Arthur and George by Julian Barnes Page B

knew he should be proud and happy for her. But amid all the orange blossom and backslapping and jokes about bowling maidens over, he felt his dream of an ever-increasing family around him taking a knock.
    Ten days later, he learned that his father had died in a Dumfries lunatic asylum. Epilepsy was given as the cause. Arthur had not visited him in years, and did not attend the funeral; none of the family did. Charles Doyle had let down the Mam and condemned his children to genteel poverty. He had been weak and unmanly, incapable of winning his fight against liquor. Fight? He had barely raised his gloves at the demon. Excuses were occasionally made for him, but Arthur did not find the claim of an artistic temperament persuasive. That was just self-indulgence and self-exculpation. It was perfectly possible to be an artist, yet also to be robust and responsible.
    Touie developed a persistent autumn cough, and complained of pains in her side. Arthur judged the symptoms insignificant, but eventually called in Dalton, the local practitioner. It was strange to find himself transformed from doctor to mere patient’s husband; strange to wait downstairs while somewhere above his head his fate was being decided. The bedroom door was closed for a long time, and Dalton emerged with a face as dismal as it was familiar: Arthur had worn it himself all too many times.
    “Her lungs are gravely affected. There is every sign of rapid consumption. Given her condition and family history . . .” Dr. Dalton did not need to continue, except to add, “You will want a second opinion.”
    Not just a second, but the best. Douglas Powell, consulting physician at the Brompton Hospital for Consumption and Diseases of the Chest, came down to South Norwood the following Saturday. A pale, ascetic man, clean-shaved and correct, Powell regretfully confirmed the diagnosis.
    “You are, I believe, a medical man, Mr. Doyle?”
    “I rebuke myself for my inattention.”
    “The pulmonary system was not your speciality?”
    “The eye.”
    “Then you should not rebuke yourself.”
    “No, the more so. I had eyes, and did not see. I did not spot the accursed microbe. I did not pay her enough attention. I was too busy with my own . . . success.”
    “But you were an eye doctor.”
    “Three years ago I went to Berlin to report on Koch’s findings—supposed findings—about this very disease. I wrote about it for Stead, in the
Review of Reviews.
”
    “I see.”
    “And yet I did not recognize a case of galloping consumption in my own wife. Worse, I let her join me in activities which will have made it worse. We tricycled in every weather, we travelled to cold climates, she followed me in outdoor sports . . .”
    “On the other hand,” said Powell, and the words briefly lifted Arthur’s spirits, “in my view there are promising signs of fibroid growth around the seat of the disease. And the other lung has enlarged somewhat to compensate. But that is the best I can say.”
    “I do not accept it!” Arthur whispered the words because he could not bellow them at the top of his voice.
    Powell took no offence. He was accustomed to pronouncing the gentlest, courtliest sentence of death, and familiar with the ways it took those affected. “Of course. If you would like the name—”
    “No. I accept what you have told me. But I do not accept what you have not told me. You would give her a matter of months.”
    “You know as well as I do, Mr. Doyle, how impossible it is to predict—”
    “I know as well as you do, Dr. Powell, the words we use to give hope to our patients and those near to them. I also know the words we hear within ourselves as we seek to raise their spirits. About three months.”
    “Yes, in my view.”
    “Then again, I say, I do not accept it. When I see the Devil, I fight him. Wherever we need to go, whatever I need to spend, he shall not have her.”
    “I wish you every good fortune,” replied Powell, “and remain at your service. There