Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (223 page)

Feburary
7.

I
did.
My
God,
what
an
experience!
I
hardly
know
if
I
am
strong enough
yet
to
set
it
down.

Let
me
explain
in
the
first
instance
that
I
am
writing
this
in
Dr. Sinclair's
private
hospital
some
three
weeks
after
the
last
entry
in my
diary.
On
the
night
of
January
20
my
nervous
system
finally gave
way,
and
I
remembered
nothing
afterwards
until
I
found myself
three
days
ago
in
this
home
of
rest.
And
I
can
rest
with
a
good conscience.
My
work
was
done
before
I
went
under.
My
figures
are in
the
solicitors'
hands.
The
hunt
is
over.

And
now
I
must
describe
that
last
night.
I
had
sworn
to
finish
my work,
and
so
intently
did
I
stick
to
it,
though
my
head
was
bursting, that
I
would
never
look
up
until
the
last
column
had
been
added. And
yet
it
was
fine
self-restraint,
for
all
the
time
I
knew
that
wonderful
things
were
happening
in
the
mirror.
Every
nerve
in
my
body told
me
so.
If
I
looked
up
there
was
an
end
of
my
work.
So
I
did not
look
up
till
all
was
finished.
Then,
when
at
last
with
throbbing temples
I
threw
down
my
pen
and
raised
my
eyes,
what
a
sight
was there!

The
mirror
in
its
silver
frame
was
like
a
stage,
brilliantly
lit,
in which
a
drama
was
in
progress.
There
was
no
mist
now.
The
oppression
of
my
nerves
had
wrought
this
amazing
clarity.
Every
feature, every
movement,
was
as
clear-cut
as
in
life.
To
think
that
I,
a
tired accountant,
the
most
prosaic
of
mankind,
with
the
account-books of
a
swindling
bankrupt
before
me,
should
be
chosen
of
all
the
human race
to
look
upon
such
a
scene!

It
was
the
same
scene
and
the
same
figures,
but
the
drama
had advanced
a
stage.
The
tall
young
man
was
holding
the
woman
in
his arms.
She
strained
away
from
him
and
looked
up
at
him
with
loathing in
her
face.
They
had
torn
the
crouching
man
away
from
his
hold upon
the
skirt
of
her
dress.
A
dozen
of
them
were
round
him— savage
men,
bearded
men.
They
hacked
at
him
with
knives.
All
seemed to
strike
him
together.
Their
arms
rose
and
fell.
The
blood
did
not flow
from
him—it
squirted.
His
red
dress
was
dabbled
in
it.
He
threw himself
this
way
and
that,
purple
upon
crimson,
like
an
over-ripe plum.
Still
they
hacked,
and
still
the
jets
shot
from
him.
It
was horrible—horrible!
They
dragged
him
kicking
to
the
door.
The woman
looked
over
her
shoulder
at
him
and
her
mouth
gaped.
I heard
nothing,
but
I
knew
that
she
was
screaming.
And
then,
whether it
was
this
nerve-racking
vision
before
me,
or
whether,
my
task finished,
all
the
overwork
of
the
past
weeks
came
in
one
crushing weight
upon
me,
the
room
danced
round
me,
the
floor
seemed
to sink
away
beneath
my
feet,
and
I
remembered
no
more.
In
the early
morning
my
landlady
found
me
stretched
senseless
before
the silver
mirror,
but
I
knew
nothing
myself
until
three
days
ago
I
awoke in
the
deep
peace
of
the
doctor's
nursing
home.