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“'Well, I wanted to know whether you thought there would be
any chance for an English doctor in Spain?”
“Why Spain?”
“I don’t know, I just have a fancy for it.”
“It’s not like Carmen, you know,” I smiled.
“But there’s sunshine there, and there’s good wine, and there’s
colour, and there’s air you can breathe. Let me say what I have to say
straight out. I heard by accident that there was no English doctor in
Seville. Do you think I could earn a living there? Is it madness to give
up a good safe job for an uncertainty?”
“What does your wife think about it?”
“She’s willing.”
“It’s a great risk.”
“I know. But if you say take it, I will: if you say stay where you
are, I'll stay.”
He was looking at me intently with those bright dark eyes of his
and I knew that he meant what he said. I reflected for a moment.
“Your whole future is concerned: you must decide for yourself.
But this I can tell you: if you don’t want money but are content to
earn just enough to keep body and soul together, then go. For you will
lead a wonderful life.”
He left me, I thought about him for a day or two, and then
forgot. The episode passed completely from my memory.
Many years later, fifteen at least, I happened to be in Seville
and having some trifling indisposition asked the hotel porter whether
there was an English doctor in the town. He said there was and gave
me the address. I took a cab and as I drove up to the house a little fat
man came out of it. He hesitated, when he caught sight of me.
“Have you come to see me?” he said. “I’m the English doctor.”
I explained my errand and he asked me to come in. He lived in
an ordinary Spanish house, with a patio, and his consulting room
which led out of it was littered with papers, books, medical
appliances and lumber. The sight of it would have startled a
squeamish patient. We did our business and then I asked the doctor
what his fee was. He shook his head and smiled.
“There’s no fee.”
“Why on earth not?”