CHAPTER XX: RELATIONS-IN-LAW
Since I have had a son and daughter-in-law, I have begun to think that it is absurd to reflect on the nature of this or that class of individual, because members of the same class are of opposite sexes. I often thought I had found a theory about such and such a class of people, such as servants, cousins, relations-in-law, &c., until one day, when I was being quite truthful with myself, I understood that a great many of my theories were reversible according to sex. This was most strikingly apparent with regard to my children-in-law. I decided that it is very objectionable for strange people to marry into a family and then idealise the being they have married, without reference to the lifelong knowledge of that being’s character possessed by the other members of the family. It seemed to me that my son-in-law made himself ridiculous about Anne; he really sickened me sometimes. He said that she was so delicate and sensitive he was sometimes afraid of crushing her with his blundering, thoughtless criticisms when she appeared to differ from him. That was nonsense, and I told him to go ahead fearlessly, and say what he thought; even if she was my own daughter, I was not blind to her faults. Therefore, logically, according to this theory, my daughter-in-law, Constance, would be not only wise in pointing out his faults to Tom, but she would be neglecting a duty were she not to speak out. Then I saw the reversible nature of my feeling. To be blinded by love is undoubtedly a fault, but in the case of married people both are not equally to blame. As in this diagram, taking A as the mother-in-law, those with a cross representing children of the male sex. The children-in-law are D and E.
Criticism that is right in my child-in-law D (male) is reprehensible and altogether out of the question in my other child-in-law E (female). The blame for idiotic partiality is transferred from my child-in-law D to C (one of the family). In fact, to put it still more simply, I don’t mind my son-in-law criticising my daughter up to a certain point, but if my daughter-in-law begins to criticise my son, I shall probably wring her neck. Constance has no idea how sensitive Tom is, and the way he idealises her is ridiculous. He told me how impossible it was to get her to spare herself at all, she was always thinking of others. Just what Robert said about Anne, but I had different methods of dealing with them. “Stuff and nonsense,” I said to my son-in-law, “Anne is not so delicate as you think, she won’t mind what you say in the least; it is not shrinking that makes her silent, it is because she has not made up her mind what she intends to do. If you do not want to go to the South of France while your partner is ill, don’t go. Anne travelled about alone for three years before you knew her.” I did not mind if he thought me a heartless pig; he was not mine to lose, and Anne, of course, belonged to herself as she always had. But Tom was mine and Constance’s, and the only way in which I could keep my share in him was to make her also mine. We could not pull him in two, and she would pull strongest, so I must change my metaphor and regard her as a growth upon Tom. I could not operate on her, so she must just come with him. Therefore, when he made the same remark about her as Robert made about Anne, I assured him that all really good women worked too hard, and that I had been thinking perhaps a little motor would save her running about so much; would she like one as a Christmas present? Of course, Constance felt that Tom could be safely trusted for week-ends with such a parent. Besides, I never asked him questions about her (to be truthful I wasn’t interested), and I always sent back fowls, and asparagus, and hats, and other useful articles, according to the length of time she let me have him.
I know that Robert would have liked me to show a little more nice feeling about Anne; indeed, once, I was obliged to be quite frank about it. “Anne and I understand each other very well,” I told him, “and you cannot have everything. If I showed nice feeling she would not like it, and although you would be the gainer by her annoyance——”
“I don’t see that,” he interrupted. “How could I be the gainer by Anne’s annoyance?”
“Because you would be the dearer by contrast. You would say, ‘Never mind, darling, you have me.’ But please let me go on. I was going to dwell on your mercies which you do not seem to be counting. Suppose, now, that I sat about in your drawing-room with fancy-work and asked how you were going to manage about the spring cleaning. That would mean telling you at great length how I always did it and how excellent my dear husband thought the arrangement. I should add that, of course, it was for you and Anne to decide.”
“Well, I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it?” he asked foolishly.
“Not if I said it was for you to decide. That would mean that unless you allowed me to arrange it in my own way I should say that no doubt you were right; everything was so altered since my day that I could not attempt to judge. And then I should be ill for a fortnight in your house and have all my meals carried upstairs, and the servants would give notice.”
“Good Lord!” remarked Robert.