CHAPTER XIV.
There is a wonderful inclination to practical paradox in the human mind. If a man be dull, the world charitably sets him down as sound. If he be clever, the world, with equal charity, sets him down as unscrupulous. If a man be courteous, he is instantly condemned as designing; if brutal, lauded as straightforward.
But if this natural impulse to moral compensation be the general bias of the human intellect, it assumes twofold force in the special case of medical men. Perhaps with such men personal characteristics are more prominently displayed; perhaps the confidence of the patient reposing in the individuality of his advisers gives a factitious importance to minor peculiarities.
Be it how it may, you have never yet seen an Asclepiad whose manners were not, in some respect, different from those of his fellow-creatures.
Great or small, clever or stupid, he has managed to inspire confidence, or to impose successfully on some circle of patients, however contracted.
Amongst these he is an authority. His individual influence is so great, that but little trust is reposed in his art when practised by another.
If in large practice, his patients consider him deserving of it; if in small practice, they esteem him an ill-used man. He is their guide and their friend as well as their philosopher; godfather to their children, trustee to their settlements, legatee to their wills. He is present at their births and deaths, generally at their weddings. He knows their pecuniary difficulties, their family quarrels; the husband’s distrust, or the wife’s jealousy; the son’s folly, and the daughter’s infatuation. He can go down the street and schedule out each house as to its specific non-observance of the decalogue. He can tell you who steals, who commits murder, or who commits any other sin of the first magnitude.
There are thousands of little secrets confided to the diary of a physician; thousands of fees to his pocket, for little occurrences which, like the fees, go no further than himself.
By the highest he is treated almost as an equal; by the wisest he is respected as a man of science and of power. If not profoundly versed in our constitution, he knows us in our moments of weakness, and that knowledge alone makes him the master of most of us.
But before we admit him to this position, we minutely examine his qualities, or accept the judgment of them passed by the universal suffrage of mortal men.
Science of anatomy is sufficient for the surgeon; but science of the world is the best passport for the medical man.
We require him to cure our bodies—most doctors can do that.
But we occasionally require from him medicaments for our minds. This requires the skill of a man of the world.
From such premises we conclude that perfection in art is not the keystone of medical fame. The serpent was dedicated to Æsculapius, the emblem of his foresight as well as of his craft. Nor would the symbol misrepresent the physicians of Babylon.
Sir Erasistratus will be enabled to discover that Duke Antiochus is fearfully in love with Countess Stratonice. Sir Paulus will gain favour with the patrons of art by the number of statues decorating his country-place at Ægina. Sir Democritus exposes somnambulism, mesmerism, homœopathy, and spirit-rapping. Dr Andrew Machaon displays administrative qualities in the army medical department; while Sir Podalirius, K.C.B., after exhibiting geniality at the mess-table and intrepidity in the field, marries the daughter of King Damætas, and sets up in Grosvenor Square. Dr Chrysippus, who has not yet attained the purple, manages to oppose the dogmatists, and to soar into practice by his agreeable conversation and sparkling jests. Heraclitus is the man-hater, declines to visit sovereigns, and frightens poor women into new diseases by a savage laugh and peremptory brutality. Sir Oribasius, who ushers young peers into the world, endears himself to the mothers by affectionate epithets and profuse gossip; and Sir Sextus Empiricus drives a flourishing trade and a chariot by periodic journeys to the equator, and the administration of stimulants to statesmen. All have some quality independent of their art. Few rely on their craft, and their craft alone, for practice or popularity, competency or knighthood. Writers require an ars celare artem; physicians an art to thrust their skill into prominence. In France this is considered charlatanerie; in England it is styled humbug. Yet what great man is, consciously or unconsciously, free from this vice?
Has Bumcombe no place in our social, political, scientific, or ecclesiastical system?
Some few have tried the narrow, narrow path. They labour in their youth, they labour in their manhood. “They live forgotten—they die forlorn.” An hospital is the scene of their triumphs, a parish-rate forms their emolument. The parson and the overseer compose their society, and the blessings of the poor their fame.
Yet there are first-rate men amidst the great physicians of Babylon.
Heaven bless them! How would the young Babylonians be born without them, or how could the Babylonian ladies take their strong waters innocuously?
But Dr Leadbitter was an exception to every rule.
He was devoted to the science of medicine. It absorbed his whole mind; and, indeed, together with dinners and the price-list, formed the staple of his conversation.
He lived near an hospital; and spent a useful life, pleasantly to himself, in constant attention to revolting diseases.
The hospital had been endowed chiefly from his own purse—an expenditure owning a double origin in his charity and his love of science.
Hitherto he had never been permitted to sate himself sufficiently in the least agreeable works of his profession. His universal popularity had induced his colleagues in other hospitals to take from him this portion of his duties. To Dr Leadbitter this indulgence was purgatory. The dirtier the patient, the more complicated his disorder, the more grateful was the treatment to this worthy man. Pity and love of science formed a curious combination in his phrenology. His professional skill, therefore, had reached a height where envy had ceased to criticise or malice to detract. Yet, unknowingly to himself, he possessed other than technical qualities; and these caused him to be sought after by those whose search is considered honourable.
In his career Leadbitter had studied deeply and variously. In his ideas every knowledge tended to enhance the value of his heart.
So intimate is the connection of our moral and physical structure, that to the eye of the accomplished physician few disorders of our frame can be disconnected from some indirect and intellectual cause. As mental emotions form the features of manhood, so is the innermost thought of man betrayed by some external indication.
Those best practised to command expression can ill disguise their feelings from the true physiologist. The smile is forced that dissembles anger, the gravity overcharged that suppresses mirth.
However perfect the acting, there are some, even among mortals, to whose far-seeing eye acting can never compete with nature. Such a one was Dr Leadbitter, fat, foolish, as he looked. In him intuitive perception was refined by rare and delicate study. To know the diseases of a singer he would hear her song, of an orator his speech. He would examine the portrait of a statesman, and study his biography, then tell you his organic disorders. Nor was his rare skill unknown or unappreciated. To him would the singer and statesman repair, as a last resource, glad to stand in his anteroom and vie with a pauper for an audience.
Yet Leadbitter, though astute, was simple. He made more by speculation than by his profession.
His kindness of heart and his passion for disagreeable affections gave to the pauper, in his eyes, a higher value than the statesman. He might have been a baronet, but he had no wife to urge him thereunto. A comfortable dinner was his sole vice, a few good cases his only desire.
He wore the traditional black clothes and white neckcloth, the capacious watch in the capacious fob. He carried the rattan with the gold knob, and, at times, even buckles in his shoes.
A little flower or sprig bedecked his upper button-hole. His walk was a trot, and a smile ever on his lips.
Moreover, nothing could be more commonplace than his ordinary conversation. A few truisms, parliamentary interjections, many technical references. His action was as that of one feeling a pulse, and he was always in a hurry to turn away and leave the room.
“Won’t you have a glass of wine, Mr Bromley?” asked the doctor, hospitably.
“Thanks, I am going to dine later.”
“Commodeque, Erasistratus dixit, sæpe, interiore parte humorem non requirente, os et fauces requirere.”
Dr Leadbitter lost no time in getting into the carriage.
The doctor overcame the gourmet, and, though at dinner, the voice of duty and of friendship prevailed.
“My dear doctor,” said Bromley, “Miss Constance has fallen very ill. She fell to the ground at Lady Ilminster’s breakfast. She was insensible all the way home. I suppose they have put her to bed, for I drove off at once for you.”
“Hear, hear!” responded the doctor.
“Now, doctor, between ourselves, I think Miss Constance has something on her mind.”
“Hear, hear! Eros, I suppose. Soon cured.”
“Something more than that.”
“Nothing cryptogamic, I hope?”
“I have a moral certainty of the cause, but no legal evidence yet. If you will accept my assurance without seeking any corroboration, I will tell you my surmises—to me certainties—which, perhaps, may guide you in your treatment.”
“Hear, hear!”
“My impression is that Lady Coxe and Miss Constance Coxe are deeply in debt to Madame Mélanie the dressmaker. They are afraid to own it to Sir Jehoshaphat. Count Rabelais has got possession of the secret, and holds it in terrorem over Constance.
“He has conciliated the friendship and advocacy of Lady Coxe—perhaps by the same means; and he has extorted from Constance a promise of marriage. Now, what would you advise?
“The whole thing should be told to Sir Jehoshaphat. Yet, I think, he would never forgive Lady Coxe, whatever treatment he might pursue towards his daughter. I have known him from boyhood. His temperament is bilious and nervous. About money matters, though more than liberal, he is obdurate.”
“At any rate, it would be better avoided, for the present at least.”
“Hear, hear!”
“I should think the woman Mélanie might be frightened for having inveigled a girl under age.”
“Hear, hear! But suppose Lady Coxe knew of her daughter’s debts?”
“But perhaps she does not. As soon as I can get my surmises into shape, I will, with your permission, consult you.”
“Hear, hear! Come to me directly you have any news—day or night. Meanwhile, I will pursue the soothing system—calming draughts. I shall tell Lady Coxe at once that I know the whole story. That will keep her quiet.”
By this time the carriage had again arrived in Grosvenor Square.
“How is Miss Constance?”
“Very bad, sir.”
“Hear, hear!” murmured the doctor, mournfully.
Constance was in a high fever. Bromley found a letter on his table. He opened it. It was but a few lines.
“My dear Friend,—The family is that of Sir J. Coxe, Bart., M.P., the banker. Her ladyship owes about £2000; her daughter Constance about £900. The rest of the news I hope to obtain in a day or two.—Yours very sincerely,
“K. M.”
A paper fluttered forth and fell to the ground. Bromley picked it up. It was folded, flimsy as a bank-note. He opened it. It was headed with the image and superscription of Madame Mélanie. Below were items representing a total of £27, 4s. 8d.