‘“Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime

If we nag the kids and neighbours

And look noble all the time!”’

‘Duty!’ said Fred.

‘Horrid word,’ said Annabel.

‘Shut up, dearest,’ said Howard.

‘O.K.,’ said Annabel.

Front Table of Contents ← Prev Next →

https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/l/lewis/sinclair/prodigal/chapter10.html

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:57

The Prodigal Parents, by Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 11

As the Cornplows’ family physician, Dr. Kamerkink must have known that there was no use in giving Fred any advice which Fred was not, beforehand, prepared to hear and pay for. But the Doc had recently begun a book which showed that the latest thing in medical practice — true, it was known to the ancient Greeks, but without the sparkling terms which now made it interesting — was to use psychiatry on the patients: not let an honest citizen develop cramps or colitis because, subconsciously, he didn’t like his wife’s new green dress. No. Change the dress. Or change the wife.

Unfortunately the Doc hadn’t got far enough into the book to learn what, in detail, you did with psychic therapeutics, but he took a shot with what he had:

‘Now, Fred, if you’ll allow me to give you some advice both as your physician and old golfing companion . . . This idea of yours about retiring and going off and making yourself uncomfortable is just an incipient psychosis. Course, I advise you to cut down your smoking and drinking and eat at regular periods and get a lot of rest.’

‘No!’

‘Oh yes. I told you that before. But the thing to correct is your — uh — your conditioned reflexes.’

This time it was Annabel who jeered ‘No!’— but softly, almost inoffensively, with lips puckered in Fred’s direction.

‘Just as important as these somatic corrections, however, is the mental hygiene, and in good old cart horses like you and me, Fred, that implies a steady carrying on of your normal occupation. Any man who retires from his natural work before he’s finally carted off to the hospital is a sap! None of these high-class psychiatrists, that get a hundred bucks an hour for telling you what you already know, could beat me at advocating plenty of good, juicy vacations and hobbies. Why, I knew one insurance agent with dyspepsia who, on my humble advice, took up archery, with the result that his wife — I want you to listen to this carefully now, Fred; it’s quite a sensational case, and I’d of written it up for the Journal of Psychiatry if I’d had the time — and the result was that his wife, who was about twenty years younger than he was and who he suspected of sneaking off to dances with younger men, began to join him in archery. . .’

‘Archery? Shooting arrows? No! I won’t shoot any arrows!’

‘Well, she became his real pal. But appetite ticklers like that are just the opposite of retiring. Fellow’s got to be an authority on one thing, and stick by it, if he’s going to win people’s respect. Suppose, say, you were on a steamer and . . .’