Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

position which demands one of two sacrifices: the sacrifice of

  the other person, or the sacrifice of his own interests and his

  own desires. His neighbor's happiness, or his neighbor's life,

  stands, let us say, between him and the attainment of something

  that he wants. He can wreck the happiness, or strike down the

  life, without, to his knowledge, any fear of suffering for it

  himself. What is to prevent him, being the man he is, from going

  straight to his end, on those conditions? Will the skill in

  rowing, the swiftness in running, the admirable capacity and

  endurance in other physical exercises, which he has attained, by

  a strenuous cultivation in this kind that has excluded any

  similarly strenuous cultivation in other kinds--will these

  physical attainments help him to win a purely moral victory over

  his own selfishness and his own cruelty? They won't even help him

  to see that it _is_ selfishness, and that it _is_ cruelty. The

  essential principle of his rowing and racing (a harmless

  principle enough, if you can be sure of applying it to rowing and

  racing only) has taught him to take every advantage of another

  man that his superior strength and superior cunning can suggest.

  There has been nothing in his training to soften the barbarous

  hardness in his heart, and to enlighten the barbarous darkness in

  his mind. Temptation finds this man defenseless, when temptation

  passes his way. I don't care who he is, or how high he stands

  accidentally in the social scale--he is, to all moral intents and

  purposes, an Animal, and nothing more. If my happiness stands in

  his way--and if he can do it with impunity to himself--he will

  trample down my happiness. If my life happens to be the next

  obstacle he encounters--and if he can do it with impunity to

  himself--he will trample down my life. Not, Mr. Delamayn, in the

  character of a victim to irresistible fatality, or to blind

  chance; but in the character of a man who has sown the seed, and

  reaps the harvest. That, Sir, is the case which I put as an

  extreme case only, when this discussion began. As an extreme case

  only--but as a perfectly possible case, at the same time--I

  restate it now."

  Before the advocates of the other side of the question could open

  their lips to reply, Geoffrey suddenly flung off his

  indifference, and started to his feet.

  "Stop!" he cried, threatening the others, in his fierce

  impatience to answer for himself, with his clenched fist.

  There was a general silence.

  Geoffrey turned and looked at Sir Patrick, as if Sir Patrick had

  personally insulted him.

  "Who is this anonymous man, who finds his way to his own ends,

  and pities nobody and sticks at nothing?" he asked. "Give him a

  name!"

  "I am quoting an example," said Sir Patrick. "I am not attacking

  a man."

  "What right have you," cried Geoffrey--utterly forgetful, in the

  strange exasperation that had seized on him, of the interest that

  he had in controlling himself before Sir Patrick--"what right

  have you to pick out an example of a rowing man who is an

  infernal scoundrel--when it's quite as likely that a rowing man

  may be a good fellow: ay! and a better fellow, if you come to

  that, than ever stood in your shoes!"

  "If the one case is quite as likely to occur as the other (which

  I readily admit)," answered Sir Patrick, "I have surely a right

  to choose which case I please for illustration. (Wait, Mr.

  Delamayn! These are the last words I have to say and I mean to

  say them.) I have taken the example--not of a specially depraved

  man, as you erroneously suppose--but of an average man, with his

  average share of the mean, cruel, and dangerous qualities, which

  are part and parcel of unreformed human nature--as your religion

  tells you, and as you may see for yourself, if you choose to look

  at your untaught fellow-creatures any where. I suppose that man

  to be tried by a temptation to wickedness, out of the common; and

  I show, to the best of my ability, how completely the moral and

  mental neglect of himself, which the present material tone of

  public feeling in England has tacitly encouraged, leaves him at

  the mercy of all the worst instincts in his nature; and how

  surely, under those conditions, he _must_ go down (gentleman as

  he is) step by step--as the lowest vagabond in the streets goes

  down under _his_ special temptation--from the beginning in

  ignorance to the end in crime. If you deny my right to take such

  an example as that, in illustration of the views I advocate, you

  must either deny that a special temptation to wickedness can

  assail a man in the position of a gentleman, or you must assert

  that gentlemen who are naturally superior to all temptation are

  the only gentlemen who devote themselves to athletic pursuits.

  There is my defense. In stating my case, I have spoken out of my

  own sincere respect for the interests of virtue and of learning;

  out of my own sincere admiration for those young men among us who

  are resisting the contagion of barbarism about them. In _their_

  future is the future hope of England. I have done."

  Angrily ready with a violent personal reply, Geoffrey found

  himself checked, in his turn by another person with something to

  say, and with a resolution to say it at that particular moment.

  For some little time past the surgeon had discontinued his steady

  investigation of Geoffrey's face, and had given all his attention

  to the discussion, with the air of a man whose self-imposed task

  had come to an end. As the last sentence fell from the last

  speaker's lips, he interposed so quickly and so skillfully

  between Geoffrey and Sir Patrick, that Geoffrey himself was taken

  by surprise,

  "There is something still wanting to make Sir Patrick's statement

  of the case complete," he said. "I think I can supply it, from

  the result of my own professional experience. Before I say what I

  have to say, Mr. Delamayn will perhaps excuse me, if I venture on

  giving him a caution to control himself."

  "Are _you_ going to make a dead set at me, too?" inquired

  Geoffrey.

  "I am recommending you to keep your temper--nothing more. There

  are plenty of men who can fly into a passion without doing

  themselves any particular harm. You are not one of them."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't think the state of your health, Mr. Delamayn, is quite

  so satisfactory as you may be disposed to consider it yourself."

  Geoffrey turned to his admirers and adherents with a roar of

  derisive laughter. The admirers and adherents all echoed him

  together. Arnold and Blanche smiled at each other. Even Sir

  Patrick looked as if he could hardly credit the evidence of his

  own ears. There stood the modern Hercules, self-vindicated as a

  Hercules, before all eyes that looked at him. And there,

  opposite, stood a man whom he could have killed with one blow of

  his fist, telling him, in serious earnest, that he was not in

  perfect health!


  "You are a rare fellow!" said Geoffrey, half in jest and half in

  anger. "What's the matter with me?"

  "I have undertaken to give you, what I believe to be, a necessary

  caution," answered the surgeon. "I have _not_ undertaken to tell

  you what I think is the matter with you. That may be a question

  for consideration some little time hence. In the meanwhile, I

  should like to put my impression about you to the test. Have you

  any objection to answer a question on a matter of no particular

  importance relating to yourself?"

  "Let's hear the question first."

  "I have noticed something in your behavior while Sir Patrick was

  speaking. You are as much interested in opposing his views as any

  of those gentlemen about you. I don't understand your sitting in

  silence, and leaving it entirely to the others to put the case on

  your side--until Sir Patrick said something which happened to

  irritate you. Had you, all the time before that, no answer ready

  in your own mind?"

  "I had as good answers in my mind as any that have been made here

  to-day."

  "And yet you didn't give them?"

  "No; I didn't give them."

  "Perhaps you felt--though you knew your objections to be good

  ones--that it was hardly worth while to take the trouble of

  putting them into words? In short, you let your friends answer

  for you, rather than make the effort of answering for yourself?"

  Geoffrey looked at his medical adviser with a sudden curiosity

  and a sudden distrust.

  "I say," he asked, "how do you come to know what's going on in my

  mind--without my telling you of it?"

  "It is my business to find out what is going on in people's

  bodies--and to do that it is sometimes necessary for me to find

  out (if I can) what is going on in their minds. If I have rightly

  interpreted what was going on in _your_ mind, there is no need

  for me to press my question. You have answered it already."

  He turned to Sir Patrick next

  "There is a side to this subject," he said, "which you have not

  touched on yet. There is a Physical objection to the present rage

  for muscular exercises of all sorts, which is quite as strong, in

  its way, as the Moral objection. You have stated the consequences

  as they _ may_ affect the mind. I can state the consequences as

  they _do_ affect the body."

  "From your own experience?"

  "From my own experience. I can tell you, as a medical man, that a

  proportion, and not by any means a small one, of the young men

  who are now putting themselves to violent athletic tests of their

  strength and endurance, are taking that course to the serious and

  permanent injury of their own health. The public who attend

  rowing-matches, foot-races, and other exhibitions of that sort,

  see nothing but the successful results of muscular training.

  Fathers and mothers at home see the failures. There are

  households in England--miserable households, to be counted, Sir

  Patrick, by more than ones and twos--in which there are young men

  who have to thank the strain laid on their constitutions by the

  popular physical displays of the present time, for being broken

  men, and invalided men, for the rest of their lives."

  "Do you hear that?" said Sir Patrick, looking at Geoffrey.

  Geoffrey carelessly nodded his head. His irritation had had time

  to subside; the stolid indifference had got possession of him

  again. He had resumed his chair--he sat, with outstretched legs,

  staring stupidly at the pattern on the carpet. "What does it

  matter to Me?" was the sentiment expressed all over him, from

  head to foot.

  The surgeon went on.

  "I can see no remedy for this sad state of things," he said, "as

  long as the public feeling remains what the public feeling is

  now. A fine healthy-looking young man, with a superb muscular

  development, longs (naturally enough) to distinguish himself like

  others. The training-authorities at his college, or elsewhere,

  take him in hand (naturally enough again) on the strength of

  outward appearances. And whether they have been right or wrong in

  choosing him is more than they can say, until the experiment has

  been tried, and the mischief has been, in many cases,

  irretrievably done. How many of them are aware of the important

  physiological truth, that the muscular power of a man is no fair

  guarantee of his vital power? How many of them know that we all

  have (as a great French writer puts it) two lives in us--the

  surface life of the muscles, and the inner life of the heart,

  lungs, and brain? Even if they did know this--even with medical

  men to help them--it would be in the last degree doubtful, in

  most cases, whether any previous examination would result in any

  reliable discovery of the vital fitness of the man to undergo the

  stress of muscular exertion laid on him. Apply to any of my

  brethren; and they will tell you, as the result of their own

  professional observation, that I am, in no sense, overstating

  this serious evil, or exaggerating the deplorable and dangerous

  consequences to which it leads. I have a patient at this moment,

  who is a young man of twenty, and who possesses one of the finest

  muscular developments I ever saw in my life. If that young man

  had consulted me, before he followed the example of the other

  young men about him, I can not honestly say that I could have

  foreseen the results. As things are, after going through a

  certain amount of muscular training, after performing a certain

  number of muscular feats, he suddenly fainted one day, to the

  astonishment of his family and friends. I was called in and I

  have watched the case since. He will probably live, but he will

  never recover. I am obliged to take precautions with this youth

  of twenty which I should take with an old man of eighty. He is

  big enough and muscular enough to sit to a painter as a model for

  Samson--and only last week I saw him swoon away like a young

  girl, in his mother's arms."

  "Name!" cried Geoffrey's admirers, still fighting the battle on

  their side, in the absence of any encouragement from Geoffrey

  himself.

  "I am not in the habit of mentioning my patients' names," replied

  the surgeon. "But if you insist on my producing an example of a

  man broken by athletic exercises, I can do it."

  "Do it! Who is he?"

  "You all know him perfectly well."

  "Is he in the doctor's hands?"

  "Not yet."

  "Where is he?"

  "There!"

  In a pause of breathless silence--with the eyes of every person

  in the room eagerly fastened on him--the surgeon lifted his hand

  and pointed to Geoffrey Delamayn.

  CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH.

  TOUCHING IT.

  As soon as the general stupefaction was allayed, the general

  incredulity asserted itself as a matter of course.

  The man who first declared that "seeing" was "believing" laid his

  finger (whether he knew it himself or not) on one of the

  fundamental follies of humanity. The easiest of
all evidence to

  receive is the evidence that requires no other judgment to decide

  on it than the judgment of the eye--and it will be, on that

  account, the evidence which humanity is most ready to credit, as

  long as humanity lasts. The eyes of every body looked at

  Geoffrey; and the judgment of every body decided, on the evidence

  there visible, that the surgeon must be wrong. Lady Lundie

  herself (disturbed over her dinner invitations) led the general

  protest. "Mr. Delamayn in broken health!" she exclaimed,

  appealing to the better sense of her eminent medical guest.

  "Really, now, you can't expect us to believe that!"

  Stung into action for the second time by the startling assertion

  of which he had been

  made the subject, Geoffrey rose, and looked the surgeon,

  steadily and insolently, straight in the face.

  "Do you mean what you say?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "You point me out before all these people--"

  "One moment, Mr. Delamayn. I admit that I may have been wrong in

  directing the general attention to you. You have a right to

  complain of my having answered too publicly the public challenge

  offered to me by your friends. I apologize for having done that.

  But I don't retract a single word of what I have said on the

  subject of your health."

  "You stick to it that I'm a broken-down man?"

  "I do."

  "I wish you were twenty years younger, Sir!"

  "Why?"

  "I'd ask you to step out on the lawn there and I'd show you

  whether I'm a broken-down man or not."

  Lady Lundie looked at her brother-in-law. Sir Patrick instantly

  interfered.

  "Mr. Delamayn," he said, "you were invited here in the character

  of a gentleman, and you are a guest in a lady's house."

  "No! no!" said the surgeon, good humoredly. "Mr. Delamayn is

  using a strong argument, Sir Patrick--and that is all. If I

  _were_ twenty years younger," he went on, addressing himself to

  Geoffrey, "and if I _did_ step out on the lawn with you, the

  result wouldn't affect the question between us in the least. I

  don't say that the violent bodily exercises in which you are

  famous have damaged your muscular power. I assert that they have

  damaged your vital power. In what particular way they have

  affected it I don't consider myself bound to tell you. I simply

  give you a warning, as a matter of common humanity. You will do

  well to be content with the success you have already achieved in

  the field of athletic pursuits, and to alter your mode of life

  for the future. Accept my excuses, once more, for having said

  this publicly instead of privately--and don't forget my warning."

  He turned to move away to another part of the room. Geoffrey

  fairly forced him to return to the subject.

  "Wait a bit," he said. "You have had your innings. My turn now. I

  can't give it words as you do; but I can come to the point. And,

  by the Lord, I'll fix you to it! In ten days or a fortnight from

  this I'm going into training for the Foot-Race at Fulham. Do you

  say I shall break down?"

  "You will probably get through your training."

  "Shall I get through the race?"

  "You may _possibly_ get through the race. But if you do--"

  "If I do?"

  "You will never run another."

  "And never row in another match?"

  "Never."

  "I have been asked to row in the Race, next spring; and I have

  said I will. Do you tell me, in so many words, that I sha'n't be

  able to do it?"

  "Yes--in so many words."

  "Positively?"

  "Positively."

  "Back your opinion!" cried Geoffrey, tearing his betting-book out

  of his pocket. "I lay you an even hundred I'm in fit condition to

  row in the University Match next spring."

  "I don't bet, Mr. Delamayn."

  With that final reply the surgeon walked away to the other end of

  the library. Lady Lundie (taking Blanche in custody) withdrew, at

  the same time, to return to the serious business of her