There is neither novelty nor strangeness, gentlemen of the jury, in my father’s present proceedings1. It is not the first time his passions have taken this direction; it has become an instinctive2 habit with him to pay a visit to this familiar court. Still, my unfortunate position has this much of novelty about it: the charge I have to meet is not personal, but professional; I am to be punished for the inability of Medicine to do my father’s bidding. A curious demand, surely, that healing should be done to order, and depend not on the limits of one’s art, but on the wishes of one’s father. For my part, I should be only too glad to find drugs in the pharmacopoeia which could relieve not only disordered wits, but disordered tempers; then I might be serviceable to my father. As it is, he is completely cured of madness, but is worse-tempered than ever. The bitterest part of it is, he is sane4 enough in all other relations, and mad only where his healer is concerned. You see what my medical fee amounts to; I am again disinherited, cut off from my family once more, as though the sole purpose of my brief reinstatement had been the accentuation of my disgrace by repetition.
When a thing is within the limits of possibility, I require no bidding; I came before I was summoned, to see what I could do in this case. But when there is absolutely no hope, I will not meddle5. With this particular patient, such caution is especially incumbent6 upon me; how my father would treat me, if I tried and failed, I can judge by his disinheriting me when I refused to try. Gentlemen, I am sorry for my stepmother’s illness — for she was an excellent woman; I am sorry for my father’s distress7 thereat; I am most sorry of all that I should seem rebellious8, and be unable to give the required service; but the disease is incurable9, and my art is not omnipotent10. I do not see the justice of disinheriting one who, when he cannot do a thing, refuses to undertake it.
The present case throws a clear light upon the reasons for my first disinheriting. The allegations of those days I consider to have been disposed of by my subsequent life; and the present charges I shall do my best to clear away with a short account of my proceedings. Wilful11 and disobedient son that I am, a disgrace to my father, unworthy of my family, I thought proper to say very little indeed in answer to his long and vehement13 denunciations. Banished14 from my home, I reflected that I should find my most convincing plea, my best acquittal, in the life I then led, in practically illustrating15 the difference between my father’s picture and the reality, in devotion to the worthiest16 pursuits and association with the most reputable company. But I had also a presentiment17 of what actually happened; it occurred to me even then that a perfectly18 sane father does not rage causelessly at his son, nor trump19 up false accusations20 against him. Persons were not wanting who detected incipient22 madness; it was the warning and precursor23 of a stroke which would fall before long — this unreasoning dislike, this harsh conduct, this fluent abuse, this malignant24 prosecution25, all this violence, passion, and general ill temper. Yes, gentlemen, I saw that the time might come when Medicine would serve me well.
I went abroad, attended lectures by the most famous foreign physicians, and by hard work and perseverance26 mastered my craft. Upon my return, I found that my father’s madness had developed, and that he had been given up by the local doctors, who are not distinguished27 for insight, and are much to seek in accurate diagnosis28. I did no more than a son’s duty when I forgot and forgave the disinheritance, and visited him without waiting to be called in; I had in fact nothing to complain of that was properly his act; his errors were not his, but, as I have implied, those of his illness. I came unsummoned, then. But I did not treat him at once; that is not our custom, nor what our art enjoins29 upon us. What we are taught to do is first of all to ascertain30 whether the disease is curable or incurable — has it passed beyond our control? After that, if it is susceptible31 of treatment, we treat it, and do our very best to relieve the sufferer. But if we realize that the complaint has got the entire mastery, we have nothing to do with it at all. That is the tradition that has come down to us from the fathers of our art, who direct us not to attempt hopeless cases. Well, I found that there was yet hope for my father; the complaint had not gone too far; I watched him for a long time; formed my conclusions with scrupulous32 care; then, I commenced operations and exhibited my drugs without hesitation33 — though many of his friends were suspicious of my prescription34, impugned35 the treatment, and took notes to be used against me.
My step-mother was present, distressed36 and doubtful — the result not of any dislike to me, but of pure anxiety, based on her full knowledge of his sad condition; no one but her, who had lived with and nursed him, knew the worst. However, I never faltered37; the symptoms would not lie to me, nor my art fail me; when the right moment came, I applied38 the treatment, in spite of the timidity of some of my friends, who were afraid of the scandal that might result from a failure; it would be said that the medicine was my vengeful retort to the disinheritance. To make a long story short, it was at once apparent that he had taken no harm; he was in his senses again, and aware of all that went on. The company were amazed; my step-mother thanked me, and every one could see that she was delighted both at my triumph and at her husband’s recovery. He himself — to give credit where it is due — did not take time to consider, nor to ask advice, but, as soon as he heard the story, undid39 what he had done, made me his son again, hailed me as his preserver and benefactor40, confessed that I had now given my proofs, and withdrew his previous charges. All this was delightful41 to the better, who were many, among his friends, but distasteful to the persons who enjoy a quarrel more than a reconciliation42. I observed at the time that all were not equally pleased; there were changes of colour, uneasy glances, signs of mortification43, in one quarter at least, which told of envy and hatred44. With us, who had recovered each other, all was naturally affection and rejoicing.
Quite a short time after, my step-mother’s disorder3 commenced — a very terrible and unaccountable one, gentlemen of the jury. I observed it from its very beginning; it was no slight superficial case, this; it was a long-established but hitherto latent mental disease, which now burst out and forced its way into notice. There are many signs by which we know that madness is incurable — among them a strange one which I noticed in this case. Ordinary society has a soothing45, alleviating46 effect; the patient forgets to be mad; but if he sees a doctor, or even hears one mentioned, he at once displays acute irritation47 — an infallible sign that he is far gone, incurable in fact. I was distressed to notice this symptom; my step-mother was a worthy12 person who deserved a better fate, and I was all compassion48 for her.
But my father in his simplicity49, knowing neither when nor how the trouble began, and quite unable to gauge50 its gravity, bade me cure her by the drugs that had cured him. His idea was that madness was to be nothing else but mad; the disease was the same, its effects the same, and it must admit of the same treatment. When I told him, as was perfectly true, that his wife was incurable, and confessed that the case was beyond me, he thought it an outrage51, said I was refusing because I chose to, and treating the poor woman shamefully52 — in short, visited upon me the limitations of my art. Such ebullitions are common enough in distress; we all lose our tempers then with the people who tell us the truth. I must nevertheless defend myself and my profession, as well as I can, against his strictures.
I will begin with some remarks upon the law under which I am to be disinherited; my father will please to observe that it is not quite so much now as before a matter for his absolute discretion53. You will find, sir, that the author of the law has not conferred the right of disherison upon any father against any son upon any pretext54. It is true he has armed fathers with this weapon; but he has also protected sons against its illegitimate use. That is the meaning of his insisting that the procedure shall not be irresponsible and uncontrolled, but come under the legal cognizance of inspectors55 whose decision will be uninfluenced by passion or misrepresentation. He knew how often irritation is unreasonable56, and what can be effected by a lying tale, a trusted slave, or a spiteful woman. He would not have the deed done without form of law; sons were not to be condemned57 unheard and out of hand; they are to have the ear of the court for so long by the clock, and there is to be adequate inquiry58 into the facts.
My father’s competence59, then, being confined to preferring his complaints, and the decision whether they are reasonable or not resting with you, I shall be within my rights in requesting you to defer60 consideration of the grievance61 on which he bases the present suit, until you have determined62 whether a second disinheritance is admissible in the abstract. He has cast me off, has exercised his legal rights, enforced his parental63 powers to the full, and then restored me to my position as his son. Now it is iniquitous64, I maintain, that fathers should have these unlimited65 penal66 powers, that disgrace should be multiplied, apprehension67 made perpetual, the law now chastize, now relent, now resume its severity, and justice be the shuttlecock of our fathers’ caprices. It is quite proper for the law to humour, encourage, give effect to, one punitive68 impulse on the part of him who has begotten69 us; but if, after shooting his bolt, insisting on his right, indulging his wrath70, he discovers our merits and takes us back, then he should be held to his decision, and not allowed to oscillate, waver, do and undo71 any more. Originally, he had no means of knowing whether his offspring would turn out well or ill; that is why parents who have decided72 to bring up children before they knew their nature are permitted to reject such as are found unworthy of their family.
But when a man has taken his son back, not upon compulsion, but of his own motion and after inquiry, how can further chopping and changing be justified73? What further occasion for the law? Its author might fairly say to you, sir: If your son was vicious and deserved to be disinherited, what were you about to recall him? Why have him home again? Why suspend the law’s operation? You were a free agent; you need not have done it. The laws are not your play-ground; you are not to put the courts in motion every time your mood varies; the laws are not to be suspended today and enforced tomorrow, with juries to look on at the proceedings, or rather to be the ministers of your whims74, executioners or peace-makers according to your taste and fancy. The boy cost you one begetting75, and one rearing; in return for which you may disinherit him, once, always provided you have reason to show for it. Disinheriting as a regular habit, a promiscuous76 pastime, is not included in the patria potestas.
Gentlemen of the jury, I entreat77 you in Heaven’s name not to permit him, after voluntarily reinstating me, reversing the previous decision, and renouncing78 his anger, to revive the old sentence and have recourse to the same paternal79 rights; the period of their validity is past and gone; his own act suffices to annul80 and exhaust their power. You know the general rule of the courts, that a party dissatisfied with the verdict of a ballot81 — provided jury is allowed an appeal to another court; but that is not so when the parties have agreed upon arbitrators, and, after such selection, put the matter in their hands. They had the choice, there, of not recognizing the court ab initio; if they nevertheless did so, they may fairly be expected to abide82 by its award. Similarly you, sir, had the choice of never taking back your son, if you thought him unworthy; having decided that he was worthy, and taken him back, you cannot be permitted to disinherit him anew; the evidence of his not deserving it is your own admission of his worth. It is only right that the reinstatement and reconciliation should be definitive84, after such abundant investigation85; there have been two trials, observe: the first, that in which you rejected me; the second, that in your own conscience, which reversed the decision of the other; the fact of reversal only adds force to the later result. Abide, then, by your second thoughts, and uphold your own verdict. You are to be my father; such was your determination, approved and ratified86.
Suppose I were not your begotten, but only your adopted son, I hold that you could not then have disinherited me; for what it is originally open to us not to do, we have no right, having done, to undo. But where there is both the natural tie, and that of deliberate choice, how can a second rejection87, a repeated deprivation88 of the one relationship, be justified? Or again, suppose I had been a slave, and you had seen reason to put me in irons, and afterwards, convinced of my innocence89, made me a free man; could you, upon an angry impulse, have enslaved me again? Assuredly not; the law makes these acts binding90 and irrevocable. Upon this contention91, that the voluntary annulment92 of a disinheritance precludes93 a repetition of the act, I could enlarge further, but will not labour the point.
You have next to consider the character of the man now to be disinherited. I lay no stress upon the fact that I was then nothing, and am now a physician; my art will not help me here. As little do I insist that I was then young, and am now middle-aged94, with my years as a guarantee against misconduct; perhaps there is not much in that either. But, gentlemen, at the time of my previous expulsion, if I had never done my father any harm (as I should maintain), neither had I done him any good; whereas now I have recently been his preserver and benefactor; could there be worse ingratitude95 than so, and so soon, to requite97 me for saving him from that terrible fate? My care of him goes for nothing; it is lightly forgotten, and I am driven forth98 desolate99 — I, whose wrongs might have excused my rejoicing at his troubles, but who, so far from bearing malice100, saved him and restored him to his senses.
For, gentlemen, it is no ordinary slight kindness that he is choosing this way of repaying. You all know (though he may not realize) what he was capable of doing, what he had to endure, what his state was, in fact, during those bad days. The doctors had given him up, his relations had cleared away and dared not come near him; but I undertook his case and restored him to the power of — accusing me and going to law. Let me help your imagination, sir. You were very nearly in the state in which your wife now is, when I gave you back your understanding. It is surely not right that my reward for that should be this — that your understanding should be used against me alone. That it is no trifling101 kindness I have done you is apparent from the very nature of your accusation21. The ground of your hatred is that she whom I do not cure is in extremities102, is terribly afflicted103; then, seeing that I relieved you of just such an affliction, there is surely better reason for you to love and be grateful to me for your own release from such horrors. But you are unconscionable enough to make the first employment of your restored faculties104 an indictment105 of me; you smite106 your healer, the ancient hate revives, and we have you reciting the same old law again. My art’s handsome fee, the worthy payment for my drugs, is — your present manifestation107 of vigour108!
But you, gentlemen of the jury, will you allow him to punish his benefactor, drive away his preserver, pay for his wits with hatred, and for his recovery with chastisement109? I hope better things of your justice. However flagrantly I had now been misconducting myself, I had a large balance of gratitude96 to draw upon. With that consideration in his memory, he need not have been extreme to mark what is now done amiss; it might have inspired him with ready indulgence, the more if the antecedent service was great enough to throw anything that might follow into the shade. That fairly states my relation to him; I preserved him; he owes his life absolutely to me; his existence, his sanity110, his understanding, are my gifts, given, moreover, when all others despaired and confessed that the case was beyond their skill.
The service that I did was the more meritorious111, it seems to me, in that I was not at the time my father’s son, nor under any obligation to undertake the case; I was independent of him, a mere112 stranger; the natural bond had been snapped. Yet I was not indifferent; I came as a volunteer, uninvited, at my own instance. I brought help, I persevered113, I effected the cure, I restored him, thereby114 securing myself at once a father and an acquittal; I conquered anger with kindness, disarmed115 law with affection, purchased readmission to my family with important service, proved my filial loyalty116 at that critical moment, was adopted (or adopted myself, rather) on the recommendation of my art, while my conduct in trying circumstances proved me a son by blood also. For I had anxiety and fatigue117 enough in being always on the spot, ministering to my patient, watching for my opportunities, now humouring the disease when it gathered strength, now availing myself of a remission to combat it. Of all a physician’s tasks the most hazardous118 is the care of patients like this, with the personal attendance it involves; for in their moments of exasperation119 they are apt to direct their fury upon any one they can come at. Yet I never shrank or hesitated; I was always there; I had a life-and-death struggle with the malady120, and the final victory was with me and my drugs.
Now I can fancy a person who hears all this objecting hastily, ‘What a fuss about giving a man a dose of medicine!’ But the fact is, there are many preliminaries to be gone through; the ground has to be prepared; the body must first be made susceptible to treatment; the patient’s whole condition has to be studied; he must be purged121, reduced, dieted, properly exercised, enabled to sleep, coaxed122 into tranquillity123. Now other invalids124 will submit to all this; but mania125 robs its victims of self-control; they are restive126 and jib; their physicians are in danger, and treatment at a disadvantage. Constantly, when we are on the very point of success and full of hope, some slight hitch127 occurs, and a relapse takes place which undoes128 all in a moment, neutralizing129 our care and tripping up our art.
Now, after my going through all this, after my wrestle130 with this formidable disease and my triumph over so elusive131 an ailment132, is it still your intention to support him in disinheriting me? Shall he interpret the laws as he will against his benefactor? Will you look on while he makes war upon nature? I obey nature, gentlemen of the jury, in saving my father from death, and myself from the loss of him, unjust as he had been. He on the contrary defers133 to law (he calls it law) in ruining and cutting off from his kin83 the son who has obliged him. He is a cruel father, I a loving son. I own the authority of nature: he spurns134 and flings it from him. How misplaced is this paternal hate! How worse misplaced this filial love! For I must reproach myself — my father will have it so. And the reproach? That where I should hate (for I am hated), I love, and where I should love little, I love much. Yet surely nature requires of parents that they love their children more than of children that they love their parents. But he deliberately135 disregards both the law, which secures children their family rights during good behaviour, and nature, which inspires parents with fervent136 love for their offspring. Having greater incentives137 to affection, you might suppose that he would confer the fruits of it upon me in larger measure, or at the least reciprocate138 and emulate139 my love. Alas140, far from it! he returns hate for love, persecution141 for devotion, wrong for service, disinheritance for respect; the laws which guard, he converts into means of assailing142, the rights of children. Ah, my father, how do you force law into your service in this battle against nature!
The facts, believe me, are not as you would have them. You are a bad exponent143, sir, of good laws. In this matter of affection there is no war between law and nature; they hunt in couples, they work together for the remedying of wrongs. When you evil entreat your benefactor, you are wronging nature; now I ask, do you wrong the laws as well as nature? You do; it is their intention to be fair and just and give sons their rights; but you will not allow it; you hound them on again and again upon one child as though he were many; you keep them ever busy punishing, when their own desire is peace and goodwill144 between father and son. I need hardly add that, as against the innocent, they may be said to have no existence. But let me tell you, ingratitude also is an offence known to the law; an action will lie against a person who fails to recompense his benefactor. If he adds to such failure an attempt to punish, he has surely reached the uttermost limits of wrong in this sort. And now I think I have sufficiently145 established two points: first, my father has not the right, after once exerting his parental privilege and availing himself of the law, to disinherit me again; and secondly146, it is on general grounds inadmissible to cast off and expel from his family one who has rendered service so invaluable147.
Let us next proceed to the actual reasons given for the disinheritance; let us inquire into the nature of the charge. We must first go back for a moment to the intention of the legislator. We will grant you for the sake of argument, sir, that it is open to you to disinherit as often as you please; we will further concede you this right against your benefactor; but I presume that disinheritance is not to be the beginning and the ending in itself; you will not resort to it, that is, without sufficient cause. The legislator’s meaning is not that the father can disinherit, whatever his grievance may be, that nothing is required beyond the wish and a complaint; in that case, what is the court’s function? No, gentlemen, it is your business to inquire whether the parental anger rests upon good and sufficient grounds. That is the question which I am now to put before you; and I will take up the story from the moment when sanity was restored.
The first-fruits of this was the withdrawal148 of the disinheritance; I was preserver, benefactor, everything. So far my conduct is not open to exception, I take it. Well, and later on what fault has my father to find? What attention or filial duty did I omit? Did I stay out o’ nights, sir? Do you charge me with untimely drinkings and revellings? Was I extravagant149? Did I get into some disreputable brawl150? Did any such complaint reach you? None whatever. Yet these are just the offences for which the law contemplates151 disherison. Ah, but my step-mother fell ill. Indeed, and do you make that a charge against me? Do you prefer a suit for ill health? I understand you to say no.
What is the grievance, then?-That you refuse to treat her at my bidding, and for such disobedience to your father deserve to be disinherited. — Gentlemen, I will explain presently how the nature of this demand results in a seeming disobedience, but a real inability. Meanwhile, I simply remark that neither the authority which the law confers on him, nor the obedience152 to which I am bound, is indiscriminate. Among orders, some have no sanction, while the disregard of others justifies153 anger and punishment. My father may be ill, and I neglect him; he may charge me with the management of his house, and I take no notice; he may tell me to look after his country estate, and I evade154 the task. In all these and similar cases, the parental censure155 will be well deserved. But other things again are for the sons to decide, as questions of professional skill or policy — especially if the father’s interests are not touched. If a painter’s father says to him, ‘Paint this, my boy, and do not paint that’; or a musician’s, ‘Strike this note, and not the other’; or a bronze-founder’s, ‘Cast so-and-so’; would it be tolerable that the son should be disinherited for not taking such advice? Of course not.
But the medical profession should be left still more to their own discretion than other artists, in proportion to the greater nobility of their aims and usefulness of their work; this art should have a special right of choosing its objects; this sacred occupation, taught straight from Heaven, and pursued by the wisest of men, should be secured against all compulsion, enslaved to no law, intimidated156 and penalized157 by no court, exposed to no votes or paternal threats or uninstructed passions. If I had told my father directly and expressly, ‘I will not do it, I refuse the case, though I could treat it, I hold my art at no man’s service but my own and yours, as far as others are concerned I am a layman158’— if I had taken that position, where is the masterful despot who would have applied force and compelled me to practise against my will? The appropriate inducements are request and entreaty159, not laws and browbeating160 and tribunals; the physician is to be persuaded, not commanded; he is to choose, not be terrorized; he is not to be haled to his patient, but to come with his consent and at his pleasure. Governments are wont161 to give physicians the public recognition of honours, precedence, immunities162 and privileges; and shall the art which has State immunities not be exempt163 from the patria fotestas?
All this I was entitled to say simply as a professional man, even on the assumption that you had had me taught, and devoted164 much care and expense to my training, that this particular case had been within my competence, and I had yet declined it. But in fact you have to consider also how utterly165 unreasonable it is that you should not let me use at my own discretion my own acquisition. It was not as your son nor under your authority that I acquired this art; and yet it was for your advantage that I acquired it — you were the first to profit by it — though you had contributed nothing to my training. Will you mention the fees you paid? How much did the stock of my surgery cost you? Not one penny. I was a pauper166, I knew not where to turn for necessaries, and I owed my instruction to my teachers’ charity. The provision my father made for my education was sorrow, desolation, distress, estrangement167 from my friends and banishment168 from my family. And do you then claim to have the use of my skill, the absolute control of what was acquired independently? You should be content with the previous service rendered to yourself, not under obligation, but of free will; for even on that occasion nothing could have been demanded of me on the score of gratitude.
My kindness of the past is not to be my duty of the future; a voluntary favour is not to be turned into an obligation to take unwelcome orders; the principle is not to be established that he who once cures a man is bound to cure any number of others at his bidding ever after. That would be to appoint the patients we cure our absolute masters; we should be paying them, and the fee would be slavish submission169 to their commands. Could anything be more absurd? Because you were ill, and I was at such pains to restore you, does that make you the owner of my art?
All this I could have said, if the tasks he imposed upon me had been within my powers, and I had declined to accept all of them, or, on compulsion, any of them. But I now wish you to look further into their nature. ‘You cured me of madness (says he); my wife is now mad and in the condition I was in (that of course is his idea); she has been given up as I was by the other doctors, but you have shown that nothing is too hard for you; very well, then, cure her too, and make an end of her illness.’ Now, put like that, it sounds very reasonable, especially in the ears of a layman innocent of medical knowledge. But if you will listen to what I have to say for my art, you will find that there are things too hard for us, that all ailments170 are not alike, that the same treatment and the same drugs will not always answer; and then you will understand what a difference there is between refusing and being unable. Pray bear with me while I generalize a little, without condemning171 my disquisition as pedantic172, irrelevant173, or ill-timed.
To begin with, human bodies differ in nature and temperament174; compounded as they admittedly are of the same elements, they are yet compounded in different proportions. I am not referring at present to sexual differences; the male body is not the same or alike in different individuals; it differs in temperament and constitution; and from this it results that in different men diseases also differ both in character and in intensity175; one man’s body has recuperative power and is susceptible to treatment; another’s is utterly crazy, open to every infection, and without vigour to resist disease. To suppose, then, that all fever, all consumption, lung-disease, or mania, being generically176 the same, will affect every subject in the same way, is what no sensible, thoughtful, or well-informed person would do; the same disease is easily curable in one man, and not in another. Why, sow the same wheat in various soils, and the results will vary. Let the soil be level, deep, well watered, well sunned, well aired, well ploughed, and the crop will be rich, fat, plentiful177. Elevated stony178 ground will make a difference, no sun another difference, foothills another, and so on. Just so with disease; its soil makes it thrive and spread, or starves it. Now all this quite escapes my father; he makes no inquiries179 of this sort, but assumes that all mania in every body is the same, and to be treated accordingly.
Besides such differences between males, it is obvious that the female body differs widely from the male both in the diseases it is subject to and in its capacity or non-capacity of recovery. The bracing180 effect of toil181, exercise, and open air gives firmness and tone to the male; the female is soft and unstrung from its sheltered existence, and pale with anaemia, deficient182 caloric and excess of moisture. It is consequently, as compared with the male, open to infection, exposed to disease, unequal to vigorous treatment, and, in particular, liable to mania. With their emotional, mobile, excitable tendencies on the one hand, and their defective183 bodily strength on the other, women fall an easy prey184 to this affliction.
It is quite unfair, then, to expect the physician to cure both sexes indifferently; we must recognize how far apart they are, their whole lives, pursuits, and habits, having been distinct from infancy185. Do not talk of a mad person, then, but specify186 the sex; do not confound distinctions and force all cases under the supposed identical title of madness; keep separate what nature separates, and then examine the respective possibilities. I began this exposition with stating that the first thing we doctors look to is the nature and temperament of our patient’s body: which of the humours predominates in it; is it full-blooded or the reverse; at, or past, its prime; big or little; fat or lean? When a man has satisfied himself upon these and other such points, his opinion, favourable187 or adverse188, upon the prospects189 of recovery may be implicitly190 relied upon.
It must be remembered too that madness itself has a thousand forms, numberless causes, and even some distinct names. Delusion191, infatuation, frenzy192, lunacy — these are not the same; they all express different degrees of the affection. Again, the causes are not only different in men and women, but, in men, they are different for the old and for the young; for instance, in young men some redundant193 humour is the usual cause; whereas with the old a shrewdly timed slander194, or very likely a fancied domestic slight, will get hold of them, first cloud their understanding, and finally drive them distracted. As for women, all sorts of things effect a lodgement and make easy prey of them, especially bitter dislike, envy of a prosperous rival, pain or anger. These feelings smoulder on, gaining strength with time, till at last they burst out in madness.
Such, sir, has been your wife’s case, perhaps with the addition of some recent trouble; for she used to have no strong dislikes, yet she is now in the grasp of the malady — and that beyond hope of medical relief. For if any physician undertakes and cures the case, you have my permission to hate me for the wrong I have done you. Yet I must go so far as to say that, even had the case not been so desperate — had there been a glimmer195 of hope — even then I should not have lightly intervened, nor been very ready to administer drugs; I should have been afraid of what might happen, and of the sort of stories that might get about. You know the universal belief that every step-mother, whatever her general merits, hates her step-sons; it is supposed to be a feminine mania from which none of them is exempt. If the disease had taken a wrong turn, and the medicine failed of its effect, there would very likely have been suspicions of intentional196 malpractice.
Your wife’s condition, sir — and I describe it to you after close observation — is this: she will never mend, though she take ten thousand doses of medicine. It is therefore undesirable197 to make the experiment, unless your object is merely to compel me to fail and cover me with disgrace. Pray do not enable my professional brethren to triumph over me; their jealousy198 is enough. If you disinherit me again, I shall be left desolate, but I shall pray for no evil upon your head. But suppose — though God forbid! — suppose your malady should return; relapses are common enough in such cases, under irritation; what is my course then to be? Doubt not, I shall restore you once more; I shall not desert the post which nature assigns to children; I for my part shall not forget my descent. And then if you recover, must I look for another restitution199? You understand me? your present proceedings are calculated to awake your disease and stir it to renewed malignancy. It is but the other day that you emerged from your sad condition, and you are vehement and loud — worst of all, you are full of anger, indulging your hatred and appealing once more to the law. Alas, father, even such was the prelude200 to your first madness.
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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4
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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5
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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6
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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7
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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8
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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9
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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11
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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12
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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13
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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14
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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16
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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17
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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18
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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19
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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20
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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21
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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22
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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23
precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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24
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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25
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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26
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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27
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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28
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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29
enjoins
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| v.命令( enjoin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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31
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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33
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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34
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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35
impugned
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| v.非难，指谪( impugn的过去式和过去分词 )；对…有怀疑 | |
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36
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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37
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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38
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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39
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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40
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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41
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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42
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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43
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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44
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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45
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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46
alleviating
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
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47
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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48
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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49
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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50
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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51
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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52
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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53
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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54
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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55
inspectors
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| n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 )；（英国公共汽车或火车上的）查票员；（警察）巡官；检阅官 | |
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56
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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57
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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59
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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60
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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61
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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62
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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63
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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64
iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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65
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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66
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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67
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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68
punitive
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| adj.惩罚的，刑罚的 | |
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69
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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70
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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71
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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72
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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73
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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74
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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75
begetting
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|
| v.为…之生父( beget的现在分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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76
promiscuous
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|
| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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77
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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78
renouncing
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|
| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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79
paternal
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|
| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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80
annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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81
ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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82
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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83
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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84
definitive
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|
| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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85
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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86
ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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88
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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89
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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90
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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91
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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92
annulment
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| n.废除，取消，（法院对婚姻等）判决无效 | |
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93
precludes
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| v.阻止( preclude的第三人称单数 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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94
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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95
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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96
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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97
requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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98
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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99
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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100
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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101
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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102
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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103
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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105
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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106
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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107
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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108
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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109
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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110
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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111
meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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112
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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113
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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115
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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116
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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117
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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118
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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119
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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120
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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121
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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122
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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123
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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124
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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125
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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126
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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127
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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128
undoes
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| 松开( undo的第三人称单数 )； 解开； 毁灭； 败坏 | |
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129
neutralizing
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| v.使失效( neutralize的现在分词 )；抵消；中和；使（一个国家）中立化 | |
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130
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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131
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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132
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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133
defers
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的第三人称单数 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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134
spurns
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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135
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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136
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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137
incentives
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| 激励某人做某事的事物( incentive的名词复数 )； 刺激； 诱因； 动机 | |
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138
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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139
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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140
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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141
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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142
assailing
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| v.攻击( assail的现在分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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143
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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144
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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145
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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146
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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147
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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148
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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149
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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150
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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151
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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152
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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153
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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154
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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155
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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156
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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157
penalized
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| 对…予以惩罚( penalize的过去式和过去分词 )； 使处于不利地位 | |
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158
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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159
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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160
browbeating
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| v.（以言辞或表情）威逼，恫吓( browbeat的现在分词 ) | |
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161
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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162
immunities
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| 免除，豁免( immunity的名词复数 )； 免疫力 | |
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163
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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165
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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166
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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167
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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168
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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169
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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170
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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171
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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172
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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173
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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174
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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175
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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176
generically
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| adv.一般地 | |
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177
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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178
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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179
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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180
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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181
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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182
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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183
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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184
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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185
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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186
specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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187
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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188
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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189
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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190
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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191
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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192
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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193
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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194
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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195
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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196
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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197
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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198
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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199
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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200
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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