Vicar nodded. “I fancy we would not ignore the fountain of youth, if we
knew where it was.”
“It isn’t far,” retorted the Physician; “it’s merely open air and
exercise.”
“I love open air,” said Professor Maturin, “but I hate what is usually
called exercise.”
“Naturally,” replied the Physician, “being a man of mind. The cult
of muscle is ridiculous in intellectual people. Muscle and vitality
are by no means the same, and you cannot do much for either through
unnatural gymnastics. But I mean by exercise the maintenance of harmony
between one’s specialized functions and what may be called fundamental
activity, so that the whole works together happily and spontaneously.
Such a balance is as easy to preserve as it is important. We evolved
as we are through a series of large general movements, and we need to
continue enough of those to preserve a coördination that complements
and supplements the particular functions that we most practice. Thus,
we walk upright, instead of on all fours, probably as the result of
long reaching and climbing. Climbing is not always convenient, but one
may practice setting up exercises anywhere until he feels as upright
and as sprightly as a primate. I grant you it may not seem dignified,”
admitted the Physician, as the Vicar smiled at the picture, “but it
means health and happiness, and perhaps life itself.”
“Your suasion is seductive,” said Professor Maturin, “but how is one
to know precisely what he needs, and when?”
“Take, for illustration,” resumed the Physician, “those moments when
you feel the need of exercise. A little analysis of the sensation will
make you aware of a kind of hunger for activity in some particular
muscle. A little ingenuity will devise some appropriate exercise, and
its moderate practice will both meet the particular need that was felt
and diffuse a general tone of well-being.
“Conversely, a general or a local sense of well-being will seem to
demand expression in action. A little abandon at such moments will
suggest exercises that are both pleasant and profitable to the body and
interesting and enjoyable to the mind. Similarly, mental and emotional
states will often suggest free and exuberant bodily expression.
“Any thoughtful man, moreover, may deduce from the nature of his
ordinary occupations what larger vital activities he should have. Thus,
trunk and chest exercises would complement your special functions as
professional speakers, and your sedentary study calls for supplemental
arm and leg exercises in the open air. Professional singers illustrate
the successful development and maintenance of special functions
through related and supplemental activities.
“In short, if exercise is spontaneous and rational, qualitative rather
than quantitative, for the nerves rather than for the muscles, it will
improve the efficiency and facility of one’s habitual occupation, will
establish a general vigor and stability of body, and maintain mental
balance and alertness; and, I repeat, such varied and recreative
activities will suggest themselves to any thoughtful person, although
it is wise, occasionally, to secure professional approval or amendment
of them. In general, any moderate exercise that interests or stirs
enthusiasm is good. Games, especially, correct nervousness and banish
self-consciousness through their impersonal aim or coöperative effort,
and they improve bodily structure and function by the way. Bowling,
boxing, fencing, and billiards are good. Tennis and golf are better,
because they are out of doors. Golf is almost the best, because it is
interesting, moderate, and available throughout life.”
“I could never become interested in any game,” said Professor Maturin;
“their artificial rules are irksome to me, and to acquire the skill
necessary to make them enjoyable oppresses me as a waste of time.”
“Even so,” rejoined the Physician, “there are plenty of health-giving
pursuits that have also some utility in themselves. Among such are
the handicrafts and gardening; walking, riding, and all sorts of
excursions; swimming, rowing, and sailing. Swimming, especially, is
natural and interesting; it employs many members harmoniously, it
quiets and invigorates nerve action, and gives strength and grace,
self-control and confidence. I should prescribe for you both this
summer a daily swim, with plenty of floating on a quiet shore, and
then, if you become as refreshed as you should, something more, like
learning to sail. What, by the way, is your avoirdupois?” Neither
Professor Maturin nor the Vicar had been weighed in years.
“Weight is an important indication of health,” continued the Physician.
“Every man, I think, should have a complete health examination and
record at least once a year. Defects can then be promptly remedied, and
occupation and recreation be properly adjusted to individual capacities
or limitations. One’s family and personal history and tendency should
be considered in everything. More than a third of us have remediable
defects in sight, about a tenth in hearing, and so many people neglect
their teeth that they cause, Dr. Osler says, more deterioration than
alcohol. Digestion has a way of announcing its disturbances, but the
heart and spine disorders that one-tenth of us have are usually allowed
to spread their deterioration unheeded; while almost nobody considers
the structure and function of the feet as important as they are.”
“I remember,” said the Vicar with a smile, “your first prescription for
me--a looser hat, firmer shoes, and a belt instead of braces.”
“But does not such self-knowledge make one morbid?” queried Professor
Maturin. “Have I not heard of a physician who had to abandon practice
because he fancied himself afflicted with every disease that be
diagnosed?”
“Surely,” responded the Physician, “you refer to Ferguson--the less
we think about our own anatomy and physiology the better; but your
physician must know them to keep you in health, as well as to extricate
you from disease. Knowledge about sanitation and hygiene, however,
is both intelligible and helpful to a practical belief in personal
and social health and good living. I wish that every one would preach
as well as practice my favorite prescriptions of less heat and more
humidity indoors, gray-green wall-papers and furniture to fit the
individual, vacuum cleaners and patent filters, and, ever, more fresh
air. Outdoor air is the most valuable therapeutic that we know, just
as it is the cheapest and the most neglected. Forty per cent of our
mortality is due to neglect of fresh air.
“If, in fine, every aspect of life were considered first from the point
of view of health; or if food and sleep and exercise and good air were
put even on a par with other interests, we would have so much vitality
that we might practically dispense with effort and enjoy all the profit
and pleasure of spontaneity. Instead, we so neglect the entire physical
basis that we allow a hurried breakfast, a heavy coat, an uncomfortable
chair, or a bad light to spoil a whole day’s work, and, perhaps,
permanently to damage the worker. Sedentary students ignore the need
for activity until interest and perception grow sluggish, memory dims,
and minds that should produce snap-shots require long time-exposures.
If, on the other hand, we would only practice a complete, instead of a
partial, economy, we should all be twice as efficient and happy.”
“You are surely right,” said Professor Maturin thoughtfully. “Plato was
called so because of his broad shoulders, Xenophon and Erasmus loved
horses, and Ronsard gardening. Christopher North walked from London
to Oxford after dinner. Fitzgerald sailed half the year. The Physician
does well to lecture us, dominie. Let us both reform, and go in for
Greek sanity and the joy of the age of chivalry. The times have changed
since the Bishop of London was the licenser for physicians. But,” he
continued, as we rose to go, “if the Vicar and I promise to practice
your preachment this summer, what shall we do when we come back to
town? My walking up and down and the Vicar’s riding evidently need
something more, by way of paprika.”
“I hope eventually to convert you both to golf,” smiled the Physician,
“but until then, observe your needs and invent exercises to meet them,
as I have indicated. Write me out a list of your inventions this
summer; in the autumn I will go over both you and them, and perhaps
suggest others. Next year I may prescribe mountains and motor cars for
variety. Meanwhile, use the fountain of youth and prepare to live long
and prosper.”
“Good-by, good-by,” said Professor Maturin. “Many thanks. You have
surely suggested a great perhaps.”
XIV
_The Contemporary Fiction Company_
“Excellently well met,” said Professor Maturin, as we nearly collided
on a down-town sidewalk,--“excellently well met. Come with me to the
Contemporary Fiction Company.”
“And what may that be?” I inquired.
“I do not yet quite know,” he replied, “but with your kindly aid I hope
soon to learn.”
The visible part of the Contemporary Fiction Company proved to be a
private corridor in an office building, surrounded by half a dozen
rooms occupied by young men and women and typewriters. Its master-mind
was evidently the youthful but most business-like president, who
included me in his welcome to Professor Maturin, and described his
company as a semi-mutual corporation engaged in the production of
fiction for the trade.
“Our staple,” said the president, “is short stories, and in the present
state of the market we can scarcely keep even with our orders. Last
week we delivered one dozen each of aviation, automobile, rural and
suburban, settlement and sociology, power-boat and yachting, and two
dozen heart-interest stories. To-day we ship a dozen near-Mexico army
and navies, a rush order. We are now at work on a gross of adventure
stories for a syndicate. The magazines are delighted to find that we
may be depended upon to supply precisely what they want just when
they want it, and save them the infinite annoyance of dealing with
individual authors; and they also find that our rates for quantity
save them a good deal of money. Therefore we are working up to
our capacity of about seventy stories a week, and, incidentally,
accumulating a tidy little surplus. Our system is very simple. I
and the secretary-treasurer control the company, and draw up the
specifications for all work. The sketching, filling in, and finishing
are done by heads of departments, who hold smaller blocks of stock, and
by junior assistants, whose salaries are a share of the profits--a plan
that insures their best interest and efficiency. But I fear that I bore
you--” he hesitated.
Being assured of our very great interest, the president led us to a
long table beside which stood several drawers from filing-cases on a
kind of rolling truck. “I have been working here on the specifications
for the adventure stories I spoke of,” he continued, taking up a
sheaf of printed blanks. “Here are some beginnings from the Action
file. This newspaper clipping headed ‘Fireman rescues four’ is not
uncommon, but you can see the story grow when you combine it with this
one--‘Little girl gets pass to feed fire horses.’ This next clipping
is sufficient in itself--‘Freighter sails to Africa to barter beads
for wild animals.’ These others--‘Palace ablaze,’ ‘Island sinks,’ and
‘Whole town destroyed’--are also promising. Here is an item from the
Anecdote file--‘A young fellow in a supper restaurant stares rudely at
a lady, and flicks his cigarette-ash in the face of her remonstrating
escort. The latter picks up the offender, shakes him like a bottle, and
returns him gently to his chair. The escort happens to be Sandow.’ In
dull seasons we make up action outlines from lives of filibusters and
explorers, from opera librettos and plays, and, finally, from nursery
rhymes. You are perhaps surprised at the last, but they contain a great
deal of fundamental human interest.
“Having selected a number of such Action-starts, as we call them, we
turn to Situation. Here are some items from that file--‘Saw Flying
Dutchman,’ ‘Racing against ship fire,’ ‘Chinese crew burns joss-sticks
to comet.’ Cut out the comet, and all of these items go with the
African barter ship. ‘Religious sect awaits the end of the world’--that
may combine with ‘Island sinks’ or ‘Whole town destroyed.’ These others
furnish Situation-starts--‘Smuggling by aeroplane,’ ‘Foreign officers
caught spying on forts,’ ‘Colonial returns displeased with home,’
‘Has custom house search her social rival,’ ‘Fashionable women see
prize-fight.’ That last gives a welcome variation from the conventional
Monte Carlo gambling-hall opening. Many stories, of course, we begin
with ‘Character-starts.’ Some of these come from clippings, like the
following--‘Man who feeds nuts to squirrels,’ ‘Dead laborer was wealthy
sociologist,’ ‘Former waiter becomes hotel manager.’ Members of the
staff, also, turn in suggestions, like the following--‘The man with the
wardrobe trunk,’ ‘Doubles in appearance but not in character,’ ‘Hero
and centre of story who never appears.’ Gradually we are making up a
canon of contemporary characters like the famous stock characters of
the Roman or the Restoration comedy. Butlers and sailors, engineers and
explorers, are staple. Bosses and spies are a bit stale, and we are
going slow on commercial travellers and advertising managers. But we
are featuring the army-woman, and we expect a good response to our new
ticket-chopper series. Live new characters are always in demand.
“The last general specification is ‘Setting and Scene,’ like--‘Oil
fire fogs the river,’ and so forth. We consider scene so important
that we have in every office Stevenson’s words, ‘Culminating moments,
epoch-making scenes, that strike the mind’s eye, put the last mark of
truth upon a story.’”
After again hesitating and being again assured of our extreme interest,
the president continued: “Theme, character, action, incident,
situation, and scene being thus stated on the specification blanks, we
write in hints for Treatment. Thus we keep the characters as simple as
possible, trying for individual examples of conventional types, for
definite persons that develop sharply, in small groups, with strong
contrasts. The presentation we elaborate as much as possible--how the
characters affect one another and display themselves in deeds and
words. We cut out analysis and comment, but expand on appearance,
manner, dress, and speech. Similarly, in action we make the pulsation
of interest primary: emphasizing expectation, uncertainty, surprise,
and quick solutions. With these various suggestions the specifications
go the rounds of the heads of departments, each of whom makes further
additions representing his special field. When the blanks come back
we finally approve or amend them, and assign the stories for writing.
Each junior assistant writes about one story a day, directly on the
typewriter. When each story is written to the specified length,
the writer adds a title, and the piece goes the round of the heads
of departments once more, for approval or amendment. All details
of character, or action, or setting that are questioned are either
omitted, or verified from sources in the office, or referred to people
outside who know. A slight seasoning of humor is also written in
wherever the characters would express or display it. We are, however,
very conservative about humor, since it is impossible to know how
readers will take it. Irony and satire are so generally misunderstood
that we exclude them altogether.
“Finally, our style man supervises all dialogue and diction. He is
learned in every form of literary speech from Platonic symposia
and mediaeval disputation, down to mid-Victorian table talk and
contemporary slang. He sees that all conversation is clear and
consistent. In style he suffers nothing that is not expressive of
the matter or instantly intelligible to the average reader, and yet,
under his criticism, the style of our output is on a very high level.
He hates adjectives, and has an eye even for syllables and letters,
being severe with explosives and gutturals and cordial to liquids and
labials. He has a collection of fine lines of verse to be memorized by
any assistant whose diction grows commonplace. It was he who devised
our system of naming characters from places, in order to avoid the
possibility of annoying actual people, although he does sometimes
invent names to suit characters--like Mrs. Grandy, or Miss Miniver, or
Monsieur Galantin. It was he, also, who devised our system of signing
each story with a name appropriate to its variety, so that these
signatures become trade names. Many of our best titles, too, are his.
He named ‘Mary-Go-Round’ and ‘Helping Harrington,’ ‘Yellow Jacket’ and
‘The Golden Goose,’ ‘The Rule of Three’ and ‘One Hundred and One,’ and
our ‘Half-portion’ and ‘Tales of To-day’ series. He becomes an officer
of the company shortly, investing some of his large outside earnings
from naming apartment houses, sleeping-cars, and manufactured articles
like the ‘Fair-price products.’”
* * * * *
“But what will be the effect upon literature?” I wondered, when we were
again upon the street.
“It will have no effect upon literature,” said Professor Maturin.
XV
_The Old Doctor_
“The Old Doctor is dead,” said Professor Maturin, holding up a marked
newspaper, as he led the way to two easy chairs before the fire. “He
was a very individual man of power and integrity, a philosopher as well
as a physician--one of those rare people who love and tell the naked
truth. So far as I know, he never blinked a fact nor shirked a danger.
I feel as though I had known him all his life. For the last twenty
years I have seen him only occasionally. But I saw much of him when I
was a boy and a young fellow home from college, and my family knew him
intimately before I was born.
“As a small boy on some family errand I used often to wait in his outer
office, looking through its window to the street, or gazing at its one
engraving of a lion staring at the sun, or its portrait of an Italian
physician who gave his life to conquer the plague. I always jumped when
the doors of the inner office slid apart and the old doctor stood, one
hand on each door, with his large head bent and his gray-blue eyes
intent upon me from their ambush of tumbled yellowish hair and bristly
beard. His rapid questions, in a rich but husky voice, always upset me,
and although I knew him to be kindliness itself, I always responded
shakily to his summons into his sanctum.
“I can see him, vividly, now, as he sat there writing prescriptions,
his tall, thin form bent over his desk, his left hand, white and
shapely, holding the paper, his right, heavier and stained, tracing the
words with nervous jerks and a lavish expenditure of ink. I see at the
same time both the thinning thatch of his broad forehead and the much
creased silk skull-cap that crowned his wrinkles later.
“That inner office was crowded with cases that reached to the ceiling
and overflowed with books and papers and glittering instruments
that proclaimed their owner surgeon as well as physician. The old
doctor seldom allowed his servants, whom he chose and kept with more
kindliness than discretion, to enter it. And it was so full of all
sorts of things that it seemed quite disorderly, although its owner
could put his hand instantly on anything that he wanted. The whole
place was redolent, moreover, of many drugs and, I regret to say, of
horse-blankets. Sometimes, for exercise, the old doctor walked on his
rounds--paying little heed to the road, moving fast or slow, upright or
bent, according to the thought that abstracted him. But mostly he drove
in a much-splashed chaise, a handsome, well-blooded, but ill-groomed
horse, to which he was devoted. He was faithful all his life to such
speedy but shaggy steeds, just as he was to pepper-and-salt suits and
large, soft black hats, each precisely like its predecessor. At the
conclusion of each of my early visits he would show me, through a
window, some dog or cat or bird that he kept in his back yard, for he
ranked pets among the consolations of life.
“Even then I was interested in him as a personality, for I had been
told how, as a boy, he used to carry a bag of papers and do similar
services for his father, a stately and irritable old judge, who
was so formidable that few people could see any fatherly pride and
affection in him. But as people used to say that the old judge could
see in the dark, there is no reason to think that he was blind to his
son’s exceptional character and promise, especially as he sent him to
college, which was then very unusual in the town. There, after a time,
the young fellow decided to go in for medicine. His reasons, which he
did not tell his father, were that law was a selfish and soulless
career, which contracted, instead of expanding, the mind, but that
medicine was an opportunity for both social service and, through its
sure and universal truth, an apprehension of the divine disposition of
affairs. This last belief he retained throughout his life, his spirit
and imagination never capitulating to the fatalism of his profession.
“The old judge died while the boy was in college, leaving an estate
composed chiefly of loans to poor people who could not pay, and rich
men who were slow to do so. Still, there was enough, with considerable
sacrifice on the part of the mother, to enable the young man to
complete his college years and go on to a metropolitan university
until he earned his degree in medicine. With this, for the time, most
exceptional training, and the approbation of his best professors, he
returned to the old town to enter upon general practice, so enamored of
his profession that he wondered why all men were not physicians.
“He soon won back the intimacy of a few close friends, but soon came,
also, to be disappointed in the force and genuineness of most of
his townspeople. On the other hand, his own carelessness in dress
and indifference to small formalities confirmed the general local
suspicion of any one who had been so long ‘away.’ He disconcerted
people, also, by his superior knowledge and directness, and his
unfailing attack upon whatever savored of weakness or insincerity.
Considering the family finances and his own lack of physical
ruggedness, he definitely put marriage aside from his calculations,
and when this, like most of his conclusions, became known, it further
discounted his social availability. Hence, his life soon became
restricted almost wholly to his home, his small circle of intimates,
and his profession.
“At his profession he continued to work tremendously, giving exhaustive
study to each case that came his way, inquiring into local epidemics
and sanitation, tirelessly investigating new ideas, and organizing his
entire technical knowledge. He cheerfully turned night into day when he
was needed, as he did later, when I knew him to get up in the middle of
the night to visit a seriously sick patient whom he had already seen
before and after breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and just before going
to bed. Birth and death loomed so large in his horizon that he was far
from ever considering what it was in his place to do. Self-forgetful as
he was, however, he made no sentimental sacrifices, but was the first
to introduce trained nurses into the town, and to urge, everywhere and
always, the need for the local hospital that came only long after. He
had, even, some dreams of preventive medicine.