No Sooner Was The Intolerable Light Extinguished Than
I Burst Into A Cold Sweat; An Icy River Poured About Me;
I shook,
and my teeth chattered, and so for some minutes I lay in anguish,
until the heat of fever
Re-asserted itself, and I began once more to
toss and roll. A score of times was this torment repeated. The sense
of personal agency forbidding me to sleep grew so strong that I
waited in angry dread for that shock which aroused me; I felt myself
haunted by a malevolent power, and rebelled against its cruelty.
Through the night no one visited me. At eight in the morning a knock
sounded at the door, and there entered the waiter, carrying a tray
with my ordinary breakfast. "The Signore is not well?" he remarked,
standing to gaze at me. I replied that I was not quite well; would
he give me the milk, and remove from my sight as quickly as possible
all the other things on the tray. A glimpse of butter in its
cheese-rind had given me an unpleasant sensation. The goat's milk I
swallowed thankfully, and, glad of the daylight, lay somewhat more
at my ease awaiting Dr. Sculco.
He arrived about half-past nine, and was agreeably surprised to find
me no worse. But the way in which his directions had been carried
out did not altogether please him. He called the landlady, and
soundly rated her. This scene was interesting, it had a fine flavour
of the Middle Ages. The Doctor addressed mine hostess of the
Concordia as "thou," and with magnificent disdain refused to hear
her excuses; she, the stout, noisy woman, who ruled her own
underlings with contemptuous rigour, was all subservience before
this social superior, and whined to him for pardon. "What water is
this?" asked Dr. Sculco, sternly, taking up the corked jar that
stood on the floor. The hostess replied that it was drinking water,
purchased with good money. Thereupon he poured out a little, held it
up to the light, and remarked in a matter-of-fact tone, "I don't
believe you."
However, in a few minutes peace was restored, and the Doctor
prescribed anew. After he had talked about quinine and cataplasms,
he asked me whether I had any appetite. A vision of the dining-room
came before me, and I shook my head. "Still," he urged, "it would be
well to eat something." And, turning to the hostess, "He had better
have a beefsteak and a glass of Marsala." The look of amazement with
which I heard this caught the Doctor's eye. "Don't you like
bistecca?" he inquired. I suggested that, for one in a very high
fever, with a good deal of lung congestion, beefsteak seemed a
trifle solid, and Marsala somewhat heating. "Oh!" cried he, "but we
must keep the machine going." And thereupon he took his genial
leave.
I had some fear that my hostess might visit upon me her resentment
of the Doctor's reproaches; but nothing of the kind. When we were
alone, she sat down by me, and asked what I should really like to
eat. If I did not care for a beefsteak of veal, could I eat a
beefsteak of mutton? It was not the first time that such a choice
had been offered me, for, in the South, bistecca commonly means a
slice of meat done on the grill or in the oven. Never have I sat
down to a bistecca which was fit for man's consumption, and, of
course, at the Concordia it would be rather worse than anywhere
else. I persuaded the good woman to supply me with a little broth.
Then I lay looking at the patch of cloudy sky which showed above the
houses opposite, and wondering whether I should have a second
fearsome night. I wondered, too, how long it would be before I could
quit Cotrone. The delay here was particularly unfortunate, as my
letters were addressed to Catanzaro, the next stopping-place, and
among them I expected papers which would need prompt attention. The
thought of trying to get my correspondence forwarded to Cotrone was
too disturbing; it would have involved an enormous amount of
trouble, and I could not have felt the least assurance that things
would arrive safely. So I worried through the hours of daylight, and
worried still more when, at nightfall, the fever returned upon me as
badly as ever.
Dr. Sculco had paid his evening visit, and the first horror of
ineffectual drowsing had passed over me, when my door was flung
violently open, and in rushed a man (plainly of the commercial
species), hat on head and bag in hand. I perceived that the
diligenza had just arrived, and that travellers were seizing upon
their bedrooms. The invader, aware of his mistake, discharged a
volley of apologies, and rushed out again. Five minutes later the
door again banged open, and there entered a tall lad with an armful
of newspapers; after regarding me curiously, he asked whether I
wanted a paper. I took one with the hope of reading it next morning.
Then he began conversation. I had the fever? Ah! everybody had fever
at Cotrone. He himself would be laid up with it in a day or two. If
I liked, he would look in with a paper each evening - till fever
prevented him. When I accepted this suggestion, he smiled
encouragingly, cried "Speriamo!" and clumped out of the room.
I had as little sleep as on the night before, but my suffering was
mitigated in a very strange way. After I had put out the candle, I
tormented myself for a long time with the thought that I should
never see La Colonna. As soon as I could rise from bed, I must flee
Cotrone, and think myself fortunate in escaping alive; but to turn
my back on the Lacinian promontory, leaving the cape unvisited, the
ruin of the temple unseen, seemed to me a miserable necessity which
I should lament as long as I lived.
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