_Monday._--We are a party of twelve at breakfast. A merry party. With
children we make fifteen. Some one reads out about Russian Influenza. We
laugh. In the daytime, we ride, lounge, shoot. Dinner. Somebody is
indisposed and doesn't appear. Also a child has caught cold. But Russian
Influenza!--absurd!
_Tuesday._--We are a party of ten this morning at breakfast. Only three
children appear. One, a boy who hears his holidays have been extended
over the fortnight, is very happy. No Russian Influenza here. Our
hostess does not think it necessary to send for the Doctor, who lives
three miles off, as the two children have only a slight cold, and the
two guests don't happen to be quite well, that's all. Headache slightly,
both. At dinner our host, who won't believe in Russian Influenza, says
that he's afraid he has rheumatism coming on. Hot grog, we all agree, is
the best remedy. Remedy accordingly, with pipes. Two of the ladies
retire early, "not feeling quite the thing," and at eleven our host says
he thinks he'll turn in. We bid him good-night, hope he'll be better,
and then sit down and discuss news. Odd that people and children should
be taken ill, but no one will for a moment admit the possibility of
Influenza touching _us_.
_Wednesday._ Seven at breakfast. No host. No children down for
breakfast; but all apparently "down" with cold, or--something. Hostess
comes in, apologises for being late, but much bothered about children,
specially the boy who has got extra fortnight. He's got "something" now
besides extra fortnight. "Something," but not Influenza. Very feverish
in the night; so were the two ladies; so was the host. The hostess, who
is great in medicines, specially new ones, has cupboards full of bottles
of Eno and Pyrrhetic Saline (or some such name--I'm not sure that it
isn't "Pyrotechnic Saline") and her latest fad is Salt Regal. "Children
like it," she says, "because it turns pink, and is pretty to look at."
If some of her simple remedies, including foreign waters with strange
names on them, don't succeed, she will send for Doctor. We begin to
think of returning to town. Also begin to wonder if all this can
possibly be the Epidemic.
_Thursday._--Dinner, rather dull. The Butler is feeble. Crossing the
parquet he is down with a dish. In another hour he is down with--shall
we begin to say--Influenza? I thought Influenza was sneezing and
coughing and the most violent of colds. Yet I hear very little of that
in the house. I shall pack up and leave to-morrow morning. Sharp pain in
back as I stoop over portmanteau. Feel queer in head. Pains all down my
legs. Within an hour pains everywhere. Remember at school when one boy
obstructed another's view, the latter would ask him to "get out of the
light, as your father wasn't a glazier, and I can't see through you."
Think my father must have been a glazier as I am so full of "panes." How
bad my head must be to make this jest.
_Friday._--Don't know how many at breakfast. I'm not. Doctor summoned,
visits me. "I suppose," I say, by way of instructing him in the view
that I want him to take, "I suppose I've got a slight chill, and this
afternoon I shall be able to wrap up and get to town?" "Oh, dear, no,"
replies Doctor. "You'll take Ammoniated Quinine at once." "You don't
mean to say that it's----" "Influenza?" he asks. I nod. Yes, that is
exactly what it is, they have all got it in the house, he tells me, and
no one will be able to leave for the next ten days! How pleasant for our
hosts! I did not believe in Influenza. I do now. Its French name is _La
Grippe_. _Je suis grippe._ This means more than a weak name like
"Influenza."
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