There was a colloquy between
the Doctor and my hostess, and the word cataplasma sounded
repeatedly; also I heard again "dosi forti." The night that
followed was perhaps the most horrible I ever passed.
Crushed with a
sense of uttermost fatigue, I could get no rest. From time to time a
sort of doze crept upon me, and I said to myself, "Now I shall
sleep"; but on the very edge of slumber, at the moment when I was
falling into oblivion, a hand seemed to pluck me back into
consciousness. In the same instant there gleamed before my eyes a
little circle of fire, which blazed and expanded into immensity,
until its many-coloured glare beat upon my brain and thrilled me
with torture. 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.
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