"Well, dear, I don't know. As for that man in the infirmary, I dare say John will go and see if anything can be done for him. He deserted me first, and divorced me afterwards, Molly, twenty-four years ago—for incompatibility of temper. That is the kind of man he is."
[CHAPTER XI.]
THE DOCTOR'S DINNER.
The secret of success is like the elixir of life, inasmuch as that precious balsam used to be eagerly sought after by countless thousands; and because, also like the elixir, it continually eludes the pursuer. One man succeeds. How? He does not know, and he does not inquire. A thousand others, who think they are as good, fail. Why? They cannot discover. But each of the thousand failures is ready to show you a thousand reasons why this one man has succeeded. First of all, he has really not succeeded; secondly, his success is grossly exaggerated; thirdly, it is a cheap success—the unsuccessful are especially contemptuous of a cheap success—they would not, themselves, condescend to a cheap success; fourthly, it is a success arrived at by tortuous, winding, crooked arts, which make the unsuccessful sick and sorry to contemplate—who would desire a success achieved by climbing up the back stairs? If a man writes, and succeeds in his writings, so that ordinary people flock to read him, he succeeds by his vulgarity. Or, he succeeds by his low tastes—who, that respects himself, would pander to the multitude? Or, he succeeds by vacuity, fatuity, futility, stupidity—what self-respecting writer would sink to the level of the fatuous and vacuous? He succeeds with an A, because he is Asinine; with a B, because he is Bestial; with a C, because he is Contemptible; and so on through the alphabet. Similar reasons are assigned when a man succeeds as a Painter, a Sculptor, a Preacher, a Lawyer. Now, Sir Robert Steele is one of the most successful physicians of the day. His success is easily understood and readily accounted for, on the principles just laid down, by those of his profession who have not by any means achieved the same popularity. He humours his patients—every one knows that; he has a soft voice and a warm hand—he makes ignoble profit out of both. Above all, he asks his patients—some of them—to the most delightful dinners possible.
The latter charge has a foundation in fact: he does ask a few of his more fortunate patients to dinner. More than this, he gives them a dinner much too artistic for most of them to understand. To bring Art into a menu, to invent and build up a dinner which shall be completely artistic in every part, a harmonious whole; one course leading naturally to the next; a dinner of one colour in many tints; the wine gurgling like part of an orchestra, is a gift within the powers of very few. Sir Robert's reputation as a physician is justly, at least, assisted by his reputation as a great poetic creator of the harmonious dinner.
I think, having myself none of the gourmet's gifts, that the possession of them must cause continual and poignant unhappiness. It is like the endowment of the critical faculty at its highest. Nothing pleases wholly. When the critic of the menu dines out, alas, what false notes, what discords, what bad time, what feeble rendering, what platitude of conception, he must endure! Let us not envy his gifts, let us rather continue to enjoy, unheeding, dinners which would be only a prolonged torture to the sensitive soul of the perfect critic.
The doctor made his selections carefully from his patients and friends. He knew all the amusing people about town, especially those benefactors to their kind who consent to play and sing for after-dinner amusement; he knew all the actors, especially those who do not take themselves too seriously; he knew the men who can tell stories, sing songs, and are always in good temper. He loved them as King William loved the red deer; he esteemed them higher than princes; more excellent company than poets; more clubable than painters. Among his friends of the profession was Mr. Richard Woodroffe, whom the doctor esteemed even above his fellows for his unvarying cheerfulness and his great gifts and graces in music and in song. Him he invited to dinner on a certain evening, partly on account of these gifts and partly for another reason—the other guests were the Haverils, who would be useless in conversation; Miss Molly Pennefather, their cousin, who would not probably prove a leader in talk; Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, whom he invited for reasons which you know—and others, yet conscious beforehand that the young man would be out of his element and perhaps sulky; and two umbræ, persons of no account—mere patients—to make up the number of eight, the only number, unless it is four, which is permissible for a dinner-party. For the menu there was only one person to be considered; Dick, for instance, would eat tough steak with as much willingness as a Chateaubriand; Mr. Haveril knew not one dish from another; Humphrey, whom he had met at his mother's table, would be the only guest capable of understanding a dinner. Moreover, Humphrey would have to be conciliated by the dinner itself, to make up for the company. The doctor therefore prepared a dinner of a few plats harmonized with the desire of pleasing a young man who was most easily approached, he had already discovered, by means of any one, or any group, of the senses. Dinner, as every artistic soul knows, appeals to a group of the senses, which is the reason why civilized man decorates his tables. Those unhappy persons to whom dinner is but feeding might as well serve up a single dish on one wine-case and sit down to it on another.
The reason, apart from his social qualities, why Sir Robert invited Richard Woodroffe to the dinner was not unconnected with a little conversation held at a smoking concert a few nights before. It was a very good smoking concert; a highly distinguished company was present; and the performers were all professionals.
Richard did his "turn," and then took a seat beside Sir Robert.