I drugged myself with writing as if it
were chloral, against the stabs of memory that assaulted me. There will
be chapters I shall never read, those that I wrote as I sat by my desk
the day after the 12th, the cold, gray light pouring in on me, sometimes
holding my pen suspended while I was having a mortal struggle with my
will, forcing back thoughts, driving my mind to work as though it were
a brute. I conquered through the day. My work did not suffer; as I read
it over I saw that I had never written better, in spite of certain pains
that almost stopped my heart. But at night! ah! if I had had a room to
myself, would I have given myself one moment of rest that night? Would I
not have written on until I slept from fatigue?
"But that could not be. Elsie moved restlessly; the light disturbed her.
For a moment I almost hated her plaintive little voice, God forgive me!
and then I undressed and slipped into bed, and so quietly I lay beside
her, that she thought I slept. I breathed evenly and lightly--I ought to
be able to countefeit sleep by this, I have done it times enough.
"Well, it is of no avail to re-live that night. I thought there was no
hope left in me, but I have been cheating myself, it seems, for it
fought hard, every inch of the ground, for survival that night, though
now I am sure it will never lift its head again.
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