The stunning physical fact of my husband’s illness was the immense prostration. So strong a body, as too often the convulsions gave proof; such inertia with it! He would lie all day like a log; then without warning or apparent cause the convulsions would begin. Arthur’s steady scientific brain stood it well; it was only two days before his death that delirium began. I was not with him, worn out as I was, and yet utterly unable to sleep, the doctor had insisted on my taking a long motor drive. In the fresh air I slumbered. I awoke to hear an unfamiliar voice saying in my ear. “Now for the fun of the fair!” There was no one there. Quick on its heels followed my husband’s voice as I had long since known and loved it, clear, strong, resonant, measured: “Get this down right; it is very important. I am passing into the power of the subconsciousness. I may not be able to speak to you again. But I am here; I am not to be touched by all that I may suffer; I can always think; you can always read my----” The voice broke off sharply to inquire, “But will it ever end?” as if some one had spoken to it. And then I heard the laugh. The laugh that I had heard by Magdalen Bridge was heavenly music beside that! The face of Calvin (even) as he gloated over the burning of Servetus would have turned pitiful had he heard it, so perfectly did it express the quintessence of damnation.

Now then my husband’s thought seemed to have changed places with the other. It was below, within, withdrawn. I said to myself, “He is dead!”

Then came Arthur’s thought, “I had better pretend to be mad. It will save her, perhaps; and it will be a change. I shall pretend I have killed her with an axe. Damn it! I hope she is not listening.” I was now thoroughly awake, and told the driver to get home quickly. “I hope she is killed in the motor; I hope she is smashed into a million pieces. O God! hear my one prayer! Let an Anarchist throw a bomb and smash Magdalen into a million pieces! Especially the brain! And the brain first. O God! my first and last prayer; smash Magdalen into a million pieces!”

The horror of this thought was my conviction--then and now--that it represented perfect sanity and coherence of thought. For I dreaded utterly to think what such words might imply.

At the door of the sick-room I was met by the male nurse, who asked me not to enter. Uncontrollably, I asked, “Is he dead?” and though Arthur lay absolutely senseless on the bed I read the answering thought “Dead!” silently pronounced in such tones of mockery, horror, cynicism and despair as I never thought to hear. There was a something or somebody who suffered infinitely, and yet who gloated infinitely upon that very suffering. And that something was a veil between me and Arthur.

The hissing breath recommenced; Arthur seemed to be trying to express himself--the self I knew. He managed to articulate feebly, “Is that the police? Let me get out of the house! The police are coming for me. I killed Magdalen with an axe.” The symptoms of delirium began to appear. “I killed Magdalen” he muttered a dozen times, then changing to “Magdalen with” again and again; the voice low, slow, thick, yet reiterated. Then suddenly, quite clear and loud, attempting to rise in the bed: “I smashed Magdalen into a million pieces with an axe.” After a moment’s pause: “a million is not very many now-a-days.” From this--which I now see to have been the speech of a sane Arthur--he dropped again into delirium. “A million pieces,” “a cool million,” “a million million million million million million” and so on; then abruptly: “Fanny’s dog’s dead.”

I cannot explain the last sentence to my readers; I may, however, remark that it meant everything to me. I burst into tears. At that moment I caught Arthur’s thought, “You ought to be busy with the note-book, not crying.” I resolutely dried my eyes, took courage, and began to write.