Ships that pass in the night

by Beatrice Harraden

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.