Dicky's Pain

ILLUSTRATED BY WILMOT LUNT

ICKY PEPYS, up to the age of fifty, had lived an extremely happy, selfish and innocent life. He had lost two tiresome parents while he was yet in his 'teens, and at the age of twenty-one had come into a very ample fortune, unencumbered with the wretched hardships of rank and of land-owning, except for that portion of the earth's surface upon which stood his charming house in Berkeley Square. His substantial inheritance had put him out of reach of the Bankruptcy Court, his prudence and innate respectability were shining lights to a naughty world, his teeth rendered him absolutely uninteresting to any dentist, and all the ostriches in Africa might have envied him his superb digestion. He had thwarted all the designs of impecunious Countesses, who longed to saddle him with their daughters; he never provoked the retribution that falls on those who have strained their hearts by excessive athleticism, or on those who by their sedentary habits make an enemy of their livers. He always went to Scotland in the summer, when he made charming sketches of the moors over which more barbarous folk shot stags, and in the winter he went to Monte Carlo and sat in the sunshine while others lost fortunes at the gambling-tables.

His mind was almost—not quite—as healthy as his body, but it had one little kink in it. As he sat in the sun or sketched in Scotland, he often permitted it to imagine lurid situations. He wondered what he would do if he lost all his money, he wondered what he would do if by some appalling mischance he fell in love, and he wondered what he would do if he ever felt unwell.

His house in Berkeley Square was a model of convenience, for his father had been a notable hypochondriac, and Dicky lived in his suite of rooms on the second floor. The bath-chair in which his father was wheeled to the passenger-lift still stood at the end of the passage, and every morning Dicky made his ablutions in a bathroom, which was fitted with squirts and douches of hot and cold, and an electric-chair which, when you sat in it and turned a switch, proceeded to jog about and encourage the internal organs. There were wash-leather pads attached to steel arms, which you could lay on the place that hurt and then give it massage, and there was a pair of scissors with immensely long handles with which you could cut your toe-nails, if lumbago made it inconvenient to bend the back. All these cunning contrivances Dicky had kept, partly out of filial piety, but partly, also, out of a curious internal interest in them. Heaven forbid that they should ever be needed by him, but where was the use of scrapping them?

In the middle of July he always left London and went down to his bungalow at Littlehampton, where he indulged in croquet, sea-bathing and golf on the ladies' links, till it was time to go to Scotland to sketch, and on this particular afternoon in mid-July he had tripped up the stairs (not using the lift, of course) to inspect what his valet had put out for him to take to Littlehampton. He would want flannel shirts for playing croquet, and thin shirts for playing golf, and a bathing-costume, and some sandals for walking over the stones, and some packs of patience cards, as well as the ordinary packs for bridge, and some menu-cards for dinner and... But his admirable valet assured him that the bungalow was plentifully stocked with all these things, and even as he spoke, Dicky suddenly felt a slight pain in the middle of his front, just below his chest. It lasted only a minute or two and then he felt quite comfortable again. Probably it was some minute indigestion, and he thought that he would not have vermouth before dinner. It might be due to vermouth, which, he had been told, was not quite wholesome.

He was going to motor down to Littlehampton, and he had three guests arriving there that evening from London. Naturally, he had not proposed driving them down, for they would have luggage which he could not take, and they would no doubt feel safer if they went down with it by that excellent train that arrived in good time for dinner. Besides, two of them were females, and if he took them with him, he would have to sit on the front seat, which made him feel rather giddy, or go on the box, and put his valet inside. In fact, he would be much more comfortable alone, and they would feel much safer with their luggage in the train with them. Among his guests was Lady Earlswood, who, after trying to marry him herself, was now trying to marry him to her daughter, who was another of his guests. But Lady Earlswood (even if he had meant to marry anybody) was too old, and her daughter was too young. The third guest was Claude Bingham, a gay young man of about forty, who would be delighted to flirt with either of them.

It was a superb evening, hot and windless, and after dinner they all sat in the garden of the bungalow. Dicky had abstained from vermouth, and felt particularly well: he even announced his intention of having a dip before breakfast next morning.

"Better not, Dicky," said Lady Earlswood; "people like you and me, who are getting on in life, must be careful."

Dicky thought this rather malicious: in any case. Lady Earlswood had got much farther on in life than he: five years farther at least. But he was constitutionally good-natured, and bore no resentment.

"Fancy you talking of getting on in life, Bridget!" he said. "I never heard such nonsense. I know how you danced till morning the other day at the Carews'."

"Yes, and suffered for it afterwards," said Bridget. "My dear, I felt like nothing at all next day. Did I, Lucy?"

Lucy was an anæmic young woman, quite unlike her florid mamma.

"You weren't so bad as I was, Mamma," she said. "I wanted you to come home earlier. I haven't felt well ever since."

To Dicky's immense surprise, Claude Bingham echoed these depressing sentiments.

"I can't sit up late now," he said, "and be alive next day. Port has begun to poison me, too. I took some to-night, Dicky, for your port is irresistible. But I shall have heartburn to-morrow."

Dicky felt it incumbent on him to strike a more cheerful and robust note.

"Heartburn?" he asked. "Never heard of it. What and where is it?"

Rather to his vexation, Claude pointed to the precise spot where he had experienced that little pain this afternoon.

"Indigestion of a sort," he said. "I have to be careful of it."

Dicky got up.

"Come, this will never do," he said. "We shall all get pains if we think about them. Let's play Animal Grab. I shall be a nightingale. Jug, jug."

Animal Grab produced a healthier outlook, and after an excellent night Dicky trotted off across the garden in his pretty dressing-gown with his bathing costume below it for his morning dip. He splashed about in the tepid shallow water for two or three minutes and enjoyed it so much that he determined to have a "real" bathe, including swimming before lunch. It was wonderful, he thought, as he trotted back across the garden, to be so juvenile at the age of fifty, and as that vainglorious thought passed through his brain, he felt another little pain just where he had felt it yesterday. It couldn't be vermouth; was it possibly sea-bathing? Perhaps he would not have a real bathe to-day. On the other hand, the pain yesterday couldn't have been sea-bathing, since he had not bathed for a whole year.

His party hailed him as a marvellous athlete when they assembled for breakfast, which was pleasant, but after a game of croquet he slipped away under the plea of writing letters, and telephoned to a doctor in the town of whom he had heard well and went to see him. Dr. Bannister was most reassuring, and recommended strict moderation (or better, abstention) in alcohol, and a glass of very hot water to be sipped half an hour before meals. A few bending and swinging movements of the trunk on getting up and just before going to bed would be a healthful practice, and he might also paint the troublesome spot with iodine. There was nothing to be anxious about. Sea-bathing? Well, an intermission of sea-bathing for a day or two would do no harm.

Dicky resolved to get rid of this little pain, and in order to make a firm stand against it, he cut off wine altogether, scalded his mouth with boiling water three times a day and used iodine regularly. But three days afterwards he experienced it again for a few minutes, and he wasn't sure whether there was not another pain a little higher up in the region of the heart. In consequence, when at the end of the week, Claude, who had been drinking quantities of port and suffering much from heartburn, concluded his visit, Dicky drove him up to London and went to see Sir Francis Tollington of Harley Street. He shook his head over the hot-water treatment, and recommended abstention from starchy foods, like bread and potatoes, and assured Dicky that he need not worry.

"And how about the iodine?" asked Dicky.

"My private opinion is," said Sir Francis, "that you might as well put it on the door-mat. But it can't hurt you unless it takes the skin off."

"And sea-bathing and croquet and golf?" he asked.

"All excellent in moderation," said the doctor. "But cut off starchy foods."

Dicky enjoyed pastry and adored potatoes, but he heroically followed this advice and remodelled his diet. His garden just now was profuse in delicious fruits, notably figs, and he made up for the new restrictions by a copious indulgence in them. It seemed to suit him admirably, but one afternoon, just as he made a beautiful drive from the 18th tee of the ladies' links, he had a return of the pain. It was not the least severe, but all the pleasure from his beautiful drive evaporated like breath on a frosty morning. As he approached the last green, he saw standing outside the club-house the burly form of his old friend Dr. Samuel Janitor, the great specialist on diseases of the nervous system, who shook hands warmly.

Dicky was delighted to see him: the pain was still perceptible, and really these dietists didn't seem to do any good.

"Well, this is delightful," he said. "You must come to dine with me to-night, Sammy. We shall be quite alone, and will have a good game of chess."

"Rather. And how are you, Dicky?"

"Pretty well," said he.

Dicky had no compunction about consulting a doctor when he was on holiday, and Dr. Janitor heard all about it before he was allowed to play chess. He was most convincing, pointing out that in middle life nervous force began to fail, and, if the body was to remain in perfect health, it must be supplemented. He believed that Dicky's pain was certainly connected with the solar plexus, an important junction or nest of nerves which was situated just where the trouble was. Electricity could supply the evident deficiency of nervous force, and the treatment was quite simple and could be practised at home. The apparatus was rather expensive, but once purchased the cells lasted a long time, and could be cheaply recharged. Half an hour, morning and evening, was all the time required, but regularity was essential.

Dr. Janitor made some more percussions in the region of the solar plexus.

"You should be careful about your diet," he said. "You oughtn't to touch fruit for the present; be very sparing in the use of tea and coffee, and cut off tobacco altogether. There is nothing that makes such a drain on the nervous system."

This was an unpleasant hearing, for Dicky liked his cigar even more than he liked his potatoes. But he was determined to get his solar plexus in condition again, and he put back into the box the fresh cigar he had just taken.

"That's right," said Dr. Janitor. "You'll soon be all right if you'll just discipline yourself. You'll find that a little hot lemon-juice and water takes away any craving for tobacco. Now for our game."

Though so many of the normal pleasures of life were cut off, Dicky was so keen on regaining his usually perfect health that he gladly gave them up. The treatments he had been recommended were very varied, but any one of them might be successful and so he practised them all. The battery arrived in a day or two, and what with applications of it morning and evening, and hot water before meals, and iodine paintings, and sips of lemon-juice, he was getting busy. He felt very well, however, and it was a cruel disappointment that on the very day that he was returning to London, meaning to go up to Scotland the day after, the wretched pain came again. It was very slight, scarcely perceptible indeed, but he realised that he was not cured yet. Perhaps it was something much more serious than either Dr. Bannister, Sir Francis Tollington, or Dr. Janitor had suspected, and he telegraphed to Sir Augustus Boughton and made an appointment for next morning at his house in Harley Street. He felt that he could not enjoy Scotland at all unless his mind was relieved of the grim fear which now cast a shadow over it, and at eleven o'clock next morning he presented himself, rather shakily, at Sir Augustus Boughton's, which happened to be exactly opposite Sir Francis Tollington's. He hoped the latter would not be looking out of his window.

Sir Augustus was gaunt and cadaverous. He asked Dicky an enormous quantity of questions and took note of his answers in a huge ledger. At the end he read them over in dead silence, and Dicky got more frightened every moment.

"It isn't malignant disease, is it?" he asked in a faltering voice.

Sir Augustus turned on him his mournful gaze.

"I can't tell you until I've thoroughly examined you," he said.

The examination took place, and again Sir Augustus wrote in his ledger. Then he wheeled round to the trembling Dicky.

"There are no symptoms of malignant disease at present," he said. "Your trouble without doubt arises from acidity. It is some gouty or rheumatic affection, and I strongly recommend a course of baths at Slipton Spa. Three weeks at Slipton with a suitable diet ought to be very beneficial."

"But must I go there instead of Scotland?" asked Dicky. "I was going to Scotland to-night."

"I am advising you to do what I should do myself," said Sir Augustus austerely.

Dicky did not hesitate.

"Very well, I'll go to Slipton," he said.

"I think you are wise," said the doctor. "Now what treatment have you been having hitherto?"

Dicky closed his eyes, and ticked off the items on his fingers.

"I use the Fergus electric battery for half an hour morning and evening," he said, "and put on an application of iodine every other day. I sip half a pint of very hot water before each meal, and hot lemon-juice and water when I want to smoke. I never touch fruit, bread (except toast), pastry or potatoes or wine or tobacco or tea or coffee, and every morning and evening after the electricity I, make swaying and bending movements."

"All very sensible," said Sir Augustus, "though I don't think a glass of sound Burgundy with your dinner would hurt you, and an occasional cigarette might do no harm. I should also allow you an orange in the middle of the morning. But I regard it as essential that you should completely abstain from butcher's meat. I don't mind your having a little boiled—not grilled—fish at lunch, and a chicken's wing at dinner, but no beef, mutton, veal or pork. I will write fully to my colleague, Doctor Paley, in whose hands you may place yourself with the utmost confidence. I expect you will receive great benefit from your stay there."

Dicky arrived next day at Slipton, and sent a note to Dr. Paley to ask for a consultation. The doctor, who had that morning received a long letter from Sir Augustus, was most cheerful and encouraging and mapped out his cure.

"Better have your bath in the morning," he said, "at half-past ten or eleven, and after it to take a rest for an hour and a half. A real rest, mind, not just sitting in an arm-chair, but on your sofa or your bed. That will bring you to lunch-time: rest after lunch, and then I want you to go for a gentle walk of forty minutes. You will find the public gardens very pleasant, and after your walk you can go for a run in your motor, well wrapped up. After tea"

"I never have tea," said Dicky.

"So much the better. At half-past five then, I should like you to be massaged, and rest afterwards till dinner. Sir Augustus has told me he has already spoken to you about diet, and I may say I entirely agree with his views. You ought to go to bed not later than half-past ten."

"And when shall I come to you again?" asked Dicky.

"In three days' time, please. Let me say at 4.30 on Thursday. By the way, don't feel disappointed if after a week or a couple of weeks you feel no improvement, but perhaps rather the reverse. The treatment is often lowering for the time, but you may confidently expect great improvement afterwards."

Dicky was now fairly launched on the sea of hypochondria. The original visitation in the region of the solar plexus had not occurred since the morning he left Littlehampton, but a whole host of other symptoms had flown to join it, as if it had been a decoy-duck. He distinctly felt a twinge in his left knee as he walked one day in the public gardens, and one morning, as he came from his bath there was a slight singing in his ears, and once after rising swiftly from a very low chair, he felt a momentary giddiness. He had no appetite for his lunch one day, but the next he had a disquieting ravenousness, and that night he slept ill. These symptoms were so frequent and varied that, despairing of remembering them all, he jotted them down in order to keep Dr. Paley fully informed.... In the hotel he became immensely popular, for he took elderly ladies for drives in his motor, and taught them new Patiences in the evening, and listened with sympathetic interest to their symptoms, occasionally ejaculating, "Yes: I had that yesterday morning, but it passed." Then, when it was his turn, he described a sense of numbness in his right wrist, and Mrs. Moule had it too sometimes. But bathing it in hot water, and then a little gentle massage with the finger-tips, generally relieved it.

Dicky felt that for all these fifty years he had missed his vocation, which was clearly that of an invalid. He had often before, when perfectly well, been rather at a loss what to do and think about, but now there was never a dull moment. Owing to the prohibition about meat, he had been forced for sheer pangs of hunger to eat some starchy foods, but when, after the blissful consumption of three large potatoes at lunch, he sneezed many times when he was being massaged, it was so thrilling to wonder whether he was not somehow throwing off the ill effects of the potatoes. Mrs. Moule thought it very likely, and produced the parallel instance of that tiresome cough—Mr. Pepys probably had noticed it—which she had last night when they were playing Patience. Well, she was sure it was the hot buttered scones she had for tea.

Dicky's three weeks were drawing to an end, and, in spite of these interests, he certainly felt very much run down. He had had no return (as far as he could remember) of his original symptoms, but there had been so many others. Dr. Paley, in his final interview with him, produced the list of them.

"There's clearly some poisoning going on in your system, Mr. Pepys," he said, "and with the most careful observation, I have been able to find no adequate reason for it. I think it must arise from your teeth."

"But look at them," said Dicky gaily, opening his mouth very wide. He always liked his teeth being looked at, so white and regular and complete were they. No dentist had ever been able to insert his finest probe into any cavity.

Dr. Paley looked.

"I don't assert that all your sufferings come from your teeth," he said, "but I can find no other possible cause for them. If it's not teeth, your case baffles me. Have them all out. They've probably been poisoning you for years."

"Good gracious!" said Dicky, very much depressed at the thought. But he was now so devoted a disciple of hygiene, that he never dreamed of rebelling against this drastic prescription, and promised to go to see his dentist at once.

Dicky had himself comfortably packed up in his motor for his three-hours' drive to London, and settled down to a good solid and uninterrupted meditation about his health. He was quite prepared to lose every tooth in his head, if he could only regain his health, and would willingly have had a couple of toes amputated as well, if he could find a physician who recommended it, but by degrees it struck him that if his teeth were to blame, his solar plexus and his nervous system were innocent and he needn't think any more about uric acid. There was no need to go to Slipton again or use his electric battery or drink hot water or abstain from fruit, pastry, meat, tea, coffee, tobacco and alcohol. "I'll see if I can't get Claude to dine with me to-night," he thought to himself, "and we'll have the best and biggest dinner I can think of, with wine and liqueurs and coffee and cigars, and peaches. If my teeth are going away, I'll give them a good send-off. Nothing that I eat and drink will hurt me, if it's only teeth. And to-morrow, I'll have them out. I suppose that will mean slops for a fortnight, but I'll stoke up first."

Dicky, half starved by his abstention, ate a joyful and gorgeous dinner. He and Claude went to the movies afterwards and then had some supper. Next morning after an excellent night Dicky woke feeling extraordinarily well and happy. He had some early morning tea (he had not tasted it for many weeks and found it delicious), disregarded his electric battery and his iodine bottle, and felt himself ready for breakfast. Then he had a cigar, and thought he would telephone to his dentist presently. Some grouse had arrived from Scotland for him, so he collected a few stranded September friends, and arranged a small dinner-party for the evening: it was therefore impossible to part with his teeth that afternoon. One of them urged him to spend the week-end in the country, and so he put off till next week. A few days more, if he had been poisoned for years, could make no difference.

Dicky was sitting on the Terrace at Monte Carlo one brilliant morning during the next winter talking to Lady Earlswood. She had been complimenting him on his appearance of amazing health.

"Yes, I'm very well again," said he, "though I had some horrid weeks of illness in the summer. Continuous attacks of pain. But I took it in hand seriously, and had electric treatment and iodine and very strict dieting, and cut off wine and tobacco and tea and coffee and spent three weeks at Slipton. Brine baths and massage."

"How horrid for you," said she. "And attacks of pain? Where?"

Dicky frowned slightly as he lit his cigar.

"Dear me, where was it?" he said. "I really can't remember. But my memory has been getting very bad lately. I must have some course of mental training."