Well, Dr. Œlhafen (of the Supreme Board of Health) marched straight up to the sick man (shooting past the one who was not sick, with angry rudeness), and instantly swooped upon life’s seconds’-hand, the medical divining-rod, the pulse. Leibgeber set the plough of satirical anger into the soil of his face, ploughed crooked furrows, and determined upon a course of deep subsoil-ploughing.
“This,” said the professor of the healing art, “is a case of genuine nervous apoplexy, supervening on an undue determination of blood to the head, and a plethora of the vessels. There ought to have been medical attendance at a much earlier stage of the case; the full, hard pulse threatens a repetition of the attack. An emetic powder, which I shall prescribe, will, in the circumstances, produce the best possible effect.” And with this he pulled out some emetic billets-doux, wrapped up like bonbons. This preparation was one which he kept for sale himself, hawking it about from house to house like a Jew pedlar. There were few diseases to which he did not apply these emetics of his by way of “means of grace,” screwjacks, pump handles, and purgatorial fire; but he worked them most assiduously of all in apoplexy chest-inflammation, headache, and bilious fever. What he said was that he “began by clearing the principal passages,” and in so doing he occasionally cleared the proprietor of said principal passages out of this world, so that he found himself passing through the final “passage” of all flesh.
Leibgeber kneaded his odd visage into a new form, and said, “There seems nothing, Doctor Œlhafen (my colleague and protomedicus), to prevent our holding our concilium, or consilium, or collegium medicum, here where we stand. I cannot but think that my sedative powder had a good effect, seeing that it restored apoplectico there the power of speech, yesterday.” The protomedicus took Leibgeber for some quack, and without so much as letting his eyes touch his colleague, said to Peltzstiefel, “Will you get them to bring some warm water, and I will give him the powder myself.” “He and I will take it both together,” burst in Leibgeber, in anger; “both our gall-bladders are acting at present; the patient shan’t, won’t, and mustn’t.”
“Are you a regular practitioner, Sir?” asked the Councillor of the Supreme Board of Health, with contempt.
“I am a Jubilee Doctor, or Doctor Jubilant, and have been so ever since I ceased being a fool. You no doubt remember in Haller the case of the fool who thought his head was off, until they cured him by putting a lead hat on to him. A head roofed and insulated with lead has about as distinct a sense of individuality as one cast in that metal. I was very nearly in the same boat with that fool myself, brother colleague. I had inflammation of the brain, and did not find out so soon as I should have done that it had been put out, and cured. To make a long tale short, I fancied that my head had peeled away (or shall I call it ‘exfoliated,’ or ‘desquamated’), just as one’s feet moulder and drop off, like crab’s claws, when one takes too much ergot. When the barber came in, and threw down his purple tool-bag, or quiver, I said, ‘My dear Surgeon-General Spœrl, it may be perfectly true that flies, tortoises, and adders have been known to go on living after their heads were off, as I do, but there wasn’t much on them to shave. A man of your sense must see that it is as impossible to shave me as to shave the Torso at Rome—where were you thinking of soaping me, Mr. Spœrl? Scarce was he out of the door when in came the wig-maker. ‘Another time, Mr. Peisser,’ said I, ‘unless you propose to curl the circumambient air around me, or the hair on my chest, you can put your combs back into your waistcoat pocket. Since twelve o’clock last night I have been carrying on existence without either frieze or cornice, and, like the tower of Babel, I have no cupola. But if you will go and see whether you can find my head in the next room there, and put a queue and a toupée on to that caput mortuum of mine, I should have no objection to that, and I don’t mind wearing the head by a way of a queue-wig.’ By good luck in came the Rector Magnificus. He was a doctor, and saw what distress I was in, when I smote my hands together and cried, ‘Where are my four brain chambers and my corpus callosum, my anus cerebri, and my uniform centrum (which, according to Gläser, is the seat of the imagination)? How can a Rump Parliament wear spectacles, or use ear trumpets? The reasons are obvious. Is it come to this with the monæcius head of the world, that it has no head left for a seed-vessel?’ But the Rector Magnificus sent to the University wardrobe for an old, tight-fitting, doctor’s hat; he put it on me with a gentle push, and said, ‘The faculty never places a doctor’s hat on anything but a head; it could not possibly put it on to a nothing.’ And this hat made a new head grow on to my imagination, like a decapitated snail’s. And ever since I was cured myself. I have taken to curing other people.”
The Board of Health councillor turned a basilisk’s eyeball away from Leibgeber, and lowered himself downstairs by the ribbon of his cane like a bale of merchandize, omitting to pocket his emetic permit for the world to come, which the patient had, consequently, to pay for.
But our good Henry had another war to wage with Stiefel and Lenette, until Firmian threw himself between them as mediator, with the assurance that he would have sent the powder packing in any case, because it would have been anything but good for an old pain in his heart (alas! he spoke figuratively), and two or three Gordian knots in his lungs (the “knots of the plot of his earthly drama”).
But all this time, however good a face he might put on matters, there was no concealing the fact that he was steadily growing worse. The ricochet of the apoplectic shot was clearly imminent, and to be looked for at any moment. “It is time I made my will,” he said. “I long ardently for the Notary Public.” This functionary, as is well known, has the drawing up of all last wills and testaments, according to the laws of Kuhschnappel. At length he arrived, Bærstel by name, a shrivelled and dried-up snail of a man, with a round, shy, listening button-face, all hunger, anxiety, and attention. Many people thought his flesh was merely smeared over his bones, like the new Swedish carton pierre. “What is it your pleasure to have written to-day, Sir?” began Bærstel. “One of my pretty little codicils,” said Siebenkæs. “But before we begin hadn’t you better try me with a catch-question or two, as is usually done with testators, to find out (without letting me know what you are at, you understand) whether I am all right in my head?” “Do you know who I am, Sir?” said Bærstel. “You are Mr. Bærstel, Notary Public,” answered the patient. “Not only is that quite correct,” answered Bærstel, “but it renders it quite clear that you are wandering very little, if at all, and we may proceed at once to draw up your testament.”
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF SIEBENKÆS,
POOR’S ADVOCATE.
“The undersigned, now yellowing and falling from the tree with the rest of the August apples, desires, being thus nigh to death, which looses the spirit from the thraldom of the body, to execute a few more merry back-steps, sidesteps, and Sir-Roger-de Coverleys, three minutes before the Basle dance of Death begins.”