to be in good health and was certainly in the best of spirits. Her
father was absolutely devoted to her. She was his ever-delightful
companion and the joy and comfort of his life. Terrible as the
situation was it was essential not only that the truth should be told
but told at once. Everything depended upon an immediate operation and,
therefore, there was not a day to be lost. To break the news seemed for
a moment almost impossible. The poor father had no suspicion of the
gravity of the case. He imagined that the trouble would probably be
dealt with by a course of medicine and a potent liniment. I approached
the revelation of the dreadful truth in an obscure manner. I discussed
generalities, things that were possible, difficulties that might be,
threw out hints, mentioned vague cases, and finally made known to him
the bare and ghastly truth with as much gentleness as I could command.
The wretched man listened to my discourse with apparent apathy, as
if wondering what all this talk could mean and what it had to do with
him. When I had finished he said nothing, but, rising quietly from his
chair, walked over to one side of the room and looked at a picture
hanging on the wall. He looked at it closely and then, stepping back
and with his head on one side, viewed it at a few feet distant. Finally
he examined it through his hand screwed up like a tube. While so doing
he said, “That is a nice picture. I rather like it. Who is the artist?
Ah! I see his name in the corner. I like the way in which he has
treated the clouds, don’t you? The foreground too, with those sheep, is
very cleverly managed.” Then turning suddenly to me he burst out, “What
were you talking about just now? You said something. What was it? For
God’s sake say that it is not true! It is not true! It cannot be true!”
XII
A QUESTION OF HATS
I had had a very busy afternoon and had still two appointments to
keep. The first of these was in the suburbs, a consultation with a
doctor who was a stranger to me. It was a familiar type of house where
we met—classic Doric pillars to the portico, a congested hall with
hat-pegs made of cow horns, a pea-green vase with a fern in it perched
on a bamboo tripod, and a red and perspiring maid-servant. Further, I
became acquainted with a dining-room containing bomb-proof, mahogany
furniture, and great prints in pairs on the walls, “War” and “Peace” on
one side, “Summer” and “Winter” on the other. Then there was the best
bedroom, rich in lace and wool mats, containing a bedstead as glaring
in brass as a fire-engine, a mirror draped with muslin and pink bows,
and enough silver articles on the dressing-table to start a shop. After
a discussion of the case with the doctor in a drawing-room which smelt
like an empty church, I rushed off, leaving the doctor to detail the
treatment we had advised, for I found—to my dismay—that I was twenty
minutes late.
The second case was that of an exacting duke whom I had to visit at
regular periods and, according to the ducal pleasure, I should be at
the door at least one minute before the appointed hour struck. I was
now hopelessly late and consequently flurried. On reaching the ducal
abode I flew upstairs prepared to meet the storm. His Grace ignored
my apologies and suggested, with uncouth irony, that I had been at a
cricket match. He added that it was evident that I took no interest
in him, that his sufferings were nothing to me, and concluded by
asserting that if he had been dying I should not have hurried. I always
regard remarks of this type as a symptom of disease rather than as a
considered criticism of conduct, and therefore had little difficulty in
bringing the duke to a less contentious frame of mind by reverting to
that topic of the day—his engrossing disorder.
The duke never allowed his comfort to be in any way disturbed. He
considered his disease as a personal affront to himself, and I
therefore discussed it from the point of view of an unprovoked and
indecent outrage. This he found very pleasing, although I failed to
answer his repeated inquiry as to why His Grace the Duke of X should
be afflicted in this rude and offensive manner. It was evident that
his position should have exempted him from what was quite a vulgar
disorder, and it was incomprehensible that he, of all people, should
have been selected for this insult.
The interview over, I made my report to the duchess, who was in a
little room adjacent to the hall. She followed me out to ask a final
question just as I was on the point of taking my hat. The hat handed to
me by the butler was, however, a new hat I had never seen before. It
was of a shape I disliked. The butler, with due submission, said it was
the hat I came in. I replied it was impossible, and, putting it on my
head, showed that it was so small as to be absurd. The duchess, who was
a lady of prompt convictions, exclaimed, “Ridiculous; that was never
your hat!” The butler could say no more: he was convicted of error. The
duchess then seized upon the only other hat on the table and held it at
arm’s length. “Whose is this?” she cried. “Heavens, it is the shabbiest
hat I ever saw! It cannot be yours.” (It was not.) Looking inside, she
added, “What a filthy hat! It is enough to poison the house.” Handing
it to the butler as if it had been an infected rag, she exclaimed,
“Take it away and burn it!”
The butler did not at once convey this garbage to the flames, but
remarked—as if talking in his sleep—“There is a pianoforte tuner in the
drawing-room.” The duchess stared with amazement at this inconsequent
remark. Whereupon the butler added that the new hat I had rejected
might possibly be his. He was at once sent up to confront the artist,
whose aimless tinkling could be heard in the hall, with the further
message that if the dirty hat should happen to be his he was never to
enter the house again. The butler returned to say that the musician did
not “use” a hat. He wore a cap, which same he had produced from his
pocket.
While the butler was away a great light had illumined the mind of the
duchess. It appeared that Lord Andrew, her son-in-law, had called that
afternoon with his wife. He had just left, his wife remaining behind.
It was soon evident that the duchess had a grievance against her
son-in-law. When the light fell upon her she exclaimed to me, “I see it
all now. This horrible hat is Andrew’s. He has taken yours by mistake
and has left this disgusting thing behind. It is just like him. He is
the worst-dressed man in London, and this hat is just the kind he would
wear.”
At this moment the daughter appeared. She had overheard her mother’s
decided views, and was proportionately indignant. She disdained to
even look at the hat, preferring to deal with the indictment of
Andrew on general grounds. She defended her husband from the charge
of being unclean with no little show of temper. Without referring to
the specific hat, she said she was positive, on a priori grounds, that
Andrew would never wear a dirty hat. Her mother had no right to say
such things. It was unjust and unkind.
The duchess was now fully roused. She was still more positive. This,
she affirmed, was just the sort of thing Andrew would do—leave an old
hat behind and take a good one. She would send him at once a note by a
footman demanding the immediate return of my hat and the removal of his
own offensive headgear.
The daughter, deeply hurt, had withdrawn from the discussion. I
suggested that as Lady Andrew was about to go home she might inquire
if a mistake had been made. Her Grace, however, was far too moved to
listen to such moderation. She wanted to tell Andrew what she thought
of him, and it was evident she had long been seeking the opportunity.
So she at once stamped off to write the note. In the meanwhile I
waited, gazing in great melancholy of mind at the two hats. The silent
butler also kept his eyes fixed upon them with a gloom even deeper than
mine. I had hinted that the new hat might belong to Lord Andrew, but
the duchess had already disposed of that suggestion by remarking with
assurance that Andrew never wore a new hat. The note was produced and
at once dispatched by a footman.
I have no idea of the wording of the note, but I was satisfied that the
duchess had not been ambiguous, and that she had told her son-in-law
precisely what were her present views of him in a wider sense than
could be expressed in terms of hats. The writing of the letter had
relieved her. She was almost calm.
She now told the silent butler to fetch one of the duke’s hats, so
that I might have at least some decent covering to my bare head thus
unscrupulously stripped by the unclean Andrew. The butler returned with
a very smart hat of the duke’s. It had apparently never been worn.
It fitted me to perfection. In this vicarious coronet I regained my
carriage. I felt almost kindly towards the duke now that I was wearing
his best hat.
Next day I placed the ducal hat in a befitting hat-box and, having put
on another hat of my own, was starting for the scene of the downfall
of Lord Andrew. At my door a note was handed me. It was from the
suburban doctor. He very courteously pointed out that I had taken his
hat by mistake, and said he would be glad if I would return it at my
convenience, as he had no other, and my hat came down over his eyes.
It was a dreadful picture, that of a respected practitioner going his
rounds with a hat resting on the bridge of his nose; but at least
it cleared up the mystery of the new hat. The butler was right. In
my anxiety at being late on the previous afternoon I was evidently
not conscious that I was wearing a hat which must have looked like a
thimble on the top of an egg.
On reaching the ducal residence I was received by the butler. He said
nothing; but it seemed to me that he smiled immoderately for a butler.
The two hats, the new and the dirty, were still on the table, but the
duchess made no appearance. I returned the duke’s hat with appropriate
thanks and expressed regret for the stupid mistake I had made on the
occasion of my last visit. I then placed the doctor’s new hat I had
repudiated in the hat-box ready for removal.
The full mystery was still unsolved, while the butler stood in the
hall like a hypnotized sphinx. I said, in a light and casual way,
“And what about Lord Andrew? Did his lordship answer the note?” The
butler replied, with extreme emphasis, “He did indeed!” Poor duchess, I
thought, what a pity she had been so violent and so hasty.
Still the dirty hat remained shrouded in mystery, so, pointing to it, I
said to the butler, “By the way, whose hat _is_ that?” “That hat, sir,”
he replied, adopting the manner of a showman in a museum, “that hat is
the duke’s. It is the hat His Grace always wears when he goes out in
the morning.” “But then,” I asked, “why did you not tell the duchess so
yesterday?” He replied, “What, sir! After Her Grace had said that the
hat was enough to poison the house! Not me!”
PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.4.
F.35.1222
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| FOOTNOTES: |
| |
| [1] _British Medical Journal_, Dec., 1886, and April, 1890. |
| |
| [2] Fisher Unwin, London, 1922. |
| |
| [3] The name is fictitious. |
| |
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Transcriber’s Notes:
- Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
- Blank pages have been removed.
- Redundant title page has been removed.
- Redundant chapter heading pages have been removed.
- Silently corrected typographical errors.
- Hyphenation variations made consistent.