The Theoretical Foot by M. F. K. Fisher Page A

abruptly stopped sobbing.
    â€œNan!” she cried, throwing her head back, flattening both hands against the wall, all the tragedy of the ages in her anguished voice.
    There was then a long silence in which Lucy felt her throat thickening, daring not to look at the small woman in the bed for fear she’d see more of that ghastly polite tolerance. Lucy began to sob again, now in a harsh and ugly way, no longer caring about how the line of her throat looked as she thrust her head back, nor about her harsh tone of voice.
    â€œBut, Lucy, my poor dear Lucy, please do tell me what’s wrong, won’t you?” Nan asked. “Don’t cry like that. Come and sit here beside me.”
    Lucy weaved blindly toward the low bed and sank down upon its edge, mopping at her eyes with the wet hankie. She sighed in a noisy, wavering way. Never had she been this miserable.
    â€œOh, Nan,” Lucy asked. “What has happened to you?”
    Nan looked at her with obvious surprise, then glanced toward the open window, as she stared at the lake over the tops of the apple trees. “Tim and Sara are still down there, Lucy, and they can hear you.” Nan didn’t look at her.
    â€œOf course,” Lucy said, “how typical, Nan Garten, always thinking of what other will think of you ! They can’t hear us, they only listen to themselves. Do you ever really consider me? How can you act this way, how can you be so weak?” She mopped her streaming eyes, waved the sodden hankie. “It’s soaked,” she said. “I cried all night!”
    Nan’s face was guileless, as she asked, “Would you like one of mine?”
    â€œNo, this is all right. I’ll try not to make such a fool of myself, an old fool, but if you knew what I’ve been going through as I’ve watched you change this summer. It’s a terrible change, Nan. And it’s not just being so uncomfortable and being forced to live in this questionable atmosphere, with its irregular hours and slipshod meals that’s exhausted me so. It’s that I’ve had to sit helplessly by as you’ve allowed yourself to be cheapened. You know how I’ve always revered you and . . .”
    â€œLucy!” Nan’s voice was now full of gentle ridicule.
    â€œDon’t laugh at me! Yes, I’ve revered you as the finest, purest woman I’ve ever known. Your manners, the way you carry yourself, the manner in which you speak, and now listen to you!” Lucy groaned, now twisting her hand in desperation.
    â€œListen to what, Lucy?” Nan asked. “I really think you’re exaggerating. You do know, don’t you, that I love you just as I always have and . . .”
    â€œDon’t change the subject!” Lucy said harshly. “I heard you out there on the balcony talking to those two. I heard what you called Timothy and can tell you, Nan Garten, that the very fact that you’d let such a word cross your lips is as horrible to me as poison !”
    Lucy, tired suddenly, stopped. What was the use of fighting for her love? She felt again what she’d often felt that summer, that Nan was now lost to her, that never again would she be with her darling as they’d been that wonderful winter after the death of Nan’s husband, when it was only the two of them and they were so happy together in the little studio in the woods.
    â€œI’m an old fool,” Lucy mumbled. “Forget it. Forget all I’ve said.”
    Lucy stood at the door stiffly. In her heart, however, she was still crying, screaming in fact like a wounded animal, begging in her mind for Nan to love her, for her to take her back, for her to be the beautiful gracious fairy creature of those other blissful days. Nan, she whimpered in her heart, I’m old and ugly and I hate all the world but you, you’re my darling. Take me back, feed me with your beauty, comfort me with your gifts. Feed me, I’m so