Sir Sigismund Keen fingered the stethoscope that lay on the table by his hand. But seeing a look of apprehension on his patient’s face he let it drop and said tentatively, ‘I could examine you quite easily without this.’
Alarm made Mr. Amber voluble.
‘I’ve no doubt you could, Sir Sigismund. To a specialist of your standing the inventions of science must seem merely figureheads.’ Anxiety to convey his sense of Sir Sigismund’s superiority to ordinary practitioners almost choked Mr. Amber’s utterance, and he went on more slowly. ‘That’s why I came to you. I knew you would be able to tell at a glance what . . . what kind of tonic would be best for me.’
Sir Sigismund did not raise his eyes from the blotting-paper on which he was scribbling.
‘Yes, I can tell something.’
Mr. Amber’s face showed a momentary discouragement; but he said with a forced cheerfulness: ‘But it isn’t anything serious, is it? Whereas if I had called in Dr. Wormwood, my own doctor, he would have insisted on examining me and then it would have been revealed’ (Mr. Amber’s voice dropped at the word) ‘that I had angina pectoris and perhaps even pericarditis and hypertrophy as well.’
Sir Sigismund rose.
‘I can assure you, Mr. Amber, that a medical examination doesn’t necessarily reveal the presence of any of those disorders; and cases of the three being found together would be, to say the least, extremely rare.’ He continued very kindly: ‘You worry too much about yourself. You are——’
‘A hypochondriac,’ interposed Mr. Amber eagerly.
‘Well, no, I wouldn’t say that,’ said the doctor. ‘But it is evident from your unusual familiarity with medical terms and your—your apt use of them, that you have been uneasy about your health. Indeed, you told me so yourself.’
‘I read about diseases for pleasure!’ said Mr. Amber simply. ‘But of course it is hard when you have so many of the symptoms, not to feel that you must have at any rate one or two of the diseases.’
Sir Sigismund Keen squared his shoulders against the chimney-piece.
‘That is exactly my point. If I gave you my word of honour that you weren’t such an exceptional victim of misfortune it would reassure you, wouldn’t it?’
Mr. Amber admitted that it would.
‘But before I can do that I’m afraid I must examine you.’ It was Sir Sigismund’s last word.
‘No!’ cried Mr. Amber, rising rather shakily to his feet. ‘Why should I submit to such an indignity? I won’t be examined, and take my clothes off in this icy room when I am so susceptible to chills!’ His technical vocabulary hadn’t deserted him, but, swaying slightly, he went on in a more conciliatory tone: ‘You couldn’t possibly want to examine me, Sir Sigismund! I am an uninteresting specimen; they told me so when I was passed for a sedentary occupation into the Army. They said I was a miserable specimen, too. They said I wasn’t the sort of man you would want to look at twice.’ Memories of Mr. Amber’s dead life seemed to rush to the surface. ‘And for all you say, I know you would tell me that I’m very ill, perhaps dying lingeringly! Though it would be worse to die suddenly.’ Mr. Amber’s voice dropped and he steadied himself by the arm of the chair. ‘I only came to ask you for a tonic; surely that’s a simple thing. A good strong tonic. I wouldn’t have minded taking it, even if it had disagreed with me at first! But you doctors are all alike; you will pry into the body of a perfectly uninteresting person, you will have your money’s worth! You shan’t be disappointed, Sir Sigismund. I’m not a rich man, but I can afford to pay your fee.’ Mr. Amber fumbled desperately in his pockets, bringing up a strange medley of possessions and dropping them on the floor; but the effort had been too much for him and he had lost the support of the chair. Sir Sigismund caught him as he was falling and lifted him on to a sofa. Mr. Amber lay quite still. Sir Sigismund undid his collar which was fastened with a patent stud and, as he came round, conducted the examination which Mr. Amber, in his waking senses, had so passionately withstood.
Sir Sigismund Keen was writing at his desk when the dark dust thinned away from before Mr. Amber’s eyes. He asked if he might have another cushion, and Sir Sigismund arranged it under his head.
‘That’s better,’ said the patient. ‘I must have had one of my attacks.’
As Sir Sigismund continued to write, Mr. Amber slid weakly off the sofa and tottered across the room to the doctor’s side.
‘Are you making out a prescription for me?’ he asked in a subdued voice.
Sir Sigismund nodded.
‘Is it a tonic?’ he inquired timidly.
‘It will have a certain tonic effect,’ Sir Sigismund answered guardedly.
‘I’m sorry I made such a scene just now—you must have thought me very badly brought up,’ Mr. Amber murmured, altogether crestfallen.
Sir Sigismund described a semi-circle with his head in order to lick an envelope. ‘No, Mr. Amber; your reluctance to be examined was entirely understandable.’
‘Then I am very ill?’ asked Mr. Amber. The tenseness of his earlier manner had disappeared and he seemed happier.
‘I have written to Dr. Wormwood about you,’ replied the doctor. ‘His address appears to be 19A, St. Mary’s Buildings, Studdert Street, West.’
‘West fourteen,’ said Mr. Amber.
‘West fourteen. I’m afraid your heart is affected, and you will have to take considerable care—great care. You must go to bed as soon as you get home. . . . Oh, never mind, Mr. Amber; you can send me a cheque.’
‘A cheque?’ said Mr. Amber doubtfully.
‘It will be one guinea, then. Thank you.
As the door closed on Mr. Amber, Sir Sigismund rang the bell. A nurse appeared.
‘Nurse, I should be glad if you would see Mr. Amber to his home.’
‘Yes, Sir Sigismund. Shall I inform the relatives?’
‘You had better ask him,’ Sir Sigismund Keen replied. ‘But I forgot he has no relatives.’
A CONDITION OF RELEASE
There are things one cannot get used to. A hot bath may, and perhaps ought to be, a habit; it rarely demands resolution; its frequency, within limits, is taken for granted, and, among ordinary people, scarcely commands respect. But a cold bath, however misrepresented by self-hypnotism or conscience, is usually a practice, seldom a habit, never an indulgence. Be the prospect of immersion never so attractive, the reality of it, the imminence even, sets one’s inclinations in revolt. It is a chronic insurrection; the conscript forces of the will—that minion of manliness, respectability’s redoubt—may scotch but cannot kill it.
But these are paltry encounters, bloodless Italian wars, compared with the campaign which opens with one’s determination to bathe; and I, as with towel draped about my neck, I started on the ‘good’ twenty minutes’ walk to the river, was complacently aware of this inward conflict. In the unwonted firmness—finality almost—of my farewells and in my avoidance of their tiresome sentimental frillings, resolution must, I thought, have been apparent; the snap of the gate was purposeful; my choice of the steep, adder-haunted path to the wood was unmistakable; I evidently meant business. On the reverse slope that dropped more gradually to the river this self-imposed tension gave way to a more legitimate excitement. Gleams of the river kindled anticipation. The brilliance of the sunlit grass glimpsed tantalizingly between twisted branches or framed in occasional openings, made my heart beat faster. I began to run.
But before reaching the little gate that led into the meadow I stopped. My thoughts took a gloomier turn. The danger of bathing when overheated was only one of many perils; weeds, cramp, heart failure, the odious oozy circumstances of drowning. My loneliness increased, but I revelled in it; everything led up to it and emphasized it. Better to be drowned, I thought, than to be saved from drowning; fished out of a swimming-bath by an obese instructor, and ‘brought round’ by the relentless appliance of physical indignities in an atmosphere staled by the breath of obscenely curious urchins! Better be drowned than rescued to make a Brighton holiday by some officious tripper, who would wear the Royal Humane Society’s medal and never weary of retelling his exploit.