For Love Alone by Christina Stead

Author:Christina Stead
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Melbourne University Press

—and after that—

“For she’s a jolly good fellow, And so say all of us.”

Stupefied, unable to be moved by the touching affection of her relatives, when they cried “Speech”, she dully got up and dully said a few words, at which she saw their faces fall. Then she understood at once that they hoped not only for her gratitude but also for an announcement about a “certain person”, for several of them already, indiscreetly, irrepressibly, had asked about that certain person.

She sat down, they clapped feebly, and they finished up the meal. Soon, they were singing their family songs round the piano, and early, they set out for home. Once more, she thanked each one for the surprise party, but each one left with regret, like poor relatives leaving the house without anything, after the reading of a will. She should have given confidences that they could tell each other on the path, in the street, at any rate, but what confidences? That she was loyal to a man who had never made a declaration of love? They would have thought she was desperate; and then she had her sense of honour too, he had said nothing, what could she say?

She hated to let them go so, empty-handed, empty hearted, but all familiar joys were forbidden to her. She supposed it was because she was ugly, because, like all poor, timid people, she blamed herself. When she looked in the mirror and saw this pasty face, the face of a devout monk who has felt love-pangs and denied them, she believed that she had no right to pity or indulgence or love. If she won Jonathan Crow, it would be by superior will and intelligence; but this will and intelligence she had to devote to diverting her passions, because she had evolved the curious idea that she would only win Jonathan Crow by bridling passions as far as she was able, because of Jonathan’s own self-denial.

During the afternoon Anne had told her that Malfi, some six months after her marriage, had brought to light a little daughter, now three years old, born of a one-night lover whom Malfi had never called back, out of pride. She disliked both the father, the adoptive father and the child, but now she had taken the poor little girl to live with her. This scandal raised the roof, they had only heard of it eight days ago. Even Aunt Bea was running around talking about “the poor little thing beyond the pale”. Anne told this to her cousin Teresa and drew back a few paces, waiting for her verdict. Teresa said: “She had more courage than we have!”

The glance Anne gave her was a horrible avowal. Why were they all such cowards, every woman that came there to the party, suffering, knowing neither joy, triumph, nor the pleasures of debauch, living the life of poor women?

Teresa said to her cousin: “Our fault if we suffer, she was right; if we all did the same,

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