housesomewhere where she could feel more at home, in Manhattan maybe, or Long Island, or Connecticut, maybe then she would feel at home and be able to get along with a nanny and herself and the kids and himself.
Maybe then heâd be able to get along with her, maybe help her over the hard times a little better, maybe find out why she had to bite her fingernails and be in despair so often, maybe if he could get hold of enough money all of a sudden,
that
would be how he would be able to forget all about money and be free to think about her only, and the kids, and the work, and never again need to be harassed.
Maybe then she wouldnât be for ever discontented, wanting a better house, better clothes, better times, and all the other things she seemed to be dreaming about all the time, maybe then she wouldnât feel she was losing her youth and beauty for nothing, sheâd calm down and see that what she had was just about as much as any woman could ever get, and maybe sheâd be thankful for it and make the most of it and not go off by herself in her head dreaming up desperate ways to make up for the loss of her youth and beauty, writing to her friends as if she were writing from a penitentiary, asking them to visit her, for Godâs sake come and see her, telegraphing them, screaming at them at the top of her voice on the telephone, and then, after talking about hats and shoes and dresses and whoâd laid who and why, hanging up on a bill forthirty-six dollars and seventy-five cents, wandering around in despair, unable to fix a simple supper for the kids, or make a sandwich for herself, or think of anything to do.
Maybe if he could get hold of thirty thousand dollars straight off and be out of debt and have enough left over for a new house for her and five hundred dollars to go in her pocket for anything she felt like buying, everything might straighten out and he might be able to get ready to work, and then actually write again.
He couldnât get to work the way things were because he couldnât get
ready
to. He was willing to believe that it was just as important to work for the family, for the kids and for her, as it was to work at his profession, but the way things were he just couldnât afford not to try to work at his profession, too. If he was rich, heâd be glad to help her all the time and let his work go.
Thereâs the typewriter, he thought. Sit down and write.
He put paper into the machine and began to work, but after an hour he knew it wouldnât do. He wasnât ready. He couldnât work until he was ready. The only way he could get ready was for her to feel at home and to know something about her kids and about him and about love and about fun, and she either just couldnât feel at home or wouldnât, she wouldnât stop biting her fingernails and going off into despair, making any work he was trying to do seem hopeless anduseless, she could only have the fun they were always having and then go right back into homelessness.
Writing had always been a fight, but for a long time he had always believed he could win the fight. He had plunged in and tried, but sooner or later the fight had always been too much for him. He had always believed he could write under any circumstance, any set of circumstances, but he had found that he couldnât.
He could still read a little, but he was finding a lot of fault with everything he was reading, too.
He was trying to think of an entire work, something that would turn out to be full, that he could do in two or three months, when she let herself in and said, âWhat you doing?â
âIâm trying to think of something to write in two or three months in short daily instalments.â
âI wish you knew how much he admires you.â
âWho?â
âLeander.â
âThey canât come, and I donât want to hear any more about it.â
âHe told me youâre the greatest writer
Maybe then heâd be able to get along with her, maybe help her over the hard times a little better, maybe find out why she had to bite her fingernails and be in despair so often, maybe if he could get hold of enough money all of a sudden,
that
would be how he would be able to forget all about money and be free to think about her only, and the kids, and the work, and never again need to be harassed.
Maybe then she wouldnât be for ever discontented, wanting a better house, better clothes, better times, and all the other things she seemed to be dreaming about all the time, maybe then she wouldnât feel she was losing her youth and beauty for nothing, sheâd calm down and see that what she had was just about as much as any woman could ever get, and maybe sheâd be thankful for it and make the most of it and not go off by herself in her head dreaming up desperate ways to make up for the loss of her youth and beauty, writing to her friends as if she were writing from a penitentiary, asking them to visit her, for Godâs sake come and see her, telegraphing them, screaming at them at the top of her voice on the telephone, and then, after talking about hats and shoes and dresses and whoâd laid who and why, hanging up on a bill forthirty-six dollars and seventy-five cents, wandering around in despair, unable to fix a simple supper for the kids, or make a sandwich for herself, or think of anything to do.
Maybe if he could get hold of thirty thousand dollars straight off and be out of debt and have enough left over for a new house for her and five hundred dollars to go in her pocket for anything she felt like buying, everything might straighten out and he might be able to get ready to work, and then actually write again.
He couldnât get to work the way things were because he couldnât get
ready
to. He was willing to believe that it was just as important to work for the family, for the kids and for her, as it was to work at his profession, but the way things were he just couldnât afford not to try to work at his profession, too. If he was rich, heâd be glad to help her all the time and let his work go.
Thereâs the typewriter, he thought. Sit down and write.
He put paper into the machine and began to work, but after an hour he knew it wouldnât do. He wasnât ready. He couldnât work until he was ready. The only way he could get ready was for her to feel at home and to know something about her kids and about him and about love and about fun, and she either just couldnât feel at home or wouldnât, she wouldnât stop biting her fingernails and going off into despair, making any work he was trying to do seem hopeless anduseless, she could only have the fun they were always having and then go right back into homelessness.
Writing had always been a fight, but for a long time he had always believed he could win the fight. He had plunged in and tried, but sooner or later the fight had always been too much for him. He had always believed he could write under any circumstance, any set of circumstances, but he had found that he couldnât.
He could still read a little, but he was finding a lot of fault with everything he was reading, too.
He was trying to think of an entire work, something that would turn out to be full, that he could do in two or three months, when she let herself in and said, âWhat you doing?â
âIâm trying to think of something to write in two or three months in short daily instalments.â
âI wish you knew how much he admires you.â
âWho?â
âLeander.â
âThey canât come, and I donât want to hear any more about it.â
âHe told me youâre the greatest writer
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