# Quicksand (Larsen)/Part 25

Twenty-Three
During the long process of getting well, between the dreamy intervals when she was beset by the insistent craving for sleep, Helga had had too much time to think. At first she had felt only an astonished anger at the quagmire in which she had engulfed herself. She had ruined her life. Made it impossible ever again to do the things that she wanted, have the things that she loved, mingle with the people she liked. She had, to put it as brutally as anyone could, been a fool. The damnedest kind of a fool. And she had paid for it. Enough. More than enough.
Her mind, swaying back to the protection that religion had afforded her, almost she wished that it had not failed her. An illusion. Yes. But better, far better, than this terrible reality. Religion had, after all, its uses. It ​blunted the perceptions. Robbed life of its crudest truths. Especially it had its uses for the poor—and the blacks.
For the blacks. The Negroes.
And this, Helga decided, was what ailed the whole Negro race in America, this fatuous belief in the white man‘s God, this childlike trust in full compensation for all woes. and privations in “kingdom come.” Sary: Jones‘s absolute conviction, “In de nex‘ worl‘ we‘s all recompense‘,” came back to her. And ten million souls were as sure of it as was Sary. How the white man‘s God must laugh at the great joke he had played on them! Bound them to slavery, then to poverty and insult, and made them bear it unresistingly, uncomplainingly almost, by sweet promises of mansions in the sky by and by.
“Pie in the sky,” Helga said aloud derisively, forgetting for the moment Miss Hartley‘s brisk presence, and so was a little startled at hearing her voice from the adjoining room ​saying severely: “My goodness! No! I should say you can‘t have pie. It‘s too indigestible. Maybe when you‘re better—”
“That,” assented Helga, “is what I said. Pie—by and by. That‘s the trouble.”
The nurse looked concerned. Was this an approaching relapse? Coming to the bedside, she felt at her patient‘s pulse while giving her a searching look. No. “You‘d better,” she admonished, a slight edge to her tone, “try to get a little nap. You haven‘t had any sleep today, and you can‘t get too much of it. You‘ve got to get strong, you know.”
With this Helga was in full agreement. It seemed hundreds of years since she had been strong. And she would need strength. For in some way she was determined to get herself out of this bog into which she had strayed. Or—she would have to die. She couldn‘t endure it. Her suffocation and shrinking loathing were too great. Not to be borne. Again. For she had to admit that it wasn‘t new, this feeling of ​dissatisfaction, of asphyxiation. Something like it she had experienced before. In Naxos. In New York. In Copenhagen. This differed only in degree. And it was of the present and therefore seemingly more reasonable. The other revulsions were of the past, and now less explainable.
The thought of her husband roused in her a deep and contemptuous hatred. At his every approach she had forcibly to subdue a furious inclination to scream out in protest. Shame, too, swept over her at every thought of her marriage. Marriage. This sacred thing of which parsons and other Christian folk ranted so sanctimoniously, how immoral—according to their own standards—it could be! But Helga felt also a modicum of pity for him, as for one already abandoned. She meant to leave him. And it was, she had to concede, all of her own doing, this marriage. Nevertheless, she hated him.
The neighbors and churchfolk came in ​for their share of her all-embracing hatred. She hated their raucous laughter, their stupid acceptance of all things, and their unfailing trust in “de Lawd.” And more than all the rest she hated the jangling Clementine Richards, with her provocative smirkings, because she had not succeeded in marrying the preacher and thus saving her, Helga, from that crowning idiocy.
Of the children Helga tried not to think. She wanted not to leave them—if that were possible. The recollection of her own childhood, lonely, unloved, rose too poignantly before her for her to consider calmly such a solution. Though she forced herself to believe that this was different. There was not the element of race, of white and black. They were all black together. And they would have their father. But to leave them would be a tearing agony, a rending of deepest fibers. She felt that through all the rest of her lifetime she would be hearing their cry of “Mummy, ​Mummy, Mummy,” through sleepless nights. No. She couldn‘t desert them.
How, then, was she to escape from the oppression, the degradation, that her life had become? It was so difficult. It was terribly difficult. It was almost hopeless. So for a while—for the immediate present, she told herself—she put aside the making of any plan for her going. “I‘m still,” she reasoned, “too weak, too sick. By and by, when I‘m really strong—”
It was so easy and so pleasant to think about freedom and cities, about clothes and books, about the sweet mingled smell of Houbigant and cigarettes in softly lighted rooms filled with inconsequential chatter and laughter and sophisticated tuneless music. It was so hard to think out a feasible way of retrieving all these agreeable, desired things. Just then. Later. When she got up. By and by. She must rest. Get strong. Sleep. Then, afterwards, she could work out some arrangement. So she ​dozed and dreamed in snatches of sleeping and waking, letting time run on. Away.
And hardly had she left her bed and become able to walk again without pain, hardly had the children returned from the homes of the neighbors, when she began to have her fifth child.