完整word版,Unit 6 Mrriage全新版大学英语综合教程五课文翻译

Unit 6 Mrriage
Text A The Legacy
1 'For Sissy Miller.' Gilbert Clandon, taking up the pearl brooch that lay among a litter of rings and brooches on a little table in his wife's drawing-room, read the inscription: 'For Sissy Miller, with my love.'
2 It was like Angela to have remembered even Sissy Miller, her secretary. Yet how strange it was, Gilbert Clandon thought once more, that she had left everything in such order — a little gift of some sort for every one of her friends. It was as if she had foreseen her death. Yet she had been in perfect health when she left the house that morning, six weeks ago; when she stepped off the kerb in Piccadilly and the car had killed her.
3 He was waiting for Sissy Miller. He had asked her to come; he owed her, he felt, after all the years she had been with them, this token of consideration. Yes, he went on, as he sat there waiting, it was strange that Angela had left everything in such order. Every friend had been left some little token of her affection. Every ring, every necklace, every little Chinese box —she had a passion for little boxes —had a name on it. To him, of course, she had left nothing in particular, unless it were her diary. Fifteen little volumes, bound in green leather, stood behind him on her writing table. Ever since they were married, she had kept a diary. Some of their very few — he could not call them quarrels, say tiffs — had been about that diary. When he came in and found her writing, she always shut it or put her hand over it. 'No, no, no,' he could hear her say, 'After I'm dead —perhaps.' So she had left it him, as her legacy. It was the only thing they had not shared when she was alive. But he had always taken it for granted that she would outlive him. If only she had stopped one moment, and had thought what she was doing, she would be alive now. But she had stepped straight off the kerb, the driver of the car had said at the inquest. She had given him no chance to pull up...Here the sound of voices in the hall interrupted him.
4 'Miss Miller, Sir,' said the maid.
5 She came in. She was terribly distressed, and no wonder. Angela had been much more to her than an employer. She had been a friend. To himself, he thought, as he pushed a chair for her and asked her to sit down, she was scarcely distinguishable from any other woman of her kind. There were thousands of Sissy Millers — drab little women in black carrying attaché cases. But Angela, with her genius for sympathy, had discovered all sorts of qualities in Sissy Miller. She was the soul of discretion, so silent, so trustworthy, one could tell her anything, and so on.
6 Miss Miller could not speak at first. She sat there dabbing her eyes with her pocket
handkerchief. Then she made an effort.
7 'Pardon me, Mr Clandon,' she said.
8 He murmured. Of course he understood. It was only natural. He could guess what his wife had meant to her.
9 'I've been so happy here,' she said, looking round. Her eyes rested on the writing table behind him. It was here they had worked — she and Angela. For Angela had her share of the duties that fall to the lot of the wife of a prominent politician, she had been the greatest help to him in his career. He had often seen her and Sissy sitting at that table —Sissy at the typewriter, taking down letters from her dictation. No doubt Miss Miller was thinking of that, too. Now all he had to do was to give her the brooch his wife had left her.
A rather incongruous gift it seemed. It might have been better to have left her a sum of money. Or even the typewriter. But there it was — 'For Sissy Miller, with my love.' And, taking the brooch, he gave it her with the little speech that he had prepared. He knew, he said, that she would value it. His wife had often worn it... And she replied, as she took it, almost as if she too had prepared a speech, that it would always be a treasured possession. ... She had, he supposed, other clothes upon which a pearl brooch would not look quite so incongruous. She was wearing the little black coat and skirt that seemed the uniform of her profession. Then he remembered — she was in mourning, of course. She too had had her tragedy — a brother, to whom she was devoted, had died only a week or two before Angela. In some accident, was it? He could remember only Angela telling him; Angela, with her genius for sympathy, had been terribly upset. Meanwhile Sissy Miller had risen. She was putting on her gloves. Evidently she felt that she ought not to intrude. But he could not let her go without saying something about her future. And so he added, as he pressed her hand. 'Remember, Miss Miller, if there's any way in which I can help you, it will be a pleasure....' Then he opened the door. For a moment, on the threshold, as if a sudden thought had struck her, she stopped.
10 'Mr Clandon,' she said, looking straight at him for the first time, and for the first time he was struck by the expression, sympathetic yet searching, in her eyes. 'If at any time,' she was saying, 'there's anything I can do to help you, remember, I shall feel it, for your wife's sake, a pleasure....'
11 With that she was gone. Her words and the look that went with them were unexpected. It was almost as if she believed, or hoped, that he would have need of her. A curious, perhaps a fantastic idea occurred to him as he returned to his chair. Could it be, that during all those years when he had scarcely noticed her, she, as the novelists say, had entertained a passion for him? He caught his own reflection in the glass as he passed. He
was over fifty; but he could not help admitting that he was still, as the looking-glass showed him, a very distinguished-looking man.
12 'Poor Sissy Miller!' he said, half laughing. How he would have liked to share that joke with his wife! He turned instinctively to her diary. 'Gilbert, ' he read, opening it at random, 'looked so wonderful....' It was as if she had answered his question. Of course, she seemed to say, you're very attractive to women. Of course Sissy Miller felt that too. He read on. 'How proud I am to be his wife!' And he had always been very proud to be her husband. How often when they dined out somewhere he had looked at her across the table and said to himself. She is the loveliest woman here! He read on. That first year he had been standing for Parliament . They had toured his constituency. 'When Gilbert sat down the applause was terrific. The whole audience rose and sang: "For he's a jolly good fellow." I was quite overcome.' He remembered that, too. She had been sitting on the platform beside him. He could still see the glance she cast at him, and how she had tears in her eyes. He read on rapidly, filling in scene after scene from her scrappy fragments. 'Dined at the House of Commons.... To an evening party at the Lovegroves. Did I realize my responsibility, Lady L. asked me, as Gilbert's wife?' Then as the years passed —he took another volume from the writing table — he had become more and more absorbed in his work. And she, of course, was more often alone. It had been a great grief to her, apparently, that they had had no children. 'How I wish,' one entry read, 'that Gilbert had a son!' Oddly enough he had never much regretted that himself. Life had been so full, so rich as it was. That year he had been given a minor post in the government. A minor post only, but her comment was: 'I am quite certain now that he will be Prime Minister!' Well, if things had gone differently, it might have been so. He paused here to speculate upon what might have been. Politics was a gamble, he reflected; but the game wasn't over yet. Not at fifty. He cast his eyes rapidly over more pages, full of the little trifles, the insignificant, happy, daily trifles that had made up her life.
13 He took up another volume and opened it at random. 'What a coward I am! I let the chance slip again. But it seemed selfish to bother him about my own affairs, when he has so much to think about. And we so seldom have an evening alone.' What was the meaning of that? Oh here was the explanation — it referred to her work in the East End. 'I plucked up courage and talked to Gilbert at last. He was so kind, so good. He made no objection.' He remembered that conversation. She had told him that she felt so idle, so useless. She wished to have some work of her own. She wanted to do something — she had blushed so prettily, he remembered, as she said it sitting in that very chair — to help others. So every Wednesday she went to Whitechapel. He remembered how he hated the clothes she wore
on those occasions. But she had taken it very seriously it seemed. The diary was full of references like this: 'Saw Mrs Jones.... She has ten children.... Husband lost his arm in an accident. ... Did my best to find a job for Lily.' He skipped on. His own name occurred less frequently. His interest slackened. Some of the entries conveyed nothing to him. For example: 'Had a heated argument about socialism with B. M.' Who was B. M.? He could not fill in the initials; some woman, he supposed, that she had met on one of her committees. 'B. M. made a violent attack upon the upper classes... . I walked back after the meeting with B. M. and tried to convince him. But he is so narrow-minded.' So B. M. was a man —no doubt one of those 'intellectuals' as they call themselves, who are so violent, as Angela said, and so narrow-minded. She had invited him to come and see her apparently. 'B. M. came to dinner. He shook hands with Minnie!' That note of exclamation gave another twist to his mental picture. B. M., it seemed, wasn't used to parlour-maids: he had shaken hands with Minnie. Presumably he was one of those tame workingmen who air their views in ladies' drawing-rooms. Gilbert knew the type, and had no liking for this particular specimen, whoever B. M. might be. Here he was again. 'Went with B. M. to the Tower of London.... He said revolution is bound to come. ... He said we live in a Fool's paradise.' That was just the kind of thing B. M. would say — Gilbert could hear him. He could also see him quite distinctly — a stubby little man, with a rough beard, red tie, dressed as they always did in tweeds, who had never done an honest day's work in his life. Surely Angela had the sense to see through him? He read on. 'B. M. said some very disagreeable things about. ...' The name was carefully scratched out. 'I would not listen to any more abuse of. ...' Again the name was obliterated. Could it have been his own name? Was that why Angela covered the page so quickly when he came in? The thought added to his growing dislike of B. M. He had had the impertinence to discuss him in this very room. Why had Angela never told him? It was very unlike her to conceal anything; she had been the soul of candour. He turned the pages, picking out every reference to B. M. 'B. M. told me the story of his childhood. His mother went out charring.... When I think of it, I can hardly bear to go on living in such luxury.... Three guineas for one hat! ' If only she had discussed the matter with him, instead of puzzling her poor little head about questions that were much too difficult for her to understand! He had lent her books. Karl Marx. 'The Coming Revolution.' The initials B. M., B. M., B. M., recurred repeatedly. But why never the full name? He read on. 'B. M. came unexpectedly after dinner. Luckily, I was alone.' That was only a year ago. 'Luckily' — why luckily? —'I was alone.' Where had he been that night? He checked the date in his engagement book. It had been the night of the Mansion House dinner. And B. M. and
Angela had spent the evening alone! He tried to recall that evening. Was she waiting up for him when he came back? Had the room looked just as usual? Were there glasses on the table? Were the chairs drawn close together? He could remember nothing — nothing whatever. It became more and more inexplicable to him — the whole situation: his wife receiving an unknown man alone. Perhaps the next volume would explain. Hastily he reached for the last of the diaries — the one she had left unfinished when she died. There on the very first page was that cursed fellow again. 'Dined alone with B. M.... He became very agitated. He said it was time we understood each other.... I tried to make him listen. But he would not. He threatened that if I did not...' the rest of the page was scored over. He could not make out a single word; but there could be only one interpretation: the scoundrel had asked her to become his mistress. Alone in his room! The blood rushed to Gilbert Clandon's face. He turned the pages rapidly. What had been her answer? Initials had ceased. It was simply 'he' now. 'He came again. I told him I could not come to any decision.... I implored him to leave me.' He had forced himself upon her in this very house? But why hadn't she told him? How could she have hesitated for an instant? Then: 'I wrote him a letter.' Then pages were left blank. Then there was this: 'No answer to my letter.' Then more blank pages: and then this: 'He has done what he threatened.' After that — what came after that? He turned page after page. All were blank. But there, on the very day before her death, was this entry: 'Have I the courage to do it too?' That was the end.
14 Gilbert Clandon let the book slide to the floor. He could see her in front of him. She was standing on the kerb in Piccadilly. Her eyes stared; her fists were clenched. Here came the car...
15 He could not bear it. He must know the truth. He strode to the telephone.
16 'Miss Miller!' There was silence. Then he heard someone moving in the room.
17 'Sissy Miller speaking' — her voice at last answered him.
18 'Who,' he thundered, 'is B. M.?'
19 He could hear the cheap clock ticking on her mantelpiece: then a long drawn sigh. Then at last she said:
20 'He was my brother.'
21 He was her brother; her brother who had killed himself.
22 'Is there,' he heard Sissy Miller asking, 'anything that I can explain?'
23 'Nothing!' he cried. 'Nothing!'
24 He had received his legacy. She had told him the truth. She had stepped off the kerb to rejoin her lover. She had stepped off the kerb to escape from him.
遗赠物
弗吉妮娅·伍尔芙
“给西瑟·米勒。

”吉尔伯特·克兰登拿起放在太太客厅小桌子上那一堆戒指和胸针中的那枚珍珠胸针，念着上面的字：“给西瑟·米勒，谨致爱意。

”
她连自己的秘书西瑟·米勒都记在心里，安吉拉就是这样的人。

可多奇怪，吉尔伯特·克兰登又一次想着，她居然把一切都安排得那么井然有序——每一位朋友都有一件小小的礼物。

似乎她预见到了自己的死。

可是，六个星期前，她在那天上午离家时身体很好, 正当她走下皮卡迪利大街的人行道时，一辆汽车把她撞死。

他在等西瑟·米勒。

他请她来的。

他觉得她与他们夫妇俩相处了那么多年，自己应当以这种方式表示关心。

真的，他坐在那儿等着，心里还在想，安吉拉把一切安排得这么井然有序，是很奇怪。

每个朋友都得到一份代表她的情谊的小小礼物。

每一枚戒指，每一串项链，每一个小巧的中国盒——她对小巧的盒子情有独钟——都有个名字附在上面。

当然，她没给他留下什么特别的物品，除非是她的那些日记。

15本小本子，用绿色皮面装帧，全都摆放在他身后的书桌上。

婚后她就开始记日记了。

两人偶有的——称不上争吵，只能说是别扭——都是为了这些日记。

每当他走进房间看到她在写，她总是合上本子，或用手按着。

“不，不行，不行，”他会听到她说，“也许，等我死后吧。

”就这样，她把日记作为遗物留给了他。

这是她生前夫妇俩惟一不曾共同拥有的东西。

不过他一直认为自己一定会先走。

只要她停顿片刻，想一想自己在干什么，此刻她就依然在这世上。

可她径直走下人行道，在接受调查时那位驾车者这么说。

她令他措手不及……就在这时，大厅里的说话声打断了他的思绪。

“米勒小姐来了，先生，”女仆说。

她走了进来。

她极为悲伤，这也难怪。

安吉拉不仅仅是她的雇主。

还是她的朋友。

在他自己看来，他一边暗自想着，一边为她拉过一张椅子，请她坐下，她和所有像她这种身份的人几乎没有什么区别。

有成千上万个西瑟?米勒——毫无情趣的小妇人，身穿缁衣，手提公文包。

可天生会同情人的安吉拉在西瑟?米勒身上发现了种种优良品质。

她十分谨慎，守口如瓶，值得信任，你什么话都可以对她说，等等。

米勒小姐开始时说不出话来。

她坐在那儿用手帕轻拭眼睛。

接着她定了定神。

“请原谅，克兰登先生，”她说。

他含糊应了一声。

他当然明白。

这太自然了。

他想像得出妻子对她意味着什么。

“我在这里一向非常愉快，”她说着，环顾四周。

她的目光落在他身后的书桌上。

她俩就是在这里工作的——她和安吉拉。

因为安吉拉肩负着政要夫人应该承担的各种责任，在他的政治生涯中她给了他极大的帮助。

他经常看见她和西瑟坐在这张书桌旁——西瑟把她口授的信件用打字机打出。

不用说，米勒小姐也在想这些往事。

现在他所要做的就是把太太留给她的胸针交给她。

这件礼物似乎不太合适。

还不如给她一笔钱呢。

即便那台打字机也更合适些。

可是礼物早已安排好了——“给西瑟?米勒，谨致爱意。

”他拿着胸针，交给她时讲了几
句事先想好的话。

他深知，他说，她会珍惜这枚胸针。

他夫人生前经常佩戴它……她接过胸针时回答说，简直也像事先准备过似的，它永远是件珍爱之物……他猜想她有别的跟这枚珍珠胸针更相配的衣服。

她身上穿着黑衣黑裙，像是她那种职业的人穿的制服。

他随即想起，她是穿着丧服，没错。

她自己也遇到了伤心事——她一向爱着的一位兄弟，在安吉拉之前的一两个星期去世了。

好像是什么意外？他只记得安吉拉跟自己说过；天生会同情人的安吉拉为此非常难过。

他这么想着时西瑟?米勒已经站了起来。

她正在戴手套。

显然她觉得自己不该打扰。

可是，他不能对她的将来不表示一下关心就让她走。

于是他一边说，一边紧紧握着她的手。

“请记住，米勒小姐，若需帮助尽管开口，本人定当效劳……”说着，他打开门。

刹那间，她似乎突然想到了什么，在门口停了下来。

“克兰登先生，”她说，目光第一次直视着他，他第一次为她的眼神暗暗吃惊，既流露出同情又十分锐利。

“如果什么时候，”她说道，“有什么事我能帮上忙，请记住，为了夫人，我会很高兴为您效劳……”
说完她走了。

她的话，还有说话时的神态真是出乎意料。

就好像她以为，或者希望，自己会需要她。

他坐回到椅子里时，产生了一个离奇的，甚或是荒唐的念头。

会不会，那么多年来，虽然自己很少注意过她，她却像那些小说家写的那样对自己暗生情愫？他走过镜子时瞄了一眼镜子中的自己。

他已经年过半百，可他不得不承认，自己依旧仪表堂堂，就像刚才镜子里看到的那样。

“可怜的西瑟?米勒!”他说着，微微一笑。

他多想能把这件趣事讲给太太听!他下意识地取过她的日记。

“吉尔伯特，”他信手翻开来读道，“看上去真英俊……”简直就像是她回答了自己的问题。

没错，她仿佛在说，你让女人着迷。

当然，西瑟?米勒也有同感。

他接着读下去。

“成为他的太太我感到太荣幸了!”而他也一向以做她的丈夫为荣。

多少次，两人外出就餐，他望着对座的她，暗自说。

这儿数她最楚楚动人。

他接着读。

婚后第一年他竞选议员。

两人一起在选区访问。

“吉尔伯特坐下时，掌声雷动。

听众全体起立，高唱着：‘他是个大好人。

’我感动万分。

”他也记起了这事。

她和自己并肩坐在台上。

他仍记得她向自己投来的目光，记得她两眼噙着泪水。

他快速读下去，她那些零乱的片断一幕幕涌入他的脑海。

“在下议院就餐……前往洛夫格罗夫府参加晚会。

作为吉尔伯特的太太，洛夫格罗夫夫人问我，我可曾意识到身负的责任？”光阴一年年逝去——他从书桌上取过另一本日记簿——他越来越专注于工作。

而她，独处的时间自然也越来越多。

他俩没孩子，显然她对此深感悲伤。

“我多希望，”有一天的日记里写着，“吉尔伯特有个儿子!”奇怪的是，他本人从不怎么以此为憾事。

生活那么丰富，那么充实，的确如此。

那年派给了他一个无足轻重的政府中的职务。

一个小职位而已，可她的评论竟然是：“现在我相信他会当上首相!”嗯，如果情况朝另外的方向发展，或许果真如此了。

他略略停顿，思忖着事情的进展或许会如何不同。

政治就是一场赌博，他想；可这游戏还没完呢。

年方五十还有机会。

他目光飞快地掠过一页又一页日记，都是些琐碎小事，那些构成她生活的无关紧要的快乐琐事。

他又取过一本，信手翻开。

“我真是个懦夫!我又让机会溜走了。

可是，他有那么多事要
考虑，而我却用自己的事去打搅他，而且我俩很少有机会单独在一起度过一个夜晚，这未免太自私了。

”这话是什么意思？哦这里有说明——指的是她在伦敦东区的工作。

“我鼓起勇气，终于跟吉尔伯特谈了。

他真好，太好了。

他一点也不反对。

”他记起了那次谈话。

她跟他说她觉得无所事事，像个废物。

她希望能做点事。

她想做些什么——她涨红着脸，那么可爱，他回想起来了，她说话时就坐在那张椅子里——去帮助别人。

于是，她每星期三去怀特查普尔。

他回想起来，自己是多么讨厌她去那儿时的穿戴。

可看来她还真把这当一回事。

日记里提到的全是这类事：“见到琼斯太太……她有十个孩子……丈夫在事故中失去了一条手臂……尽我的努力给莉莉找了个工作。

”他快速浏览着。

自己的名字出现得少了。

他的兴趣也不大了。

有些记载他读了觉得莫名其妙。

比如：“与 B.M.就社会主义展开了激烈争论。

”谁是B.M.？他光看首字母猜不出来；是某位女士，他猜想，是她在某个委员会里认识的。

“B.M.对上层社会大加抨击……会后我和B.M.一起步行回来，我想说服他。

可他思想褊狭。

”就是说B.M.是个男的——肯定就是自称“知识分子”的那类人，言词非常激烈，就像安吉拉说的那样，而且思想十分褊狭。

显然是她邀请他来访。

“B.M.前来赴宴。

他竟然与明妮握手!”这句话的惊叹语气使他对此人的印象更糟了。

B.M.可能没见识过客厅女仆：他竟然与明妮握了手。

大概他是那种听使唤的工人，在夫人小姐的起居室里发表自己的看法。

吉尔伯特见识过那种人，且不论这位B.M.究竟是何许人，他对这人全无好感。

又写到这人。

“和B.M.一起去伦敦塔……他说革命必将来临……他说我们陶醉在虚无缥缈的乐境之中。

”这是 B.M.常说的那种话——吉尔伯特完全料得到。

他还能清楚地看到他的样子——一个矮矮胖胖的小男人，胡子拉茬，系着红色领带，穿着他们这种人天天穿的粗花呢衣服，一辈子从没干过一天正经活儿。

安吉拉总该有头脑看穿这种人吧？他往下读。

“B.M.说了些很难听的话，是有关……”名字被小心翼翼地划掉了。

“我再也不想听这些对……的诋毁之词了。

”名字又被划掉了。

会不会是他自己的名字？会不会就为这个安吉拉在他进来时急急忙忙地把本子遮住？这一想法越发加深了他对B.M.的厌恶。

他如此放肆，竟然就在这个房间里议论起他来了。

可安吉拉怎么从没跟自己说起呢？她才不会对他隐瞒什么呢；她是直率诚恳的化身。

他一页页翻着，找出提及B.M.的文句。

“B.M.跟我讲了他童年的事。

他母亲到别人家里干杂活……想到这一点，我真不愿继续过如此奢侈的生活……一顶帽子就花去三几尼!”她只要跟自己谈谈这事就好了，用不着让她那可怜的小脑袋为这种她理解不了的事而烦恼嘛!他借书给她看。

卡尔?马克思。

《即将来临的革命》。

B.M.，B.M.，B.M.的缩写一再重复出现。

可为什么不用全名呢？他往下读。

“晚餐后B.M.未经邀请自己来了。

幸好我一人在家。

”那不过是一年前的事。

“幸好”——为什么幸好？——“我一人在家。

”自己那天晚上去哪里了？他查了查约会簿里的日期。

那个晚上是去市长官邸赴宴。

B.M.和安吉拉那天晚上单独在一起!他试图回忆那晚的情形。

他回家时她有没有在等他？屋子里看上去跟平时一样吗？桌上有没有杯子？椅子有没有靠在一起？他什么也回想不起来——一点都想不起来了。

这事变得越来越莫名其妙——整个事件：太太独自一人接待一个陌生男子。

也许下一本日记能解释一切。

他急急抓过最后一本日记簿——她生前没记完的那本。

第一页赫然在目的又是那该死的家伙。

“一
个人与B.M.进餐……他非常激动。

他说咱俩该相互理解了……我想让他听我说。

可他不听。

他威胁说要是我不……”这一页其余的文字全都被涂抹掉了。

他一个字也无法辨认；可只有一个解释：那个混蛋要她做他的情人。

两人单独在他的房间!热血涌上了吉尔伯特?克兰登的脸。

他快速地一页页翻过去。

她怎么回答的呢？首字母不见了。

现在干脆只说“他”了。

“他又来了。

我告诉他我做不了决定。

我恳求他离开我。

”他就在这所房子里迫她就范？可是为什么她不跟自己说呢？她用得着片刻犹豫吗？下面：“我给他写了一封信。

”后面几页都是空白。

接着有这么一句话：“没有回信。

”后面又是空白，接着是：“他把威胁付之行动了。

”那以后——那以后怎么了？他一页一页地翻着。

都是空白。

可是，就在她出事的前一天，写着这么一句：“我有勇气也这么做吗？”日记终止了。

吉尔伯特?克兰登听任日记本滑落到地上。

他能看到她在他眼前。

她站在皮卡迪利大街的人行道上。

她凝视着前方，紧握着双拳。

车开过来了……
他无法再忍受了。

他必须了解真相。

他大步走到电话机旁。

“米勒小姐!”没有声音。

接着他听见房间里有人在走动。

“我是西瑟?米勒”——总算听到她来接电话了。

“到底谁，”他吼道，“是B.M.？”
他听得见她壁炉架上那座廉价钟的滴答声，接着是一声长长的叹息。

最后她回答说：“他是我兄弟。

”
那是她兄弟，她那自杀的兄弟。

“有什么，”他听到西瑟?米勒在说，“要我解释的吗？”
“没有!”他喊道。

“没有!”
他得到了属于自己的遗赠。

她把真相告诉了他。

她走下人行道与情人重新团聚。

她走下人行道从自己身边逃逸。

Text B Why Marriages Fail
Anne Roiphe
1 These days so many marriages end in divorce that our most sacred vows no longer ring with truth. “Happily ever after” and “Till death do us part” are expressions that seem on the way to becoming obsolete. Why has it become so hard for couples to stay together? What goes wrong? What has happened to us that close to one-half of all marriages are destined for the divorce courts? How could we have created a society in which 4
2 percent of out children will grow up in single-parent homes? Even though each broken marriage is unique, we can still find the common perils, the common causes for marital despair. Each marriage has crisis points and each marriage tests endurance, the
capacity for both intimacy and change. Outside pressures such as job loss, illness, infertility, trouble with a child, care of aging parents and all the other plagues of life hit marriage the way hurricanes blast our shores. Some marriages survive these storms and others don’t. Marriages fail, however, not simply because of the outside weather but because the inner climate becomes too hot or too cold, too turbulent or too stupefying.
2 When we look at how we choose our partners and what expectations exist at the tender beginnings of romance, some of the reasons for disaster become quite clear. We all select with unconscious accuracy a mate who will recreate with us the emotional patterns of our first homes. Dr. Carl A. Whitaker, a marital therapist and emeritus professor of psychiatry at the University of Wisconsin, explains, “From early childhood on, each of us carried models for marriage, femininity, masculinity, motherhood, fatherhood and all the other family roles.” Each of us falls in love with a mate who has qualities of our parents, who will help us rediscover both the psychological happiness and miseries of our past lives. We may think we have found a man unlike Dad, but then he turns to drink or drugs, or loses his job over and over again or sits silently in front of the TV just the way Dad did.
A man may choose a woman who doesn’t like kids just like his mother or who gambles away the family savings just like his mother. Or he may choose a slender wife who seems unlike his obese mother but then turns out to have other addictions that destroy their mutual happiness.
3 A man and a woman bring to their marriage bed a blended concoction of conscious and unconscious memories of their parents’ lives together. The human way is to compulsively repeat and recreate the patterns of the past. Sigmund Freud so well described the unhappy design that many of us get trapped in: the unmet needs of childhood, the angry feelings left over from frustrations of long ago, the limits of trust and the recurrence of old fears. Once an individual senses this entrapment, there may follow a yearning to escape, and the result could be a broken, splintered marriage.
4 Of course people can overcome the habits and attitudes that developed in childhood. We all have hidden strengths and amazing capacities for growth and creative change. Change, however, requires work—observing your part in a rotten pattern, bringing difficulties out into the open—and work runs counter to the basic myth of marriage: “When I wed this person all my problems w ill be over. I will have achieved success and I will become the center of life for this other person and this person will be my center, and we will mean everything to each other forever.” This myth, which every marriage relies on, is soon exposed. The coming of children, the pulls and tugs of their demands on affection
and time, place a considerable strain on that basic myth of meaning everything to each other, or merging together and solving all of life’s problems.
5 Concern and tension about money take each partner away from the other. Obligations to demanding parents or still-depended-upon parents create further strain. Couples today must also deal with all the cultural changes brought on in recent years by the women’s movement and the sexual revolution. The altering of roles and the shifting of responsibilities have been extremely trying[ trying: difficult or annoying; hard to deal with] for many marriages.
6 These and other realities of life erode the visions of marital bliss the way sandstorms eat at rock and the ocean nibbles away at the dunes. Those euphoric, grand feelings that accompany romantic love are really self-delusions, self-hypnotic dreams that enable us to forge a relationship. Real life, failure at work, disappointments, exhaustion, bad smells, bad colds and hard times all puncture the dream and leave us stranded with our mate, with our childhood patterns pushing us this way and that, with our unfulfilled expectations.
7 The struggle to survive in marriage requires adaptability, flexibility, genuine love and kindness and an imagination strong enough to feel what the other is feeling. Many marriages fall apart because either partner cannot imagine what the other wants or cannot communicate what he or she needs or feels. Anger builds until it erupts into a volcanic burst that buries the marriage in ash.
8 It is not hard to see, therefore, how essential communication is for a good marriage.
A man and a woman must be able to tell each other how they feel and why they feel the way they do; otherwise they will impose on each other roles and actions that lead to further unhappiness. In some cases, the communication patterns of childhood—of not talking, of talking too much, of not listening, of distrust and anger, or withdrawal—spill into the marriage and prevent a healthy exchange of thoughts and feelings. The answer is to set up new patterns of communication and intimacy.
9 At the same time, however, we must see each other as individuals. “To achieve a balance between separateness and closeness is one of the major psychological tasks of all human beings at every stage of life,” says Dr. Stuart Bartle, a psychiatrist at the New York University Medical Center.
10 If we sense from our mate a need for too much intimacy, we tend to push him or her away, fearing that we may lose our identities in the merging of marriage. One partner may suffocate the other partner in a childlike dependency.。