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materialistic
,” responds Kirsten (in bed, ever more exhausted), deeply offended
by the suggestion that she has noticed and envies her friends’ lifestyles. “In fact,
only the other day, on the phone, Mum remarked that she’d never met anyone as
modest and careful with money as me.”
“But that’s slightly different, Teckle. We know she only says that because she
loves you and you can do absolutely no wrong in her eyes.”
“You say that like it’s a problem! Why can’t you be just as blind if you love
me?”
“Because I love you in a different way.”
“What way is that?”
“A way that makes me want to help you to confront certain issues.”
“A way that means you’re going to be nasty!”
He knows his intentions have spun catastrophically out of control.
“I really do love you. I love you so much,” he says.
“So much that you’re always wanting to change me? Rabih, I wish I
understood. . . .”
Harsh lessons allow pupils to fall back on the comforting thought that their
instructor is simply crazy or nasty and that they themselves must therefore be, by
logic, beyond criticism. Hearing an unreasonably extreme verdict can make us
feel, consolingly, that our partner could not possibly be at once vicious and, in
some small way, perhaps also right.
Sentimentally, we contrast the spousal negativity with the encouraging tone of
our friends and family, on whom no remotely comparable set of demands has
ever been made.
There are other ways to look at love. In their philosophy, the ancient Greeks
offered a usefully unfashionable perspective on the relationship between love
and teaching. In their eyes, love was first and foremost a feeling of admiration
for the better sides of another human being. Love was the excitement of coming
face-to-face with virtuous characteristics.
It followed that the deepening of love would always involve the desire to teach
and in turn to be taught ways to become more virtuous: how to be less angry or
less unforgiving, more curious or braver. Sincere lovers could never be content
to accept one another just as they were; this would constitute a lazy and
cowardly betrayal of the whole purpose of relationships. There would always be
something to improve on in ourselves and educate others about.
Looked at through this ancient Greek lens, when lovers point out what might
be unfortunate or uncomfortable about the other’s respective character, they
shouldn’t be seen as giving up on the spirit of love. They should be
congratulated for trying to do something very true to love’s essence: helping
their partners to develop into better versions of themselves.
In a more evolved world, one a little more alive to the Greek ideal of love, we
would perhaps know to be a bit less clumsy, scared, and aggressive when
wanting to point something out, and rather less combative and sensitive when
receiving feedback. The concept of education within a relationship would thus
lose some of its unnecessarily eerie and negative connotations. We would accept
that in responsible hands, both projects—teaching and being taught, calling
attention to another’s faults, and letting ourselves be critiqued—might after all
be loyal to the true purpose of love.
Rabih never does manage to control himself enough to get his point across. It
will take a lot of time, and many more years of insight, before they properly
master the art of teaching and learning.
But in the meantime Rabih’s criticism of his wife on the materialistic score is
blunted by one seismic humbling development. Five years into their marriage, at
a highly auspicious moment in the real estate market, Kirsten manages to sell
their flat, secure a new mortgage, and acquire, at a very advantageous price, a
light and comfortable house a few streets away, in Newbattle Terrace. The
maneuver brings out all of her skills as a financial negotiator. Rabih observes
her, up late at night checking different rates and up early sounding tough on the
phone with estate agents, and concludes that he is exceptionally lucky to be
married to a woman so obviously adept at dealing with money.
Along the way he also realizes something else. There may indeed be a side to
Kirsten that is unusually alive to how others are doing financially and which
aspires to a certain level of material comfort. This could be seen as a weakness,
but insofar as it is one—and Rabih isn’t even sure it is—it is intimately related to
a strength. The price that Rabih must pay for relying on his wife’s fiscal talent is
having to endure certain associated downsides as well. The same virtues that
make her a great negotiator and financial controller can also render her,
sometimes—most particularly when he feels anxious about his career—a
maddening and unsettling companion with whom to consider the achievements
of others. In both scenarios, there is the same attachment to security, the same
unwillingness to discount material criteria of success, and the same intelligent
concern for what things cost. Identical qualities produce both amazing house
deals and insecurities around status. In her occasional worries about the relative
wealth of her friends, Kirsten is, Rabih can now see, exhibiting nothing more or
less than the weaknesses of her strengths.
Going forward, once they have moved into their new house, Rabih endeavors
never to lose sight of those strengths, even at times when the weaknesses to
which they can give rise are especially apparent.
Children
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