The evening book, or, Fireside talk on morals
and manners with sketches of western life |
SKETCH OF A CASE;
OR A PHYSICIAN EXTRAORDINARY. |
 | The evening book, or, Fireside talk on morals
and manners |  |
SKETCH OF A CASE;
OR A PHYSICIAN EXTRAORDINARY.
Doctor R—sat alone in his study when a lady was announced.
“Mrs. Waldorf, sir,” and the doctor laid down his pen and recieved
his visiter very cordially. She was the wife of a rich German merchant,
and a distant cousin of his own; a handsome woman of about
five and thirty, with sufficient repose of manner, but too spirited an
eye to pass for a mere fashionable machine.
“I have come to you, doctor, instead of sending for you,” began
the lady, “because I do not wish Mr. Waldorf to know I have
thought it necessary to consult you. He is so easily alarmed, and
if he knew you had prescribed for me would watch me so closely
and insist so much upon my observance of your directions to the
very letter, that I should have no peace.”
The doctor smiled, as if he thought Mr. Waldorf would not be so
far wrong as his lady might suppose.
“But what is it, my dear madam?” he said, taking Mrs. Waldorf's
hand and giving a look of professional scrutiny to her face.
“You look well, though there is a slight flaccidity about the eyes, and
not quite so ruby a nether lip as one might wish to see. What is it?”
“Oh! a thousand things, doctor; my health is miserable—at least
flutterings at my heart—and such lassitude—and such headaches—
and sleep so miserably—”
“Are your pains very severe? are they of a heavy, dull kind, or
sharp and darting? and how often do you experience them?”
“They are not very constant—no, not constant, certainly, nor very
severe—but, doctor, they fill me with apprehensions of future evil.
It is not present suffering of which I complain, so much as a fear of
worse to come. I dread lest disease should make such progress,
unnoticed, that it will be vain to attempt a cure.” And Mrs. Waldorf's
eyes filled with tears at the very thought of her troubles.
“You are wise to take it in time,” said Doctor R—. “But tell
me more of these symptoms. At what time of the day do you
generally feel most indisposed?”
“Oh! I can scarcely say. When I wake in the morning, I am
always very miserable. My head is full of dull pain, especially
about the eyes. My lips are parched; I find it a great exertion to
dress myself, and never have the slightest appetite for breakfast.”
`Ah! indeed!' mused the doctor, `you breakfast as soon as you
arise, I presume. At what hour do you retire?'
`We make it a rule to be in bed by twelve, unless we happen to
be engaged out, which is but seldom. Waldorf detests parties and
late hours. We spend our evenings with music or books, very
quietly.'
`At what hour do you sup?'
`We have nothing like a regular supper, but for mere sociality's
sake we have a tray brought up about ten. I take nothing beyond
a bit of chicken or a few oysters, or a slice of cake, and sometimes
only a cracker and a glass of wine. You look as if you thought
even this were better omitted; but I should scarcely know how to
touch nothing if I did not partake with him. He thinks as ill of
suppers as you do.'
`I beg your pardon—I interrupted your detail of symptoms to
ask these questions as to the evening. You say you have no appetite
for breakfast—how long do these feelings of languor and
exhaustion continue to trouble you?'
`Oh! I generally feel better after a cup of coffee; and after
practising at the harp or the piano-forte for an hour or two, or
sometimes three when I have new music, I generally drive out,
and perhaps shop a little, or at any rate take a turn into the country
for the air, and usually return somewhat refreshed.'
`Do you take your airings alone?'
`Yes—perforce, almost. There are none of my intimate friends
who can go with me. They drive out regularly, and take children
with them, or they have other objects; one cannot ask a mere
acquaintance, so I go alone, which is not very exhilarating.'
`Your own children are not at home?'
`No—if they were, I should need no other company for the carriage.
The society of young people is pleasant to me, but Adelaide
is at Madame —'s and Ernest is with a German clergyman, a
friend of his father's. I fancy my rides would be of much greater
service to me if I had a pleasant companion or two.'
`Undoubtedly—and I know a lady and her daughter to whom a
regular morning airing with such society as that of Mrs. Waldorf
would be the very breath of life! What a pity that etiquette
comes in the way of so many good things? But go on, I beg.'
`Etiquette! say not another word, doctor—who and where are
these friends or patients of yours? I should be happy if I could
like, and invite them to ride with me daily.'
`Thank you a thousand times, my dear madam,' said Dr. R—,
`it is what I could not venture to ask. Yet I am not afraid you
will not find my friends at least tolerably agreeable—but will you
proceed with the account you were giving me of your daily habits—
you dine at four, I believe?'
`That is our hour, but Mr. Waldorf is often detained until five,
and I never dine without him. For my own part I should not care
if dinner were stricken from the day. I lunch about one, and with
tolerable appetite, and I never wish to eat again until supper time.
We take tea, however at seven, and—'
`Green tea, I presume—do you take it strong?'
`Oh! not very, if I take it too strong I do not sleep at all.'
`You sleep but indifferently, you tell me?'
`Yes, generally; and wake many times in the night; sometimes
in the horrors, so that I am full of undefinable fears, and dare not
open my eyes lest the objects in the room should assume terrific
shapes. The very shades cast by the night-lamp have power at
such times to appal me.'
The doctor's professional inquiries extended to a still greater
length, but he had guessed Mrs. Waldorf's complaint before he
arrived at this point in the list. He had found solitude, inactivity,
late hours, suppers, coffee, green tea, music and books—with not
one counterbalancing item of that labor—effort—sacrifice—which
has been affixed as the unchanging price of health and spirits.
Mrs. Waldorf was one of the hundreds if not thousands of ladies in
our land who walk through the world without ever discovering the
secret of life. She had abundant wealth and a most indulgent husband,
with all that this world can offer in point of comfort, and she
Passive happiness! what a dream!
Doctor R— was at the head of his profession, and he had
some medicines at his command which are not known at the hospitals.
He thought he could cure Mrs. Waldorf, but he hinted that
he feared he should find her but a poor patient.
`You do not wish Mr. Waldorf to know you are under my care
lest he should object to your neglecting my remedies—'
`Oh, indeed doctor, I shall be very faithful! Try me! You cannot
prescribe anything too difficult. Shall I travel to the Pyramids
barefoot, and live on bread and water all the way? I am only afraid
Waldorf should insist upon my taking odious drugs, and—you
know cautions meeting one at every turn are so tiresome!'
`Then you are willing to undertake any remedy which is not at
all disagreeable, and which may be used or omitted à discretion—'
`No, no—indeed you mistake me. I only beg that it may not
be too unpleasant. I will do just as you say.'
Mrs. Waldorf now had a fine color, and her eyes sparkled as of
old. She had every confidence in the skill of Dr. R—, and the
effort of recalling and recounting her symptoms had given an impetus
to her thoughts and a quicker current to her blood.
The doctor apologized. He had an appointment and his hour
had come.
`But before I leave you thus unceremoniously,' he said, `it strikes
me that there is a root in my garden which might be of essential
service to you, to begin with at least. You know I have a little
spot in which I cultivate a few rare botanical specimens. Might I
venture to ask you to search for the root I speak of? It is in that
little square compartment in the corner, which appears nearly
vacant.'
`Oh, certainly—but had I not better call John, as your own man
is going away with you?'
`John! Bless my soul, my dear Madam, there is not a John in
the world that I would trust in my sanctum! No hand but mine,
and that of a gardener whom I employ occasionally under my own
direction, ever intrudes among my pets. Let me entreat you, since
I have not another moment to spare, to take this little trowel and
search with your own hands until you discover an oblong white root
like this'—opening a book of botanical plants and exhibiting something
that looked very much like a Jerusalem artichoke—`Take that
and have it washed and grated into a gill of Port, of which try ten
drops in a little water three times a day. I will see you again very
soon—but now I must run away—' and Doctor R— departed,
leaving Mrs. Waldorf in musing mood.
She cast a look at the garden, which lay just beneath the window,
full of flowers; then at the trowel—a strange implement in her
hand. She thought Doctor R— very odd, certainly, but she
resolved to follow his directions implicitly. She went down stairs
and was soon digging very zealously. Her glove was split by the
first effort, of course; for a fashionably fitted glove admits not the
free exercise of the muscles—but all was of no avail. Every corner
of the little square was disturbed, but no talisman appeared.
Weary at length of her new employment, Mrs. Waldorf gave up in
despair, and sat down in a little arbor which offered its shade invitingly
near her. Here she sank into a pleasant reverie, as one can
scarcely help doing in a garden full of sweet flowers, and so pleasant
was the sense of repose after labor, that she thought not of the lapse
of time until she was startled by the voice of Doctor R—, returned
from his visit and exceedingly surprised to find her still
trowel in hand.
`Why, my dear Madam,' he exclaimed, `you are forgetting your
wish that Mr. Waldorf should not discover your visit to me! If he
walks much in town he has had ample opportunity to observe his
carriage at my door these two hours. You must learn to carry on
clandestine affairs better than this! Have you the medicine?'
Mrs. Waldorf laughed and related her ill success, which the doctor
very much regretted, although he did not offer to assist in the
search.
`You are feeling tolerably well just now, I think,' he said; `your
color is better than when you came in the morning.'
`Oh yes! much better just now! But how charming your garden
is! I do not wonder that you make a pet of it. We too have
a few square inches of garden, but it gives me but little pleasure,
because I have never done anything to it myself. I think I shall
get a trowel of my own.'
`You delight me! You have only to cultivate and bring to perfection
a single bed of carnations, to become as great an enthusiast
as myself. But it must be done by your own hands—'
`Yes, certainly; but now I must be gone. To-morrow I will
hold myself in readiness to call on our friends at any hour you will
appoint.'
`What say you to eleven? Would that be too barbarous?
The air is worth a good deal more at eleven than at one.'
`At seven, if you like! Do not imagine me so very a slave to
absurd fashions! I am determined you shall own me a reasonable
woman yet.'
Mrs. Waldorf called from the carriage window—`You'll not forget
to send the medicine, doctor?'
`Certainly not! you shall have it at seven this evening, and I
trust you will take it with exact regularity.'
`Do not fear me,` she said, and the doctor made his bow of
adieu.
The medicine came at seven, with a sediment which looked not a
little like grated potato, and without the slightest disagreeable taste.
Accompanying directions required the disuse, for the present, of
coffee and green tea; and recommended to Mrs. Waldorf a daily
walk and a very early bed-hour.
The lady took her ten drops at nine, and felt so much better that
she could not help telling her husband all about her visit to Doctor
R—.
The next morning proved cloudy, and Mrs. Waldorf felt rather
languid, but after her dose, found an improved appetite for breakfast.
She sat down to her music, but looked frequently at the
clouds and at her watch, thinking of her appointment. When the
hour arrived the envious skies poured down such showers as will
damp any body's ardor. The drive must be given up for that day,
and it passed as usual, with only the interlude of the magic drops.
The next day was as bad, and the day after not a great deal
better. Mrs. Waldorf's pains and palpitations almost discouraged
her. She was quite sure she had a liver complaint. But on the
fourth morning the sun rose gloriously, and the face of nature, clean
washed, shone with renewed beauty. At eleven the carriage and
the lady were at Doctor R—'s door.
`Have you courage to see an invalid—a sad sufferer?' said the
doctor.
`Oh, certainly! I am an invalid myself, you know.'
`Ah! my dear lady, my invalid wears a different aspect! Yet I
hope she is going to recover, and I shall trust to your humanity if
the scene prove a sad one. Sickness of the mind was, I think, the
origin of the evil, but it has almost overpowered the frail body.
and in Italian, and have had but slender success in the whirl of
competition. As nearly as I can discover, they came to this country
hoping to find reverse of fortune easier to bear among strangers;
and their course was determined hitherward in consequence of earlier
family troubles which drove a son of Madame Vamiglia to America.
He was a liberal, and both displeased his father and put himself in
danger from government, by some unsuccessful attempt at home.
The father is since dead, and the old lady and her daughter, left in
poverty and loneliness, determined on following the young man to
the new world. But here we are.'
And they stopped before a small house in a back street. Mrs.
Waldorf was shown into a very humble parlor, while the doctor
went to prepare his patient. He returned presently with Madame
Vamiglia, a well-bred woman past middle age. She expressed her
grateful sense of Mrs. Waldorf's kindness, but their communication
was rather pantomimical, for the lady found her song-Italian of little
service, and the signora had not much conversational English.
However, with some French, and occasional aid from Doctor R—,
their acquaintance was somewhat ripened before they went to the
bedside of the sufferer. Mrs. Waldorf turned pale, and felt ready
to faint, at the sight which presented itself.
There was a low, narrow couch in the centre of the room, scarce
larger than an infant's crib, and on it lay what seemed a mere remnant
of mortality. Large dark eyes, full of a sort of preternatural
light, alone spoke of life and motion. The figure had been always
extremely small, and was now wasted till it scarce lifted the light
covering of the mattress. Madame Vamiglia went forward and
spoke in a low tone to her daughter, and Mrs. Waldorf was glad to
of the poor girl nearly overcame her.
The mother introduced her guest to her daughter, who could only
look an acknowledgment; and then asked the doctor if he thought
it possible that Ippolita could bear the motion of a carriage.
`She seems weaker to-day,' he replied; `very weak indeed.
Yet, if Mrs. Waldorf will allow the mattress to be put in, I think
we may venture.'
Madame Vamiglia seemed full of anxiety lest the experiment
should prove too much for the flickering remnant of life; but after
much preparation, John was called, and the poor sufferer transferred,
mattress and all, to the back seat. Mrs. Waldorf and her mother
took the front, and in this way they drove slowly out towards the
country.
At first the poor little signorina seemed exhausted almost unto
death, and her mother watched her with the most agonized solicitude;
but after a while she became accustomed to the gentle motion,
and seemed revived by the fresh air. As the road wound
through a green lane shaded with old trees, Ippolita looked about
her with animation, and made a sign of pleasure with her wasted
hand. Tears started to her mother's eyes, and she looked to Mrs.
Waldorf for sympathy, and not in vain.
At length the invalid gave a sign, and they turned about.
When they reached the lodging-house, Ippolita was in a quiet sleep,
and they carried her back to her own room almost undisturbed.
`To-morrow at eleven!' whispered Mrs. Waldorf, at parting.
Madame Vamiglia pressed her hand, but could not speak.
We need not describe the morning rides which succeeded this
auspicious commencement. We need not trace step by step, the
slow amendment of the young Italian, nor attempt to express, by
words to be totally inadequate. We may mention, however, the
rapid improvement of Mrs. Waldorf's health and spirits, which must
of course be ascribed to that excellent medicine of Dr. R—'s.
This enabled that lady to study Italian most strenuously, both at
home and by familiar lessons from Madame Vamiglia and her
daughter, during their prolonged excursions. This pursuit was
never found to increase the palpitations, and seemed also a specific
against headache.
Before Ippolita had so far recovered as to be independent of the
daily airing, Mrs. Waldorf picked up a new object of interest. We
say picked up, for it was a road-side acquaintance, and as Mrs.
Waldorf has since observed, one which she never would have made
if she had been reading during her drive, as was her custom formerly.
She had, every morning for some time, observed a poor
woman drawing a basket-wagon of curious construction, in which
lay a child much larger than is usually found in such vehicles. The
child was pretty, and tastefully, though plainly, drest; but the
whole establishment bespoke anything but abundant means, so that
Mrs. Waldorf was puzzled to make out the character of the group.
The woman had not the air of a servant, and yet the child did
not look as if it could be her child. In short, after seeing
the same thing a dozen times, Mrs. Waldorf's curiosity was a good
deal excited.
She did not, however, venture to make any inquiries until it so
chanced that, in the very green lane we have spoken of—the favorite
resort of the grateful Ippolita—they found the poor woman,
with the child fainting in her arms. Grief and anxiety were painted
on her honest face, and she was so absorbed in her efforts for the
sympathizing inquiries.
`Oh don't trouble yourself, ma'am! It is nothing new! She's
this way very often. It's the hoopin'-cough, ma'am; and I am
afeard it'll be the death of her, poor lamb! in spite of all we can
do!' And she tossed the child in the air, and fanned its face till the
breath returned.
`Is it your own?' asked Mrs. Waldorf.
`No indeed, ma'am! mine are other guess lookin' children, thank
God! This dear babe's mother is a delicate young lady that lives
neighbor to me, as has a sick husband that she can't leave. I'm a
washerwoman, ma'am, if you please, and I have to go quite away
down town every day almost, and so I take this poor thing in my
basket—it's large enough, you see—and so gives her a turn in the
open air, 'cause the doctor says it's the open air, if anything that'll
do her good.'
`You are very good,' said Mrs. Waldorf, who had listened in a
kind of reverie, her thoughts reverting to her lonely drives.
`Oh no, ma'am! it's far from good I am! The Lord knows
that! But a little bit of neighborly kindness like that, is what the
poor often does for one another, and don't think anything of it,
neither! To be sure this babe's mother isn't the likes of me,
ma'am, but she is far worse off than she has been. Her husband is
what they call an accountant—a kind of clerk, like; and he can't
get no employ, and I think it's breaking his heart pretty fast.'
Here Mrs. Waldorf fairly burst into tears. `Tell me where you
live,' she said, `and say nothing to this lady you speak of, but come
to me to-morrow, will you?' and she put a card into the poor
woman's hand.
`Surely I will ma'am,' said the washerwoman, `and it's a kind
heart you have!'
Mrs. Waldorf rode home with her heart and head full. `How
could I ever content myself with giving money,' she said to herself,
`when there is so much to be done!'
`How do you find yourself, this morning, my dear madam!' said
Doctor —, shortly after this.
`Oh, quite well, thank you!'
`What! no more lassitude! no more headaches!'
`Nothing of the sort, I assure! I never felt better.
`When did your symptoms abate?'
`I can scarcely tell; I have been too much occupied of late, to
think of symptoms. I am so much interested in the study of
Italian that I am going to ask Madame Vamiglia and her daughter
to come to us for awhile, and we shall have Adelaide at home to
take advantage of so good an opportunity for learning to converse.'
`And your ardor in searching out the distressed has been the
means of restoring the son to the mother. How happy you must
be?'
`That is a happiness which I owe to you! and Mr. Waldorf is
going to employ Mr. Vamiglia, who understands and writes half a
dozen different languages, and will be invaluable to him. But first
the family are to go to the sea-shore for a month, to recruit; and I
imagine they will need a good deal of preparation—so that I have
really no time to be ill.'
`Then you have given up the going to the Pyramids?'
`Ah! my dear sir! I must thank you for showing me better
sources of interest and excitement. I believe it must have been a
yours only a trick—an inganno felice?'
`A trick! Oh! excuse me! `Call it by some better name!' I
beseech you,' said the doctor laughing, `it was a most valuable medicine!
Indeed the whole Materia Medica would be often powerless
without the placebo! But I confess I could not think of sending
you to the Pyramids, when there are not only pyramids but mountains
of sorrow and suffering at home, which shun the eye of common
charity, but which must be surmounted by just such heads,
hearts and purses as those of Mrs. Waldorf!'
| The evening book, or, Fireside talk on morals
and manners | |