February 186-.
The doctor is quite jovial. It seems that I am doing him a great dealof credit by being able to get out of bed. If I must believe him,innumerable disorders must have pounced down upon my poor old body allat the same time.
These disorders, which are the terror of ordinary mankind, have nameswhich are the terror of philologists. They are hybrid names, half Greek,half Latin, with terminations in "itis," indicating the inflammatorycondition, and in "algia," indicating pain. The doctor gives me alltheir names, together with a corresponding number of adjectives endingin "ic," which serve to characterise their detestable qualities. Inshort, they represent a good half of that most perfect copy of theDictionary of Medicine contained in the too-authentic box of Pandora.
"Doctor, what an excellent common-sense story the story of Pandorais!--if I were a poet I would put it into French verse. Shake hands,doctor! You have brought me back to life; I forgive you for it. Youhave given me back to my friends; I thank you for it. You say I am quitestrong. That may be, that may be; but I have lasted a very long time.I am a very old article of furniture; I might be very satisfactorilycompared to my father's arm-chair. It was an arm-chair which the goodman had inherited, and in which he used to lounge from morning untilevening. Twenty times a day, when I was quite a baby, I used to climb upand seat myself on one of the arms of that old-fashioned chair. So longas the chair remained intact, nobody paid any particular attention toit. But it began to limp on one foot and then folks began to say that itwas a very good chair. Afterwards it became lame in three legs, squeakedwith the fourth leg, and lost nearly half of both arms. Then everybodywould exclaim, 'What a strong chair!' They wondered how it was thatafter its arms had been worn off and all its legs knocked out ofperpendicular, it could yet preserve the recognisable shape of a chair,remains nearly erect, and still be of some service. The horse-hair cameout of its body at last, and it gave up the ghost. And when Cyprien,our servant, sawed up its mutilated members for fire-wood, everybodyredoubled their cries of admiration. Oh! what an excellent--what amarvellous chair! It was the chair of Pierre Sylvestre Bonnard, thecloth merchant--of Epimenide Bonnard, his son--of Jean-Baptiste Bonnard,the Pyrrhonian philosopher and Chief of the Third Maritime Division.Oh! what a robust and venerable chair!' In reality it was a dead chair.Well, doctor, I am that chair. You think I am solid because I have beenable to resist an attack which would have killed many people, and whichonly three-fourths killed me. Much obliged! I feel none the less that Iam something which has been irremediably damaged."
The doctor tries to prove to me, with the help of enormous Greek andLatin words, that I am really in a very good condition. It would, ofcourse, be useless to attempt any demonstration of this kind in so lucida language as French. However, I allow him to persuade me at last; and Isee him to the door.
"Good! good!" exclaimed Therese; "that is the way to put the doctor outof the house! Just do the same thing once or twice again, and he willnot come to see you any more--and so much the better?"
"Well, Therese, now that I have become such a hearty man again, do notrefuse to give me my letters. I am sure there must be quite a big bundleof letters, and it would be very wicked to keep me any longer fromreading them."
Therese, after some little grumbling, gave me my letters. But what didit matter?--I looked at all the envelopes, and saw that no one of themhad been addressed by the little hand which I so much wish I could seehere now, turning over the pages of the Vecellio. I pushed the wholebundle of letters away: they had no more interest for me.
The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard Page 30
