The Spoils of Poynton
Henry James
Paperback
(Independently published, July 30, 2020)
Mrs. Gereth had said she would go with the rest to church, but suddenly it seemed to herthat she should not be able to wait even till church-time for relief: breakfast, at Waterbath,was a punctual meal, and she had still nearly an hour on her hands. Knowing the church tobe near, she prepared in her room for the little rural walk, and on her way down again,passing through corridors and observing imbecilities of decoration, the æsthetic misery ofthe big commodious house, she felt a return of the tide of last night's irritation, a renewal ofeverything she could secretly suffer from ugliness and stupidity. Why did she consent tosuch contacts, why did she so rashly expose herself? She had had, heaven knew, herreasons, but the whole experience was to be sharper than she had feared. To get away fromit and out into the air, into the presence of sky and trees, flowers and birds, was a necessityof every nerve. The flowers at Waterbath would probably go wrong in color and thenightingales sing out of tune; but she remembered to have heard the place described aspossessing those advantages that are usually spoken of as natural. There were advantagesenough it clearly didn't possess. It was hard for her to believe that a woman could lookpresentable who had been kept awake for hours by the wall-paper in her room; yet nonethe less, as in her fresh widow's weeds she rustled across the hall, she was sustained by theconsciousness, which always added to the unction of her social Sundays, that she was, asusual, the only person in the house incapable of wearing in her preparation the horriblestamp of the same exceptional smartness that would be conspicuous in a grocer's wife. Shewould rather have perished than have looked endimanchée.