"THE doctor likes his glass of wine," remarked one of the gentlemen
as Dr. Angier left them.
"Is that so?"
"Didn't you observe his heightened color and the gleam in his eyes?"
"I noticed something unusual in his manner, but did not think it the
effect of wine."
"He is a reticent man, with considerable of what may be called
professional dignity, and doesn't often let himself down to laymen
as he did just now."
"There wasn't much letting down, that I could see."
"Perhaps not; but professional pride is reserved and sensitive in
some persons. It hasn't much respect for the opinions of
non-experts, and is chary of discussion with laymen. Dr. Angier is
weak, or peculiar if you please, in this direction. I saw that he
was annoyed at your reply to his remark that you do not cure a
thirsty man by withholding water. It was a little thing, but it
showed his animus. The argument was against him, and it hurt his
pride. As I said, he likes his glass of wine, and if he does not
take care will come to like it too well. A doctor has no more
immunity from dypso-mania than his patient. The former may inherit
or acquire the disease as well as the latter."
"How does the doctor know that he has not from some ancestor this
fatal diathesis? Children rarely if ever betray to their children a
knowledge of the vices or crimes of their parents. The death by
consumption, cancer or fever is a part of oral family history, but
not so the death from intemperance. Over that is drawn a veil of
silence and secresy, and the children and grandchildren rarely if
ever know anything about it. There may be in their blood the taint
of a disease far more terrible than cancer or consumption, and none
to give them warning of the conditions under which its development
is certain."
"Is it not strange," was replied, "that, knowing as Dr. Angier
certainly does, from what he said just now, that in all classes of
society there is a large number who have in their physical
constitutions the seeds of this dreadful disease--that, as I have
said, knowing this, he should so frequently prescribe wine and
whisky to his patients?"
"It is a little surprising. I have noticed, now that you speak of
it, his habit in this respect."
"He might as well, on his own theory, prescribe thin clothing and
damp air to one whose father or mother had died of consumption as
alcoholic stimulants to one, who has the taint of dypso-mania in his
blood. In one case as in the other the disease will almost surely be
developed. This is common sense, and something that can be
understood by all men."
"And yet, strange to say, the very men who have in charge the public
health, the very men whose business it is to study the relations
between cause and effect in diseases, are the men who in far too
many instances are making the worst possible prescriptions for
patients in whom even the slightest tendency to inebriety may exist
hereditarily. We have, to speak plainly, too many whisky doctors,
and the harm they are doing is beyond calculation. A physician takes
upon himself a great responsibility when, without any knowledge of
the antecedents of a patient or the stock from which he may have
come, he prescribes whisky or wine or brandy as a stimulant. I
believe thousands of drunkards have been made by these unwise
prescriptions, against which I am glad to know some of the most
eminent men in the profession, both in this country and Europe, have
entered a solemn protest."
"There is one thing in connection with the disease of intemperance,"
replied the other, "that is very remarkable. It is the only one from
which society does not protect itself by quarantine and sanitary
restrictions. In cholera, yellow fever and small-pox every effort is
made to guard healthy districts from their invasion, and the man who
for gain or any other consideration should be detected in the work
of introducing infecting agents would be execrated and punished. But
society has another way of dealing with the men who are engaged in
spreading the disease of intemperance among the people. It enacts
laws for their protection, and gives them the largest liberty to get
gain in their work of disseminating disease and death, and, what is
still more remarkable, actually sells for money the right to do
this."
"You put the case sharply."
"Too sharply?"
"Perhaps not. No good ever comes of calling evil things by dainty
names or veiling hard truth under mild and conservative phrases. In
granting men a license to dispense alcohol in every variety of
enticing forms and in a community where a large percentage of the
people have a predisposition to intemperance, consequent as well on
hereditary taint as unhealthy social conditions, society commits
itself to a disastrous error the fruit of which is bitterer to the
taste than the ashen core of Dead Sea apples."
"What about Dead Sea apples?" asked Mr. Elliott, who came up at the
moment and heard the last remark. The two gentlemen were pew-holders
in his church. Mr. Elliott's countenance was radiant. All his fine
social feelings were active, and he was enjoying a "flow of soul,"
if not "a feast of reason." Wine was making glad his heart--not
excess of wine, in the ordinary sense, for Mr. Elliott had no morbid
desire for stimulants. He was of the number who could take a social
glass and not feel a craving for more. He believed in wine as a good
thing, only condemning its abuse.
"What were you saying about Dead Sea apples?" Mr. Elliott repeated
his question.
"We were speaking of intemperance," replied one of the gentlemen.
"O--h!" in a prolonged and slightly indifferent tone. Mr. Elliott's
countenance lost some of its radiance. "And what were you saying
about it?"
Common politeness required as much as this, even though the subject
was felt to be out of place.
"We were talking with Dr. Angier just now about hereditary
drunkenness, or rather the inherited predisposition to that
vice--disease, as the doctor calls it. This predisposition he says
exists in a large number of persons, and is as well defined
pathologically, and as certain to become active, under favoring
causes, as any other disease. Alcoholic stimulants are its exciting
causes. Let, said the doctor, a man so predisposed indulge in the
use of intoxicating liquors, and he will surely become a drunkard.
There is no more immunity for him, he added, than for the man who
with tubercles in his lungs exposes himself to cold, bad air and
enervating bodily conditions. Now, is not this a very serious view
to take of the matter?"
"Certainly it is," replied Mr. Elliott. "Intemperance is a sad
thing, and a most fearful curse."
He did not look comfortable. It was to him an untimely intrusion of
an unpleasant theme. "But what in the world set the doctor off on
this subject?" he asked, trying to make a diversion.
"Occasions are apt to suggest subjects for conversation," answered
the gentleman. "One cannot be present at a large social
entertainment like this without seeing some things that awaken
doubts and questionings. If it be true, as Dr. Angier says, that the
disease of intemperance is as surely transmitted, potentially, as
the disease of consumption, and will become active under favoring
circumstances, then a drinking festival cannot be given without
fearful risk to some of the invited guests."
"There is always danger of exciting disease where a predisposition
exists," replied Mr. Elliott. "A man can hardly be expected to make
himself acquainted with the pathology of his guests before inviting
them to a feast. If that is to be the rule, the delicate young lady
with the seeds of consumption in her system must be left at home for
fear she may come with bare arms and a low-necked dress, and expose
herself after being heated with dancing to the draught of an open
window. The bilious and dyspeptic must be omitted also, lest by
imprudent eating and drinking they make themselves sick. We cannot
regulate these things. The best we can do is to warn and admonish.
Every individual is responsible for his own moral character, habits
and life. Because some may become the slaves of appetite, shall
restraint and limitation be placed on those who make no abuse of
liberty? We must teach men self-control and self-mastery, if we
would truly help and save them. There is some exaggeration, in my
opinion, about this disease-theory of intemperance. The deductions
of one-idea men are not always to be trusted. They are apt to draw
large conclusions from small facts. Man is born a free agent, and
all men have power, if they will, to hold their appetites in check.
This truth should be strongly impressed upon every one. Your
disease-theory takes away moral responsibility. It assumes that a
man is no more accountable for getting drunk than for getting the
consumption. His diathesis excuses him as much in one case as in the
other. Now, I don't believe a word of this. I do not class
appetites, however inordinate, with physical diseases over which the
will has no control. A man must control his appetite. Reason and
conscience require this, and God gives to every one the mastery of
himself if he will but use his high prerogative."
Mr. Elliott spoke a little loftily, and in a voice that expressed a
settlement of the argument. But one at least of his listeners was
feeling too strongly on the subject to let the argument close.
"What," he asked, "if a young man who did not, because he could not,
know that he had dypso-mania in his blood were enticed to drink
often at parties where wine is freely dispensed? Would he not be
taken, so to speak, unawares? Would he be any more responsible for
acts that quickened into life an over-mastering appetite than the
young girl who, not knowing that she had in her lungs the seeds of a
fatal disease, should expose herself to atmospheric changes that
were regarded by her companions as harmless, but which, to her were
fraught with peril?"
"In both cases," replied Mr. Elliott, "the responsibility to care
for the health would come the moment it was found to be in danger."
"The discovery of danger may come, alas! too late for responsible
action. We know that it does in most cases with the consumptive, and
quite as often, I fear, with the dypso-maniac."
As the gentleman was closing the last sentence he observed a change
pass over the face of Mr. Elliott, who was looking across the room.
Following the direction of his eyes, he saw General Abercrombie in
the act of offering his arm to Mrs. Abercrombie. It was evident,
from the expression of his countenance and that of the countenances
of all who were near him that something had gone wrong. The
general's face was angry and excited. His eyes had a fierce
restlessness in them, and glanced from his wife to a gentleman who
stood confronting him and then back to her in a strange and menacing
way.
Mrs. Abercrombie's face was deadly pale. She said a few words
hurriedly to her husband, and then drew him from the parlor.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Elliott, crossing over and speaking
to the gentleman against whom the anger of General Abercrombie had
seemed to be directed.
"Heaven knows," was answered, "unless he's jealous of his wife."
"Very strange conduct," said one.
"Been drinking too much," remarked another.
"What did he do?" inquired a third.
"Didn't you see it? Mr. Ertsen was promenading with Mrs.
Abercrombie, when the general swept down upon them as fierce as a
lion and took the lady from his arm."
This was exaggeration. The thing was done more quietly, but still
with enough of anger and menace to create something more than a
ripple on the surface.
A little while afterward the general and Mrs. Abercrombie were seen
coming down stairs and going along the hall. His face was rigid and
stern. He looked neither to the right nor the left, but with eyes
set forward made his way toward the street door. Those who got a
glimpse of Mrs. Abercrombie as she glided past saw a face that
haunted them a long time afterward.