I thanked her for the introduction, and, having wished her good morning, let myself out of the house and proceeded to Number 12, approaching it slowly to take a preliminary glance at the premises. The result of the inspection was satisfactory as an index to the quality of my new patient, for the house was in better repair than most of its neighbours and the bright brass knocker and door-knob and the whitened door-step suggested a household rather above the general Jacob Street level. At the side of the house was a wide, two-leaved gate with a wicket, at which I glanced inquisitively. It seemed to be the entrance to a yard or factory, adapted to the passage of trucks or vans, but it clearly belonged to the house, for a bell-pull on the jamb of the gate had underneath it a small brass plate bearing the inscription, "P. Gannet."
In response to my knock, the door was opened by a lanky girl of about eighteen with long legs, a short skirt, and something on her head which resembled a pudding cloth. When I had revealed my identity, she conducted me along a tiled hall to a door, which she opened, and having announced me by name, washed her hands of me and retired down the kitchen stairs.
The occupant of the room, a woman, of about thirty-five, rose as I entered and laid down some needlework on a side table.
"Am I addressing Mrs. Gannet?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied. "I am Mrs. Gannet. I suppose Mrs. Jenkins gave you my message?"
"Yes. She tells me—which I am sorry to hear—that your husband is not very well."
"He is not at all well," said she, "though I don't think it is anything that matters very much, you know."
"I expect it matters to him," I suggested.
"I suppose it does," she agreed. "At any rate, he seems rather sorry for himself. He is sitting up in his bedroom at present. Shall I show you the way? I think he is rather anxious to see you."
I held the door open for her, and when she passed through, I followed her up the stairs, rapidly sorting out my first impressions. Mrs. Gannet was a rather tall, slender woman with light brown hair and slightly chilly blue eyes. She was decidedly good-looking but yet I did not find her prepossessing. Comely as her face undoubtedly was, it was not—at least to me—a pleasant face. There was a tinge of petulance in its expression, a faint suggestion of unamiability. And I did not like the tone in which she had referred to her husband.
Her introduction of me was as laconic as that of her maid. She opened the bedroom door and standing at the threshold, announced:
"Here's the doctor." Then, as I entered, she shut me in and departed.
"Well, Doctor," said the patient, "I'm glad to see you. Pull up a chair to the fire and take off your overcoat."
I drew a chair up to the fire gladly enough, but I did not adopt the other suggestion; for already I had learned by experience that the doctor who takes off his overcoat is lost. Forthwith he becomes a visitor and his difficulties in making his escape are multiplied indefinitely.
"So you are not feeling very well?" said I, by way of opening the proceedings.
"I'm feeling devilish ill," he replied. "I don't suppose it's anything serious, but it's deuced unpleasant. Little Mary in trouble, you know."
I didn't know, not having heard the expression before, and I looked at him inquiringly, and probably rather vacantly.
"Little Mary," he repeated. "Tummy. Bellyache, to put it bluntly."
"Ha!" said I, with sudden comprehension. "You are suffering from abdominal pain. Is it bad?"
"Is it ever good?" he demanded, with a sour grin.
"It certainly is never pleasant," I admitted. "But is the pain severe?"
"Sometimes," he replied. "It seems to come and go—Whoo!"
A change of facial expression indicated that, just now, it had come. Accordingly, I suspended the conversation until conditions should be more favourable, and, meanwhile, inspected my patient with sympathetic interest. He was not as good-looking as his wife, and his appearance was not improved by a rather deep scar which cut across his right eyebrow, but he made a better impression than she; a strongly-built man, though not large, so far as I could judge, seeing him sitting huddled in his easy chair, of a medium complexion and decidedly lean. He wore his hair rather long and had a well-shaped moustache and a Vandyke beard. Indeed, his appearance in general was distinctly Vandykish, with his brown velveteen jacket, his open, deep-pointed collar, and the loose bow with drooping ends which served as a necktie. I also noted that his eyes looked red and irritable like those of a long-sighted person who is in need of spectacles.
"Phoo!" he exclaimed after a spell of silence. "That was a bit of a twister, but it's better now. Going to have a lucid interval, I suppose."
Thereupon I resumed the conversation, which, however, I need not report in detail. I had plenty of time and could afford to encourage him to enlarge on his symptoms, the possible causes of his illness, and his usual habits and mode of life. And as he talked, I looked about me, bearing in mind the advice of my teacher, Dr. Thorndyke, to observe and take note of a patient's surroundings as a possible guide to his personality. In particular I inspected the mantelpiece which confronted me and considered the objects on it in their possible bearings on my patient's habits and life history.
They were rather curious objects; examples of pottery of a singularly uncouth and barbaric type which I set down as the gleanings gathered in the course of travel in distant lands among primitive and aboriginal peoples. There were several bowls and jars, massive, rude and unshapely, of a coarse material like primitive stoneware, and presiding over the whole collection, a crudely modeled effigy of similar material, apparently the artless representation of some forest deity, or, perhaps a portrait of an aboriginal man. The childish crudity of execution carried my thoughts to Darkest Africa or the Ethnographical galleries of the British Museum, or to those sham primitive sculptures which have recently appeared on some of the public buildings in London. I looked again at Mr. Gannet and wondered whether his present trouble might be the aftermath of some tropical illness contracted in the forests or jungles where he had collected these strange and not very attractive curios.
Fortunately, however, I did not put my thoughts into words, but in pursuance of another of Dr. Thorndyke's precepts to "let the patient do most of the talking," listened attentively while Mr. Gannet poured out the tale of his troubles. For, presently, he remarked, after a pause:
"And it isn't only the discomfort. It's such a confounded hindrance. I want to get on with my work."
"By the way, what its your work?" I asked.
"I am a potter," he replied.
"A potter!" I repeated. "I didn't know that there were any pottery works in London—except, of course, Doultons."
"I am not attached to any pottery works," said he. "I am an artist potter, an individual worker. The pieces that I make are what is usually called studio pottery. Those are some of my works on the mantelpiece."
In the vulgar phrase, you could have knocked me down with a feather. For the moment I was bereft of speech and could only sit like a fool, gazing round-eyed and agape at these amazing products of the potter's art, while Gannet observed me gravely, and, I thought, with slight disfavour.
"Possibly," he remarked, "you find them a little over-simplified."
It was not the expression that I should have used, but I grasped at it eagerly.
"I think I had that feeling at the first glance," I replied; "that and the—er—the impression that perhaps—ha—in the matter of precision and—er—symmetry—that is, to an entirely inexpert eye—er—"
"Exactly!" he interrupted. "Precision and symmetry are what the inexpert eye looks for. But they are not what the artist seeks. Mechanical accuracy he can leave to the ungifted toiler who tends a machine."
"I suppose that is so," I agreed. "And the—" I was about to say "image" but hastily corrected the word to "statuette"—"that is your work, too?"
"The figurine," he corrected; "yes, that is my work. I was rather pleased with it when I had it finished. And apparently I was justified,
for it was extremely well received. The art critics were quite enthusiastic, and I sold two replicas of it for fifty guineas each."
"That was very satisfactory," said I. "It is a good thing to have material reward as well as glory. Did you give it any descriptive title?"
"No," he replied. "I am not like those anecdote painters who must have a title for their pictures. I just called it 'Figurine of a monkey.'"
"Of a—oh, yes. Of a monkey. Exactly!"
I stood up, the better to examine it and then discovered that its posterior aspect bore something like a coil of garden hose, evidently representing a tail. So it obviously was a monkey and not a woodland god. The tail established the diagnosis; even as, in those sculptures that I have mentioned, the absence of a tail demonstrates their human character.
"And I suppose," said I, "you always sign your works?"
"Certainly," he replied. "Each piece bears my signature and a serial number; and, of course, the number of copies of a single piece is rigidly limited. You will see the signature on the base."
With infinite care and tenderness, I lifted the precious figurine and inverted it to examine the base, which I found to be covered with a thick layer of opaque white glaze, rather out of character with the rough grey body but excellent for displaying the signature. The latter was in thin blue lines as if executed with a pen and consisted of something resembling a bird, supported by the letters, "P.G." and underneath, "Op. 571 A."
"The goose is, I suppose," said I, "your sign manual or personal mark—it is a goose, isn't it?"
"No," he replied, a little testily. "It's a gannet."
"Of course it is," I agreed, hastily. "How dull of me not to recognize your rebus, though a gannet is not unlike a goose."
He admitted this, and watched me narrowly as I replaced the masterpiece on the little square of cloth which protected it from contact with the marble shelf. Then it occurred to me that perhaps I had stayed long enough, and as I buttoned my overcoat, I reverted to professional matters with a few parting remarks.
"Well, Mr. Gannet, you needn't be uneasy about yourself. I shall send you some medicine which I think will soon put you right. But if you have much pain, you had better try some hot fomentations or a hot water bottle—a rubber one, of course; and you would probably be more comfortable lying down."
"It's more comfortable sitting by the fire," he objected; and as it appeared that he was the best judge of his own comfort, I said no more, but having shaken hands, took my departure.
As I was descending the stairs, I met a man coming up; a big man who wore a monocle and was carrying a glass jug. He stopped for a moment when he came abreast, and explained:
"I am just taking the invalid some barley water. I suppose that is all right? He asked for it."
"Certainly," I replied. "A most suitable drink for a sick person."
"I'll tell him so," said he, and with this we went our respective ways.
When I reached the hall, I found the dining room door open, and as Mrs. Gannet was visible within, I entered to make my report and give a few directions, to which she listened attentively though with no great appearance of concern. But she promised to see that the patient should take his medicine regularly, and to keep him supplied with hot water bottles, "though," she added, "I don't expect that he will use them. He is not a very tractable invalid."
"Well, Mrs. Gannet," said I, pulling on my gloves, "we must be patient. Pain is apt to make people irritable. I shall hope to find him better tomorrow. Good morning!"
At intervals during the day, my thoughts reverted to my new patient, but not, I fear, in the way that they should have done. For it was not his abdomen—which was my proper concern—that occupied my attention but his queer pottery and above all, the unspeakable monkey. My reflections oscillated between frank incredulity and an admission of the possibility that these pseudo-barbaric works might possess some subtle quality that I had failed to detect. Yet I was not without some qualifications for forming a judgment, for mine was a distinctly artistic family, Both my parents could draw, and my maternal uncle was a figure painter of some position who, in addition to his pictures, executed small, unpretentious sculptures in terra-cotta and bronze; and I had managed, when I was a student, to spare an evening a week to attend a life class. So I, at least, could draw, and knew what the human figure was like; and when I compared my uncle's graceful, delicately-finished little statuettes with Gannet's uncouth effigy, it seemed beyond belief that this latter could have any artistic quality whatever.
Yet it doesn't do to be too cocksure. It is always possible that one may be mistaken. But yet, again, it doesn't do to be too humble and credulous; for the simple, credulous man is the natural prey of the quack and the impostor. And the quack and the impostor flourish in our midst. The post-war twentieth century seems to be the golden age of "bunk."
So my reflections went around and around and brought me to no positive conclusion; and meanwhile, poor Peter Gannet's abdomen received less attention than it deserved. I assumed that a dose or two of bismuth and soda, with that fine old medicament, once so overrated and now rather under-valued—Compound Tincture of Cardamoms—would relieve the colicky pains and set the patient on the road to recovery; and having dispatched the mixture, I dismissed the medical aspects of the case from my mind.
But the infallible mixture failed to produce the expected effect, for when I called on the following morning, the patient's condition was unchanged. Which was disappointing (especially to him) but not disturbing. There was no suspicion of anything serious; no fever and no physical signs suggestive of appendicitis or any other grave condition, I was not anxious about him, nor was he anxious about himself, though slightly outspoken on the subject of the infallible mixture, which I promised to replace by something more effectual, repeating my recommendations as to hot water bottles or fomentations.
The new treatment, however, proved no better than the old. At my third visit I found my patient in bed, still complaining of pain and in a state of deep depression. But even now, though the man looked definitely ill, neither exhaustive questioning nor physical examination threw any light either on the cause or the exact nature of his condition. Obviously, he was suffering from severe gastro-intestinal catarrh. But why he was suffering from it, and why no treatment gave him any relief, were mysteries on which I pondered anxiously as I walked home from Jacob Street, greatly out of conceit with myself and inclined to commiserate the man who had the misfortune to be my patient.
IV. DR. THORNDYKE TAKES A HAND
It was on the sixth day of my attendance on Mr. Gannet that my vague but increasing anxiety suddenly became acute. As I sat down by the bedside and looked at the drawn, haggard, red-eyed face that confronted me over the bedclothes, I was seized by something approaching panic. And not without reason. For the man was obviously ill—very ill—and was getting worse from day to day; and I had to admit—and did admit to myself—that I was completely in the dark as to what was really the matter with him. My diagnosis of gastro-enteritis was, in effect, no diagnosis at all. It was little more than a statement of the symptoms; and the utter failure of the ordinary empirical treatment convinced me that there was some essential element in the case which had completely eluded me.
It was highly disturbing. A young, newly established practitioner cannot afford to make a hash of a case at the very outset of his career, as I clearly realized, though to do myself justice, I must say that this was not the consideration that was uppermost in my mind. What really troubled me was the feeling that I had failed in my duty towards my patient and in ordinary professional competence. My heart was wrung by the obvious suffering of the quiet, uncomplaining man who looked to me so pathetically for help and relief—and looked in vain. And then there was the further, profoundly disquieting consideration that the man was now very seriously ill and that if he did not improve, his condition would presently become actually dangerous.
"Well, Mr. Gannet," I said, "we don't seem to be making much progr
ess. I am afraid you will have to remain in bed for the present."
"There's no question about that, Doctor," said he, "because I can't get out, at least I can't stand properly if I do. My legs seem to have gone on strike and there is something queer about my feet; sort of pins and needles, and a dead kind of feeling, as if they had got a coat of varnish over them."
"But," I exclaimed, concealing as well as I could my consternation at this fresh complication, "you haven't mentioned this to me before."
"I hadn't noticed until yesterday," he replied, "though I have been having cramps in my calves for some days. But the fact is that the pain in my gizzard occupies my attention pretty completely. It may have been coming on before I noticed it. What do you suppose it is?"
To this question I gave no direct answer. For I was not supposing at all. To me the new symptoms conveyed nothing more than fresh and convincing evidence that I was completely out of my depth. Nevertheless, I made a careful examination which established the the fact that there was an appreciable loss of sensibility in the feet and some abnormal conditions of the nerves of the legs. Why there should be I had not the foggiest idea, nor did I make any great effort to unravel the mystery; for these new developments brought to a definite decision a half-formed intention that I had been harbouring for the last day or two.
I would seek the advice of some more experienced practitioner. That was necessary as a matter of common honesty, to say nothing of humanity. But I had hesitated to suggest a second opinion since that would not only have involved the frank admission that I was graveled—an impolitic proceeding in the case of a young doctor—but it would have put the expense of the consultant's fee on the patient; whereas I felt that, since the need for the consultation arose from my own incompetence, the expense should fall upon me.
"What do you think, Doctor, of my going into a nursing home?" he asked, as I resumed my seat by the bed.
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