The Larnachs (2 page)

N
ot a mistake. When we went back to Wellington from our honeymoon in the north, more than six months ago, I did not think that I had made a mistake, but that it was going to be different from my expectation, and more difficult. But what does difficulty matter if a secure and successful partnership is achieved? Despite what the Reverend Andrew said at the wedding, marriage does not make two people one. Not even death, so much more powerful, can do that. What marriage does is to involve a woman in the life of a man, and its course can be a deepening pleasure for both, or a careful construction of boundaries, measured distances, which permit a civilised relationship. It is not necessarily one or the other, mind, like the choice of seasonal gowns for summer or winter. Some couples move between these situations, or inhabit any of a hundred stages possible between. And the advantages are not always in the
one camp — ah, yes. Every marriage is of unique construction because the partnership itself cannot be repeated.

None of my sisters is married, and Annie, closest to me, showed natural curiosity concerning the honeymoon. There was much to satisfy and amuse her, without exaggeration, but considerable experience, too, that I keep even from Annie. Fifty-seven-year-old William without his trousers is not an Adonis, but as a man of the world and twice married before, he at least lacks the gaucheness that would have caused us both more embarrassment than occurred. And although I am twenty-two years his junior, and had not slept with any man before him, I am not ignorant. He is an ardent husband and pays me many compliments. Becoming a wife has not been a physically ecstatic experience, but any such expectation was not a reason for my marriage, and my wedded friends have told me enjoyment, or at least complaisance, comes with time and repetition. Our first night together caused me discomfort no friend had warned me of, but the act is more agreeable now.

Before my marriage I had the normal curiosity regarding
lovemaking
, talked about it discreetly with women friends, especially those who were already married, but it is an embarrassing subject to pursue, lest you sound unnaturally eager. From what my mother had said, it could be assumed that the only difference between men and women is that one sex wears dresses and the other trousers, and that all children, like Jesus, are of immaculate conception. As a new bride I was uncertain what I should wear to bed, whether William would find my body attractive, what would be a decent frequency for the union, and what beyond that would seem wanton. I need not have concerned
myself. During the honeymoon, and for some months after, William was keen to take me every night and many mornings. Thereafter the act became much less regular and quite within my tolerance.

In any case, I endeavour to be a good deal more than bed partner and mistress of the house for William. I encourage him in his public life, and seek to be close confidante and supporter in all that is private and personal. And I intend to have my own social causes and interests in which I hope he will support me. Marriage to William will enable me to have influence for betterment of others that I could not hope for unwed, or linked with a lesser man.

I pay William this compliment — not once on our honeymoon did he deliberately, or as a slip, mention Eliza or Mary. It was a courtesy I appreciated. As an intelligent and caring man, he must have realised how sensitive I would be to such references until I became accustomed to my role as wife. It is not that I fear those shades, but his consideration is reassurance that he and I both look to the future, and with optimism.

As he had promised at Island Bay when he proposed, our marriage provides the opportunity for us to please ourselves concerning our pursuits, without the intrusion of others. Both of us enjoy society, but equally the chance to concentrate on each other’s true nature, and to have time for our individual privacy and particular interests. We talked a great deal, especially in the evenings spent in hotels while we were travelling. William is essentially an active and practical man, but better read than I had realised before our marriage. He has an interest in Australian and Scottish history, both places with Larnach family connections, and
his knowledge of plants and animals is greater than mine. On our walks and carriage travels in Taranaki and elsewhere, he identified many trees and smaller plants unknown to me, and pointed out differences between the flora of the two main islands. This inclination to natural history is one of the things he shares with Thomas Cahill, who is even more absorbed, and has provided rare, live birds for Dr Buller. In regard to music and literature William is happy to allow me the advantage.

Part of our honeymoon was spent in Wanganui. We stayed in the wooden hotel overlooking the wide, muddy river. I have never before seen so many Maori people. Some of the young men and women were quite striking specimens, but the older ones had aged badly and the children were uncontrolled. No one of any age seemed to have any work to do. William said that, like the Aborigines of Victoria, they have weak dispositions and many die from diseases less deadly to Europeans. He fears they might cease to exist as a separate race. There are few of the native people in Wellington, and William told me they would be even fewer in Dunedin.

William enjoys what he calls my personality summaries, and in the evenings draws me out concerning the people we have met, or been with. One evening, as we dined together in the Wanganui hotel, he asked me to create a disposition for each of the others present from their appearance alone, and burst out laughing when, after caricaturing a small man with a sore on his face, and his dowdy wife, I said that a boil on a man’s chin is more contemptible than his wickedness. Such conversation also served as a distraction from the food, which was uniformly bad in every place we stayed, apart from
the private home of the Wallaces. The vegetables were boiled to a slop, the meat served in chunks, and condiments usually nowhere to be seen. In most dining rooms the cutlery was ill matched and the china of oafish thickness. Neither was cleanliness a virtue much in evidence. I shudder to think of the condition of those kitchens we were served from, but unable to see.

We had more serious discussion also. Our marriage should be one of minds as well as bodies. I told William of the political issues my father and I had often discussed, especially those concerning education and advancement for women, and the need for more immigrants with cultivated backgrounds to act as a leaven in the lumpen colonial population. William was surprised, I think, when during our trip back to Wellington on a very wet day, I pressed him for his political manifesto, but in his answer rose to it admirably. Above all he strives for a society in which talent and industry are recognised and rewarded, and not impeded by the outdated conformities and class distinctions of the old country. In essence, I suppose, he wishes for others to have the opportunities of which he has taken full advantage. He is not one for much regulation in commerce, or life, and trusts to character and practical good sense. ‘I believe in the power of enterprise and goodwill, and in having a pretty and gifted wife,’ he said, and kissed my cheek as the carriage swayed, and rain gusted onto the window. What bride denies such flattery is welcome?

It is quite different in the world when you are married: even more so than I imagined. With a husband I can do things and go to places denied me as a spinster, and I find I am treated in a different
way by both tradespeople and society. I am paid attention, partly because William is a man of means, and notable as well. There are more subtle distinctions too. Women expect a shift of conversation once you are wedded, the range of acceptable topics broadens, and the attitude of men also changes. They eye you less, or at least less obviously. A woman who marries to advantage, but retains independence of opinion, is given respect by both sexes.

The evident pride that William takes in introducing me is flattering, but more importantly it is a sign of the value he gives our marriage. I stand well with him, and there is no reason we should not be good for one another and happy together. A woman alone is always at a disadvantage, and usually the subject of unexpressed pity, even if it be her own choice.

I like to amuse him. Because he is so often at the centre of any society, he is apt to miss those spontaneous nuances of behaviour, or expression, that best represent a person’s true feelings. In this he and I are typical of our sex, I think. Men seek to impose themselves, and concentrate on their own performance; women have the habit of observation, and are sensitive to the response of others. How often Annie and I exchange glances in company, complicit in some amusing, or poignant, observation to which the men present are quite oblivious.

William tells me that often he sees acquaintances in quite a different light after hearing my opinion of them. Like obsequious Mr Bulte the shipping agent, to whose house we were invited on several occasions. He did his best to entertain and flatter us, arrange the delivery of fine wines, yet he spits on the pavement and speaks
to his subdued wife cuttingly when he thinks they are alone. ‘You know nothing at all about anything, you stupid woman,’ I heard him say while waiting behind the carriage. I made sure there were no more visits. I will not be in the company of a man who talks to his wife, or any woman, in that manner. William was at first taken aback that I should be adamant in excluding a particular person from our house or company. He is accustomed to making those decisions. But when I put forward my reasons, he agreed with me.

‘I can see you intend to be the very modern and equal wife,’ he said, ‘even conscience for us both perhaps, and I love you all the more for it. I too hate cruelty and malice.’

In the main, those first few months in Wellington were both happy and busy. William is gregarious by nature, as a young man sometimes uproariously so according to his friends and family. He doesn’t touch liquor now. I think this is because of Mary’s bouts of drunkenness, though we do not talk of that, or her. He likes people about him, and to be at the centre of the group. We were much in society in Wellington, and enjoyed the purchase and fitting out of our new house in Molesworth Street. William would have made all the decisions down to the last stool, curtain cord and doily, I think, had I not asserted myself, but he accepted with good grace my right to have opinion on everything within the home, especially once he realised from the comments of others that my taste was appreciated. Had I not taken responsibility for the furnishings, I fear that the rooms would have been stocked with unwieldy leather-buttoned chairs and settees such as he is familiar with from clubs and public sitting rooms — of the best quality admittedly, but not at all what I was after.

In the interviews to find servants, I took the initiative also. Molly decided to come with me from my home, even though I told her she would not be housekeeper. She is a steady young woman, and not one to tittle-tattle about the lives of her betters. I like her, and to have someone familiar to me in the new house has made transition easier. Of the other people we shall see, but Cook has been recommended by my friend Doris Johnston’s family, and so far has pleased us all.

William was considerate and attentive to me, despite his obligations as chairman of the royal commission investigating the Public Trust Office, and the continuing concern for his investments as hard times come to the country. His defeat at the elections last year does not appear to bother him and he says that public service has always been to the detriment of his financial dealings. Business is very important to him, but it is the one significant concern he has in which I have little aptitude, and less interest, apart from running an efficient household. In all public issues on the other hand, I ensure I am fully informed, and able to debate them with William, or anybody else, no matter what their station.

When in Wellington we saw many friends, and both the Wards and Seddons are frequent visitors to Molesworth Street: the Seddons, in fact, are our neighbours. Joseph and Richard consider themselves connoisseurs of a dinner and the latter is very fond of euchre. I am expected to play the piano, with the others gathered about me afterwards to sing. Louisa Seddon is Australian born, a strong-looking woman who wears heavily patterned dresses and has given up a waist. She has a deal of perception and awareness
of political issues, but has been kept from much involvement and making the most of herself by having a family of six daughters and three sons. I think she imagines I will follow suit. Even without so many children, I doubt if Seddon would encourage her to be active in politics. He is more conservative than William, or my late father, in his view of a wife’s role. Ballance, the premier, is not a well man, and William says Seddon is now the driving force.

Joseph Ward is about my own age, and we have a good deal in common. He is very much the coming man. His wife Theresa, who is a decade younger, could pass for the daughter of William or Seddon. I wonder what she makes of them? She is tall, elegant and favours large, splendid hats. Although perfectly correct and agreeable company, she is not yet a confidante for me.

Thomas Cahill remains William’s closest companion, and was often with us in Wellington. He is a handsome man with an easy and obliging manner. I like him. He is lively and interesting to talk to, but I see also that there is a certain calculation in his cultivation of William and other people of influence, and he receives significant official appointments. Because of his profession he is often called upon to attend the most bizarre and horrific deaths. This keeps his name in the papers, and also provides the stories on which he dines out. But he is no bore, and takes a sincere interest in the lives of his friends — unlike some who use them only as a sounding board for their own concerns. Thomas is also musical and well read, and has a fund of social gossip from his wide acquaintanceship for which he expects me, as a woman, to be avid. We enjoy our frequent talks, but, I feel, share a slight wariness of each other’s intelligence. As he
is so close to William, it is important that I have him as my friend.