“But I consider child-bearing the most ignominious of all professions,”
I said.
For a moment there was silence. Then Frau Fischer reached down and
caught my hand.
“So young and yet to suffer so cruelly,” she murmured. “There is
nothing that sours a woman so terribly as to be left alone without a
man, especially if she is married, for then it is impossible for her to
accept the attention of others—unless she is unfortunately a widow. Of
course, I know that sea-captains are subject to terrible temptations,
and they are as inflammable as tenor singers—that is why you must
present a bright and energetic appearance, and try and make him proud
of you when his ship reaches port.”
This husband that I had created for the benefit of Frau Fischer became
in her hands so substantial a figure that I could no longer see myself
sitting on a rock with seaweed in my hair, awaiting that phantom ship
for which all women love to suppose they hunger. Rather, I saw myself
pushing a perambulator up the gangway, and counting up the missing
buttons on my husband’s uniform jacket.
“Handfuls of babies, that is what you are really in need of,” mused
Frau Fischer. “Then, as the father of a family he cannot leave you.
Think of his delight and excitement when he saw you!”
The plan seemed to me something of a risk. To appear suddenly with
handfuls of strange babies is not generally calculated to raise
enthusiasm in the heart of the average British husband. I decided to
wreck my virgin conception and send him down somewhere off Cape Horn.
Then the dinner-gong sounded.
“Come up to my room afterwards,” said Frau Fischer. “There is still
much that I must ask you.”
She squeezed my hand, but I did not squeeze back.