CONCERNING THE CARETAKERS
THE Doctors in Petershof always said that the caretakers of the invalids
were a much greater anxiety than the invalids themselves. The invalids
would either get better or die: one of two things probably. At any rate,
you knew where you were with them. But not so with the caretakers: there
was nothing they were not capable of doing--except taking reasonable
care of their invalids! They either fussed about too much, or else they
did not fuss about at all. They all began by doing the right thing: they
all ended by doing the wrong. The fussy ones had fits of apathy, when
the poor irritable patients seemed to get a little better; the negligent
ones had paroxysms of attentiveness, when their invalids, accustomed to
loneliness and neglect, seemed to become rather worse by being worried.
To remonstrate with the caretakers would have been folly: for they were
well satisfied with their own methods.
To contrive their departure would have been an impossibility: for they
were firmly convinced that their presence was necessary to the welfare
of their charges. And then, too, judging from the way in which they
managed to amuse themselves, they liked being in Petershof, though they
never owned that to the invalids. On the contrary, it was the custom for
the caretakers to depreciate the place, and to deplore the necessity
which obliged them to continue there month after month. They were fond,
too, of talking about the sacrifices which they made, and the pleasures
which they willingly gave up in order to stay with their invalids. They
said this in the presence of their invalids. And if the latter had told
them by all means to pack up and go back to the pleasures which they
had renounced, they would have been astonished at the ingratitude which
could suggest the idea.
They were amusing characters, these caretakers. They were so thoroughly
unconscious of their own deficiencies. They might neglect their own
invalids, but they would look after other people's invalids, and play
the nurse most soothingly and prettily where there was no call and no
occasion. Then they would come and relate to their neglected dear ones
what they had been doing for others: and the dear ones would smile
quietly, and watch the buttons being stitched on for strangers, and the
cornflour which they could not get nicely made for themselves, being
carefully prepared for other people's neglected dear ones.
Some of the dear ones were rather bitter. But there were many of a
higher order of intelligence, who seemed to realize that they had no
right to be ill, and that being ill, and therefore a burden on their
friends, they must make the best of everything, and be grateful for
what was given them, and patient when anything was withheld. Others of
a still higher order of understanding, attributed the eccentricities of
the caretakers to one cause alone: the Petershof air. They know it had
the invariable effect of getting into the head, and upsetting the
balance of those who drank deep of it. Therefore no one was to blame,
and no one need be bitter. But these were the philosophers of the
colony: a select and dainty few in any colony. But there were several
rebels amongst the invalids, and they found consolation in confiding to
each other their separate grievances. They generally held their
conferences in the rooms known as the newspaper-rooms, where they were
not likely to be interrupted by any caretakers who might have stayed at
home because they were tired out.
To-day there were only a few rebels gathered together, but they were
more than usually excited, because the Doctors had told several of them
that their respective caretakers must be sent home.
"What must I do?" said little Mdlle. Gerardy, wringing her hands. "The
Doctor says that I must tell my sister to go home: that she only worries
me, and makes me worse. He calls her a 'whirlwind.' If I won't tell her,
then he will tell her, and we shall have some more scenes. Mon Dieu! and
I am so tired of them. They terrify me. I would suffer anything rather
than have a fresh scene. And I can't get her to do anything for me.
She has no time for me. And, yet she thinks she takes the greatest
possible care of me, and devotes the whole day to me. Why, sometimes I
never see her for hours together."
"Well, at least she does not quarrel with every one, as my mother does,"
said a Polish gentleman, M. Lichinsky. "Nearly every day she has a
quarrel with some one or other; and then she comes to me and says she
has been insulted. And others come to me mad with rage, and complain
that they have been insulted by her. As though I were to blame! I tell
them that now. I tell them that my mother's quarrels are not my quarrels.
But one longs for peace. And the Doctor says I must have it, and that
my mother must go home at once. If I tell her that, she will have a
tremendous quarrel with the Doctor. As it is, he will scarcely speak to
her. So you see, Mademoiselle Gerardy, that I, too, am in a bad plight.
What am I to do?"
Then a young American spoke. He had been getting gradually worse since
he came to Petershof, but his brother, a bright sturdy young fellow,
seemed quite unconscious of the seriousness of his condition.
"And what am I to do?" he asked pathetically. "My brother does not even
think I am ill. He says I am to rouse myself and come skating and
tobogganing with him. Then I tell him that the Doctor says I must lie
quietly in the sun. I have no one to take care of me, so I try to take
a little care of myself, and then I am laughed at. It is bad enough to
be ill; but it is worse when those who might help you a little, won't
even believe in your illness. I wrote home once and told them; but they
go by what he says; and they, too, tell me to rouse myself."
His cheeks were sunken, his eyes were leaden. There was no power in his
voice, no vigour in his frame. He was just slipping quickly down the
hill for want of proper care and understanding.
"I don't know whether I am much better off than you," said an English
lady, Mrs. Bridgetower. "I certainly have a trained nurse to look after
me, but she is altogether too much for me, and she does just as she
pleases. She is always ailing, or else pretends to be; and she is always
depressed. She grumbles from eight in the morning till nine at night.
I have heard that she is cheerful with other people, but she never gives
me the benefit of her brightness. Poor thing! She does feel the cold
very much, but it is not very cheering to see her crouching near the
stove, with her arms almost clasping it! When she is not talking of her
own looks, all she says is: 'Oh, if I had only not come to Petershof!'
or, 'Why did I ever leave that hospital in Manchester?' or, 'The cold
is eating into the very marrow of my bones.' At first she used to read
to me; but it was such a dismal performance that I could not bear to
hear her. Why don't I send her home? Well, my husband will not hear of
me being alone, and he thinks I might do worse than keep Nurse Frances.
And perhaps I might."
"I would give a good deal to have a sister like pretty Fräulein Müller
has," said little Fräulein Oberhof. "She came to look after me the other
day when I was alone. She has the kindest way about her. But when my
sister came in, she was not pleased to find Fräulein Sophie Müller with
me. She does not do anything for me herself, and she does not like any
one else to do anything either. Still, she is very good to other people.
She comes up from the theatre sometimes at half-past nine--that is the
hour when I am just sleepy--and she stamps about the room, and makes
cornflour for the old Polish lady. Then off she goes, taking with her
the cornflour together with my sleep. Once I complained, but she said I
was irritable. You can't think how teasing it is to hear the noise of
the spoon stirring the cornflour just when you are feeling drowsy. You
say to yourself, 'Will that cornflour never be made? It seems to take
centuries.'"
"One could be more patient if it were being made for oneself," said
M. Lichinsky. "But at least, Fräulein, your sister does not quarrel
with every one. You must be grateful for that mercy!"
Even as he spoke, a stout lady thrust herself into the reading-room.
She looked very hot and excited. She was M. Lichinsky's mother. She
spoke with a whirlwind of Polish words. It is sometimes difficult to
know when these people are angry and when they are pleased. But there
was no mistake about Mme. Lichinsky. She was always angry. Her son rose
from the sofa and followed her to the door. Then he turned round to his
confederates, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Another quarrel!" he said hopelessly.