The Parasite Chapter 4

SPEAKER_1 (0:06)

This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit librivox.org.

The Parasite A story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Chapter 4 6:45 p.m. No, it is useless. There is no human help for me. I must fight this out single-handed. Two courses lie before me. I might become this woman's lover, or I must endure such persecutions as she can inflict upon me. Even if none come, I shall live in a hell of apprehension. But she may torture me, she may drive me mad, she may kill me. I will never, never, never give in.

What can she inflict which would be worse than the loss of Agatha, and the knowledge that I am a perjured liar and have forfeited the name of a gentleman?

Pratt Haldane was most amiable and listened with all politeness to my story, but when I looked at his heavyset features, his slow eyes and the ponderous study furniture which surrounded him, I could hardly tell him what I had come to say. It was all so substantial, so material. Besides, what would I myself have said a short month ago if one of my colleagues had come to me with a story of demonic possession? Perhaps I should have been less patient than he was. As it was, he took notes of my statement, asked me how much tea I drank, how many hours I slept, whether I had been overworking much, had I had sudden pains in the head, evil dreams, singing in the ears, flashes before the eyes, all questions which pointed to his belief that brain congestion was at the bottom of my trouble. Finally, he dismissed me with a great many platitudes about open air exercise and avoidance of nervous excitement. His prescription, which was for Chloral and Bromide, I rolled up and threw into the gutter.

No, I can look for no help from any human being.

If I consult any more, they may put their heads together and I may find myself in an asylum. I could but grip my courage with both hands and pray that an honest man may not be abandoned.

April 10 It is the sweetest spring within memory of man. So green, so mild, so beautiful.

What a contrast between nature without and my own soul so torn with doubt and terror. It has been an uneventful day, but I know that I am on the edge of an abyss. I know it, and yet I go on with the routine of my life. The one bright spot is that Agatha is happy and well and out of all danger. If this creature had a hand on each of us, what might she not do?

April 16 The woman is ingenious in her torments. She knows how fond I am of my work and how highly my lectures are thought of. So it is from that point that she now attacks me. It will end, I can see, in my losing my professorship, but I will fight to the finish. And she shall not drive me out of it without a struggle.

I was not conscious of any change during my lecture this morning save that for a minute or two I had a dizziness and swimminess which rapidly passed away. On the contrary, I congratulated myself upon having made my subject, the functions of the red corpuscles, both interesting and clear.

I was surprised, therefore, when a student came into my laboratory immediately after the lecture and complained of being puzzled by the discrepancy between my statements and those in the textbooks. He showed me his notebook in which I was reported as having in one portion of the lecture championed the most outrageous and unscientific heresies.

Of course, I denied it and declared that he had misunderstood me. But on comparing his notes with those of his companions, it became clear that he was right and that I really had made some preposterous statements. Of course, I shall explain it away as being the result of a moment of aberration, but I feel only too sure that it will be the first of a series. It is but a month now to the end of the session, and I pray that I may be able to hold out until then.

April 26

Ten days have elapsed since I have had the heart to make any entry in my journal. Why should I record my own humiliation and degradation? I had vowed never to open it again, and yet the force of habit is strong, and here I find myself taking up once more the record of my own dreadful experiences, in much the same spirit in which a suicide has been known to take notes of the effects of the poison which killed him.