April 27.—Painted the
bath red, and was delighted with the result. Sorry to say
Carrie was not, in fact we had a few words about it. She said I ought to have consulted her, and she had never heard of such a thing as a
bath being painted red. I replied: “It’s merely a matter of taste.”
I had got a chill, and decided to have a
bath as hot as I could bear it.
Bath ready—could scarcely bear it so hot. I persevered, and got in; very hot, but very acceptable. I lay still for some time.
On moving my hand above the surface of the water, I experienced the greatest fright I ever received in the whole course of my life; for imagine my horror on discovering my hand, as I thought, full of blood. My first thought was that I had ruptured an artery, and was bleeding to death, and should be discovered, later on, looking like a second Marat, as I remember seeing him in Madame Tussaud’s. My second thought was to ring the bell, but remembered there was no bell to ring. My third was, that there was nothing but the enamel paint, which had dissolved with boiling water. I stepped out of the
bath, perfectly red all over, resembling the Red Indians I have seen depicted at an East-End theatre. I determined not to say a word to
Carrie, but to tell Farmerson to come on Monday and paint the
bath white.