PARADOX

Evening Star, Issue 22086, 20 July 1935, Page 2

PARADOX

[Written by Mary Scott, for the ‘Evening Star.’]

Into oar staid and placid circle a bomb has lately fallen, with the disconcerting result that we are almost inclined to doubt the infallibility of our own judgment. There have been two domestic upheavals, two husbands turned unexpectedly and reprehensibly gay; in short, we might almost be living ’in .Hollywood. Personally, I don’t for a moment believe that either of them has done anything really wrong; boys notoriously will be boys, , particularly in the fifties. With the details of their misdeeds 1 am not particularly interested; it was the reactions thereto of their respective wives that absorbed me. Human nature is so full of paradox that some-times-its behaviour reads almost like an “0. Henry” story. In this case each woman’s behaviour was exactly contrary to what her friends declared they would have expected; nevertheless, they acted in a manner that bore out a pet and private theory of my own, End necessarily in my eyes were therefore entirely in character. The one wife is a merry, talkative little person, friendly with everyone, almost indecently frank about such mysterious secrets as her own age, her ancestry—which she never claims to be anything but humble —and the state of her bank balance. “ A ,is a nice little thing, but she talks too much,” all her friends have been, in the. habit of saying. “ A little reserve and dignity is so much more becoming in a woman Look at dear B, for example.” Well, we have not only looked at B, but for the last month we have listened to her, and always with increasing perplexity. For B is the other injured wife, and she has been so long a pattern of all the virtues that it seemed a sorry trick of fate that could place her private life thus in the limelight. She is not a talker, rather is there about her a somewhat ostentatious reserve, amounting almost to a sacred mystery. She never tells you the price of her new hat, all her domestic arrangements are shrouded in a splendid remoteness, and her ancestors vaguely and loftily referred to as splendid and eminent personages. She has poise and dignity and a somewhat overwhelming air of importance to which we have long subscribed. That she should bo suddenly placed in the somewhat ridiculous situation of a wronged wife—■ wronged at least by gossip if not by fact—has seemed an outrage to all her admirers. . More incredible still has been the way she has behaved. She, for so long the model of all the reticent virtues, has suddenly become amazingly and distressingly vocal. She has confided in us all, has said, things which have confused us by their intimate revelations, has in short become the Christian martyr of the whole town. It has all been very unpleasant and disturbing, for who likes a cherished tradition suddenly to fail and prove a fallacy ? Nor is that all. Still reeling from B’s amazing confidences, we went to sympathise, though, of course, more reservedly, with little A. We would listen to her, dry her tears, _ console her to the best of our abilities; nor would it prove difficult, for a nature as light as A’s would easily be distracted. Nevertheless, we felt a certain reluctance, for if .B, naturally so t reticent and dignified, has under this strain suddenly become disturbingly confidential and terrifyingly diffuse, what were wo to expect of A, who had never at the best, of times had “ any decent reserve ” ? And then the second blow fell. , ' For A would have none of our sympathy. Not that she took an heroic stand about her trouble; she simply appeared to be unaware that she had one, although the whole miserable business was public property. She insisted on regarding our visits as purely social, and any attempt to approach the subject of her misfortune was skilfully foiled. Or was it skill? Could poor little A” really be clever? Surely not.- It was a most perplexing business, for it < really seemed as if we had been _ mistaken in her character all the time. We waited for her to melt into becoming tears, but she evinced no slightest desire for a bosom on which to lean, no longing for a sympathetic ear open to her lamentations. And yet she was very pale, and there was a curious strain about her eyes and mouth. Wo found ourselves watching that while she babbled unconcernedly of everything under the sun, except anything remotedly private or personal; any approach to this and she blandly and apparently unconcernedly changed the subject. To our .amazement and secret chagrin we saw her entrenched in a reserve all the more baffling because it was impalpable. When we had left her we found ourselves assailed by nagging doubts. This husband of hers had made no sudden and startling lapse; it appeared that A, always so gay and frivolous to the outer world, had borne much. Yet she had never spoken to anyone of her troubles, had chattered gaily of every little unimportant thing, and hidden this sorrow in her heart. Was it possible that we had been mistaken all the time; that A had a reserve far deeper and more unassailable than the reticent B? The town was aghast. Yet was it all so very surprising? Is it not a strange and pavdoxical truth that the people who appear “ light,” talkative, open as the clay, are often those who in reality have entrenched their souls within a precious wall of reserve? In my experience it has often proved so. The most potent of all defences, after all, is not the high, conspicuous watch-tower, but the deliberately inconspicuous camouflaging of the secret spot. If you wish to bo trulv reserved, untouched, and untouchable in that part of your heart and vonr life that is sacred to yon, yom- best conrSe is to appear to be open and ready to confide all your little unimportant affairs to one and another. Then no one will dream that yon may have a real sorrow to hide. If you appear transparent as glass no one will think of searching behind that blandly clear exterior. Your friends will not want to probe because “•poor dear A is obviously all on the surface”; she is so willing to tell ns anything—anything hut what really is precious" to her. Personally, I am inclined to doubt the reserve which is conspicuous, as I do the dignity that requires assertion and upholding. These things should not leap to the eye; they should be taken for granted and scarcely noticed. In real trouble kindness and sympathy can prove intrusive. It is best for .some of us to say “ My dismal scenes I needs must act alone.” Our joys, our mistakes, cur humorous inconsistencies may well he broadcast in this dull old world; there is sorrow enough without our adding to it. More, wc lose by such confidences something that is inorc precious to the innately reserved than all the sympathy and help in the world. But appear to have nothing to confide, and you are forever safe. Be garrulously frank, and you may bo deep as the sea. Be inconsequontly confidential, and the

psychologists will leave you alone; wear your heart on your sleeve and no one will have the least desire -to probe it.