Mrs.March was reputed to be very cultivated,and Mr.March even more so,among the ******r folk around them.Their house had some good pictures,which her aunt had brought home from Europe in more affluent days,and it abounded in books on which he spent more than he ought.They had beautified it in every way,and had unconsciously taken credit to them selves for it.They felt,with a glow almost of virtue,how perfectly it fitted their lives and their children's,and they believed that somehow it expressed their characters--that it was like them.They went out very little;she remained shut up in its refinement,working the good of her own;and he went to his business,and hurried back to forget it,and dream his dream of intellectual achievement in the flattering atmosphere of her sympathy.He could not conceal from himself that his divided life was somewhat like Charles Lamb's,and there were times when,as he had expressed to Fulkerson,he believed that its division was favorable to the freshness of his interest in literature.It certainly kept it a high privilege,a sacred refuge.Now and then he wrote something,and got it printed after long delays,and when they met on the St.Lawrence Fulkerson had some of March's verses in his pocket-book,which he had cut out of astray newspaper and carried about for years,because they pleased his fancy so much;they formed an immediate bond of union between the men when their authorship was traced and owned,and this gave a pretty color of romance to their acquaintance.But,for the most part,March was satisfied to read.He was proud of reading critically,and he kept in the current of literary interests and controversies.It all seemed to him,and to his wife at second-hand,very meritorious;he could not help contrasting his life and its inner elegance with that of other men who had no such resources.He thought that he was not arrogant about it,because he did full justice to the good qualities of those other people;he congratulated himself upon the democratic instincts which enabled him to do this;and neither he nor his wife supposed that they were selfish persons.On the contrary,they were very sympathetic;there was no good cause that they did not wish well;they had a generous scorn of all kinds of narrow-heartedness;if it had ever come into their way to sacrifice themselves for others,they thought they would have done so,but they never asked why it had not come in their way.They were very gentle and kind,even when most elusive;and they taught their children to loathe all manner of social cruelty.March was of so watchful a conscience in some respects that he denied himself the pensive pleasure of lapsing into the melancholy of unfulfilled aspirations;but he did not see that,if he had abandoned them,it had been for what he held dearer;generally he felt as if he had turned from them with a high,altruistic aim.The practical expression of his life was that it was enough to provide well for his family;to have cultivated tastes,and to gratify them to the extent of his means;to be rather distinguished,even in the simplification of his desires.He believed,and his wife believed,that if the time ever came when he really wished to make a sacrifice to the fulfilment of the aspirations so long postponed,she would be ready to join with heart and hand.
When he went to her room from his library,where she left him the whole evening with the children,he found her before the glass thoughtfully removing the first dismantling pin from her back hair.
"I can't help feeling,"she grieved into the mirror,"that it's I who keep you from accepting that offer.I know it is!I could go West with you,or into a new country--anywhere;but New York terrifies me.I don't like New York,I never did;it disheartens and distracts me;I can't find myself in it;I shouldn't know how to shop.I know I'm foolish and narrow and provincial,"she went on,"but I could never have any inner quiet in New York;I couldn't live in the spirit there.I suppose people do.It can't,be that all these millions--'
"Oh,not so bad as that!"March interposed,laughing."There aren't quite two.""I thought there were four or five.Well,no matter.You see what I am,Basil.I'm terribly limited.I couldn't make my sympathies go round two million people;I should be wretched.I suppose I'm standing in the way of your highest interest,but I can't help it.We took each other for better or worse,and you must try to bear with me--"She broke off and began to cry.
"Stop it!"shouted March."I tell you I never cared anything for Fulkerson's scheme or entertained it seriously,and I shouldn't if he'd proposed to carry it out in Boston."This was not quite true,but in the retrospect it seemed sufficiently so for the purposes of argument.
"Don't say another word about it.The thing's over now,and I don't want to think of it any more.We couldn't change its nature if we talked all night.But I want you to understand that it isn't your limitations that are in the way.It's mine.I shouldn't have the courage to take such a place;I don't think I'm fit for it,and that's the long and short of it.""Oh,you don't know how it hurts me to have you say that,Basil."The next morning,as they sat together at breakfast,without the children,whom they let lie late on Sunday,Mrs.March said to her husband,silent over his fish-balls and baked beans:"We will go to New York.I've decided it.""Well,it takes two to decide that,"March retorted."We are not going to New York.""Yes,we are.I've thought it out.Now,listen.""Oh,I'm willing to listen,"he consented,airily.
