I read such a clever article the other day by Storm Jameson, in which she said that all women, in the depths of their hearts, resented men. Now I do think that is so true. It is so maddening, the calm assumption of superiority that a man puts on when he is talking to a woman. We had quite a little dispute the other evening—about Einstein, of all people! Mrs. Harrison started to talk about an interesting account of him in the Sunday paper, but Mr. Harrison only grunted and went on reading something tedious about the Government. However, she went on asking him questions till he simply had to answer, and then he said, quite snubbingly, that he considered the man was a charlatan who was pulling people’s legs with his theories. I said I didn’t think all these professors would believe in him and have him down to lecture and so on if it was just that. So he said, “Just you ask my old friend, Professor Alcock, if you won’t believe me.” Mrs. Harrison said she couldn’t ask Professor Alcock, because she had never seen him, and why didn’t Mr. Harrison sometimes bring somebody interesting to the house? That seemed to annoy him, though I thought it was very much to the point, but, being only a paid subordinate, I said meekly that we were all entitled to our own opinions. So he smiled sarcastically and said that perhaps some of us were better qualified to judge than others, and that the Sunday Press was not always the best guide to knowledge. “But you read the papers,” said Mrs. Harrison. “When I’m given the chance,” said he.
If I had been in Mrs. Harrison’s place I should have taken warning from the way he rattled The Times, but one cannot expect old heads on young shoulders—or perhaps mature heads would be fairer to myself. But she is perhaps a little tactless now and again, poor girl, and said if she didn’t read the papers how was she to improve her mind? Of course, I knew exactly what the answer would be—the virtues of the old-fashioned domestic woman and the perpetual chatter of the modern woman about things which were outside her province. It is the fatal subject, and somehow or other it always seems to crop up. Mrs. Harrison was very much hurt, and said of course she knew she couldn’t possibly come up to the perfections of Mrs. Harrison No. 1. Then, of course, the fat was in the fire. It was just like a woman to take it personally. Mrs. Harrison began to cry, and he said, “Please don’t make a scene,” and went out and slammed the door.
What I wanted to do was just to go up to Mr. Harrison and say, “Now do be a little human. Make a fuss of her. Let her cry if she wants to and then make it up and be friends.” But he isn’t the kind of person you can very well say things to. He would think it impertinent of me. And it’s true that it never pays to interfere between husband and wife. But if only he would listen to me, I know I could put matters right. In my kind of life one gets plenty of experience—lookers-on see most of the game, you know—and Mrs. Harrison would be so ready to attach herself to him, if only he would give her the chance. Often and often I’ve known her work herself up for hours to make an appeal to his feelings, but he receives it so coldly. Somehow it never seems to be the right moment. He is always absorbed in his painting or his natural history or something. How true it is that men live for Things and women for People! To pin one’s heart to a Person always means suffering in this world, if one has an acutely-sensitive nature. You are to be congratulated, Olive, on not being sensitive. Temperament is a great gift, but a very unhappy one, as I know so well from my own experience. I really admire Mrs. Harrison—she never loses hope, but goes on, day after day, trying to be brave and devoted and to keep up her interest in life. And she has such a vivid alert mind—she is keen on everything, even on things like Einstein, which are so very modern and difficult. But I do not see how one can go on being keen about things with so very little encouragement.
No, my dear! No men for me! It’s different for you, I know. You have the children, and I’m sure Tom is attentive in his man’s way—but Mr. Harrison is such a stick. And then, of course, he is a lot older than she is.
So you see you are quite wrong in your ideas about me. Naturally, I
