Mr. Blake is not so well again to-day. At two this morning, he confesses
that he opened the drawer in which his cigars are put away. He
only succeeded in locking it up again by a violent effort. His next
proceeding, in case of temptation, was to throw the key out of window.
The waiter brought it in this morning, discovered at the bottom of an
empty cistern--such is Fate! I have taken possession of the key until
Tuesday next.
June 24th.--Mr. Blake and I took a long drive in an open carriage. We
both felt beneficially the blessed influence of the soft summer air. I
dined with him at the hotel. To my great relief--for I found him in an
over-wrought, over-excited state this morning--he had two hours' sound
sleep on the sofa after dinner. If he has another bad night, now--I am
not afraid of the consequence.
June 25th, Monday.--The day of the experiment! It is five o'clock in the
afternoon. We have just arrived at the house.
The first and foremost question, is the question of Mr. Blake's health.
So far as it is possible for me to judge, he promises (physically
speaking) to be quite as susceptible to the action of the opium to-night
as he was at this time last year. He is, this afternoon, in a state of
nervous sensitiveness which just stops short of nervous irritation. He
changes colour readily; his hand is not quite steady; and he starts at
chance noises, and at unexpected appearances of persons and things.
These results have all been produced by deprivation of sleep, which is
in its turn the nervous consequence of a sudden cessation in the habit
of smoking, after that habit has been carried to an extreme. Here are
the same causes at work again, which operated last year; and here are,
apparently, the same effects. Will the parallel still hold good, when
the final test has been tried? The events of the night must decide.
While I write these lines, Mr. Blake is amusing himself at the billiard
table in the inner hall, practising different strokes in the game, as
he was accustomed to practise them when he was a guest in this house
in June last. I have brought my journal here, partly with a view to
occupying the idle hours which I am sure to have on my hands between
this and to-morrow morning; partly in the hope that something may happen
which it may be worth my while to place on record at the time.
Have I omitted anything, thus far? A glance at yesterday's entry shows
me that I have forgotten to note the arrival of the morning's post. Let
me set this right before I close these leaves for the present, and join
Mr. Blake.