Weeks passed before his stomach decided to function.
The nausea returned at certain moments, but these
attacks were disposed of by ginger ale and Rivieres’
antiemetic drink.
Finally the organs were restored. Meats were
digested with the aid of pepsines. Recovering
strength, he was able to stand up and attempt to walk,
leaning on a cane and supporting himself on the furniture.
Instead of being thankful over his success, he forgot
his past pains, grew irritated at the length of time
needed for convalescence and reproached the doctor
for not effecting a more rapid cure.
At last the day came when he could remain standing
for whole afternoons. Then his study irritated
him. Certain blemishes it possessed, and which
habit had accustomed him to overlook, now were apparent.
The colors chosen to be seen by lamp-light seemed discordant
in full day. He thought of changing them and for
whole hours he combined rebellious harmonies of hues,
hybrid pairings of cloth and leathers.
“I am certainly on the road to recovery,”
he reflected, taking note of his old hobbies.
One morning, while contemplating his orange and blue
walls, considering some ideal tapestries worked with
stoles of the Greek Church, dreaming of Russian orphrey
dalmaticas and brocaded copes flowered with Slavonic
letters done in Ural stones and rows of pearls, the
physician entered and, noticing the patient’s
eyes, questioned him.
Des Esseintes spoke of his unrealizable longings.
He commenced to contrive new color schemes, to talk
of harmonies and discords of tones he meant to produce,
when the doctor stunned him by peremptorily announcing
that these projects would never be executed here.
And, without giving him time to catch breath, he informed
Des Esseintes that he had done his utmost in re-establishing
the digestive functions and that now it was necessary
to attack the neurosis which was by no means cured
and which would necessitate years of diet and care.
He added that before attempting a cure, before commencing
any hydrotherapic treatment, impossible of execution
at Fontenay, Des Esseintes must quit that solitude,
return to Paris, and live an ordinary mode of existence
by amusing himself like others.
“But the pleasures of others will not amuse
me,” Des Esseintes indignantly cried.
Without debating the matter, the doctor merely asserted
that this radical change was, in his eyes, a question
of life or death, a question of health or insanity
possibly complicated in the near future by tuberculosis.
“So it is a choice between death and the hulks!”
Des Esseintes exasperatedly exclaimed.
The doctor, who was imbued with all the prejudices
of a man of the world, smiled and reached the door
without saying a word.
Des Esseintes locked himself up in his bedroom, closing
his ears to the sounds of hammers on packing cases.
Each stroke rent his heart, drove a sorrow into his
flesh. The physician’s order was being
fulfilled; the fear of once more submitting to the
pains he had endured, the fear of a frightful agony
had acted more powerfully on Des Esseintes than the
hatred of the detestable existence to which the medical
order condemned him.
