It’s been at least thirty-five years since I first realized that whenever I said something complimentary to my husband, he batted it away like a cobweb interfering with the clarity of his vision. Somehow he always seemed to manage to explain his achievement in such a way that it did not reflect directly on him. The meal he cooked was delicious because it was a good recipe, the garden he’d planned was stunning because the plants were of such good stock, his grasp of the sociology of law was due to a fantastic professor he’d had at university. Etc.
Over the years, it became a game between us. I would try to trick him into accepting a compliment unawares, while he honed his skills at dodging my bullets and finding some other explanation than anything meaningful he himself might have contributed. Over the years, I have probably increased my success at getting behind his cover to about 1%. He is either very good at dodging, or I am very bad at aiming.
At first I thought his dismissive strategy was an individual quirk, probably exacerbated by his natural tendency toward depression and pessimism. My first hint that it might have a cultural component came from his mother. An English team had just won a big soccer cup, and were celebrating with exuberance. “They should be careful,” my mother-in-law said to me; “They might not win the cup next year.” The English find it uncomfortable to be unambiguously acknowledged as the best at anything. It’s not that they don’t think they are very good very often. It’s just that one shouldn’t say so. They prefer understatement and find the bald statement of fact vulgar.
So I suppose I should not have been surprised when I commented to our neighbour, a retired Air Force officer, who has been developing his garden since he moved in last summer, on his beautiful plantings and marvellous display of colour. “Oh, I haven’t any skill as a gardener,” he said. “It’s just a lot of hard work.” I said I hoped the Air Force used a slightly higher standard in selecting its pilots than how hard he flapped his arms.
I thought I’d won that round, but several hours later he came up to our shared property fence I was repainting on our side and asked if the paint was intoxicating. “Oh no,” I said, unaware of the consequences of this naked truthfulness, ”not at all.” “What a shame,” he said, “what a shame,” as he went over to check on the progress of the tomatoes. Being an American, I laughed out loud, which is okay because as an American I am forgiven certain ostentatious displays.
But if I were English, the appropriate response would have been to show my appreciation for his humour with a deadpan expression, preferably accompanied by an equally clever remark, which even now evades me. Good thing I can get away with laughing.
