The Conservatory
I suppose in a moment he’ll touch my hand with his immaculate fingers how many times has he scrubbed them today you’d think he’d worry about catching something from me – impetuosity perhaps, passion perhaps – oh there he goes stroking my skin in his mechanical way looking at me with dog eyes but I won’t go he won’t get his way Paris with his insufferable Mother he’ll take his cigars to his Club and compare prostitutes whilst I’m left with her and the servant and a dim lamp at least here I can see Ella and the garden here I can keep away from him for most of the day what do I want with his company I know everything about him I knew as soon as I met him what he would be like his fatherly way with me and his ridiculous beard I should never have married I would have liked to grow old with a fearless and devoted lover and our fifteen barefoot children of course he doesn’t want children I’ve seen the way he looks at Ella’s babies as if they were creatures he’d like to dissect just because they run and scream and disappear into corners where they can’t be seen if only I could and he wouldn’t have to do a thing only that which he can do in minutes and why does he only touch me in the dark he makes me feel ashamed and sometimes I burn but not for him for someone who would be naked with me here amongst the orchids and the palms who would see right through to my bones what was it all for all those years of crying and blood and my breasts straining at my dress all that for this sitting on a bench with careful clothes and a limp parasol and no sun and soon it will be winter and grey fog will bump against the house like an animal and it will be dark all day like those places where people with souls throw themselves from bridges and maybe it will be cold enough to skate on the lake with the children I remember Father wading into the lake to fish laughing at me jumping up and down with fear and excitement what if he fell what if he drowned what if the lake monster wrapped itself around his galoshes and pulled him down into the dark water and later by the fire he would read stories of strange animals with long fingernails and dogs who ate shortbread and brave girls who rowed boats and saved men from despair and what does the husband know of despair everything so mathematical his fossils and butterflies, his insects and rocks all laid out and labelled and I wonder if he studies me when I’m asleep wondering which category to fit me in pinning a label to me – woman discontented, woman unloved.
Page(s) 20-21
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