Suppose now we look at her view,—or at what might be her view. She has a very affectionate and true husband; but he is very strong, has never been nervous or nervously sick, cannot understand what she suffers. She is ashamed to confess her weakness and her pain. So she does not tell him. She smiles and tries to make it appear that she is strong. The loss of her child is a very great pain to her—more than any man could understand; but she tries to forget it. Still, her husband does not know all this. She is not able to be quick and active and ready, and he does not understand why. Even a woman’s memory weakens during this painful period. Her mind is not so strong, and can only become as before after the weaning of her child, or many months after childbirth. To the strong peasant-woman this is a small trial; but to the educated lady it is a question of life and death, and not a few even lose their reason after losing a child—become insane. The physiologist knows this; but many do not. And the wife, in such a case, may seem not to be kind to the parents—simply because she cannot be. She has the will,—not the physical power. She is in the position of one who needs a servant—needs all the help and comfort she can get—all the love she can obtain. She cannot give help and do service; because neither body nor mind is strong enough. And neither is strong enough—because she has been strained to her uttermost by her years of education. It is the same way the world over. The lady cannot do or suffer as much as the woman who has not passed her youth at schools. Mind and body have been transformed by education.
Now, dear friend, I imagine that this must be the state of affairs. Your wife and her parents do not wish to do wrong, in my opinion. She feels that she is not strong enough to remain your wife under the same conditions. She cannot bear hardship, or do many things which seem to a man mere trifles, while in a delicate condition. And she fears that she would be unhappy and sick and lose another child. But she will never tell you. A woman will not tell those things. Unless a husband can understand without being told,—the two cannot live together long. The result must be, for the wife, death!
I think, dear friend, that this is the truth of the matter. Now you can separate good friends, or else—what could you do?
If I were in your place, perhaps I should try to prevent the separation. I should let the wife have her own gentle way. I should try to make her comfortable, and not ask her to help me or my parents in any way,—but only to bear my children and to love me, and to make home happy. But unless she has a good heart, I should be wrong.
There is no question, I think, about the good heart. Your wife has that, surely. It seems to me only a case of misunderstanding. Remember, dear friend, that you are a very strong man, and that you can afford to be very considerate to a weak woman, after the torture of childbirth and the loss of the love—the child-love—for which Nature has been changing the whole body. Remember also, that even your parents—not knowing the strain of this new education on the physical system of the girl—might judge her a little severely. Certainly she must love you, and wish that she could be to you all you wish.
Forgive this long letter. What I want to say is this: If it be not too late, let us try whether a reconciliation is not possible. If you can make allowances, and change conditions a little, all would be well, perhaps. If not,—if you want a stronger woman for a wife,—perhaps it is better to separate. But it would be a great pity to separate simply because of a misunderstanding. So let us try to make things as they were before.
Affectionately your friend,
Y. Koizumi.