University of Virginia Library

1. I.

MY DEAR SIR: I am happy to assure you that
your anxiety is without reason. Flemming
will be confined to the sofa for three
or four weeks, and will have to be careful at
first how he uses his leg. A fracture of this
kind is always a tedious affair. Fortunately,
the bone was very skilfully set by the surgeon
who chanced to be in the drug-store where
Flemming was brought after his fall, and I
apprehend no permanent inconvenience from
the accident. Flemming is doing perfectly well
physically; but I must confess that the irritable
and morbid state of mind into which he has

fallen causes me a great deal of uneasiness.
He is the last man in the world who ought to
break his leg. You know how impetuous our
friend is ordinarily, what a soul of restlessness
and energy, never content unless he is rushing
at some object, like a sportive bull at a red
shawl; but amiable withal. He is no longer
amiable. His temper has become something
frightful. Miss Fanny Flemming came up from
Newport, where the family are staying for the
summer, to nurse him; but he packed her off
the next morning in tears. He has a complete
set of Balzac's works, twenty-seven volumes,
piled up near his sofa, to throw at Watkins
whenever that exemplary serving-man appears
with his meals. Yesterday I very innocently
brought Flemming a small basket of lemons.
You know it was a strip of lemon-peel on the
curbstone that caused our friend's mischance.
Well, he no sooner set his eyes upon these lemons
than he fell into such a rage as I cannot
adequately describe. This is only one of his
moods, and the least distressing. At other
times he sits with bowed head regarding his
splintered limb, silent, sullen, despairing. When
this fit is on him — and it sometimes lasts all
day — nothing can distract his melancholy. He
refuses to eat, does not even read the newspapers;
books, except as projectiles for Watkins,
have no charms for him. His state is
truly pitiable.

Now, if he were a poor man, with a family
depending on his daily labor, this irritability and
despondency would be natural enough. But in
a young fellow of twenty-four, with plenty of
money and seemingly not a care in the world,
the thing is monstrous. If he continues to give
way to his vagaries in this manner, he will end
by bringing on an inflammation of the fibula.
It was the fibula he broke. I am at my wits'
end to know what to prescribe for him. I have
anæsthetics and lotions, to make people sleep and
to soothe pain; but I've no medicine that will
make a man have a little common-sense. That
is beyond my skill, but maybe it is not beyond
yours. You are Flemming's intimate friend, his
fidus Achates. Write to him, write to him frequently,
distract his mind, cheer him up, and
prevent him from becoming a confirmed case
of melancholia. Perhaps he has some important

plans disarranged by his present confinement.
If he has you will know, and will know
how to advise him judiciously. I trust your
father finds the change beneficial? I am, my
dear sir, with great respect, etc.