Poor, Dear Margaret Kirby, Part One Of Two

In part one of this witty and incisive story by the hugely popular American writer and journalist Kathleen Norris, we take a look at the ups and downs of Margaret and John Kirby's marriage, and hear what New York society thinks about it, too.

Music by Geoff Harvey

Transcript

Hello,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks for joining me this evening.

I'm going to read you part one of A Story,

A Story by Kathleen Norris.

So Kathleen Norris was an American novelist and newspaper columnist.

She was one of the most widely read and highest paid female writers in the United States for nearly 50 years from 1911 to 1959.

Anyway,

Before we start,

Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable and I'll begin.

Poor dear Margaret Kirby.

You and I have been married nearly seven years,

Margaret Kirby reflected bitterly.

And I suppose we are as near hating each other as two civilized people ever were.

She did not say this aloud.

The Kirbys had long ago given up any discussion of their attitude to each other.

But as the thought came into her mind,

She eyed her husband lounging moodily in her motorcar as they swept home through the winter twilight with hopeless mutinous irritation.

What was the matter,

She wondered,

With John and Margaret Kirby?

Young,

Handsome,

Rich and popular.

What had been wrong with their marriage?

That brilliantly heralded and widely advertised event.

Whose fault was it that they two could not seem to understand each other,

Could not seem to live out their lives together in honourable and dignified companionship as generations of their forebears had done?

Perhaps everyone's marriage is more or less like ours,

Margaret mused miserably.

Perhaps there's no such thing as a happy marriage.

Almost all the women that she knew admitted unhappiness of one sort or another and discussed their domestic troubles freely.

Margaret had never sunk to that.

It would not even have been a relief to a nature as self-sufficient and as cold as hers.

But for years she had felt that her marriage tie was an irksome and distasteful bond.

And only that afternoon she had been stung by the bitter fact that the state of affairs between her husband and herself was no secret from their world.

A certain audacious newspaper had boldly hinted that there would soon be a sensational separation in the Kirby household,

Whose beautiful mistress would undoubtedly follow her first unhappy marital experience with another.

And it was to be hoped a more fortunate marriage.

Margaret had laughed when the article was shown her with the easy flippancy that is the stock in trade of her type of society woman.

But the arrow had reached her very soul nevertheless.

So it had come to that,

Had it?

She and John had failed.

They were to be dragged through the publicity,

The humiliations that precede the sundering of what God has joined together.

They had drifted as so many hundreds and thousands of men and women drift from that warm,

From that warm,

Glorious companionship of the honeymoon to quarrels,

To truces,

To discussion,

To a recognition of their utter difference in point of view,

And to this final,

Independent,

Cool adjustment that left their lives as utterly separated as if they had never met.

Yet she had done only what all the women she knew had done,

Margaret reminded herself,

In self-justification.

She had done it a little more brilliantly,

Perhaps.

She had spent more money,

Worn handsomer jewels and gowns.

She had succeeded in idling away her life in that utter leisure that was the ideal of them all,

Whether they were quite able to achieve it or not.

Some women had to order their dinners,

Had occasionally to go about in hired vehicles,

Had to consider the cost of hats and gowns.

But Margaret,

The envid,

Had her own carriage and motorcar,

A capable housekeeper,

Her yearly trip to Paris for uncounted frocks and hats.

All the women she knew were useless,

Boasting rather of what they didn't have to do than of what they did,

And Margaret was more successfully useless than the others.

But wasn't that the lot of a woman who is rich and who marries a richer man?

Wasn't it what married life should be?

I don't know what makes me nervous tonight,

Margaret said to herself finally,

Settling back comfortably in her furs.

Perhaps I only imagine John is going to make one of his favourite scenes when we get home.

Probably he hasn't seen the article at all.

I don't care anyway.

I'm just going to sit back and enjoy the rest of the evening.

If it should come to a divorce,

Why?

We know plenty of people who are happier that way.

Thank heaven there isn't a child to complicate things.

Five feet away from her,

As the motorcar waited before crossing the park entrance,

A tall man and a laughing girl were standing,

Waiting to cross the street.

But aren't we too late for gallery seats?

Margaret heard the girl say,

Evidently deep in an important choice.

Oh no,

The man assured her eagerly.

Then I choose the 50 cent dinner and Hoffman by all means,

She decided joyously.

Margaret looked after them,

A sudden pain at her heart.

She didn't know what the pain was.

She thought she was pitying that young husband and wife,

But her thoughts went back to them as she entered her own warm,

Luxurious rooms a few moments later.

A 50 cent dinner,

She murmured.

It must be awful.

To her surprise,

Her husband followed her into her room without knocking and paid no attention to the very cold stare with which she greeted him.

Sit down a minute,

Margaret,

Will you,

He said,

And let your woman go.

I want to speak to you.

Angry to feel herself a little at a loss,

Margaret nodded to the maid and said in a carefully controlled tone,

I am dining at the Kelsey's,

John,

Perhaps some other time.

Her husband,

A thin,

Tall man,

Prematurely grey,

Was pacing the floor nervously,

His hands plunged deep in his coat pockets.

He cleared his throat several times before he spoke.

His voice was sharp and his words were delivered quickly.

It's come to this,

Margaret.

I'm very sorry to have to tell you,

But things have finally reached the point where it's,

It's got to come out.

Bannister and I have been nursing it along.

We've done all that we could.

I went down to Washington and saw Peterson,

But it's no use.

We turn it all over,

The whole thing,

To the creditors tomorrow.

His voice rose suddenly.

It was shocking to see the control suddenly fail.

I tell you,

It's all up,

Margaret.

It's the end of me.

I won't face it.

He dropped into a chair,

But suddenly sprung up again and began to walk about the room.

Now,

You can do just what you think wise,

He resumed presently in the advisory quiet tones he usually used to her.

You can always have the income of your Park Avenue house.

Your Aunt Paul will be glad enough to go abroad with you.

And there are personal things,

The house silver and the books that you can claim.

I've lain awake nights planning,

His voice shook again,

But he gained his calm after a moment.

I want to ask you not to work yourself up over it,

He said.

There was a silence.

Margaret regarded him in stony fury.

She was deadly white.

Do you mean that Throckmorton,

Kirby and some have,

Has failed?

She asked.

Do you mean that my money,

The money that my father left me is gone?

Does Mr.

Bannister say so?

Why?

Why has it never occurred to you to warn me?

I did warn you.

I did try to tell you in July.

Why?

All the world knew how things were going.

If on the last word there crept into his voice the plea that even a strong man makes to his woman for sympathy,

For solace,

Margaret's eyes killed it.

John,

Turning to go,

Gave her what consolation he could.

Margaret,

I can only say I'm sorry.

I tried.

Bannister knows how I tried to hold my own.

But I was pretty young when your father died and there was no one to help me learn.

I'm glad it doesn't mean actual suffering for you.

Someday perhaps we'll get some of it back.

God knows I hope so.

I've not meant much to you.

Your marriage has cost you pretty dear.

But I'm going to do the only thing I can for you.

Silence followed.

Margaret presently roused herself.

I suppose this can be kept from the papers.

We needn't be discussed and pointed out in the We needn't be discussed and pointed out in the streets,

She asked heavily,

Her face a mask of distaste.

That's impossible,

Said John briefly.

To some people nothing is impossible,

Margaret said.

Her husband turned again without a word and left her.

Afterwards she remembered the sick misery in his eyes,

The whiteness of his face.

What did she do then?

She didn't know.

Did she go at once to the dressing table?

Did she ring for Louise?

Or was she alone as she slowly got herself into a loose wrapper and unpinned her hair?

How long was it How long was it before she heard that horrible cry in the hall?

What was it,

That or the voices and the flying footsteps that brought her shaken and gasping to her feet?

She never knew.

She only knew that the servants were clustered,

A sobbing,

Terrified group in the doorway.

John's head,

John's head,

Heavy with shut eyes,

Was on her shoulder.

John's limp body was in her arms.

They were telling her that this was the bottle he had emptied and that he was dead.

It was a miracle that they had got her husband to the hospital alive,

The doctors told Margaret late that night.

His life could be only a question of moments.

It was extraordinary that he should live through the night,

They told her the next morning,

But it couldn't last for more than a few hours now.

It was impossible for John Kirby to live,

They said,

But John Kirby lived.

He lived to struggle through agonies undreamed of,

Back to days of new pain,

Days and weeks and months when he lay merely breathing,

Now lightly,

Now just a shade more deeply.

There came a day when great doctors gathered about him to exalt that he undoubtedly,

Indisputably winced when the hypodermic needle hurt him.

There was a great day in late summer when he muttered something.

Then came relapses,

Discouragement,

The bitter retracing of steps.

On Christmas Day,

He opened his eyes.

On Christmas Day,

He opened his eyes and said to the grave thin woman who sat with her hand in his,

Margaret.

He slipped off again too quickly to know that she had broken into tears and fallen on her knees beside him.

After a while,

He sat up and was read to and finally wept because the nurses told him that someday he would want to get up and walk about again.

His wife came every day and he clung to her like a child.

Sometimes watching her,

A troubled thought would darken his eyes,

But on a day when they first spoke of the terrible past,

She smiled at him,

The motherly smile that he was beginning so to love and told him that all business affairs could wait and he believed her.

John received permission to extend his little daily walk beyond the narrow garden.

With an invalid's impatience,

He bemoaned the fact that his wife would not be there that day to accompany him on his first trip into the world.

His nurse laughed at him.

Don't you think you're well enough to go and make a little call on Mrs Kirby?

She suggested brightly.

She's only two blocks away,

You know.

She's right here on Madison Avenue.

Keep in the sunlight and walk slowly and be sure to come back before it's cold or I'll send the police after you.

Thus warned,

John started off,

Delighted at the independence that he was gaining day after day.

He walked the two short blocks with the care that only convalescents know,

A little confused by the gay jarring street noises,

The wide light and air about him.

He found the address but somehow the big gloomy double house didn't look like Margaret.

There was a Mrs Kirby there,

The maid assured him however,

And John sat down in a hopelessly ugly drawing room to wait for her.

Instead,

There came in a cheerful little woman who introduced herself as Mrs Kippum.

She was of the chattering,

Confidential type so often found in her position.

Now,

You wanted Mrs Kirby,

Didn't you?

She said regretfully.

She's out.

I'm the housekeeper here and I thought if it was just a question of rooms,

Maybe I'd do as well.

There's some mistake,

Said John and he was still weak enough to feel himself choke at the disappointment.

I want Mrs John Kirby,

A very beautiful Mrs Kirby who is quite prominent in.

.

.

Oh yes,

Indeed,

Said Mrs Kippum,

Lowering her voice and growing confidential.

That's the same one.

Her husband failed and all but killed himself,

You know.

You've read about it in the papers.

She sold everything she had,

You know,

To help out the firm and then she came here.

Bought out an interest in this,

Said John very quietly in his winning voice.

Well,

She just came here as a regular guest at first,

Said Mrs Kippum with a cautious glance at the door.

I was running it then but I'd got into awful debt and my little boy was sick and I got to telling her my worries.

Well,

She was looking for something to do,

A companion or private secretary position but she didn't find it and she had so many good ideas about this house and helped me out so,

Just talking things over,

That finally I asked her if she wouldn't be my partner and she was glad to.

She was just about worried to death by that time.

I thought Mrs Kirby had property investments,

John said.

Oh,

She did but she put everything right back into the firm,

Said Mrs Kippum.

Lots of her old friends went back on her for doing it,

The little woman went on in a burst of loyal anger.

However,

She added,

Very much enjoying her listeners close attention,

I declare my luck seemed to change the day she took hold.

First thing was that her friends and a lot that weren't her friends came here out of curiosity and that advertised the place.

Then she slaves day and night,

Goes right into the kitchen herself and watches things and she has such a way with the help,

She knows how to manage them and the result is that we've got the house packed for next winter and we'll have as many as 30 people here all summer long.

I feel like another person.

The tears suddenly brimmed her weak,

Kind eyes and she fumbled with her handkerchief.

You'll think I'm crazy running on this way,

Said little Mrs Kippum,

But everything has gone so good.

My Lestie is much better and as things are now I can get him into the country next year and I feel like I owed it all to Margaret Kirby.

John tried to speak but the room was wheeling about him.

As he raised his trembling hand to his eyes,

A shadow fell across the doorway and Margaret came in.

Tired,

Shabby,

Laden with bundles,

She stood blinking at him a moment and then with a sudden cry of tenderness and pity,

She was on her knees by his side.

Margaret,

Margaret,

He whispered.

What have you done?

She did not answer but gathered him close in her strong arms and they kissed each other with wet eyes to be continued.

Reviews

Another story, another Margaret stepping up. 🤣 Ready for part 2 and (I hope) a happy ending. Thanks Mandy 🙏🏻