppose you have gathered by now that I’ve changed my mind about Harvey. I don’t know what he’s written to you.
He really is a most interesting man. I believe I can help Harvey. I can’t return to face the life we had together, ever again. My dear, I don’t know how I could have thought I would. My plan was, as you know, entirely different. I feel Harvey needs me. I am playing a role in his life. He is serious. Don’t imagine I’m living in luxury. He never mentions his wealth. But of course I am aware that if there is anything I require for myself or Clara, I can have it.
You may have heard from Ernie Howe that he is coming to visit Clara. She’s well and pretty, and full of life.
I’m sure you have heard from Harvey how things are between him and me. It’s too soon to talk of the future.
This has been a difficult letter to write. I know that you’ll agree with what I say. You always do.
Ruth
She gave Harvey the letter to read, watching him while he read it. He looked younger than Edward, probably because of Edward’s beard, although he was a little older. Harvey was lean and dark, tall, stringy.
‘It’s a bit dry,’ Harvey said.
‘It’s all I can do. Edward knows what I’m like.’
‘I suppose,’ said Harvey, ‘he’ll be hurt.’ ‘He doesn’t love me,’ Ruth said.
‘How do you know?’
‘How does one know?’
‘Still, he won’t want to lose his property.’
‘That’s something else.’
Now, in October, Ruth was talking about sending to England for cretonne fabric. ‘One can’t get exactly what I want in France,’ she said.
Harvey wrote:
Dear Edward,
Thanks for yours.
The infant is cutting a tooth and makes a din at night. Ruth has very disturbed nights. So do I. It’s been raining steadily for three days. Ernie Howe came. We had a chat. He seems to feel fraternal towards me because we both had to do with Effie. He wants to talk about Effie. I don’t. Afterwards, in the place next door that Ruth has fixed up for herself and Clara, Ernie asked her if she would go home and live with him and bring the baby. Ruth said no. I think he’s after Ruth because she reminds him of Effie. He said he wouldn’t take the child away from Ruth if she doesn’t want to part with it, which she doesn’t.
I’m sorry to hear that you don’t miss Ruth. You ought to.
Cheque enclosed. I know you’re not ‘selling your wife’. Why should I think you are? You took money before I was sleeping with Ruth, so where’s the difference?
I don’t agree the comforters just came to gloat. They relieved Job’s suffering by arguing with him, keeping him talking. In different ways they keep insinuating that Job ‘deserved’ his misfortunes; he must have done something wrong. While Job insists that he hasn’t, that the massed calamities that came on him haven’t any relation to his own actions. He upsets all their theology. Those three friends of his are very patient and considerate, given their historical position. But Job is having a nervous crisis. He can’t sleep. See 7, 13—16.
When I say, My bed shall
comfort me, my couch shall ease
my complaint;
Then thou scarest me with
dreams, and terrifiest me through
visions:
So that my soul chooseth
strangling, and death rather than
my life.
I loathe it; I would not
live alway: let me alone …
So I say, at least the three comforters kept him company. And they took turns as analyst. Job was like the patient on the couch.
Ruth doesn’t sympathise with Job. She sees the male pig in him. That’s a point of view.
The baby has started to squawk. I don’t know what I’m going to do about the noise.
