“No, indeed,” said the Average Woman. “That bit beyond the mignonette seems rather empty. What are you going to put in there?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said.
“I don’t know,” remarked Thalia combatively, “when there are so many beautiful things in the world, why you should discriminate in favour of nothing.”
“Yes, why?” said the Average Woman.
“Well,” I replied defiantly, “that’s my spare bedroom. You’ve got to have somewhere to put people. I don’t like the feeling that every border is fully occupied and not a square inch available for any one coming up late in the season.”
You can see that Thalia considers that while we are respected for our virtues our weaknesses enable us to enjoy ourselves. She accepts them as an integral and intentional part of us and from some of them she even extracts a contemplative pleasure. The Average Woman looks down upon such things and I did not dare to encounter her glance of reserved misunderstanding.
Thalia smiled. I felt warmed and approved. “Alas!” said she, “my garden is all spare bedrooms.” She lives, poor dear, on the other side of the Jakko and has to wait till September for her summer. “I see you keep it aired and ready.”
As a matter of fact Atma had freshly turned the earth. I hold to that in the garden; it seems to me a parallel to good housekeeping. The new-dug mould makes a most enhancing background; and an empty bed, if it is only freshly made, offers the mind as much pleasure as a gay parterre. It is the sense, I suppose, of effort expended and care taken, and above all it is a stretch of the possible, a vista beyond the realized present which is as valuable in a garden as it is in life. Oh no, not as valuable. In life it is the most precious thing, and it is sparingly accorded. Thalia has it, I know, but I looked at the Average Woman in doubt. Thalia, whatever else she does, will have high comedy always for her portion, and who can tell in what scenes she will play or at what premières she will assist? But the Average Woman,—can one not guess at the end of ten years what she will be talking about, what she will have experienced, what she will have done? I looked at the Average Woman and wondered. She was explaining to Thalia the qualities of milk tea. I decided that she was probably happier than Thalia, and that there was no need whatever to be sorry for her. She stayed a long time; I think she enjoyed herself; and when she went away of course we talked about her.
We spoke in a vein of criticism, and I was surprised to learn that the thing about the Average Woman to which Thalia took most exception was her husband. I had always found the poor patient creatures entirely supportable, and I said so. “Oh, yes,” replied Thalia impatiently, “in themselves they’re well enough. But didn’t you hear her? ‘George adores you in “Lady Thermidore.”’ Now that annoys me.”
“Does it?” said I. “Why shouldn’t George adore you in Lady Thermidore if he wants to, especially if he tells his wife?”