“Oh, my dear, so naturally. All last winter down here I used to try when Hugh was practising to go on with the new play. But it all seemed remote, and it is no good, I think, working, creating, at any rate, unless for the time that is more important to you than anything else. And it couldn’t be that any longer. Love and happiness came between my brain and me. All that winter, and all the spring till we came up to town, I never for a moment got used to my happiness. It never grew less wonderful; I never could think of anything else. Oh, of course, I wrote a little, I wrote an act and a half, I believe, but it wasn’t—what shall I call it—it wasn’t intimate stuff. It was puppets, marionettes, instead of flesh and bones and brains. And then in London, after the first tremendous excitement of Hugh’s singing was over, I thought I would begin again, and yet I couldn’t. I was tired, I think. Then came the month of waiting here for what July was going to bring, and now two months more have gone, and I haven’t touched it. And as for the garden, I’ve forgotten, the names of those things almost,” she said pointing to a rose-bed.
But Peggy felt nearly as strongly on this point as she did on the other.
“Well, dear Edith, it’s time you sat up and began again,” she said. “Doesn’t your conscience tell you so? It would be a great pity if, simply because you were happily married, you become a cow, you know, and just grazed. I really think you are being rather indolent. It’s odd—it’s unlike you.”
For the moment it occurred to Edith to tell her sister that there was perhaps an explanation for that, as she knew that she had not felt well for the last month. She had been easily tired when she ought every day to have been gaining in vigour, and growing robust again. But this would lead to further questions, and very likely end in her promising to see a doctor, a thing which she had not the slightest intention of doing, at present, at any rate. For she was one of those splendid and shining lights in a hypochondriacal world, who, naturally of serene health, refuse to admit illness till they are on the point of dropping. Besides, more important than all, she was going to Munich with Hugh in a fortnight’s time to hear a cycle of the ‘Ring.’ That she fully intended to do; if necessary she would see a doctor after that.
But the pause had somehow aroused Peggy’s perceptions to a supernormal acuteness.
“You are well, dear, aren’t you?” she asked, as if following Edith’s unspoken thought.
“Do I look ill?” said Edith in a voice of earnest enquiry.
“No, I can’t say you do. So do take up your other ‘Things in General’ again. Hugh is the only thing in particular, which we all ought to have.”
“Yes, but what is to be done if one’s work seems dull?” asked Edith. “One can’t go on hammering at a thing if it seems dull. At least, the only effect would be to produce something dull. I read through what I had written the other day. It seemed lifeless to me. I don’t really care what happens to the people.”
She paused a moment again.