“No, and he makes so much of it. He says I do not properly enjoy a thing if I cannot in some measure describe my enjoyment—articulate it, to use his own words.”
He had inwardly taunted her, even when she was suffering, and had said to himself that her trouble must be insignificant, for there was no colour nor vivacity in her description of it. She did not properly even understand his own shortcomings. He could pardon her criticism, so he imagined, if she could be pungent. Mistaken mortal! it was her patient heroism which made her dumb to him about her sorrows and his faults. A very limited vocabulary is all that is necessary on such topics.
“I am just the same.”
“Oh, no, you are not; Mr. Cardew says you are not.”
“Mr. Cardew?—he has not noticed anything in me, I am certain, and if he has, why nobody could be less able to talk to him than I am.”
Catharine knew nothing of what had passed between husband and wife—one scene amongst many—and consequently could not understand the peculiar earnestness, somewhat unusual with her, with which Mrs. Cardew dwelt upon this subject. We lead our lives apart in close company, with private hopes and fears unknown to anybody but ourselves, and when we go abroad we often appear inexplicable and absurd, simply because our friends have not the proper key.
“Do you think, Catharine—you know that, though I am older than you and married, I feel we are friends.” Here Mrs. Cardew took Catharine’s hand in hers. “Do you think I could learn how to talk? What I mean is, could I be taught how to say what is appropriate? I do feel something when Mr. Cardew reads Milton to me. It is only the words I want—words such as you have.”
“Oh, Mrs. Cardew!”—Catharine came closer to her, and Mrs. Cardew’s arm crept round her waist—“I tell you again I have not so many words as you suppose. I believe, though, that if people take pains they can find them.”
“Couldn’t you help me?”
“I? Oh, no! Mr. Cardew could. I never heard anybody express himself as he does.”