The Secret Places of the Heart. Герберт Уэллс

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      The doctor was about to speak, but Sir Richmond interrupted him. “What’s got hold of me? What’s got hold of me? I used to work well enough. It’s as if my will had come untwisted and was ravelling out into separate strands. I’ve lost my unity. I’m not a man but a mob. I’ve got to recover my vigour. At any cost.”

      Again as the doctor was about to speak the word was taken out of his mouth. “And what I think of it, Dr. Martineau, is this: it’s fatigue. It’s mental and moral fatigue. Too much effort. On too high a level. And too austere. One strains and fags. FLAGS! ‘Flags’ I meant to say. One strains and flags and then the lower stuff in one, the subconscious stuff, takes control.”

      There was a flavour of popularized psychoanalysis about this, and the doctor drew in the corners of his mouth and gave his head a critical slant. “M’m.” But this only made Sir Richmond raise his voice and quicken his speech. “I want,” he said, “a good tonic. A pick-me-up, a stimulating harmless drug of some sort. That’s indicated anyhow. To begin with. Something to pull me together, as people say. Bring me up to the scratch again.”

      “I don’t like the use of drugs,” said the doctor.

      The expectation of Sir Richmond’s expression changed to disappointment. “But that’s not reasonable,” he cried. “That’s not reasonable. That’s superstition. Call a thing a drug and condemn it! Everything is a drug. Everything that affects you. Food stimulates or tranquillizes. Drink. Noise is a stimulant and quiet an opiate. What is life but response to stimulants? Or reaction after them? When I’m exhausted I want food. When I’m overactive and sleepless I want tranquillizing. When I’m dispersed I want pulling together.”

      “But we don’t know how to use drugs,” the doctor objected.

      “But you ought to know.”

      Dr. Martineau fixed his eye on a first floor window sill on the opposite side of Harley Street. His manner suggested a lecturer holding on to his theme.

      “A day will come when we shall be able to manipulate drugs – all sorts of drugs – and work them in to our general way of living. I have no prejudice against them at all. A time will come when we shall correct our moods, get down to our reserves of energy by their help, suspend fatigue, put off sleep during long spells of exertion. At some sudden crisis for example. When we shall know enough to know just how far to go with this, that or the other stuff. And how to wash out its after effects… I quite agree with you, – in principle… But that time hasn’t come yet… Decades of research yet… If we tried that sort of thing now, we should be like children playing with poisons and explosives… It’s out of the question.”

      “I’ve been taking a few little things already. Easton Syrup for example.”

      “Strychnine. It carries you for a time and drops you by the way. Has it done you any good – any NETT good? It has – I can see – broken your sleep.”

      The doctor turned round again to his patient and looked up into his troubled face.

      “Given physiological trouble I don’t mind resorting to a drug. Given structural injury I don’t mind surgery. But except for any little mischief your amateur drugging may have done you do not seem to me to be either sick or injured. You’ve no trouble either of structure or material. You are – worried – ill in your mind, and otherwise perfectly sound. It’s the current of your thoughts, fermenting. If the trouble is in the mental sphere, why go out of the mental sphere for a treatment? Talk and thought; these are your remedies. Cool deliberate thought. You’re unravelled. You say it yourself. Drugs will only make this or that unravelled strand behave disproportionately. You don’t want that. You want to take stock of yourself as a whole – find out where you stand.

      “But the Fuel Commission?”

      “Is it sitting now?”

      “Adjourned till after Whitsuntide. But there’s heaps of work to be done.

      “Still,” he added, “this is my one chance of any treatment.”

      The doctor made a little calculation. “Three weeks… It’s scarcely time enough to begin.”

      “You’re certain that no regimen of carefully planned and chosen tonics – ”

      “Dismiss the idea. Dismiss it.” He decided to take a plunge. “I’ve just been thinking of a little holiday for myself. But I’d like to see you through this. And if I am to see you through, there ought to be some sort of beginning now. In this three weeks. Suppose…”

      Sir Richmond leapt to his thought. “I’m free to go anywhere.”

      “Golf would drive a man of your composition mad?”

      “It would.”

      “That’s that. Still – . The country must be getting beautiful again now, – after all the rain we have had. I have a little two-seater. I don’t know… The repair people promise to release it before Friday.”

      “But I have a choice of two very comfortable little cars. Why not be my guest?”

      “That might be more convenient.”

      “I’d prefer my own car.”

      “Then what do you say?”

      “I agree. Peripatetic treatment.”

      “South and west. We could talk on the road. In the evenings. By the wayside. We might make the beginnings of a treatment. … A simple tour. Nothing elaborate. You wouldn’t bring a man?”

      “I always drive myself.”

      “There’s something very pleasant,” said the doctor, envisaging his own rash proposal, “in travelling along roads you don’t know and seeing houses and parks and villages and towns for which you do not feel in the slightest degree responsible. They hide all their troubles from the road. Their backyards are tucked away out of sight, they show a brave face; there’s none of the nasty self-betrayals of the railway approach. And everything will be fresh still. There will still be a lot of apple-blossom – and bluebells… And all the while we can be getting on with your affair.”

      He was back at the window now. “I want the holiday myself,” he said.

      He addressed Sir Richmond over his shoulder. “Have you noted how fagged and unstable EVERYBODY is getting? Everybody intelligent, I mean.”

      “It’s an infernally worrying time.”

      “Exactly. Everybody suffers.”

      “It’s no GOOD going on in the old ways – ”

      “It isn’t. And it’s a frightful strain to get into any new ways. So here we are.

      “A man,” the doctor expanded, “isn’t a creature in vacuo. He’s himself and his world. He’s a surface of contact, a system of adaptations, between his essential self and his surroundings. Well, our surroundings have become – how shall I put it? – a landslide. The war which seemed such a definable catastrophe in 1914 was, after all, only the first loud crack and smash of the collapse. The war is over and – nothing is over. This peace is a farce, reconstruction an exploded phrase. The slide goes on, – it goes, if anything, faster, without a sign of stopping. And all our poor little adaptations! Which we have been СКАЧАТЬ