Letter to Miss Swire -- part three (epi 2.05 + 2.06)
CONTINUED FROM PART TWO
Episode 2.05
In this episode, you are - for a while at least - presented as Matthew's only love interest, there is no doubt in my mind about it. Lord Grantham points it out to Mary as she prepares for Matthew's arrival at the hospital, Matthew himself calls you «darling» when he first lays eyes on you, and he asks for you immediately as he wakes up again and finds Mary sitting next to him instead of you. I grant you that. Congratulations. But - unfortunately for you - these proclaimed feelings do not survive your first conversation about your future as a married couple. You see, Miss Swire, there is a catch to your happiness, which Matthew is aware of while you obviously are not: You never seem to have a handkerchief in moments of crisis. This innocent remark to Mary really symbolises your unpreparedness if things get rough, and while you might be a good support for Matthew when everything goes smoothly, he could not turn to you for genuine emotional support when things go bad, because you are so wrapped up in your own misery. Eventually, the things putting you off Matthew always seem stronger than the things drawing you to him, at least strong enough to make you hesitate time and again. I find it telling that you have to visibly pull yourself together before you can manage to go to his bedside at all, while Mary almost had to be restrained by her father on two occasions from rushing to his bedside. And Matthew may sense this hesitation in you.
This episode concerns itself very much with what Matthew's practical and emotional needs are. We have to remind ourselves that he is still ignorant of that fact that he is paralysed when you come to his bedside, and that Robert has explicitly asked Mary to give you two a moment alone. So Matthew sees you, calls you «darling» and looks ready to move on. The next time he wakes up, Mary is there instead and he asks for you. One can see in Mary's face that she reads Matthew's question as a clear sign that he indeed prefers you to her, and that it stings. He goes on asking about William and his mother. But then - a strange thing happens: Matthew asks about why he cannot feel his legs and when Mary gives him a slightly evasive answer («Why don't we wait for Lavinia? And then we can all talk about it») he knows there is trouble, and he insists they have this difficult conversation right away - and alone. Matthew's initial response is full of optimism and with Mary's version not being identical to Dr Clarkson's verdict either, he allows himself only gradually to picture a worst case scenario: «How long will it take to repair? - You can't expect them to put timings on that sort of thing. - But he did say it would get better? - He says the first task is to rebuild your health, and that's what we have to concentrate on. - I see. - And he says there was no reason why you should not have a perfectly full and normal life. - Just not a very mobile one».
Matthew starts to cry at this point and I am inclined to believe that this is the precise moment when he realises the full extent of his spinal damage, namely the permanent loss of his sexual function - after all, you will later claim this should be «obvious to anyone with a brain». This would make the emotions expressed in this scene all the more poignant, because Matthew might assume that Mary knows this too. The conversation serves to demonstrate that Matthew is fully capable of emotional intimacy, while his comment suggests that he did not expect anyone but Mary to realise how important it is to him that people are honest: «Thank you for telling me. I know I'm...blubbing, but I mean it. I'd much rather know. Thank you». How long Matthew might have wished to prolong this moment of rapport is hard to say, as it is Mary who breaks off the conversation in order to fetch tea, bringing up your name for a second time: «Blub all you like. And then, when Lavinia's here, you can make plans.» He might even be left with a feeling of Mary being relieved that she is able to push him over to you, now that he can neither walk nor sire children. Other than that, it is a typical Mary/Matthew conversation, with Mary choosing every word carefully to keep Matthew's positive outlook intact while having to prepare him for the worst.
In contrast to this harmony, your next scene with Matthew quickly escalates from tender to tense and irritable. From the start, you are in a bickering and defensive position and interpret Matthew's plan to send you away as an implicit accusation that you do not care for him. Again, you do not do him justice:
You: I don't care if you can't walk. You must think me very feeble if you would believe that would make a difference.
Matthew: I know it wouldn't. And I love you so much for saying it. But there's something else, which may not have occurred to you. This is very difficult. We can never be properly married.
You: What? Of course we can be married.
Matthew: Not properly.
You: Oh. I see.
Matthew: That's why I have to let you go.
You: But...that side of things, it's not important to me, I promise.
Matthew: My darling, it's-it's not important now, but-but it will be. I think it should be. And I couldn't possibly be responsible for stealing away the life you ought to have.
What he attempts to do, releasing you from your engagement because you will never be able to have sex, is an act of great kindness and a sign that he thinks ahead and that he has your best interests at heart. Of course people would turn their noses up when they hear of woman leaving her fiancé, the «love of her life», once he is unable to live up to her expectations. Matthew makes it clear that he would not judge you for doing so, that he sees how unrealistic and selfish it is to demand such loyalty from anyone, and that he wishes you not to feel guilty about your decision to plan your life without him.
This would be the perfect moment for you to tell him that you love him till the end of time and that you would die without him - except you don't - that is your weapon reserved for Mary. Instead, you react with anger and claim to feel insulted: «I won't leave you. I know you think I'm weak, and I don't know what I'm taking on.» These might be your own suspicions about your capacity to handle the challenge of his disability, but you project them onto Matthew. In fact, he does not attempt to correct your view and is becoming eventually becoming irritated himself: «How could you? For God's sake.» It is your next reply, however, which makes me doubt the very idea that you feel real love for Matthew: «I'm not saying it'll be easy for either of us. But just because life isn't easy doesn't mean it isn't right.» First, you admit that you imagine a future with Matthew to be frought with difficulty for both him and you, and then you point out that the reason to go through with the marriage would be that it is «right»? Well, how uplifting! Right as in duty? Doing what's expected? I think that is indeed what you are saying. You feel obliged to stay with Matthew now that he is disabled, an obligation he has just said is stupid and which he does not want you to feel. But you feel it nevertheless. You are concerned about your self-image. You do not want people to think of you as a quitter, that is why you decide to stick it out with him. How does that sound to Matthew? Of course he would not want his fiancé to stick around and depress him when her only motivation is obligation rather than love? Understandingly, the tone of his voice is now bitter, and he shows the first signs of low self-esteem: «I won't fight with you. But I won't steal away your life. Go home. Think of me as dead. Remember me as I was.» Another couple scene, another argument.
In your conversation with Mary later that night, one interesting aspect is how you relate your earlier talk with Matthew, and how your version compares to what he really said.
You: Matthew's told me to go home. He says he won't see me again. He feels he has to set me free, as he put it. I've tried to tell him I don't care, but he won't listen.
Mary: Then you must keep telling him.
You: Yes, but you see, it isn't just not walking. Today he told me we could never be lovers, because all that's gone as well. I didn't realise. It's probably obvious to anyone with a brain, but I didn't realise.
Mary: No. No, nor did I.
[Mary sits on the bed as she tries to process this news.]
You: And he feels it would be a crime to tie me down, to tie down any woman to the life of a childless nun. He thinks I'd hate him in the end. I'm sorry if I've shocked you, but there's no one else I could talk to about it, and when you came in, I--
Mary: I'm not shocked. I'm just stunned. And desperately sad.
You: I'll die if I can't be with him.
The first remarkable difference is that your account is filled with negative words: «crime», «tie down», «hate», «shock», «die». The most astounding thing, however, is for you to attribute this negativity to Matthew when he never said such a thing. He does not say that he thinks you will hate him in the end. Do you know him so well that you can presume that he will feel this way, even if he does not say it himself? If this is how you might feel, why not accept responsibility for the emotion? Why claim that Matthew has put the idea into your head? Anyway, it does not reflect well on you if Matthew must expect you to look at him with hate at some point. Strangely enough, your account comes across as a fantasy of your married life together in - say - ten years, and you seem to revel in this fantasy: You and Matthew not being lovers. Him living with the constant feeling of having committed a crime. You hating him. (Mind you, these are all your emotions.) And you insist that this is what you must have, and put him through, or you would rather die. This is indeed the strangest speech, Miss Swire.
At the same time, you have already accepted that Matthew himself does not want you back so you have resigned yourself to staying away. When Mary appeals to the feeling of unconditional love she assumes that you - like her - must have for Matthew, and advises you to do what she would do in your situation («Then you must keep telling him»), you brush off her advice with a «yes, but» answer, admitting that the point about his impotence is indeed a considerable drawback. In contrast, Mary's dignified reaction to these news («I'm not shocked. I'm just stunned. And desperately sad») make her appear as a far more suitable companion to Matthew at the present stage. This cannot have passed you by, and you immediately renew your threat: «I'll die if I can't be with him», a sentence which is completely at odds with your previous «yes, but» and your actual subsequent departure, and which in the given context cannot serve any other purpose but to evoke Mary's pity and at the same time lash out at your rival, in case she might have considered pursuing your fiancé. You had already resigned yourself to not being with him, so certainly you will not die. But you seem determined that, if you cannot be with him, nobody else should be allowed to be with him either. This is how it looks to me.
Up to now, Mary has taken for granted that Matthew wanted and needed you in order to be happy, and she has made no attempt to interfere with your relationship. It is only after Matthew makes himself available again by sending you away that she allows herself to spend a lot of time with him. In her first conversation with Matthew after your departure, we se Mary no longer fighting explicitly on your behalf: «She's better off in London.» - «If you say so». It is Matthew, however, who actively shifts the focus of the conversation away from you and over to «women in general», suggesting that he has already moved on from your relationship mentally: «Then you know I couldn't marry her. Not now. I couldn't marry any woman.» Nor might it be a comfort to you to think of how quickly two years of engagement seem to be have been wiped out of Matthew's memory when he tells Mary that «I was just thinking it seems such a short time ago since I turned you down, and now look at me» - seamlessly tying together the memory of his last moment as Mary's almost-fiancé in July 1914 with the present moment in August 1918. If war, as Matthew has claimed in episode 2.01, really «has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter and the things that don't», this mental blank could be considered quite significant.
Episode 2.06
There is clear evidence in this episode that Mary is not giving up on a future with Matthew even if he does not encourage her: «I don't have to marry him, you know. - Yes, you do. If I thought for a moment that I was an argument against your marriage, I should jump into the nearest river. ... Seriously, I can only relax because I know that you have a real life coming. ... If you were not engaged to be married, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near me.» There is no sign that Matthew actually treats Mary any differently from how he treated you. Nevertheless, the close bond between the two is enough of a concern for Cora and Carlisle to coax you into coming back into Matthew's life as his caretaker.
This is Matthew's state of mind on the eve of your return: While he has become physically stronger and more relaxed during his reconvalescence stay at Downton, his mind is somewhat lagging behind in the healing process, and his self-esteem is still at its lowest point. He does not pity himself. He just hates himself for not being up to the task. And he does not feel that he deserves the consideration others show for him, although they register with him. When Mary breaks into tears over the idea that he might lose his title to the imposter Patrick Gordon, Matthew's reaction reflects how gutted he is by his own inadequacy: «My dear, don’t be too quick to decide. You never know. This might be a blessing in disguise. ... Well, he seems a nice enough chap. He’s not very pretty, of course, but he can walk ‘round the estate on his own two legs and sire a string of sons to continue the line. All in all, I’d say that’s a great improvement on the current situation.» He repeats this view in a later conversation with Robert: «It’ll take a man who’s more than I am now to follow you. So don’t think about me.» - «My dear chap, how can you say that? I never think about anything else.» Matthew's depressive state does not come from a lack of supporters: Mary, Robert, and Isobel all do their best to try to rebuild his self-image. But he is unable to take it in to a sufficient degree. Later, Matthew will call this period the darkest period of his life. Interestingly, from a man who argues that he already has hit rock bottom, I would not have expected any visible reaction to further adversity. But when you enter the dining room that night, Matthew's face takes on the grimmest expression, as if your presence threatened even the little self-esteem he had left. Apparently, things could get worse. Also Mary's feelings towards you are visibly colder after your return, and it shows in her eyes the moment you enter the dining room. Obviously, she does not see how you could contribute to Matthew's recovery. One could say that the difference in how they both relate to you now compared to how kindly they treated you before his injury can be attributed to the fact that you have never actively provoked anyone before now. Now you do. You push in, and recreate the triangle.
As you wheel Matthew into the library for some private time, he is visibly displeased albeit he remains strangely passive. Again, your «quality time» consists in an exhausting quarrel: «Nothing’s changed. - But, you see, it has. Because I’ve changed. When I was last here, I was so bowled over that I let you send me away. But not this time. I love you. I’m going to look after you, that's all there is to it. - And if I refuse? - I’m sorry, but I mean it. You won’t frighten me away, whatever you do.» How have you changed, I might ask? Nothing has changed from Matthew's point of view. He still does not want to be in a relationship that is based on a woman's sense of obligation. You argue that you have changed but you still do not define what you mean by «love», you still do not claim that you want to be with him because he makes you happy. I wonder what Cora wrote in her letter to make you come back, and I wonder even more what Carlisle has said to you as he picked you up. You will later claim, in your farewell speech, that you considered it your «calling» to look after Matthew. This term suggests some striving for an identity, an element of self-realisation by casting yourself in this role as Matthew's nurse, a Sybil-like focus on your own self-image. That idea is new for you. I must assume that you volunteer to be his nurse not so much because he makes you happy but rather because nursing him in public makes you feel good about yourself. There is another worrying change in your attitude towards Matthew: open defiance. You no longer care how he experiences your relationship, it will be entirely on your terms! Matthew is basically powerless now, like Bates against his wife. Or like Misery. It is physically impossible for Matthew to wheel himself out of your life. You have completely turned the tables. Yet again, you accuse Matthew of being the aggressive one in this relationship: «You won't frighten me away, whatever you do.» Imagine 40-50 years of married life with this bickering attitude. «I'm sorry, but I mean it.» And you say that all in the sweetest voice... It is a scary scene.
Matthew is not the only one who is upset. Robert, too, is unable to see your return as prompted by anything other than a feeling of duty, and he cannot see you deriving pleasure from your care for Matthew in the same way that Mary has enjoyed his company: «So you summon Lavinia?» he complains to Cora, «To be sacrificed like some latter day Iphigenia doomed to push his chair through all eternity?» Mary herself is adamant that Matthew has no need of you and that he has every right to make his own decisions about his life («Suppose he doesn't want her back? Have you thought of that?»), until Carlisle silences her by shoving her against a column.
There is no time gap between your return to Downton and the Armistice, as the ceasefire was announced in the Servants Hall before your return. You officially take over as Matthew's dedicated nurse and helper immediately after the Armistice. Frankly, your performance is not impressive, but then again, Matthew had never claimed otherwise and you yourself voiced doubts («on behalf» of Matthew in 2.05) about your physical strength. As the congregation disperses in the Great Hall after marking the Armistice, you attempt - with a pained expression on your face - to set Matthew's wheelchair in motion and barely get it moving. When Bates volunteers to take over, you let him without hesitation. Again, miraculously, the moment Bates takes over is the moment Matthew regains some feeling in his legs. The significance of the timing is difficult to interpret. It could be that it is Bates' no-fuss care which, within seconds really, is efficient enough to set in motion a rehabilitation process in Matthew's spine. It could also be that Matthew is shaken back into health, psychologically speaking, by the prospect of being dependent on your care and of being powerless beside you. It could be that your loving devotion has cured him on the spot. Maybe it was the Armistice itself which made him want to close this chapter of his life. Maybe it is supposed to be a coincidence. Who knows.
CONTINUE TO PART FOUR