FAMILY

New Zealand Listener, Volume 16, Issue 393, 3 January 1947, Page 17

FAMILY

| (Written for "The Listener" y

by

S. MORRISON

JONES

HILE Alice packed clothes into the two suitcases, her own and Virginia’s, Grant strolled up:and down the room, warm in the summer sunshine, talking, and Virginia came in sometimes from the verandah where she had made a house in a corner. Alice packed slowly, although it was almost time to go; she was reluctant to go; and she was interested in what Grant was saying. Nowadays she was always interested in what he said to her; he didn’t talk about anything that didn’t seem worthwhile to him, and his standard now at last and gradually, was hers.

J + when you consider that the function of the novel is to interpret | people. Help us to, | understand each other. . ." He looked at her, but he saw all the characters in the book he had just closed, and his eyes had the abstracted look she knew so well. She said, tucking some small pyjamas firmly into a corner of Virginia’s case: "And ourselves; to help us to adjust ourselves, . ." and he said, "Of course." She was reluctant to go, although as a rule she loved a change, a_ holiday. She didn’t like the

separation from Grant-but that was only a week. The real reason was that she knew before she started that there was going to be failure, as there had been last timeand the time before that. She didn’t admit it, even to herself, but she knew it all the same, and the knowledge influenced her mood. She wouldn’t think, she wouldn’t remember, she was even a little excited about going, about seeing them again, but all the time she knew. Habit is so strong. It can sometimes over-ride reason. For so many years, home-her parents’ home-had been habit. It was natural to go back. The habit of being with Grant was the stronger. now, but still the other had some force, some pull, that took her back each year, hopeful. x * * YEAR before she had come back from the last holiday, depressed, full of remorse, and disappointment, and frustration, and it had been a long time before she found herself again. Then she had gradually slipped back into the satisfying life Grant and Virginia made for her, and she had made excuses, for herself, and for her parents, and she had told herself that next time would be different. She would go back to what she had been, she would be like them, if it

would make them happy. She owed it to them. She was their only child. Virginia was their only grandchild. It seemed that the only way not to hurt them was to break with them altogether. Impossible to do that, and she didn’t want to. Part of her didn’t. How difficult to be single-minded, honest, perhaps ruthless, about human _ relationships. They were too complex. She was mixed up in her mind about that; wasn’t it better to be in everything honest? To hold to truth? And it was the truth that there was nothing of love left in her for her parents. That wasn’t her fault; it wasn’t theirs. They were as they had been created, and then moulded by circumstances; so was she. It had been her tremendous luck to have Grant to

teach her true values, as he saw them, and he had singularly clear vision, And in adopting the true ones, she had to discard the false ones. She felt all that. And yet how unkind, how cruel, to turn from what had once been everything to her; to disregard all they felt for her. It was the sore spot on her happiness; that in her thoughts she was disloyal to them. : She was glad that Grant wasn’t going, although she would miss him. They hadn’t ever discussed it, but after the first two or three visits it had been understood that she and Virginia would go alone. ™ Bg us HER packing was finished, and for a moment she stood there by the bed, looking through the French windows, to where flowering cherry blossoms drifted to the grass. A charming and intelligent young woman. A human being, a bundle of inherited "and acquired characteristics, which determined all she did and thought, no matter how proudly she felt she was shaping her own life. There was the independence of thought which had marked one grandfather, and the caution of another. The readiness to take offence which she had from her mother; but she had recognised that as a fault, and had

almost conquered it. There was her |. father’s splendid constitution, and a grandmother’s good taste in dress; from somewhere she had the red-bronze hair, and the fine straight nose, and the tooheavy brows. And probably every feeling of anger, of pettiness, of generosity, she had ever known had been felt again and again by those who had gone towards the making of her, and she was no more to be blamed for her faults than to be praised for her yirtues. And helping to make her too was the expensive, rather stupid education

which her mother. had been determined she should have; had sacrificed a good deal of her own com- | fort that she might | have it; a parent’s longing for what she had‘ wanted herself, satisfied in her child, unregarding of whether it was what was needed by the. "child, or best for it. And better than that was the education Grant had helped her to find for herself after they married. She sighed and looked at Virginia, kneeling in the little house she had built round herself with Tugs and cushions. Virginia is part of

_ me, and part of Grant, and part of all the people in us; and yet she'll be an entirely different person, us and not us; a person perhaps difficult to understand and help, one to whom we may soon be strangers, as mother is to me. But no} there’ll never be the same complete severance as there has been between my parents and me; because Grant and I are aware, we make ourselves. think about people; think, not merely talk about them; we know it’s immensely important to understand them, more important than anything else. We don’t take it for granted that because we made Virginia, she must always love us. I regard Virginia as a separate individual, not just as a toy sent to save me from boredom, preening myself on the» good traits she has from me, carefully ignoring the bad ones. ~ Grant had taught her to think like that. It was almost a religion with him, the only religion he bothered about. That each person should make the utmost effort in self-knowledge, and then in understanding others. He had changed her in a few years from a rather silly girl with a carefully acquired fondness for all the things which didn’t matter much, to a woman who not only could (continued on next page)

| SHORT STORY

(continued from previous page) think, but wanted to think, of the harder things. At first she hadn’t wanted to | go his way, it was too much trouble; | She had tried instead to impose her trivial standards on him, but now she could never be grateful enough that he had won; her life’ was enriched. And she had a dread of being pulled back, of losing all she had gained. Her father and mother-they wanted her to go back; they were jealous of the forces which were taking her from them, without understanding what they were. It was time to leave. She called Virginia in. Grant closed the cases before he went for the car. At the station he kissed them both, with a special smile for her, and she was very unhappy to be leaving him, hé was so necessary to her. * * * ER father met the train; the arrival imposed a small excitement on the hot, quiet afternoon, and he was flushed and happy as he hurried up to the carriage where she stood waiting. And she kissed him and was happy too, and a little excited, and for the moment she was glad she had come. But, she thought, it was like this last time; it is like this every time. It won’t be any different, later, either. Her father talked to Virginia, standing quietly a little behind her, he marvelled at her growth, he spoke to her as if she were still the baby he would have liked her to be; he moved to kiss her, but Virginia dodged, politely but firmly.’ Alice was sorry for her father, she knew it surprised him that the child didn’t want to be fussed over, but she was in sympathy with her daughter, too. That was it-that was what mattered even in trivial things, to see both points of view... . It would: have been easier for them all if Virginia had enjoyed and looked forward to these visits, But like Grant, she would never be at home in the country. Everyone wasn’t. It wasn’t a crime to prefer the city life she was used to, but her grandparents would make it seem so, before the visit was over. They both were intolerant of opposition of any kind, they wanted everyone to like what they liked, to hate what they hated. They never considered any point of view but their own, and if you weren’t in sympathy with them you were made to feel a traitor. Alice knew that those set habits were waiting to trap them all, behind the pleasure of the first greétings. The visit would follow the usual pattern, because these people, her parents, had never learned to think in the way that is necessary to adjustment or change. * i % HE first day there was just sitting in the too hot kitchen making conversation, and listening to her mother talking while she went about the work which made bearable the dullness of her life. Talking. How soon now Alice tired of this endless and aimless talking. The bitterness, the complaints, just as she remembered them. The self-pity. Long, involved storiés of people who didn’t like her, who were unkind to her, patronised her, looked down on her. ~ older woman was happy to have someone to tell all this to, and especially one who by every law of nature should be sympathetic, should feel these grievances as‘ acutely as she felt them herself. Alice knew that, but she had now

none of that talk to give. She had had, once. Now it was impossible to go back to it. She felt such an ache ‘at her heart for this woman who had once made all her world, that she would have tried, but it wasn’t a matter of trying. It was something that wasn’t in her any more, She felt sad and depressed. She felt that somehow it must be her fault. She did her best, but gradually she fell silent, and constraint came into the kitchen, so that their talk to each other was hollow and unnatural, too polite, and her mother resentful. Why didn’t her mother change, as she had done? Or had she, perhaps, years ago, been different? Had she changed from some sweet and pliable young girl to the complaining, stupid, common woman she was now? Was it all chance? Would she, with different opportunities and guidance"You're just scared — a no-good townie-" her father taunted Virginia, and Alice had to apologise for Virginia, strongly, silently resisting all her grandfather’s efforts to force her on to a horse, to be taken round the farm. She was sorry for his disappointment, even while she felt Virginia was right. She was a sensible, reasonable, lovely child, and she knew what she wanted to do, and even at eight she felt that her prejudices should be respected. Grant had taught her that it was very important to know what you wanted to do, what was good for you to do, and to do it as long as you didn’t hurt others. She didn’t understand that the old man was Hurt, because he hid his feeling beneath jibes and jeers about townies, and being afraid. He couldn’t understand that she had never been encoutaged to show off, or to attempt to do.what she had fo urge to do, simply to fill in time. He would never know what,already she half understood, that the essential thing was to find your place in the world, find what you were fitted to do, and then everything else would fit in; your happiness and so that of those dependent on you; each contented worker contributing to the progress and peace of the world, constructive and not destructive. He himself was ill at ease always beneath any transient satisfaction he might have, because he should never have been a farmer, but he had,never seen it like that. He had, not understanding that there was no shame, only misfortune in ‘his failure, blamed other things-the land itself, his neighbours, the Government, his wife, anything to defend himself from, blame. But you couldn’t talk:to them like that. They had never learned to see themselves impersonally. So she sat and listened to her mother’s gossip about the neighbours-their faults; what she had said to them; what they’d replied; how she’d scored off them. "The likes of her talking to me like that-who does she think she is, anyway?"Her father. Politics. When he came in at mealtimes, aggressive with the renewed sense of failure. Sometimes, as — the days went slowly on, she gripped her hands together to keep her irritation in check, determined that there should be no open break. He wanted her to argue with him, even while his mind was shut to anything she could say. "The sooner we get that lot out, the better... . " "But what's a woman know about politics, anyway? You want to stick to your knitting and your housework the

way your mother does." "Well, don’t you think I’m right? Like all townies, think you're so superior, think you know what’s good for us, better than we do ourselves." He worked himself up, shouting, wanting opposition from her that he could beat down with words of his own, and she, used for long now to sensible rational discussion, was frightened at his violence, and she felt Virginia stiffen unhappily at her side. She looked down at the cloth, seeing his hand, veined and calloused; the hand that had for so many years worked for her. * 1 * HE couldn’t help being relieved when the last day came, they were unhappy, and so was she. They had wanted her so much, they had made such plans for her physical comfort; they were bitterly disappointed, Why did it have to be so? She asked herself that, passionately, in the train, when the last strained good-byes had been said, She saw the reproach in their eyes, she realised all . at once how they had aged. "You’ve deserted us, you despise us, they seemed to say, and there was no way of explaining to them that they were seeing the problem too simply. As the train gathered speed she felt the usual pendulum swing, from the irritation and impatience which had for days possessed her so that there was no room for other feeling, to remorse and sorrowful wondering if she could have been different after all-

it must surely be her fault. that everything had gone wrong. She had felt this before, but never so acutely. As she went further and further away from them she yearned over them, she felt again the old love there had been for them. She b%amed herself, but she was aware all the time that she had. done her best, and she was resentful. Of life. Other people didn’t seem to have this trouble. Or did they? Had it always been so, for some? Were there always some who must suffer in the effort to progress, to raise the level of thought? And was it progress? She had seen the thought expressed somewhere-where was it? She couldn’t remember. It had interested her when she read it, but it seemed now to have a deep significance for her that it hadn’t had then. She wished she could remember-she felt so muddled and uncertain, she wanted the balm of understanding from another who had felt as she did. * Ba r ER pleasure at being with Grant again was dimmed. Understanding as he was, this wasn’t his trouble, and she couldn’t discuss it with him. He met them at the station, and laughed and joked with Virginia, delighted to be with him again. Alice prepared a meal, and put Virginia to bed, and sat down near a window where she could feel the cool of the evening. She didn’t read. She thought instead of those two, returning

silently home, old and defeated. This moment of home-coming she herself had been longing for with so much intensity was spoiled. And yet how irrational that seemed. That she could be so moved by the unhappiness of two people who now oppressed her-oppressed-that was the word; George EliotGrant came into the room end sat in his chair near her, happy to have his family with him again, yet knowing she was unhappy, wishing he could help her. She went to the book-case. "What was that bit I said I liked?" she asked him, "George Eliot-when your class had The Mill on the Floss you had the book open and I began to read it; something about one generation losing touch with the ee es "Eh?" Grant looked thoughtfully at her for a moment. "Yes. I know what you mean. It’s a theme you find over and over again in her books; it w&s something she experienced herself, when she was Marian Evans; when she lived with her father in Coventty, before George Eliot was thought of." The Mill on the Floss. She took the book from the shelf and turned over the pages for a while. Here it was.... This oppressive narrowness .... has acted on young natures in many generations that in the onward tendency of human things have risen above the mental level of the generation before them to which they have

nevertheless been tied by the strongest fibres of their hearts... . The strongest fibres of their heartsthe words did bring a little solace. Another woman-a great woma known, had felt as she did. Grant came over to her and picked out another book, "Find it?" he said, and she knew that he guessed what was troubling her. "You come across it again and again-in Middlemarch-but I haven't that here. It’s expressed most vividly in Adam Bede I think. I’m just looking for ithere it is." He went back to his chait, leaving her to read. Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains. Blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings who jat us at every movement. We hear a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering the thoughts we despise; we see eyes-ah, so like our mother’s -averted from us in cold alienation; and our last darling child startles us with the air and gestures of the sister we parted from in bitterness long years ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritage-the mechanical instinct, the keen sensibility to hatmony, the unconscious skill of the modelling hand-galls us, and puts us to shame by his daily errors.