It was blood-poisoning, and the doctors were in doubt
for a little as to whether they would not have to amputate my arm. They
said that if George Stoker had not lanced the thumb that minute, I
_should_ have lost my arm.
A disagreeable incident in connection with my illness was that a member
of my profession made it the occasion of an unkind allusion (in a speech
at the Social Science Congress) to "actresses who feign illness and have
straw laid down before their houses, while behind the drawn blinds they
are having riotous supper-parties, dancing the can-can and drinking
champagne." Upon being asked for "name," the speaker would neither
assert nor deny that it was Ellen Terry (whose poor arm at the time was
as big as her waist, and _that_ has never been very small!) that she
meant.
I think we first heard of the affair on our second voyage to America,
during which I was still so ill that they thought I might never see
Quebec, and Henry wrote a letter to the press--a "scorcher." He showed
it to me on the boat. When I had read it, I tore it up and threw the
bits into the sea.
"It hasn't injured me in any way," I said. "Any answer would be
undignified."
Henry did what I wished in the matter, but, unlike me, whose heart I am
afraid is of wax--no impression lasts long--he never forgot it, and
never forgave.
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