As far as they concerned Anastasia I thought a good deal over his words, and when I returned, after an afternoon spent in buying a new suit, hat, boots, I found her lying on her bed, her hundred intact.
When a woman is too sick to spend money in new clothes it’s time to call a doctor. This, in spite of her protestations, I promptly did, to be told as promptly that she was a very sick woman indeed. She had, said the medico, never fully recovered from her confinement, and had been running down ever since. For the present she must remain in bed.
Then he hesitated. “If your wife is not carefully looked after there is danger of her becoming poitrinaire.”
I was startled. In the tension of literary effort, in the egotism of art, I had paid little heed to her. If she had been less perfect, perhaps I should have thought more of her. But she just fitted in, made things smooth, effaced herself. She was of that race that make the best wives in the world. The instinct is implanted in them by long heredity. Anastasia was a born wife, just as she was a born mother. Yes, I had neglected her, and the doctor left me exceedingly pensive and remorseful.
“You must hurry up and get well, child,” I said, as she lay there looking frail and wistful. “Then we’re going away on a holiday. We’re going to Brittany by the sea. I’m tired of grey days. I want them all blue and gold. We’ll wander down lanes sweet with may, and sit on the yellow sands.”
She listened fondly, as I painted pictures, growing ever more in love with my vision.
“Yes, I try to get well, queek, just to please you, darleen. Excuse me, I geeve you too much trooble. I want so much to be good wife to you. That is the bestest thing for me. I don’t want ever you be sorry you marry me. If you was, I sink I die.”
Once I had conceived myself in the part of a nurse, I entered into it with patience and enthusiasm. I am not lavish in the display of affection; but in these days I was more tender and considerate than ever I had been, and Anastasia was duly grateful. So passed two weeks—the daily visits of the doctor, patient vigils on my part, hours of pain and ease on hers.
In Bohemia it never rains but it pours; so with cruel irony in the face of my good fortune other successes began to surprise me. Within two weeks I had seven of my stories accepted, and the total revenue from them was twelve pounds. I felt that the worst of the fight was over. I had enough now to carry me on till I had written another novel. I need not do this pot-boiling work any more.
Every day came Helstern with news of the growing prowess of the Môme. She was able to sit up a little. Her legs were like spindles, and she could not walk; but she looked rarely beautiful, almost angelic. In a few days he was going to get a chair on wheels, and take her out in the gardens.