I have still sharp memories of the tortures of that illness, though it befell so long ago.At times, when my mind was gone from me, I cried out I know not what of jargon, of sentiment, of the horrors I had beheld in my life.I lived again the pleasant scenes, warped and burlesqued almost beyond cognizance, and the tragedies were magnified a hundred fold.Thus it would be: on the low, white ceiling five cracks came together, and that was a device.And the device would take on color, red-bronze like the sumach in the autumn and streaks of vermilion, and two glowing coals that were eyes, and above them eagles' feathers, and the cracks became bramble bushes.
I was behind the log, and at times I started and knew that it was a hideous dream, and again Polly Ann was clutching me and praying me to hold back, and I broke from her and splashed over the slippery limestone bed of the creek to fight single-handed.Through all the fearful struggle I heard her calling me piteously to come back to her.When the brute got me under water I could not hear her, but her voice came back suddenly (as when a door opens) and it was like the wind singing in the poplars.Was it Polly Ann's voice?
Again, I sat with Nick under the trees on the lawn at Temple Bow, and the world was dark with the coming storm.I knew and he knew that the storm was brewing that I might be thrust out into it.And then in the blackness, when the air was filled with all the fair things of the earth torn asunder, a beautiful woman came through the noise and the fury, and we ran to her and clung to her skirts, thinking we had found safety.But she thrust us forth into the blackness with a smile, as though she were flinging papers out of the window.She, too, grew out of the design in the cracks of the ceiling, and a greater fear seized me at sight of her features than when the red face came out of the brambles.
My constant torment was thirst.I was in the prairie, and it was scorched and brown to the horizon.I searched and prayed pitifully for water,--for only a sip of the brown water with the specks in it that was in the swamp.
There were no swamps.I was on the bed in the cabin looking at the shifts and hunting shirts on the pegs, and Polly Ann would bring a gourdful of clear water from the spring as far as the door.Nay, once I got it to my lips, and it was gone.Sometimes a young man in a hunting shirt, square-shouldered, clear-eyed, his face tanned and his fair hair bleached by the sun, would bring the water.
He was the hero of my boyhood, and part of him indeed was in me.And I would have followed him again to Vincennes despite the tortures of the damned.But when I spoke his name he grew stouter before me, and his eyes lost their lustre and his hair turned gray; and his hand shook as he held out the gourd and spilled its contents ere I could reach them.
Sometimes another brought the water, and at sight of her I would tremble and grow faint, and I had not the strength to reach for it.She would look at me with eyes that laughed despite the resolution of the mouth.Then the eyes would grow pitiful at my helplessness, and she would murmur my name.There was some reason which I never fathomed why she could not give me the water, and her own suffering seemed greater than mine because of it.
So great did it seem that I forgot my own and sought to comfort her.Then she would go away, very slowly, and I would hear her calling to me in the wind, from the stars to which I looked up from the prairie.It was she, Ithought, who ordered the world.Who, when women were lost and men cried out in distress, came to them calmly, ministered to them deftly.
Once--perhaps a score of times, I cannot tell--was limned on the ceiling, where the cracks were, her miniature, and I knew what was coming and shuddered and cried aloud because I could not stop it.I saw the narrow street of a strange city deep down between high houses, --houses with gratings on the lowest windows, with studded, evil-looking doors, with upper stories that toppled over to shut out the light of the sky, with slated roofs that slanted and twisted this way and that and dormers peeping from them.Down in the street, instead of the King's white soldiers, was a foul, unkempt rabble, creeping out of its damp places, jesting, cursing, singing.And in the midst of the rabble a lady sat in a cart high above it unmoved.She was the lady of the miniature.A window in one of the jutting houses was flung open, a little man leaned out excitedly, and I knew him too.He was Jean Baptiste Lenoir, and he cried out in a shrill voice:--``You must take off her ruff, citizens.You must take off her ruff!''
There came a blessed day when my thirst was gone, when I looked up at the cracks in the ceiling and wondered why they did not change into horrors.Iwatched them a long, long time, and it seemed incredible that they should still remain cracks.Beyond that I would not go, into speculation I dared not venture.They remained cracks, and I went to sleep thanking God.When I awoke a breeze came in cool, fitful gusts, and on it the scent of camellias.I thought of turning my head, and I remember wondering for a long time over the expediency of this move.What would happen if I did!
Perhaps the visions would come back, perhaps my head would come off.Finally I decided to risk it, and the first thing that I beheld was a palm-leaf fan, moving slowly.
That fact gave me food for thought, and contented me for a while.Then I hit upon the idea that there must be something behind the fan.I was distinctly pleased by this astuteness, and I spent more time in speculation.
Whatever it was, it had a tantalizing elusiveness, keeping the fan between it and me.This was not fair.
I had an inspiration.If I feigned to be asleep, perhaps the thing behind the fan would come out.I shut my eyes.The breeze continued steadily.Surely no human being could fan as long as that without being tired!
I opened my eyes twice, but the thing was inscrutable.
Then I heard a sound that I knew to be a footstep upon boards.A voice whispered:--``The delirium has left him.''
