The Illness Of Mr Annot

: The Blue Germ

The departure of Mr. Herbert Wain was a relief. I turned to Sarakoff at

once and spoke with some heat.



"You were more than imprudent to give that fellow hints that we knew

more about the Blue Disease than anybody else," I exclaimed. "This may

be the beginning of incalculable trouble."



"Nonsense," replied the Russian. "You are far too apprehensive, Harden.

What can he do?"



"What may he not do?" I cried bitterly. "Do you suppose London will

welcome the spread of the germ? Do you think that people will be pleased

to know that you and I were responsible for its appearance?"



"When they realize that it brings immortality with it, they will hail us

as the saviours of humanity."



"Mr. Herbert Wain did not seem to accept the idea of immortality with

any pleasure," I muttered. "The suggestion seemed to strike him as

terrible."



Sarakoff laughed genially.



"My friend," he said, "Mr. Herbert Wain is not a man of vision. He is a

cockney, brought up in the streets of a callous city. To him life is a

hard struggle, and immortality naturally appears in a poor light. You

must have patience. It will take some time before the significance of

this immortality is grasped by the people. But when it is grasped, all

the conditions of life will change. Life will become beautiful. We will

have reforms that, under ordinary circumstances, would have taken

countless ages to bring about. We will anticipate our evolution by

thousands of centuries. At one step we will reach the ultimate goal of

our destiny."



"And what is that?"



"Immortality, of course. Surely you must see by now that all the

activities of modern life are really directed towards one end--towards

solving the riddle of prolonging life and at the same time increasing

pleasure? Isn't that the inner secret desire that you doctors find in

every patient? So far a compromise has only been possible, but now that

is all changed."



"I don't agree, Sarakoff. Some people must live for other motives. Take

myself ... I live for science."



"It is merely your form of pleasure."



"That's a quibble," I cried angrily. "Science is aspiration. There's all

the difference in the world between aspiration and pleasure. I have

scarcely known what pleasure is. I have worked like a slave all my life,

with the sole ambition of leaving something permanent behind me when I

die."



"But you won't die," interposed the Russian. "That is the charm of the

new situation."



"Then why should I work?" The question shaped itself in my mind and I

uttered it involuntarily. I sat down and stared at the fire. A kind of

dull depression came over me, and for some reason the picture of

Sarakoff's butterflies appeared in my mind. I saw them with great

distinctness, crawling aimlessly on the floor of their cage. "Why should

I work?" I repeated.



Sarakoff merely shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Questions of

that kind did not seem to bother him. His was a nature that escaped the

necessity of self-analysis. But I was different, and our conversation

had aroused a train of odd thought. What, after all, was it that kept my

nose to the grindstone? Why had I slaved incessantly all my life,

reading when I might have slept, examining patients when I might have

been strolling through meadows, hurrying through meals when I might have

eaten at leisure? What was the cause behind all the tremendous activity

and feverish haste of modern people? When Sarakoff had said that I would

not die, and that therein lay the charm of the new situation, it seemed

as if scales had momentarily fallen from my eyes. I beheld myself as

something ridiculous, comparable to a hare that persists in dashing

along a country lane in front of the headlight of a motor car, when a

turn one way or another would bring it to safety. A great uneasiness

filled me, and with it came a determination to ignore these new fields

of thought that loomed round me--a determination that I have seen in old

men when they are faced by the new and contradictory--and I began to

force my attention elsewhere. I was relieved when the door opened and

my servant entered. She handed me a telegram. It was from Miss Annot,

asking me to come to Cambridge at once, as her father was seriously ill.

I scribbled a reply, saying I would be down that afternoon.



After the servant had left the room, I remained gazing at the fire, but

my depression left me. In place of it I felt a quiet elation, and it was

not difficult for me to account for it.



"I was wrong in saying that I had scarcely known what pleasure is," I

observed at length, looking up at Sarakoff with a smile. "I must confess

to you that there is one factor in my life that gives me great

pleasure."



Sarakoff placed himself before me, hands in pockets and pipe in mouth,

and gazed at me with an answering smile in his dark face.



"A woman?"



I flushed. The Russian seemed amused.



"I thought as much," he remarked. "This year I noticed a change in you.

Your fits of abstraction suggested it. Well, may I congratulate you?

When are you to be married?"



"That is out of the question at present," I answered hurriedly. "In

fact, there is no definite arrangement--just a mutual understanding....

She is not free."



Sarakoff raised his shaggy eyebrows.



"Then she is already married?"



This cross-examination was intensely painful to me. Between Miss Annot

and myself there was, I hoped, a perfect understanding, and I quite

realized the girl's position. She was devoted to her father, who

required her constant attention and care, and until she was free there

could be no question of marriage, or even an engagement, for fear of

wounding the old man's feelings. I quite appreciated her situation and

was content to wait.



"No! She has an invalid father, and----"



"Rubbish!" said Sarakoff, with remarkable force. "Rubbish! Marry her,

man, and then think of her father. Why, that sort of thing----" He drew

a deep breath and checked himself.



I shook my head.



"That is impossible. Here, in England, we cannot do such things.... The

girl's duty is plain. I am quite prepared to wait."



"To wait for what?"



I looked at him in unthinking surprise.



"Until Mr. Annot dies, of course."



Sarakoff remained motionless. Then he took his pipe out of his mouth,

strolled to the window, and began to whistle to himself in subdued

tones. A moment later he left the room. I picked up a time-table and

looked out a train, a little puzzled by his behaviour.



I reached Cambridge early in the afternoon and took a taxi to the

Annots' house. Miss Annot met me at the door.



"It is so good of you to come," she said with a faint smile. "My father

behaved very foolishly yesterday. He insisted on inviting the Perrys to

lunch, and he talked a great deal and insisted on drinking wine, with

the result that in the night he had a return of his gastritis. He is

very weak to-day and his mind seems to be wandering a little."



"You should not have allowed him to do that," I remonstrated. "He is in

too fragile a state to run any risks."



"Oh, but I couldn't help it. The Perrys are such old friends of

father's, and they were only staying one day in Cambridge. Father would

have fretted if they had not come."



I had taken off my coat in the hall, and we were now standing in the

drawing-room.



"You are tired, Alice," I said.



"I've been up most of the night," she replied, with an effort towards

brightness. "But I do feel tired, I admit."



I turned away from her and went to the window. For the first time I felt

the awkwardness of our position. I had a strong and natural impulse to

comfort her, but what could I do? After a moment's reflection, I made a

sudden resolution.



"Alice," I said, "you and I had better become engaged. Don't you think

it would be easier for you?"



"Oh, don't," she cried. "Father would never endure the idea that I

belonged to another man. He would worry about my leaving him

continually. No, please wait. Perhaps it will not be----"



She checked herself. I remained silent, staring at the pattern of the

carpet with a frown. To my annoyance, I could not keep Sarakoff's words

out of my mind. And yet Alice was right. I felt sure that no one is a

free agent in the sense that he or she can be guided solely by love. It

is necessary to make a compromise. As these thoughts formed in my mind I

again seemed to hear the loud voice of Sarakoff, sounding in derision

at my cautious views. A conflict arose in my soul. I raised my eyes and

looked at Alice. She was standing by the mantelpiece, staring listlessly

at the grate. A wave of emotion passed over me. I took a step towards

her.



"Alice!" And then the words stuck in my throat. She turned her head and

her eyes questioned me. I tried to continue, but something prevented me,

and I became suddenly calm again. "Please take me up to your father," I

begged her. She obeyed silently, and I followed her upstairs.



Mr. Annot was lying in a darkened room with his eyes closed. He was a

very old man, approaching ninety, with a thin aquiline face and white

hair. He lay very still, and at first I thought he was unconscious. But

his pulse was surprisingly good, and his breathing deep and regular.



"He is sleeping," I murmured.



She leaned over the bed.



"He scarcely slept during the night," she whispered. "This will do him

good."



"His pulse could not be better," I murmured.



She peered at him more closely.



"Isn't he very pale?"



I stooped down, so that my face was close to hers. The old man certainly

looked very pale. A marble-like hue lay over his features, and yet the

skin was warm to the touch.



"How long has he been asleep?" I asked.



"He was awake over an hour ago, when I looked in last. He said then that

he was feeling drowsy."



"I think we'll wake him up."



Alice hesitated.



"Won't you wait for tea?" she whispered. "He would probably be awake by

then."



I shook my head.



"I must get back to London by five. Do you mind if we have a little more

light?"



She moved to the window and raised the blind half way. I examined the

old man attentively. There was no doubt about the curious pallor of his

skin. It was like the pallor of extreme collapse, save for the presence

of a faint colour in his cheeks which seemed to lie as a bright

transparency over a dead background. My fingers again sought his pulse.

It was full and steady. As I counted it my eyes rested on his hand.



I stooped down suddenly with an exclamation. Alice hurried to my side.



"Where did those friends of his come from?" I asked swiftly.



"The Perrys? From Birmingham."



"Was there anything wrong with them?"



"What do you mean?"



Before I could reply the old man opened his eyes. The light fell clearly

on his face. Alice uttered a cry of horror. I experienced an

extraordinary sensation of fear. Out of the marble pallor of Mr. Annot's

face, two eyes, stained a sparrow-egg blue, stared keenly at us.



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