“The man of one woman is very rare,” Robertson Davies declares in World of Wonders, the final novel in The Deptford Trilogy, and he does not refer here merely to the monogomous man or to the family man or to any other such thing, but rather to the man whose life is essentially bound up with one woman, whose life is entirely dedicated to one woman. The reason that this kind of man is rare, he goes on to say, is that such a man “needs resources of spirit and psychological virtuosity beyond the common,” and this is perhaps true, but his next statement is truer: “He needs luck, too, because the man of one woman must find a woman of extraordinary quality.”
It is in this sense that I can truly call myself a man of one woman. I am not sure that I have resources of spirit or psychological virtuosity beyond the common, but I have indeed found a woman of extraordinary quality, a woman of such quality that my life seems always to have been bound up in hers, always seems to have been dedicated to hers, as long as I have been with her. It is not only that we are well suited to each other or that we relate well with each other or that we are committed to each other, though all of these things are true as well. It is that she is an extraordinary woman, in every sense that I can imagine, and she creates a desire in me to be an extraordinary man, a man who is truly of one woman.