Domestic fiction; Sisters -- Fiction; Women -- England -- Fiction
A long time afterwards--it seemed like a century--she did actually and
unmistakably see the woman sitting by her bed, and the woman was crying.
"Why are you crying?" Sophia asked wonderingly.
And the other, younger, woman, who was standing at the foot of the bed,
replied:
"You do well to ask! It is you who have hurt her, in your delirium,
when you so madly demanded the scissors."
The stout woman smiled with the tears on her cheeks; but Sophia wept,
from remorse. The stout woman looked old, worn, and untidy. The other
one was much younger. Sophia did not trouble to inquire from them who
they were.
That little conversation formed a brief interlude in the delirium,
which overtook her again and distorted everything. She forgot, however,
that she was destined to die.
One day her brain cleared. She could be sure that she had gone to sleep
in the morning and not wakened till the evening. Hence she had not been
put into the bath.
"Have I had my baths?" she questioned.
It was the doctor who faced her.
"No," he said, "the baths are finished."
She knew from his face that she was out of danger. Moreover, she was
conscious of a new feeling in her body, as though the fount of physical
energy within her, long interrupted, had recommenced to flow--but very
slowly, a trickling. It was a rebirth. She was not glad, but her body
itself was glad; her body had an existence of its own.
She was now often left by herself in the bedroom. To the right of the
foot of the bed was a piano in walnut, and to the left a chimney-piece
with a large mirror. She wanted to look at herself in the mirror. But
it was a very long way off. She tried to sit up, and could not. She
hoped that one day she would be able to get as far as the mirror. She
said not a word about this to either of the two women.
Often they would sit in the bedroom and talk without ceasing. Sophia
learnt that the stout woman was named Foucault, and the other Laurence.
Sometimes Laurence would address Madame Foucault as Aimee, but usually
she was more formal. Madame Foucault always called the other Laurence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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