The six months following held for me nothing out of the ordinary, save
that six or seven times I had dreams, vivid and terrible. Arthur had no
share in these. Yet I knew, I cannot say how, that they were his dreams
and not mine; or rather that they were in his subconscious waking self,
for one occurred in the afternoon, when he was out shooting, and not in
the least asleep.
The last of them occurred towards the end of the October term. He
was lecturing as usual, I was at home, lethargic after a too heavy
breakfast following a wakeful night. I saw suddenly a picture of the
lecture-room, enormously greater than in reality, so that it filled
all space; and in the rostrum, bulging over it in all directions,
was a vast, deadly pale devil with a face which was a blasphemy on
Arthur’s. The evil joy of it was indescribable. So wan and bloated,
its lips so loose and bloodless; fold after fold of its belly flopping
over the rostrum and pushing the students out of the hall, it leered
unspeakably. Then dribbled from its mouth these words; “Ladies and
gentlemen, the course is finished. You may go home.” I cannot hope even
to suggest the wickedness and filth of these simple expressions. Then,
raising its voice to a grating scream, it yelled: “White of egg! White
of egg! White of egg!” again and again for twenty minutes.
The effect on me was shocking. It was as if I had a vision of Hell.
Arthur found me in a very hysterical condition, but soon soothed me.
“Do you know,” he said at dinner, “I believe I have got a devilish bad
chill?”
It was the first time I had known him to complain of his health. In
six years he had not had as much as a headache.
I told him my “dream” when we were in bed, and he seemed unusually
grave, as if he understood where I had failed in its interpretation. In
the morning he was feverish; I made him stay in bed and sent for the
doctor. The same afternoon I learnt that Arthur was seriously ill, had
been ill, indeed, for months. The doctor called it Bright’s disease.