W. Somerset Maugham: Novels, Short Stories, Plays & Travel Sketches (33 Titles In One Edition). Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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Название: W. Somerset Maugham: Novels, Short Stories, Plays & Travel Sketches (33 Titles In One Edition)
Автор: Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 9788027219452
isbn:
They went in and washed and ate, then waited for Bertha to wake. At last the nurse called them.
“You poor things,” cried Bertha, as they entered the room. “Have you had no sleep at all?... I feel quite well now, and I want my baby. Nurse says it’s sleeping and I can’t have it—but I will. I want it to sleep with me, I want to look at my son.”
Edward and the nurse looked at Dr. Ramsay, who for once was disconcerted.
“I don’t think you’d better have him to-day, Bertha,” he said. “It would upset you.”
“Oh, but I must have my baby. Nurse, bring him to me at once.”
Edward knelt down again by the bedside and took her hands. “Now, Bertha, you musn’t be alarmed, but the baby’s not well, and——“
“What d’you mean?” Bertha suddenly sprang up in the bed.
“Lie down. Lie down,” cried Dr. Ramsay and the nurse, forcing her back on the pillow.
“What’s the matter with him, doctor,” she cried, in sudden terror.
“It’s as Edward says, he’s not well.”
“Oh, he isn’t going to die—after all I’ve gone through.”
She looked from one to the other. “Oh, tell me; don’t keep me in suspense. I can bear it, whatever it is.”
Dr. Ramsay touched Edward, encouraging him.
“You must prepare yourself for bad news, darling. You know—--“
“He isn’t dead?” she shrieked.
“I’m awfully sorry, dear.... He was still-born.”
“Oh, God!” groaned Bertha, it was a cry of despair. And then she burst into passionate weeping.
Her sobs were terrible, uncontrollable; it was her life that she was weeping away, her hope of happiness, all her desires and dreams. Her heart seemed breaking. She put her hands to her eyes, with a gesture of utter agony.
“Then I went through it all for nothing.... Oh, Eddie, you don’t know the frightful pain of it—all night I thought I should die.... I would have given anything to be put out of my suffering. And it was all useless.”
She sobbed still more irresistibly, quite crushed by the recollection of what she had gone through, and its futility.
“Oh, I wish I could die.”
The tears were in Edward’s eyes, and he kissed her hands.
“Don’t give way, darling,” he said, searching in vain for words to console her. His voice faltered and broke.
“Oh, Eddie,” she said, “you’re suffering just as much as I am. I forgot.... Let me see him now.”
Dr. Ramsay made a sign to the nurse, and she fetched the dead child. She carried it to the bedside and showed it to Bertha.
Bertha said nothing, and at last turned away; the nurse withdrew. Bertha’s tears now had ceased, but her mouth was set into a hopeless woe.
“Oh, I loved him already so much.”
Edward bent over. “Don’t grieve, darling.”
She put her arms round his neck as she had delighted to do. “Oh, Eddie, love me with all your heart. I want your love so badly.”
Chapter XVIII
F days Bertha was overwhelmed with grief. She thought always of the dead child that had never lived, and her heart ached. But above all she was tormented by the idea that all her pain had been futile; she had gone through so much, her sleep still was full of the past agony, and it had been utterly, utterly useless. Her body was mutilated so that she wondered it was possible for her to recover; she had lost her old buoyancy, that vitality which had been so enjoyable, and she felt like an old woman. Her sense of weariness was unendurable—she was so tired that it seemed to her impossible to get rest. She lay in bed, day after day, in a posture of hopeless fatigue, on her back, with arms stretched out alongside of her, the pillows supporting her head: all her limbs were singularly powerless.
Recovery was very slow, and Edward suggested sending for Miss Ley, but Bertha refused.
“I don’t want to see anybody,” she said; “I merely want to lie still and be quiet.”
It bored her to speak with people, and even her affections, for the time, were dormant: she looked upon Edward as some one apart from her, his presence and absence gave no particular emotion. She was tired, and desired only to be left alone. All sympathy was unnecessary and useless, she knew that no one could enter into the bitterness of her sorrow, and she preferred to bear it alone.
Little by little, however, Bertha regained strength and consented to see the friends who called, some genuinely sorry, others impelled merely by a sense of duty or by a ghoul-like curiosity. Miss Glover, at this period, was a great trial; the good creature felt for Bertha the sincerest sympathy, but her feelings were one thing, her sense of right and wrong another. She did not think the young wife took her affliction with proper humility. Gradually a rebellious feeling had replaced the extreme prostration of the beginning, and Bertha raged at the injustice of her lot. Miss Glover came every day, bringing flowers and good advice; but Bertha was not docile, and refused to be satisfied with Miss Glover’s pious consolations. When the good creature read the Bible, Bertha listened with a firmer closing of her lips, sullenly.
“Do you like me to read the Bible to you, dear?” asked the parson’s sister once.
And Bertha, driven beyond her patience, could not as usual command her tongue.
“If it amuses you, dear,” she answered, bitterly.
“Oh, Bertha, you’re not taking it in the proper spirit—you’re so rebellious, and it’s wrong, it’s utterly wrong.”
“I can only think of my baby,” said Bertha, hoarsely.
“Why don’t you pray to God, dear—shall I offer a short prayer now, Bertha?”
“No, I don’t want to pray to God—He’s either impotent or cruel.”
“Bertha,” cried Miss Glover. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Oh, pray to God to melt your stubbornness; pray to God to forgive you.”
“I don’t want to be forgiven. I’ve done nothing that needs it. It’s God who needs my forgiveness—not I His.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Bertha,” replied Miss Glover, very gravely and sorrowfully.
Bertha was still so ill that Miss Glover dared not press the subject, but she was grievously troubled. She asked herself whether she should consult СКАЧАТЬ