September 11. Whatever this illness be, it kills people in a very short time. A little public-school boy was taken sick last night, and died in three or four hours. Natives are terribly frightened, and we Americans are far from comfortable.
September 12. Several more deaths. Dr. S—— says cholera. Dr. B—— says if there has been a case of cholera in town he will eat his hat. They are making every effort to find out what it is, but the bacillus is shy, and refuses to respond to the searchings of the microscope.
September 13. Cholera increasing. Dr. B—— has given in at last. A scout died, and they made an examination of the stomach and bowels. Found the bacillus. Dr. B—— says if I will come around to the hospital, he will show me one.
September 14. Have seen the comma bacillus. It is certainly an insignificant microbe to be raising so much trouble. Got hold of a report from the Board of Health, saying that, if the epidemic grew worse, the public school buildings should be converted into hospitals. Took it over to the Deputy Division Superintendent to protest. Schoolhouses are scarce here. Cannot afford to infect them.
September 15. The schools are closed to-day, the number of deaths having passed ten per diem. As I am the only householder, the other teachers are to have their meals with me till the epidemic is over.
September 16. The house smells to high heaven! The provincial Supervisor came in this morning with a quart of crude carbolic acid, about half a bushel of chloride of lime, and a lot of camphor. I immediately put the camphor in my trunks, having wanted some for quite a little time, and devoted the rest of the stuff to its proper uses. Put the lime over the stone flagging below, with a large heap at the foot of the stairs, so that everybody coming in must walk through it. The floors and stairs are frightfully tramped up. Ciriaco, much to his disgust, had to wash off all the furniture with agua finecada (diluted carbolic acid). Bought a new kettle in which to boil the drinking-water. Bought yards and yards of new tea towelling, and gave orders that, after being once used, the dish towel is to be boiled before using again.
September 18. Dr. S—— says get nothing out of the market. Dr. B—— says he eats cucumbers three times a day. What the doctor can risk surely the layman can chance. I buy cucumbers still. On being brought into the house they are washed in diluted carbolic acid, and rinsed in boiled rain water. Then the servant washes her hands in bichloride solution, peels the cucumber, slices it and lets it stand in vinegar till meal time. Dr. B—— says the vinegar is sure death to the shy bacillus.
September 19. All the change is deposited in agua finecada when the servant comes in from market. What could we do without cucumbers? How weary we are of the canned stuff from the commissary! It is rumored that Dr. S—— and wife will not eat butter, because it must stand too long. Mrs. S—— bakes her own bread, and, it is reported, locks her cook up at night for fear he may escape and visit among his kindred. He is not allowed to leave the premises by day.
Miss P—— tells me that at Mrs. T——’s the visitor is requested to scrape his feet in the chloride of lime at the foot of the stairs, and, on arriving at the top, is presented with a bowl of agua finecada, wherein to wash his hands. The towel has been boiled, and, of course, a fresh one is provided for each person. This is not so extravagant as it sounds. We Americans are few in number, and do but little visiting these days.
October 3. Saw four cholera patients carried past to-day. The new cholera hospital is now open, and a credit to the town. Deaths average about fifty per day. The town is unutterably sad. Houses are closed at dusk, and not a gleam of light shines forth where there used to issue laughter and song. The church, which used to resemble a kaleidoscope with the bright-hued raiment of the women, is now filled with kneeling figures in black. So far, the sickness has not touched the principales. Only the poor people are dying. There is a San Roque procession every night. Fifty or a hundred natives get a lot of transparencies and parade in front of the altars of the Virgin and San Roque. A detachment of the church choir accompanies, caterwauling abominably. It is all weird and barbaric and revolting—especially the “principal” in a dress suit, who pays the expenses, and, with a candle three feet long, paces between the two altars. I always set three or four candles in my windows, which seems to please the people.