Chapter XXXIII

inafeverofalmostphysicalagony.Shewouldsitatthepiano,andceaseplayingafterhalf-a-dozenbars—musicseemedasfutileaseverythingelseshehaddoneeverythingsooften.Shetriedtoread,butcouldhardlybringherselftobeginanewvolume,andtheverysightoftheprintedpageswasdistasteful:theworksofinformationtoldherthingsshedidnotwanttoknow,thenovelsrelateddeedsofpersonsinwhomshetooknointerest.Shereadafewpagesandthrewdownthebookindisgust.Thenshewentoutagain—anythingseemedpreferabletowhatsheactuallywasdoing—shewalkedrapidly,butthemotion,thecountry,theveryatmosphereabouther,werewearisomeandalmostimmediatelyshereturned.Berthawasforcedtotakethesamewalksdayafterdayandthedesertedroads,thetrees,thehedges,thefields,impressedthemselvesonhermindwithadismalinsistency.Thenshewasdriventogooutmerelyforexercise,andwalkedacertainnumberofmiles,tryingtogetthemdonequickly.Thewindsoftheearlyyearblewthatseasonmorepersistentlythanever,andtheyimpededhersteps,andchilledhertothebone. SometimesBerthapaidvisits,andtherestraintshehadtoputuponherselfrelievedherforthemoment,butnosoonerwasthedoorclosedbehindherthanshefeltmoredesperatelyboredthanever. Yearningsuddenlyforsociety,shewouldsendoutinvitationsforsomefunctionthenfeltitinexpressiblyirksometomakepreparations,andsheloathedandabhorredherguests.Foralongtimesherefusedtoseeanyone,protestingherfeeblehealthandsometimesinthesolitudeshethoughtshewouldgomad.Sheturnedtoprayerastheonlyrefugeofthosewhocannotact,butsheonlyhalfbelieved,andthereforefoundnocomfort.SheaccompaniedMissGloveronherdistrictvisiting,butshedislikedthepoor,andtheirchatterseemedhopelesslyinane.Theennuimadeherheadache,andsheputherhandtohertemples,pressingthempainfullyshefeltshecouldtakegreatwispsofherhairandtearitout. Shethrewherselfonherbedandweptintheagonyofboredom.Edwardoncefoundherthus,andaskedwhatwasthematter. “Oh,myheadaches,sothatIfeelIcouldkillmyself.” HesentforRamsay,butBerthaknewthedoctor’sremedieswereabsurdanduseless.Sheimaginedthattherewasnoremedyforherill—noteventime—noremedybutdeath. Sheknewtheterribledistressofwakinginthemorningwiththethoughtthatstillanotherdaymustbegonethroughsheknewthereliefofbed-timewiththethoughtthatshewouldenjoyafewhoursofunconsciousness.Shewasrackedwiththeimaginationofthefuture’sfrightfulmonotony:nightwouldfollowday,anddaywouldfollownight,themonthspassingonebyoneandtheyearsslowly,slowly. Theysaythatlifeisshort.Tothosewholookbackperhapsitisbuttothosewholookforwarditislong,horriblylong—endless.SometimesBerthafeltitimpossibletoendure.Sheprayedthatshemightfallasleepatnightandneverawake.Howhappymustbethelivesofthosewhocanlookforwardtoeternity!ToBerthatheideawasmerelyghastlyshedesirednothingbutthelongrest,therestofanendlesssleep,thedissolutionintonothing. Onceindesperationshewishedtokillherself,butwasafraid.Peoplesaythatsuiciderequiresnocourage.Fools!Theycannotrealisethehorroroftheneedfulpreparation,theanticipationofthepain,theterriblefearthatonemayregretwhenitistoolate,whenlifeisebbingaway.Andthereisthedreadoftheunknown.Andthereisthedreadofhell-fire—absurdandrevolting,yetsoengrainedthatnoeffortisableentirelytodestroyit.Notwithstandingreasonandargumentthereisstillthenumbingfearthattheghastlyfablesofourchildhoodmayafterallbetrue,thefearofajealousGodwhowilldoomHiswretchedcreaturestounendingtorture.