Now I have told all this in the nearest and simplest words that I can find. I have had to use similitudes of voices and laughter and partition-walls, because one can only use the language which one knows. But it is all quite true and real, more real than a hundred talks which one holds with men and women whose face and dress one sees in rooms and streets, and with whom one bandies words about things for which one does not care. There was indeed some one present with me, whom I knew perfectly well though I could not discern him, whom I had known all my life, who had gone about with me and shared all my experiences, in so far as he chose. But before I go on to speak further, I will tell one more experience, which came at a time when I was very unhappy, longing to escape from life, looking forward mournfully to death.
It had been under similar circumstances—a dreadful argument proceeding in my mind as to what I could do to get back to happiness again, whom to consult, where to go, whether to give up my work, whether to add to it, what diet to use, how to get sleep which would not visit me.
"Can't you help me?" I said over and over again to the other person. At last the answer came, very faint and far away.
"I am sick," said the voice, "and I cannot come forth!"
That frightened me exceedingly, because I felt alone and weak. So I said, "Is it my fault? Is it anything that I have done?"
"I have had a blow," said the other voice. "You dealt it me—but it is not your fault—you did not know."
"What can I do?" I said.
"Ah, nothing," said the voice. "You must not disturb me! I am trying to recover, and I shall recover. Go on with your play, if you can, and do not heed me."
"My play!" I said scornfully. "Do you not know I am miserable?"
The voice gave a sigh. "You hurt me," it said. "I am weak and faint; but you can help me; be as brave as you can. Try not to think or grieve. I shall be able to help you again soon, but not now. . . . Ah, leave me to myself," it added. "I must sleep, a long sleep; it is your turn to help!"