“Was that necessary, Glencora?”
“If I had gone to bed instead, the world, I suppose, would have gone on, and Sir Orlando Drought would still have led the House of Commons;—but things should be looked after, I suppose.”
“There are people to do it. You are like Martha, troubling yourself with many things.”
“I always felt that Martha was very ill-used. If there were no Marthas there would never be anything fit to eat. But it’s odd how sure a wife is to be scolded. If I did nothing at all, that wouldn’t please a busy, hardworking man like you.”
“I don’t know that I have scolded—not as yet.”
“Are you going to begin?”
“Not to scold, my dear. Looking back, can you remember that I ever scolded you?”
“I can remember a great many times when you ought.”
“But to tell you the truth, I don’t like all that you have done here. I cannot see that it was necessary.”
“People make changes in their gardens without necessity sometimes.”
“But these changes are made because of your guests. Had they been made to gratify your own taste I would have said nothing—although even in that case I think you might have told me what you proposed to do.”
“What;—when you are so burdened with work that you do not know how to turn?”
“I am never so burdened that I cannot turn to you. But, as you know, that is not what I complain of. If it were done for yourself, though it were the wildest vagary, I would learn to like it. But it distresses me to think that what might have been good enough for our friends before should be thought to be insufficient because of the office I hold. There is a—a—a—I was almost going to say vulgarity about it which distresses me.”
“Vulgarity!” she exclaimed, jumping up from her sofa.
“I retract the word. I would not for the world say anything that should annoy you;—but pray, pray do not go on with it.” Then again he left her.
Vulgarity! There was no other word in the language so hard to bear as that. He had, indeed, been careful to say that he did not accuse her of vulgarity—but nevertheless the accusation had been made. Could you call your friend a liar more plainly than by saying to him that you would not say that he lied? They dined together, the two boys, also, dining with them, but very little was said at dinner. The horrid word was clinging to the lady’s ears, and the remembrance of having uttered the word was heavy on the man’s conscience. He had told himself very plainly that the thing was vulgar, but he had not meant to use the word. When uttered it came even upon himself as a surprise. But it had been uttered; and, let what apology there may be made, a word uttered cannot be retracted. As he looked across the table at his wife, he saw that the word had been taken in deep dudgeon.
She escaped, to the writing of her letters she said, almost before the meal was done. “Vulgarity!” She uttered the word aloud to herself, as she sat herself down in the little room upstairs which she had assigned to herself for her own use. But though she was very angry with him, she did not, even in her own mind, contradict him. Perhaps it was vulgar. But why shouldn’t she be vulgar, if she could most surely get what she wanted by vulgarity? What was the meaning of the word vulgarity? Of course she was prepared to do things—was daily doing things—which would have been odious to her had not her husband been a public man. She submitted, without unwillingness, to constant contact with disagreeable people. She lavished her smiles—so she now said to herself—on butchers and tinkers. What she said, what she read, what she wrote, what she did, whither she went, to whom she was kind and to whom unkind—was it not all said and done and arranged with reference to his and her own popularity? When a man wants to be Prime Minister he has to submit to vulgarity, and must give up his ambition if the task be too disagreeable to him. The Duchess thought that that had been understood, at any rate ever since the days of Coriolanus. “The old Duke kept out of it,” she said to herself, “and chose to live in the other way. He had his choice. He wants it to be done. And when I do it for him because he can’t do it for himself, he calls it by an ugly name!” Then it occurred to her that the world tells lies every day—telling on the whole much more lies than truth—but that the world has wisely agreed that the world shall not be accused of lying. One doesn’t venture to express open disbelief even of one’s wife; and with the world at large a word spoken, whether lie or not, is presumed to be true of course—because spoken. Jones has said it, and therefore Smith—who has known the lie to be a lie—has asserted his assured belief, lying again. But in this way the world is able to live pleasantly. How was she to live pleasantly if her husband accused her of vulgarity? Of course it was all vulgar, but why should he tell her so? She did not do it from any pleasure that she got from it.
The letters remained long unwritten, and then there came a moment in which she resolved that they should not be written. The work was very hard, and what good would come from it? Why should she make her hands dirty, so that even her husband accused her of vulgarity? Would it not be better to give it all up, and be a great woman, une grande dame, of another kind—difficult of access, sparing of
