Riceyman Steps

Steps as a young man. In his heart he felt no older than on that first night. He did not feel that he now in the least corresponded to his youthful conception of a middle-aged man. He did not feel that he was as old as other men whom he knew to be of about his own age. He thought that he alone had mysteriously remained young among his generation. For him his grey hairs had no significance; they were an accident. Then in regard to his notion of Violet. He knew that all women were alike, but with one exception⁠—Violet. Women were women, and Violet was thrice a woman. He was aware of her age arithmetically, for he had seen her birth-certificate. But in practice she was a girl⁠—well, perhaps a little more than a girl, but not much more. And she had for him a romantic quality perceptible in no other woman. He admired certain efficiencies in her, but he could not have said why she was so important to him, nor why he was vaguely afraid of her frown⁠—why it was so urgent for him to stand well with her. He could defeat her in battle. He had more common sense than she had, more authority, a surer grasp of things; he could see farther; he was more straightforward. In fact, a superior being! Further, she had crossed him, sided with the doctor against him, made him resentful. Therefore, if justice reigned, she ought to be placating him. Instead, he was anxious to placate her.

And, on her part, Violet saw in Henry a man not of any age, simply a man: egotistic, ruthless, childish, naughty, illogical, incalculable, the supreme worry of her life; a destroyer of happiness; a man indefensible for his misdeeds, but very powerful and inexplicably romantic, different from all other men whatsoever. She hated him; her resentment against him was very keen, and yet she wanted to fondle him, physically and spiritually; and this desire maintained itself not without success in opposition to all her grievances, and, compared to it, her sufferings and his had but a minor consequence.

“Well, how do you feel?” he repeated.

The repetition aroused Violet’s courage. She paused before speaking, and in the pause she matured a magnificent, a sublime enterprise of attack. She had a feeling akin to inspiration. She flouted his illness, his tremendous power, her own weakness and pain. She did not care what happened. No risk could check her.

“You don’t care how I am!” she began quietly and bitterly. “Did you show the slightest interest in me all yesterday? Not one bit. You thought only of yourself. You pretended you were ill. Well, if you weren’t, why couldn’t you think about me? But you were ill. Not that that excuses you! However ill I was, I should be thinking about you all the time. But I say you were ill, and I say it again. You only told me a lot of lies about yourself, one lie after another. Why do you keep yourself to yourself? It’s an insult to me, all this hiding, and you know it. I suppose you think I’m not good enough to be told! I can tell you one thing, and I’ve said it before, and this is the last time I ever shall say it⁠—you’ve taught me to sew my mouth up, too; that’s what you’ve done with your everlasting secrecy. I always said you’re the most selfish and cruel man that ever was. You’re ill, and the doctor says you ought to go to a hospital⁠—and you won’t. Why? Doesn’t everybody go into a hospital some time or another? A hospital’s not good for you⁠—that’s it. It suits you better to stop here and be nursed night and day by your wife. Don’t matter how ill I am! I’ve got to nurse you and look after the shop as well. It’ll kill me; but a fat lot you care about that. And if you hadn’t deceived me and told me a lot of lies you might have been all right by this time, because I should have had the doctor in earlier, and we should have known where we were then. But how was I to know how ill you are? How was I to know I’d married a liar besides a miser?”

Henry interjected quietly:

“I told you long ago that the reason I didn’t eat was because I’d got indigestion. But you wouldn’t believe me.”

Violet’s voice rose:

“Oh, you did, did you? Yes, you did tell me once. You needn’t think I don’t remember. It was that night I cooked a beautiful bit of steak for you, and you wouldn’t touch it. Yes, you did tell me, and it was the truth, and I didn’t believe it. And you were glad I didn’t believe it. You didn’t want me to believe it. You’re very knowing, Henry, aren’t you? You say a thing once, and then it’s been said, it’s finished with. And then afterwards you can always say: ‘But I told you.’ And you’re always so polite! As if that made any difference! I wish to God often you weren’t so polite. My first husband wasn’t very polite, and I’ve known the time when he’s laid his hand on me, knocked me about⁠—yes, and more than once. I was young then. Disgusting, you’d call it. And I’ve never told a soul before; not likely. But what I say is I’d sooner be knocked about a bit and know what my man’s really thinking about than live with a locked-up, cast-iron safe like you! Yes, a hundred times sooner. There’s worse things than a blow, and every woman knows it. Well, you won’t go to the hospital! That’s all right. You won’t go and you won’t go. But I shall go to the hospital! The doctor’ll tell me to go, and the words won’t be out of his mouth before I shall be gone. I can feel here what’s coming to me.