Twelve years ago a lady (whom I met lately) had hemorrhage of the lungs three times. She was told by seven doctors in the country that she "had not a week to live." She had young children, and determined to make a great effort to see Sir Andrew Clark. He prophesied she would get well, providing she at once left the damp climate where she was then living and made her permanent home at Malvern. A week after she had taken his remedies she walked up the Wrekin. From that day she saw Sir Andrew once every year, and looks upon herself as a monument of his skill.
"Die to live," was a favourite saying of Sir Andrew's. "In congenial work you will find life, strength, and happiness." This certainly was his own experience. Only in July last he said to the writer of this notice: "I never know what it is to feel well now, but work is the joy of my life."
He could, however, place strict limits as to how much a patient might work. It is well known how docile and obedient a patient he had in Mr. Gladstone. One evening, coming downstairs muffled up to avoid a worse cold, he was met by Sir Andrew with the greeting, "Where are you going?" "To the House," said Mr. Gladstone. "No, you are not," replied his friend; "you are going straight to bed!" and to bed he went. Sir Andrew also limited the time Mr. Gladstone should speak. On one occasion, however, notwithstanding the fact that the peremptory adviser was present, watch in hand, Mr. Gladstone, after throwing down the written speech as the clock struck, went on for another half-hour! [1] This disobedience was the exception which proved the rule.
Mr. Gladstone was a friend for whom Sir Andrew had the highest respect and veneration, and hardly ever passed a day without going to see him. Shortly before he was taken ill he said: "For twenty years I have never heard Gladstone say an unkind or vituperative word of anyone."
With respect to fees, he always took what was offered: sometimes he would receive £500 for a long journey, sometimes two guineas. The following is no doubt but one of many similar experiences. After a hard day's work he was urgently summoned to a place 120 miles from London. It was a very wet night. There was no carriage to meet him; no fly to be had. After walking a mile or two he arrived at a small farm, and found the daughter suffering from an attack of hysteria. Sir Andrew, with his usual kindness, did what he could and evidently gave satisfaction, for when he left the mother said: "Well, Sir Andrew, you have been so kind we must make it double," and handed him two guineas. He thanked them and said: "Good-bye."
Sir Andrew would never hear of charging more than his usual fee because a person happened to be very rich. In a word, he was honest. On one occasion when going to see a patient in the south, the doctor who was to meet him in consultation met Sir Andrew at the station, told him they were rich, and quite prepared to pay a very high fee. But Sir Andrew replied: "I did not come from London," and naming the place where he was staying, said, "My fee is only a third of the sum you name." Sir Andrew was not indifferent to fees; on the contrary, he rather took a pride in telling how much he earned. He is said to have once received £5,000 for going to Cannes, the largest medical fee known. Some, however, have wondered who did pay him—so numerous were his non-paying patients. From Anglican and Roman Catholic clergy, sisters, nuns, and all engaged in any charitable work (unless rich men) he would never consent to receive a fee, at the same time making it felt that unwillingness to accept his advice "would deprive him of a pleasure"; and it was felt that this was literally true, and if anything the patients whom he saw "as a friend" were shown more consideration than others. "Come and see me next week," he said to one who demurred to the necessity for going again, knowing he would not accept a fee, "and I will arrange that you shall not be kept waiting."
The present Lord Tennyson writes: "We are among the many who are much indebted to Sir Andrew Clark. It was in a great measure owing to him that my father recovered from his dangerous attack of gout in 1888, when 'he was as near death as a man could be.' After this illness Sir Andrew paid us a visit, at Aldworth, in the summer of 1889. He told us that he had come in spite of a summons from the Shah, to which he had replied that the Shah's Hakim could not obey, as he had promised to visit his old friend—the old Poet. Sir Andrew added: 'This disobedience of your humble and devoted physician for the sake of his friend, the crowned King of Song, struck the crowned King of Kings so much that, so far from being offended, he took a noble view, and, as a mark of signal honour, sent me the Star of the Second Class of the Lion and Sun of Persia.'"
