Doctor Claudius, A True Story

by F. Marion Crawford

"He is my brother-in-law," said Margaret, rather startled at seeing the point to which she had led the conversation. But she felt a strong sympathy for Mr. Bellingham, and she was glad to be able to speak on the subject to any one. She stood so much in need of advice; and, after all, if the story was in the papers it was public property by this time. Mr. Bellingham was a perfect diplomatist, and, being deeply interested, he had soon learned all the details of the case by heart.

"It is very distressing," he said gravely. But that was all. Margaret had had some faint idea that he might offer to help her—it was absurd, of course—or at least that he might give her some good advice. But that was not Mr. Bellingham's way of doing things. If he intended to do anything, the last thing he would think of would be to tell her of his intention. He led the conversation away, and having rounded it neatly with a couple of anecdotes of her grandmother, he rose to go, pleading an engagement. He really had so many appointments in a day that he seldom kept more than half of them, and his excuse was no polite invention. He bowed himself out, and when he was gone Margaret felt as though she had lost a friend.

She wearied of the day—so long, so hot, and so unfortunate. She tried a book, and then she tried to write a letter, and then she tried to think again. It seemed to her that there was so little to think about, for she had a hopeless helpless consciousness that there was nothing to be done that she could do. She might have written to her friends in Petersburg—of course she would do that, and make every possible representation. But all that seemed infinitely far off, and could be done as well to-morrow as to-day. At last Lady Victoria came back, and at sight of her Margaret resolved to confide in her likewise. She had so much common sense, and always seemed able to get at the truth. Therefore, in the afternoon Margaret monopolised Lady Victoria and carried her off, and they sat together with their work by the open window, and the Countess was "not at home."

In truth, a woman of the world in trouble of any kind could not do better than confide in Lady Victoria. She is so frank and honest that when you talk to her your trouble seems to grow small and your heart big. She has not a great deal of intellect; but, then, she has a great deal of common sense. Common sense is, generally speaking, merely a dislike of complications, and a consequent refusal on the part of the individual to discover them. People of vivid imagination delight in magnifying the difficulties of life by supposing themselves the centre of much scheming, plotting, and cheap fiction. They cheerfully give their time and their powers to the study of social diplomacy. It is reserved for people intellectually very high or very low in the scale to lead a really simple life. The average mind of the world is terribly muddled on most points, and altogether beside itself as regards its individual existence; for a union of much imagination, unbounded vanity, and unfathomable ignorance can never take the place of an intellect, while such a combination cannot fail to destroy the blessed vis inertiæ of the primitive fool, who only sees what is visible, instead of evolving the phantoms of an airy unreality from the bottomless abyss of his own so-called consciousness. Fortunately for humanity, the low-class unimaginative mind predominates in the world, as far as numbers are concerned; and there are enough true intellects among men to leaven the whole. The middle class of mind is a small class, congregated together chiefly within the boundaries of a very amusing institution calling itself "society." These people have scraped and varnished the aforesaid composition of imagination, ignorance, and vanity, into a certain conventional thing which they mendaciously term their "intelligence," from a Latin verb intelligo, said to mean "I understand." It is a poor thing, after all the varnishing. It is neither hammer nor anvil; it cannot strike, and, if you strike it, dissolution instantly takes place, after which the poor driveller is erroneously said to have "lost his mind," and is removed to an asylum. It is curious that the great majority of lunatics should be found in "society." Society says that all men of genius are more or less mad; but it is a notable fact that very few men of genius have ever been put in madhouses, whereas the society that calls those men crazy is always finding its way there. It takes but little to make a lunatic of poor Lady Smith-Tompkins. Poor thing! you know she is so very "high-strung," such delicate sensibilities! She has an idée fixe—so very sad. Ah yes! that is it. She never had an idea before, and now that she has one she cannot get rid of it, and it will kill her in time.

Now people whose intellect is of a low class are not disturbed with visions of all that there is to be known, nor with a foolish desire to appear to know it. On the other hand, they are perfectly capable of understanding what is honourable or dishonourable, mean or generous, and they are very tenacious of these principles, believing that in the letter of the law is salvation. They are not vain of qualities and powers not theirs; and, consequently, when they promise, they promise what they are able to perform. Occasionally such characters appear in "society,"—rare creatures, in whom a pernicious education has not spoiled the simplicity and honesty which is their only virtue. They fall naturally into the position of confessors to the community, for the community requires confessors of some sort. In them confides the hardened sinner bursting with evil deeds and the accumulation of petty naughtiness. To them comes the beardless ass, simpering from his first adventure, and generally "afraid he has compromised" the mature woman of the world, whom he has elected to serve, desiring to know what he ought to do about it. To them, too, comes sometimes the real sufferer with his or her little tale of woe, hesitatingly told, half hinted, hoping to be wholly understood. They are good people, these social confessors, though they seldom give much advice. Nevertheless, it is such a help to tell one's story and hear how it sounds!

Lady Victoria was not a woman of surpassing intellect; perhaps she had no intellect at all. She belonged to the confessors above referred to. She was the soul of honour, of faith, and of secrecy. People were always making confidences to her, and they always felt the better for it—though she herself could not imagine why. And so even Margaret came and told her troubles. Only, as Margaret was really intelligent, she did not hesitate or make any fuss about telling, when once she had made up her mind. The story was, indeed, public property by this time, and Lady Victoria was sure to know it all before long from other people. When Margaret had finished, she laid down her work and looked out of the window, waiting.

"I need not tell you I am sorry," said Lady Victoria. "You know that, my dear. But what will you do? It will be so very awkward for you, you know."

"I hardly can tell yet—what would you do in my place?"

"Let me see," said the English girl. "What would I do? You must have a Russian minister here somewhere. I think I would send for him, if I were you."

"But it takes so long—so dreadfully long, to get anything done in that way," said Margaret. And they discussed the point in a desultory fashion. Of course Lady Victoria's suggestion was the simplest and most direct one. She was quite certain that Margaret would get her rights very soon.