THE TRAGEDY OF AN AUTHOR'S WIFE.
"I won't stand it any longer," said Janet intensely, meeting me in the hall. "Take off your umbrella and listen to me."
"It's off," I replied faintly, perceiving that something was all my fault. "Can't you hear it singing 'Niagara' in the porch?"
I dropped the shopping on the floor and sat down to watch Janet walking up and down the room.
"I want," she continued in the tone of one who has had nobody to be indignant with all day, "a divorce."
"Who for?" I inquired. "Really, darling, we can't afford any more presents this—"
"Me," she interrupted, frowning.
"Couldn't you have it for your birthday?" I suggested. "I may have some more money by then. Besides, I gave you—"
"No, I could not," replied Janet in a voice like the end of the world; "I want it now. I will not wear myself out trying to live up to an impossible ideal, and lose all my friends because they can't help comparing me with it. And it isn't even as if it were my own ideal. I never know what I've got to be like from one week to another. And what do I get for my struggles? Not even recognition, much less gratitude."
"Janet," I said kindly, "I don't know what you're talking about. Who are these people who keep idealising you? I will not have you annoyed in this way. Send them to me and I'll put a little solid realism into their heads. I'll tell them what you really are, and that'll settle their unfortunate illusions. Dear old girl, don't worry so.... I'll soon put it right."
Janet looked at me piercingly.
"It's this," she said; "I keep having people to call on me."
"I know," I answered, shuddering; "but I can't help it, can I? You shouldn't be so attractive."
"Dear Willyum," she replied, "that's just the point; you can help it."
"Stop calling me names and I'll see what can be done."
"But it's part of my 'whimsical wit' to call you Willyum," she said grimly. "I understand that I am like that. People realise this when they read your articles, and immediately call to see if I'm true. I've read through nearly all your stories to-day, in between the visitors, and—and—"
I gripped her hand in silence.
"I'm losing all my friends," she mourned, touched by my sympathy, "even those who used to like me long ago. Girls who knew me at school say to themselves, 'Fancy poor old Janet being like that all the time, and we never knew!' and they rush down to see me again. They sit hopefully round me as long as they can bear it; then, after the breakdown, they go away indignant and never think kindly of me again."
She gloomed.
"And all the cousins and nice young men who used to think I was quite jolly have suddenly noticed how much jollier I might be if only I could say the things they say you say I say...."
"Hush, hush," I whispered; "have an aspirin."
"But it's quite true," she cried hopelessly. "And She's just what I ought to be. She says everything just in the right place. When I compare myself with Her, I know I'm not a bit the kind of person you admire, and—and it's no good pretending any longer. I'm not jealous, only—sort of misrubble."
She rose with a pale smile and, hushing my protestations, arrived at her conclusion.
"We must part," she said, throwing her cigarette into the fire and walking to the window; "I can't help it. I suppose I'm not good enough for you. You must be free to marry Her when we find Her. I too," she sighed, "must be free...."
"I now call upon myself to speak," I remarked, rising hurriedly. "Janet," I continued, arriving at her side, "keep perfectly still and do not attempt to breathe, because you will not be able to, and look as pleasant as you can while I tell you truthfully what I think you are really like."
(I have been compelled to delete this passage on the ground that even if people believed me it would only attract more callers.)
"All right," she continued, unruffling her hair; "but if I do you must promise to leave off writing stories about me. Will you?"
"But, darling," I objected, "consider the bread-and-jam."
She was silent.
"Well, then," she said at last, "you must only write careful ones that I can live up to."
"I'll try," I agreed remorsefully; "I'll go and do one now—all about this. And you can censor it." I left the room jauntily.
Janet's voice, suddenly repentant, followed me.
"No," she called, "that won't do either. Because if it's a true one you won't sell it."
"But if it isn't," I called back, "and I do, we can put the money in the Divorce Fund."