I
They sat there for hours, at a tiny table, in a corner of the dimly
lighted shop, crowded with miscellaneous objects, embroidered smocks,
brass candlesticks, pictures, books, curios, baskets. The red curtains
were drawn across the windows, the door was closed; they were
undisturbed, isolated during the course of that most pathetic of human
struggles--that forever unsuccessful effort of one soul to explain
itself to another. With utter earnestness, sincerity, with justice and
compassion for Lawrence, Rosaleen tried to give Landry the story of her
marriage. She had only one motive--that this man should not think her
worse than she was. She felt that if he could be brought to see _why_
she had done this and that, he would no longer blame her. She wished to
make him see how inevitable it had all been.
She began with the day that Lawrence had come to her room to kill
himself. She and Miss Waters had tended him with frightened assiduity
all the afternoon, but in vain. His malady was beyond their reach. His
malady was despair. He had been through an experience that day which
had wrecked his soul. The doctor had told him that he was going blind,
and that nothing could prevent it.
Terror had seized him. He had thought at once of the only person he knew
who was capable of sustained and disinterested kindness, and he had fled
to Rosaleen, to die in her compassionate presence. His attempt, however,
wasn’t successful, whether from lack of knowledge or from reluctance
even he himself never knew. He hadn’t really harmed himself at all; the
blood-letting seemed in fact to make him feel better, to clear his
brain. He could perfectly well have got up and walked off at any moment,
but he preferred to lie with closed eyes, savouring his anguish. And
permitting an exquisite sense of consolation to creep into his soul.
Rosaleen and Miss Waters worked desperately over him; they washed his
face with cold water again and again. They made tea for him, and toast,
and the smell of the toast revived him. He ate it, mournfully, still
with his eyes closed. They bathed his forehead with Rosaleen’s cherished
“Florida water.” Once Miss Waters laid her cottony-white head on his
chest, to listen to his heart, but being too modest to unbutton his
waistcoat, she didn’t obtain much information. However, she knew it was
the thing to do, and it impressed Rosaleen.
He lay there for two days; a most embarrassing situation. Miss Waters
came to stop with Rosaleen, and they slept on the floor of the studio,
because Rosaleen said it might make him think he was causing trouble if
they pulled the other cot out of the room where he lay. The thought of
causing trouble, however, was not one of Lawrence’s worries. He would
wake up in the night and groan, so horribly that Rosaleen and Miss
Waters would cling to each other and weep. He asked for wines and
delicacies which they could ill afford. But his selfishness made him all
the more appealing to Rosaleen.
On the third day, late in the afternoon, he got up, bathed, shaved, and
dressed. Rosaleen disposed him in the wing chair, and went to the corner
to fetch cigarettes for him.
“What would you like for dinner?” she asked.
He said he didn’t care; anything nice....
“Won’t you take something now?” she entreated. “A nice hot cup of
cocoa?”
“No; not cocoa.”
He sighed and once more closed his eyes, which frightened Rosaleen.
“What _can_ I do for you?” she asked.
“Stay near me!” he said. “Don’t leave me alone!”
“Of course I won’t!” she answered.
He stayed there in the studio for nearly three weeks, sitting about in
his dressing gown, smoking and reading. One day he ordered a taxi and
sent Rosaleen to the flat where he had been living, to fetch him a long
list of things, including his painting materials, and when she returned,
he set up his easel and began to work.
“I may have six months more, you know,” he said. “I can see almost as
well as ever now. The colours aren’t quite so clear, perhaps....”
Rosaleen was delighted to see him taking an interest in something; she
had for so long looked upon him as an invalid, almost unable to move,
for whose recovery she was more or less responsible. She felt that this
new interest in his work might serve to rouse him from that apathy which
so distressed and alarmed her. She sat watching him, with affection,
with admiration. He was singing to himself, in a deep, growling basso,
and working just as she had seen him working in his studio
downstairs.... When suddenly he flung down the brushes and fell on his
knees, so heavily that the room shook.
“Oh, my God!” he cried. “I can’t bear it! I can’t live!... It’s going
from me!... Oh, let me die! Let me die...!”
She had rushed across the room and was on her knees beside him.
“Lawrence!” she cried. “Dear Lawrence! Don’t give way! Don’t take it so
hard! They say that bl--that people who can’t see are very happy. You’ll
find other things--all _sorts_ of other things--to interest you!”
“Be quiet!” he cried, sternly. “Don’t dare to tell me such things!”
He rose heavily to his feet and went over to the window.
“If it had come at once!” he said. “If everything had been blotted out
at one stroke, I could have endured it.... But to see it coming on, to
know what’s going to happen.... No!” he cried, suddenly. “I _won’t_
stand it! I won’t try!”
For weeks Rosaleen had no other thought but to try to comfort him. She
was glad to use what remained of her five hundred dollars to buy him the
things he wanted. His tastes were luxurious, above all, in matters of
eating and drinking; he liked quail or sweetbreads for breakfast, and
for dinner exotic things of which she had never heard before. And he
wished a glass of good white port every day with his lunch. And what he
asked for she got, if it were in any way possible.