THE “MEDIC”--_Concluded_
There were four hospital appointments of one year each open to the
seniors, each student receiving board and laundry, and giving in return
his or her services, except when attending lectures. I had already
declined a position as house-physician at Lasell Seminary, to which
one of the retiring seniors had recommended me, hoping to secure the
next hospital vacancy on January first, though letting go the bird
in the hand with considerable hesitation. Either position would be a
great help financially, but the one at the hospital, if I could obtain
it, would offer exceptional advantages from a medical point of view;
besides would hold over six months after graduation.
We three applicants were in turn called before the Faculty and
questioned as to our past life and experience, our standing in college,
and our dispensary work. Not having thought to supply myself with
letters of recommendation, I was not a little disturbed when the other
girls showed me theirs. My turn came last, and I was considerably awed
on entering the room where the professors were congregated, even though
the dear Dean, and Dr. “Conrad,” and the friendly professor in _materia
medica_ were among the number. My work in the Post Office, and my two
terms of country school-teaching were all I could think of when they
asked me what I had to offer in the way of experience as to fitness for
the position.
Our humorous little chest professor, Dr. C----, could not resist a joke
at my expense:
“I see your standing in anatomy is 100 plus 1--ahem!--ah--just explain
to me, won’t you, what this means? Does it mean that you know one more
thing than Dr. Matson knows about anatomy--or one more thing than there
_is_ to know?”
I snickered at this, but quickly sobered and explained about the plus
marks in quizzes counting on our final marks; and, his eyes twinkling,
he professed his curiosity satisfied. Then some of the others put their
queries, and finally they let me go.
In the adjoining room we three sat in suspense while they talked us
over, each of us dreading yet hoping to be the lucky one. Presently Dr.
C---- came to us, no pleasantry now; he looked really uncomfortable;
fidgeting at his collar and cuffs, and glancing from one to the other
of us, he said apologetically that they were sorry there were not three
positions vacant, so as to give us all a chance to demonstrate our
ability, but--hm! hm!--since there was only one, they had decided in
favour of--ah--Miss Arnold.
I felt almost guilty at being chosen, but the other girls were very
comforting, and the welcome the house-staff gave me, when I went
downstairs, was cheering indeed. It was a great load off my mind--no
more board to pay, to say nothing of other advantages. While the
house-staff were questioning me as to the “grilling” I had received,
the faculty meeting having dispersed, some of the professors dropped in
the office. Dr. S----, in a charmingly facetious way, told the house
officers why he voted for “Dr.” Arnold (with a low bow to me as he said
that the title I was to earn next June was now mine by courtesy)--he
had voted for her, he said, because she once brought him a “novel”
patient from a prominent old school physician--no less a person than
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes! Another spoke in a more serious vein--my
work in the Post Office he thought ought to have helped me to learn
adaptability; but the irrepressible little Dr. C---- said he had chosen
me because even Dr. Matson was willing to concede that I was more than
perfect in anatomy.
Valuable as was the year in the hospital, I got all too little out of
it, considering what it offered. The daily association with trained
physicians and surgeons, and familiarity with illness, with hospital
methods, with surgical technique, were among the unquestioned benefits.
The three of us who were undergraduates had to work particularly hard,
as there was the college work to keep up, as well as the exacting
demands of ward and operating-room work.
Though on the medical side for the first six months, I had the
anesthetizing to do for a time. It was disagreeable work. Often all
would go well and, interest centring on the operation, no one would
notice the humble etherizer. Again, though I was seemingly just as
painstaking, the patient would become cyanotic, and I would have to
remove the cone, pull out the tongue, and perhaps resort to other
measures to reëstablish respiration. If the operator noticed this,
I would get very nervous, especially if it happened when a certain
irascible surgeon was operating; for, impatient of the slightest delay,
he would scold before the whole class. If I anesthetized so lightly
that the patient moved, or--horror of horrors!--if he began retching,
how mortified I was! And if I made the opposite mistake of pushing the
ether too far--the agony I suffered, even after he was out of danger!
to think how near he came to death through my incompetency! It all came
easier after a while, but I was distinctly relieved when, after three
months, I was graduated from the ether-cone, and promoted to “running
instruments,” though there were trials even here.
So many surgeons, each with his different methods--it was no easy task
for a beginner who knew little about the technique of operations, and
had no special aptitude for anticipating just what instruments were
needed and when. I think I never made a specially good assistant. I
was not mechanical enough myself; but it was a pleasure to attend some
of the surgeons--those who were cool and collected; who remembered our
inexperience; who explained ahead their probable procedures, and called
out clearly the name of the instrument they wished, if we did not
anticipate them.
One of the operators, though skilled, was so nervous he would fairly
jump up and down if one handed him a pair of forceps when he was not
ready for them, or gave him the wrong retractor, or if the cat-gut
broke when tying off arteries. Original in his methods, still he
expected one to know what he wanted, no matter what, in his confusion,
he said. He would throw a knife across the room if it was not sharp
enough, or was not just to his fancy; and how he would scold and abuse
us at times!--seldom at private operations when just the house-staff
was present, but on clinic days when the entire student-body was
assembled and also visiting physicians--at such times he was especially
nervous and would make the fur fly.
“_Can’t_ you tell what I want before I want it?--never did see such
stupid assistants.” “Who sharpened these knives?” “Who prepared this
cat-gut?” “_Can’t_ you keep your patient under ether--have I got to
operate and etherize, too?”
How furious we used to get! We were all in the same boat, though I
am sure I was more stupid than the others, especially when he was
concerned. But he would come around afterwards, while we were washing
up instruments (and at the same time resolving that we were fools to
stay on there and take his abuse), and by a few words he would, as
it were, pat us all on the back; say we had helped him out of a very
trying operation; that he never meant what he said when operating,
and so on. And, so potent was his penitent manner, we were usually
mollified--till the next time. As an operator we respected him; his
cases always did well. We knew he was hot-headed, and that afterwards
he was always ashamed of his temper; we also knew that others had lived
through just such experiences, and that other students stood ready to
take our positions if we abandoned them.
Serious were the daily events by which we were surrounded, but the
irrepressibility of youth asserted itself. Mingled with the memory of
solemn scenes and grave responsibilities are recollections of many a
jolly hour within the hospital walls. I recall in this connection the
initiation that our colleagues, Fenton and Laidlaw, gave me shortly
after I went there. I roomed with Dr. Thorndike who had gone on the
house-staff three months before. One night shortly after we had gone
to bed we suddenly smelled _amyl nitrite_ so strong that we got up
to investigate. All was quiet in the hall and in the private rooms
near by--the odour was clearly more penetrating right there in our
room. After considerable search we found a tiny moist streak on the
floor--those young doctors had injected a hypodermic syringeful of
that pungent drug through our key-hole! We turned out our light and
went back to bed, chagrined that, lurking about somewhere, they had
doubtless heard us and known that we had risen to their bait. Soon we
heard stealthy steps outside in the hall, then a squirt and a splash,
and through the key-hole came a bigger stream--this time they had used
a large syringe and injected strong ammonia. Of course we were forced
to vacate and air our room--just what the besiegers wanted! They,
and we, got all the more fun out of these practical jokes because we
could not risk disturbing the patients, and also had to be guarded
lest the wary matron, or the night nurses, discover our pranks. We
were not above the pranks, but did not wish to impair our prestige as
house-officers.
One evening Laidlaw, looking sober as a deacon, came to the office and
requested us to repair to an upper room for consultation. He looked
so dignified we knew something was up. Closing the door upon us, and
solemnly unbuttoning his coat, he revealed a fat mince pie. After we
had discussed it to the last crumb, and I had voted it the best pie I
ever ate, he informed me it was a brandied pie. In those days I refused
pies or sauces if I knew they contained brandy or sherry. Having
wheedled the cook to put a double dose in that pie, he and the others
chuckled to see the little teetotaller partake of it so greedily.
At that time I was gullible, fairly docile, and must have been rare
sport for the more sophisticated three. The young men lectured me in a
fatherly way, and really did me a good service in getting me over some
of my unduly prim ways. The first college year I had been so “proper”
I would not let my father see me in my “gym” suit; yet before the year
was over Miss Thorndike and I, to shock Miss Wilkins, had had our
tin-types taken in those suits! One morning at the breakfast table,
at the hospital, I was shocked to find a pencil sketch of two young
women gymnasts, a rough sketch which implied that the one who made it
must have seen this tin-type. Knowing it to be the work of Fenton and
Laidlaw, I was distressed to think they must have seen the original;
but was greatly relieved to find that Dr. Thorndike and a girl friend
had simply described it minutely to them, so they could make me think
they had seen it. After that Miss Thorndike’s friend, seeing how I
was given to straining at gnats and swallowing camels, made a clever
sketch of a prim maiden sitting in a large chair, the arms and legs
of which were covered with gloves and stockings, while a statue of
Venus (draped) stood near, and the maiden, holding a fan between her
face and the draped statue, was absorbed in a book of Zola’s! Though
I had never read a word of Zola’s I saw what a clever hit this was at
my inconsistencies. Still I did not consider myself prudish; I could
discuss medical topics freely with any one without embarrassment; but
did not like jesting about certain matters; and perhaps, when in dead
earnest, _was_ rather slow in seeing the funny side of things. So the
others claimed I needed some shocking and disciplining to get me over
my squeamishness, and perhaps I did. I remember how Fenton scolded me
one day for objecting when he started to brush the lint from my gown:
“There’s no sense in your being so prim--I don’t want you to be as free
and easy as Miss ---- is, but you certainly do carry modesty too far.”
He was so fine and honest, I know I profited by that and other advice
of his.
We sometimes read aloud together in the evening, oftenest from
“Pickwick Papers,” having uproarious times there in the office, with
no patients or nurses near. One evening, when Dr. Thorndike was away,
Laidlaw brought in a book saying, “I’ve found a brand new author--they
say it’s great--let’s try it.” It was Amélie Rives’s “The Quick or the
Dead.” We began it gaily and innocently, at least I did, reading aloud
by turns. From the start it was very fervid, and soon I, and I think
the young men also, began to be embarrassed. Just as I was feeling
uneasy and wondering how I was going to get out of it, a bright little
woman physician whom we all knew, passing the office door and hearing
our gales of laughter (for we were making all sorts of fun of it to
relieve our embarrassment) stopped and asked what we were reading. She
looked surprised on being told, but made no comment about it, and as
she turned to go, asked casually if she could speak with me later, when
I was at liberty. Glad of an excuse, I said I could stop then, and went
with her. Telling me that she had read the book, she said she thought
I would find it quite impossible to go on with it with the young men,
and suggested, as a way out, that I slip down to the office after they
had gone to their rooms, get the book and read it, then tell them I had
already finished it; they would then, she said, read it by themselves,
and soon drop the subject.
That night I did as she advised. They grumbled and rallied me about
being so eager that I couldn’t wait to finish it with them; but they
soon let the subject rest. For years I blushed whenever I heard that
book mentioned. It is the only book I ever read that I feel ashamed to
admit having read, though now I have only the faintest recollection
what it was all about.
Our hospital life was a full one--much work and many emotions crowded
in the days: patients coming to be operated; many operations meaning
life or death, and even the less serious ones always approached by the
patients with dread and apprehension. It fell to the house-officers
to receive and reassure patients and their friends; to calm their
anxiety; to inspire their confidence in the operators, and their hope
for the outcome. Sometimes the apprehension of the patient, and his
forebodings, so weighed me down, that I found it difficult to be very
reassuring; but I learned in time to disregard these, and was then, of
course, of more help to the patients.
I recall one case in which the surgeon found such complications that
there was nothing to do but bring the operation to a close, with the
hope that the patient could rally from the anesthetic and have some
minutes with her friends before the end. As she sank steadily, with
what breathless but orderly haste we worked! That drawn, tense look on
the surgeon’s face, the awful stillness in the operating room! Actuated
by one motive, the assistants were so many extra hands for the surgeon,
anticipating his needs to the letter. Restoratives were applied, every
conceivable means was employed to counteract the collapse into which
the patient was sinking. Giving his entire attention to the field
of operation, and working with marvellous rapidity, the surgeon was
taking the last stitches, when we told him she was gone. Nervelessly he
dropped his hands, leaving Laidlaw and me to finish the stitches and
apply the dressings. The look of agony on the face he lifted to us was
a revelation. I had never realized till then what the taking of such
a serious case means to a surgeon, and was more especially impressed
as I had thought this particular surgeon cold and self-centred. A few
minutes later he came to me, his voice shaking, and asked if, as a
special favour to him, I would go down and speak with the friends, and
tell them carefully about the outcome. Not an easy thing to do, but I
felt so much compassion for him I would not have hesitated had it been
twice as hard. Sometimes our patients were poor and obscure; again, as
in the above case, from well-known Boston families--the extremes of
life met in that little hospital of about one hundred beds, and scenes
grave and gay alternated in rapid succession.
One day a big demonstrative fellow under etherization caused me no
end of embarrassment: It was an emergency case sandwiched in between
others, and they brought him in the operating room only partly
anesthetized. It was a day when the room was full of students. I was
busy, passing back and forth, getting things ready, when in the maudlin
loquacity of that first-stage of ether he threw out his arms and begged
me to come and hold his hand. They tried to quiet him, and to push
the ether, but he took it poorly and resisted vigorously, and kept
addressing to me many endearing epithets as he entreated me to come
and hold his hand. Of course the students enjoyed it, and suppressed
titters passed along the rows of spectators. My face reddened
furiously. I tried to keep out of sight as much as possible, but with
the persistence of one partly under ether, he kept calling, “Let her
come and hold my hand--let the little angel hold my hand.”
The students were highly amused, and even the surgeon, who ordinarily
never betrayed amusement in the amphitheatre, showed a suspicious
twitching about the mouth, and finally, the entreaties continuing,
said to me, “Dr. Arnold, I think perhaps it will quiet him if you do
as he requests.” There was nothing to do but comply. I had to step
up to the table and hold the big baby’s hand, to the delight of the
students--especially to one Breynton, one of the house-staff over
at the Dispensary, who, having been a victim of some of my practical
jokes, rejoiced at my discomfiture.
When Fenton’s term of service ended, and he went to practise in a
neighbouring city, he left the rest of us disconsolate. We four had
had such good times together. He was a fine, manly fellow, very
kind to the patients, conscientious, impatient of pretense--it was
he who had lectured me about my prudishness. He had a keen sense of
humour and a fine sense of honour; and the friendship begun in those
hospital days has been one of the most satisfactory in my life--a real
_camaraderie_. We did not take so kindly to his successor, Dr. James--a
genial but presuming youth, harder to keep in place, more daring, more
flirtatious. It wasn’t long before James was teaching me to dance in
the amphitheatre, after we would get the instruments put away, he
whistling the music. I soon saw that that would not do. But we often
played and sang together; he had a fine tenor voice. Dr. Thorndike’s
term expiring shortly after she took her degree, and no one applying
through that summer, there were then but three of us to do the work
previously shared by four.
Our Commencement was held in Tremont Temple, the whole University
participating--an immense affair, very impersonal, it meant far less to
me than our modest little Commencement of Academy days. Coming, too,
in the midst of hospital work, it was but an event in the day. Still,
I remember a thrill, as of something achieved, when, filing across the
platform with hundreds of other students, I received my diploma from
President Warren. Each department of the University sat in a body;
each student stepped upon the big platform as his name was called out;
his diploma was handed him; and the generous applause from his own
student-body sounded very good, as (if a “medic”) he walked down the
steps on the other side, a full-fledged M.D. Most of the graduates were
immediately confronted by the vexed question of where to “locate,” but
those of us in the hospital had six months’ grace before that bugbear
stared us in the face.
My thesis, on “Heredity,” consisted mainly of quotations from
authorities I had consulted in the Public Library. The original matter
in it, feeble and inadequate, was chiefly a protest against the
marriage of the unfit. I was ardently espousing the cause of Eugenics
before there was such a cause, or at least before Galton’s seed-sowing
had found a friendly soil. There was an unscientific portion about
pre-natal influence, and plenty of advice to prospective parents as
to the need of influencing the unborn, so as to make them beautiful
of body and soul. There is nothing, I am convinced, that the Young
Person hesitates to advise humanity about just as he himself is
about to take his plunge into the sea of life. Slumbering somewhere
in the dusty archives of Boston University is my lengthy thesis
on Heredity--slumbering? but a thing has to live to slumber--this
offspring of mine never had any life--it was still-born.
Shortly after Commencement I went to W---- to visit a former
class-mate, and also to see Dr. Fenton who had “located” there. He had
called at Dr. Carson’s on my arrival, and it was agreed that she and I
would go to see him the next day in his new office.
That afternoon it popped into my head to dress up as an old woman and
make him think for a moment that he had a new patient. Combing my hair
down over my ears, putting on spectacles, and a black gown, bonnet, and
veil, I looked very like a little elderly widow. Dr. Carson waited at a
near-by drug-store. The lame woman in black hobbled up the steps to the
young doctor’s office. His door was ajar. (He was expecting Dr. Carson
and me.) I purposely halted as he came toward me, that he might take in
my general appearance before I spoke, the better to aid the disguise.
He looked, I thought, a bit disappointed not to see his friends, but
the look gave place to one of quiet attention, and even a gleam of
pleasure at acquiring a new patient. I saw as he invited me to be
seated that he had no suspicion of me, and consequently, could scarcely
articulate for laughter. Not having expected to deceive him, except for
an instant, I had not thought up a story, but, suppressing my giggles,
and assuming the Irish brogue, I began a story about my sick daughter.
His questions, so to the point, so professional, so serious, nearly
convulsed me, but turning my suppressed laughter into pretended crying,
to gain time to concoct a story, I claimed to be too distressed to talk
about what was troubling me.
The Doctor gravely offered me a fan, which act, together with his
guarded manner, started my risibilities afresh. He showed clearly that
he was annoyed at this queer person, but was doing his best to be
patient with her. I had gone so far, it was imperative to invent some
story to account for my distress, and to my own surprise I told him,
with many haltings and outbursts of grief, that my daughter, though
unmarried, was, I feared, “in trouble”; and I had come to him for help.
(This from Miss Prim who, a few months before, would not let this young
man brush the lint from her gown!) Would he come to see the girl? And
my tears and sighs broke forth afresh.
He looked grave and sympathetic, yet somewhat suspicious. As his
questions became more searching, I was consumed with shame at the
thought of how I should feel when he knew the truth. But I was in
for it. I was a strange-acting old mother with my aborted giggles
transformed to sobs and sighs. He grew more suspicious, saying, at
length: “I think you will be more comfortable, and can talk more
easily, if you remove your veil.”
Then I was scared. Perhaps he recognized me; perhaps he had all along;
but now, disgusted at the lengths I had gone, was taking this way to
punish me. Still, so long as he kept up the pretense, I would not
throw up the game. But from that time on I was decidedly uncomfortable
and every answer I made, was made with the double feeling: Perhaps he
knows, and is getting even with me; and, If he doesn’t know, this is a
tremendous success.
As his inquiries progressed, I was heartily ashamed at the answers and
details I was forced to submit to keep in character. This continuing, I
grew hysterical in earnest, acting more and more extravagantly, while
his suspicions were more and more aroused, or his anger--I could not
tell which. He grew very stern. Sitting back in his chair, he said
decidedly, “I shall discuss this no further with you until you remove
your veil.”
I would have given anything then to get away. I felt sure he knew me.
That veil had got to come off. Delaying, I fumbled with it, dreading to
meet his eyes when my own were uncovered. As I cried and fumbled, my
hands trembling in earnest, the veil caught in the trimmings, and he
got up to help me. His face was softening, he looked sympathetic again.
Then he _didn’t_ know me after all? or, was he carrying the sorry
jest as far as he could? The veil at last removed, I looked up in his
face--afraid of him, and ready to cry at what I had done. We gazed at
each other for an instant, and then--I saw such a look of astonishment
as I have seldom seen--he had not suspected me at all!
He was so overwhelmed with mortification that my own mortification
vanished, and I confessed that I had been on pins and needles most of
the time, fearing it was he who was getting the joke on me. What gales
of laughter went up from that office! We had such a hilarious time we
almost forgot to summon Dr. Carson who was impatiently waiting outside.
Dr. Fenton made me promise to try the same trick on Dr. James, the new
interne, on my return to the hospital. He did not dream of asking me to
keep it from Laidlaw; he declared they would have to admit that I had
wiped out all our old scores. And when I told the story to Laidlaw, how
delighted he was! though he could hardly credit that Fenton, knowing me
so well, could have been so long deceived.
“How could he--your voice, your hands, your eyes, even with veil and
spectacles--incredible!” Yet he revelled in it--that demure, prudish
“Little Arnold” would do such a thing. “You! _You!_--we thought we knew
Little Arnold, but we didn’t.”
He was tickled at Fenton’s suggestion that I try the thing on James,
and eager for me to start at once, begging me to let him be near to see
the fun. But I only half promised, fearing I could not carry it through
if any one in the secret were about.
One night when I knew he and James were to be in the office, telling
them I expected to be occupied most of the evening, so would not
myself be down as usual, I borrowed some toggery from a patient, and
arrayed myself in my widow’s garb; and, slipping out by a side door,
came in just before dusk at the front gate, hobbling across the lawn
and up to the hospital in plain sight of the young doctors sitting in
the office window.
College and Hospital are in the same enclosure, and outdoor Dispensary
patients were expected to be taken care of over at the College; we of
the hospital-staff, being supposed to refer all cases applying there
to the Dispensary department. But knowing that James was eager for
obstetric work, and that he would be likely to snap up any he could, I
hoped by my tale to get him out as far as the street with me (to attend
my daughter in confinement) before he should discover my identity.
Jack, the bell-boy, came to the door: Might I see the house-doctor?
“Which one?” he asked--“the medical or the surgical doctor?” If
Laidlaw, who was the surgical interne, came, I should be undone; he
would know me, and I could not keep in character with him looking on;
so I said, “Oh, the medical--don’t say anything to any one but him.”
The boy lit the gas in the waiting room and went for Dr. James. I
quickly turned it low.
James came, curious and important. Using the Irish brogue and the
expressions used by Dispensary patients, I explained that my daughter
was in labour and that I wanted him to hurry as fast as ever he could
to save her life. He was not at all suspicious. But not yet having
had an obstetric case, and learning that it was a _primipara_ (first
birth), he anticipated trouble, and was averse to tackling it alone. I
knew of what he was thinking, so feigning impatience, related symptoms
which would impress him with the need of haste. Would he come, or not?
Yes, he would come, but he must take the house-surgeon also, as he
might need assistance with instruments.
Fearing the game would be up if Laidlaw appeared on the scene, I
protested vehemently: I would have no one else; one doctor was enough;
my daughter’s condition should not be known to everybody--that was
why I had come here instead of going to the “Dispensatory”; I was no
pauper, and would pay him well, if he would come alone. He wavered,
then excused himself for a moment. I could hear him and Laidlaw in
the office discussing it. Finally Laidlaw said, “Tell her it is
customary--that you won’t undertake it under other conditions.”
I was annoyed at Laidlaw for making it more difficult for me. James
came back, conciliatory and persuasive: it was liable to be a serious
case; my daughter was young; he must take help with him; it would cost
no more than for one, and the utmost secrecy would be preserved; the
house-surgeon would go with him and assist if need be, otherwise he
must decline the case.
I said to myself, “It is mean of Laidlaw when he knew I wanted to do it
alone. But he’s bound to see me in the act, and I guess I can keep a
stiff upper lip if he can.” By that time, too, I was fairly confident.
“Let him come, then,” I said, “but hurry.”
They soon came with their obstetric bags, James excited and flurried,
Laidlaw quiet and dignified. He gave me a curt “Good evening”; and,
with directions to Jack to ask Dr. Arnold to come down to the office,
as he and Dr. James had been called out, we three went down the steps,
I hobbling and stooping, but hurrying along between them. At first I
was a little more self-conscious with Laidlaw along, but by the time
we had gone a few steps, instead of being longer provoked at him for
coming, I was glad; it was such fun to be sharing it with him; his
acting was perfect; he was cool and self-controlled, and James was so
unsuspecting!
Laidlaw asked me a few of the usual questions. Answering in character,
I looked slyly out of the corner of my eye, expecting him to exchange
surreptitious glances with me occasionally, but he looked straight
ahead, sober as a deacon, probably afraid of disconcerting me.
Presently he put other questions, and still no betrayal of anything but
the apparent situation. Suddenly it dawned upon me that neither he nor
James knew me! Then I _was_ set up! This was a triumph I could never
have dreamed of--since he had heard the story of the trick played upon
Fenton, and knew I intended trying it on James, too! It was incredible,
but I soon saw, beyond doubt, that he was as completely taken in (or
out) as was James. I had said to myself: “If I can only get James out
on the street a way with his bag, it will be all I will ask.” And here
I had them both!
In the course of the walk I promised them five dollars apiece for
their services, if they would bring my daughter safely through. After
walking a few blocks, I began to be anxious, as there was now no one at
the hospital to attend to emergencies. They, of course, thought I was
there. I must bring this to a close speedily.
Assuming an hysterical manner, so as to draw their attention more
closely to me, and thus bring about the disclosure, I even took off
my veil, walking in the glare of the street lamps--all to no purpose;
the more I tried to reveal myself, the more I concealed myself; they
only tried to hush my noisy grief and to pacify me. Once Laidlaw helped
me to adjust my bonnet, which I nearly knocked off, purposely, by my
wild jostling against them, but all in vain--the wilder my conduct, the
better my disguise. We were now several blocks away from the hospital.
I saw I must terminate it some other way.
Walking up some steps of a darkened house, I pretended to fumble for
my keys, and, waiting till they had followed so close that their faces
were on a level with mine, I turned, and in my own voice said, “Haven’t
we carried this far enough?”
James, to whom my other masquerade was unknown, was dazed, he ran down
the steps, leaned against the house, and stood there speechless, his
face hid in his hands. Laidlaw--took me in his arms; he could seem to
find no other mode of expression. Tired from the walk, and the heat,
and weak from laughter, I found it a comfortable position--but was too
intent on flying back to the hospital to stay in it long.
Dignified and unemotional as Laidlaw was, he let himself go that night;
his manner was charming. I basked in his generous praise as I imagine
an actor basks in the applause of his audience:
“You’re a revelation, you’re an actress, you are wonderful! Why, Little
Arnold, is it really you? Oh, James! James! you don’t _know_ what she’s
done--you don’t know _half_ of it!”
And as we hurried home, they half-carrying me between them, the young
doctors and the crazy-acting little widow traversed the Boston streets,
hilarious over the whole proceeding. Laidlaw explained to James what
a signal triumph it was, in that he had not only known of the joke on
Fenton, but also knew that I intended trying a similar one on him. This
appeased James’s chagrin somewhat, still he was badly cut up over it;
but Laidlaw magnanimously gave me all the credit imaginable, fairly
rejoicing in having been so duped by me. As we neared the hospital,
however, it dawned upon both of them what laughing-stocks they would be
when the thing was noised around, especially when Breynton and Hummel,
of the Dispensary-staff, learned of it; so nothing would do but that
I should try the same scheme on them. They assured me I could do it
easily, even with them looking on; and as they would let Jack know
that they were back and within call, I need have no compunctions. So,
dropping behind, while they sauntered up to the College steps where
Breynton and Hummel sat smoking and complaining of the hot night, I
soon came hobbling up to the group. And Laidlaw and James soon had the
satisfaction of seeing Breynton and Hummel walk off with the little
widow--and in the course of an hour, walk back again, chagrined beyond
words, but somewhat mollified when they learned that their colleagues
had also been victimized in the same way. Each man rejoiced that the
others were in the same box. The double, yes, triple, hoax, served for
conversation for many a week. If one would instance some proof of the
density of the others, he would soon be silenced by fresh proofs of
his own asininity. “It was a famous victory” was their ever-generous
verdict, and it only cemented the _camaraderie_ among us.
As the time approached for Laidlaw’s term to expire I began to be
wretched, at first hardly realizing, much less acknowledging to myself,
that it was because he was leaving. I was even less friendly, less
responsive, and, as the time drew near, more inclined to stay in my
room than usual. Dr. Reynolds, a keen little woman who was much about
the hospital in those days, suspected the cause of my glumness. One
evening as she was calling on me and rallying me on moping in my
room alone instead of staying down in the office, a knock on my door
arrested her banter.
“Who’s there?” I called.
The door opened a crack, and Laidlaw’s voice announced, “_I’m_
here--you are wanted down in the office.”
“Who wants me?”
“_I_ want you,” and with that he pushed open the door, and to his
confusion (and mine) encountered Dr. Reynolds’s merry, mischievous
eyes, the occurrence, of course, only serving to confirm her in her
belief that there was something more than good-fellowship between us.
Laidlaw and James often rang my bell of an evening, summoning me to the
office, when it was only they who wanted me. They knew that I never
dared disregard it, for fear it might be a call to the wards; once down
there, I was usually easily persuaded to stay.
That night after Dr. Reynolds left, I went down, but when reading aloud
was proposed, did not fall in with the proposition--the good times
we had all had together were so soon to end--I was in no mood for
reading aloud. We sat near each other, each busy with his own book,
or pretending to be. Later, having dropped my book, I was looking out
of the window, fearing Laidlaw would see my tell-tale face, when,
presently, taking me by the shoulder, he gently turned me round facing
him:
“What are you doing, Little Arnold?”
“Thinking.”
“_Don’t_ think.” It was all he said, but his tone, and my silence, were
tacit acknowledgment--we understood each other better then, and after
that he did not chide me, as he had before, for not caring that he was
so soon to go away.
Those last days of his stay were very hard, and when the day came when
he assisted at operations for the last time, and we were clearing
up afterward as usual, we laughed a sort of hollow laughter, laughed
at anything and everything; at the awkwardness of the stuttering
little student, his successor--we tried to find funny things to talk
about--anything so long as we kept away from what was uppermost in our
minds, and allowed no silences.
When Laidlaw left, James was away on his vacation, and a likeable
little German student, who was acting as substitute, was very
acceptable to both of us, we three being very congenial. When Laidlaw
put out his hand to the German to bid him farewell, he attempted to be
jocose, but failed sadly; then,
“Take good care of Little Arnold, Old Boy,” he said, and, turning to
me, drew me to him and would have kissed me; but, fond as I was of him,
I couldn’t do that. He looked pained. By this time I could no longer
control my tears; this surprised and perplexed him:
“Why, why, why--Little Arnold, why, you _do_ care!” and standing dumb
for an instant, he wrung my hand and went slowly out and down the
steps; and I--I felt I had lost my last friend.
I had to give way and weep in spite of the presence of the little
German. He was very good to me then, and always. I think he then
thought that it was a more serious attachment than it was; he chided me
for not bidding Laidlaw a more affectionate farewell--could not seem
to understand why I did not, since I cared so much about his going.
That evening, picking up a copy of Emerson’s essays I had been reading,
and seeing it was the essay on Friendship, with a searching look he
asked, “And is it only friendship that I see between you and Laidlaw?”
When I stoutly maintained that it was, he seemed half credulous, half
doubtful, but in his naïve foreign way said appealingly, “Then, Little
_Racker_, be _my_ friend, too.” And we were warm friends after that.
In a few days came Laidlaw’s first letter; it gave me a thrill of joy,
but I am bound to confess that even before it came (after the acuteness
of the grief was over) I had grown surprisingly cheerful, so much so
that I was ashamed of myself for not continuing to feel as wretched
as when he went away. I reproached myself, but all to no purpose.
Every day brought its duties; added responsibilities now fell on me;
the new interne had to be taught “the ropes”; and, while I missed my
good friend at every turn, I could not mope and pine. But I could not
understand myself--how such wretchedness, such utter wretchedness,
could be so short-lived!
A few weeks before my own term of service expired I had a hard time
with septic infection--a serious inflammation in my thumb, probably
contracted while assisting at an operation. I was tired out, and the
thing took a severe hold on me. They temporized for a time, but finally
decided I must take an anesthetic and have the nail removed and the
deeper tissues thoroughly cleansed. As we were short-handed at the
Hospital, I dragged around when I should have been in bed.
I shall not soon forget the feeling I had on learning that I had
actually to surrender myself to an anesthetic, to submit voluntarily
to that which would rob me of consciousness. It was horrible to
contemplate. It seemed such a momentous thing--not the operation, of
course, but the taking of chloroform. I wrote a letter home the night
before, to be posted in case I did not survive. One would have thought
my year in the hospital would have made me more callous to such things.
I myself can hardly understand why it was so painful to me to face
this experience--just like any other patient. Somehow, I had always
felt outside of such things, a mere spectator, though considering
myself a sympathetic one. But, until then, I had not dreamed what dread
consumed the souls of the patients whom I had so lightly encouraged to
submit to the inevitable.
Extracting a promise from “Polly,” the nurse, that if I showed any
tendency to loquacity she would send everyone from the room, and
would remember to tell me all I said, I braced for the ordeal. That
morning, omitting breakfast, visiting my patients as usual, I put up
prescriptions, and helped prepare the amphitheatre for an operation
that was to precede mine. Then, looking in on the young patient before
he went to the anesthetizing room, I told him I was going to give the
surgeon a chance at me after his operation. He said afterward that my
cheery way of speaking made him ashamed of his trepidation, so that he
went to his operation with more courage than he had believed himself
capable of. He little knew how I quaked internally--it was awful--that
thought of having the chloroform steal away my senses!
After helping with that case, I slipped off to my room to get ready,
expecting to return to the amphitheatre for my own operation; but,
while I was undressing, “Polly” rushed in to say that Dr. Paxton would
operate in my own room. This was a relief. Soon they came: Higginson,
the new house-doctor, carrying the tray with instruments and dressings,
James with the chloroform and the inhaler, and Dr. Paxton in his
operating gown.
Lying down on my little white bed, with an outward semblance of
composure, I inhaled the chloroform. The surgeon listened to my heart,
and, after assuring me it was all right, began himself to give me
the anesthetic. The first few breaths were not so bad; then I felt
the stuff insidiously stealing through me. “Ah! how sweet it is,” I
remember saying--a peculiar, sickish sweetness that I can never smell
now without recalling the scene and my growing terror of the drug
as its effects crept through me, faster and faster, and I impotent
to stay its power. I remember noting and analyzing my sensations as
it progressed; remember the feeling of confidence in Dr. Paxton’s
assurance that it was all right; then I opened my eyes and saw James
bending over me. He had the inhaler now, and was looking at me with
such a pitying gaze that I felt sorry for myself, and told myself
I must be careful or I should whimper, which would be disgraceful.
Still it kept stealing on, and yet I knew what they were all doing. I
heard preparations; heard the new doctor stutter as he tried to ask
about something, getting so tangled up that it made me want to laugh,
but reminded myself I must not. It was all so curious--to be able to
think these things and yet to feel this creeping, creeping up slowly,
surely. Ah, now I am almost gone--an instant of rebellion--it must not
be, I cannot succumb; but, following quickly, came the realization
that it must be, and that I must not struggle. Once more I opened my
eyes and looked at them all--poor “Polly”! the tears were streaming
down her cheeks; and James looked wretchedly unhappy. I knew that in
another moment I should be beyond recognizing anything. They said I
gave a low, piteous cry (I seem to remember even this), and said, “I’m
going now--watch my pulse!” Even then I felt Dr. Paxton take my wrist,
and assure me in a voice that sounded very far away, “It’s all right,
Doctor, all right!”
The next I knew I found myself in my bed with my head turned in the
opposite direction. “Polly” was moving quietly about the room; and
by my side sat Dr. James holding my hand, and smoothing my arm in a
kindly way. Scarcely a trace was left in the room of what had taken
place there. A feeling of incredulity, almost of indignation--had
nothing been done to my thumb, then, after going through with all that!
I started to ask why they had not done it, but seeing my bandaged hand,
and simultaneously becoming conscious of a newer sharper pain than I
had ever felt, I had to believe that it was all over; but how could
it be, and I not know it! Then I began laughing! I started to chide
“Polly” for letting James stay in the room; but could not do so for
laughter. James tried to pacify me, talking as though I were a sick
child--the same way I had talked to ether patients. The oddity of this
coming over me, I said, “I’m just like any other silly patient,” then
laughed afresh; and the more I laughed, the less self-restraint I had.
But, impressed with the necessity of assuring them that I knew what I
was about, I said: “I know what I am saying, and why you are laughing,
but I don’t care--I know who you are, you are Dr. James, and you’re
holding my hand, and I don’t care if you do,” and I laughed in reckless
abandon. “Polly” was distressed; she knew I would be angry later. James
looked delighted. “Do you like it?” he asked--the rogue! “Yes, I like
it--it feels so big and strong.” How he shouted! That shout sobered me.
In no time I was completely myself--no more aware than before, but with
the Censor at the helm.
After that James used to try to squeeze my hand, reminding me that it
was my real self that had spoken then--in wine (and chloroform) one
speaks the truth.
Shortly after that two fingers on my left hand became infected, and
again I had to be lightly anesthetized and operated. By that time I was
so much run down they kept me in bed for days, taking excellent care
of me--a rather delightful experience. The visiting physicians and
surgeons called; the nurses were more than attentive; the Dispensary
house-staff came over and read to me, and groaned to think they had
been debarred from my operations. Breynton said he would have liked
nothing better than to have given “the little angel” the anesthetic;
and James told him he would have been welcome to the job, but
mischievously added that he was willing to watch me come out of the
chloroform. It was much harder after that to keep James within bounds.
One day when “Polly” had gone from the room a minute, he grabbed up
my hair which lay across the pillow, and winding it around his neck,
buried his face in it for an instant. Astonished and angered, I felt
wronged and insulted. Half-contritely, half-teasingly, he tried to
laugh me out of my wrath, and “Polly” coming in just then, I was
obliged to act as though nothing had happened. On his good behaviour
after that, he never transgressed so seriously again. I could never
think of that impulsive act of his without my cheeks burning with shame.
My own time soon came to leave the hospital. The night before, I went
over to the College, went in each empty room, lingered in the halls,
and even down in the stuffy Dispensary quarters. I thought of all that
had happened during the time since Belle and I had first entered that
building on that rainy October day, and wondered what changes would
come before I should see the place again. Even then the girl who had
entered College seemed a different person from the one who was leaving
Boston on the morrow. In the same way I went about the hospital, loth
to break with it all, and trying as it were to gather up the spent life
I had lived there. It was with a queer kind of satisfaction to note
that they all seemed sorry to see me go. I felt jealous of the new
student, my successor; felt pained that I was no longer necessary; that
the routine would soon continue as smoothly as ever. As the hour drew
near I felt tenderly toward everyone--patients, nurses, the janitor,
the bell-boy, even the opinionated English nurse, “Wraggie,” for whom I
had no real liking.
As they all crowded around the door-way at my leave-taking, and the
other house-doctors came over from the Dispensary, I saw regretfully
that Breynton was not among them; the night before he had said he would
surely see me again. But as the cab left the hospital grounds and I
leaned out for a last look at the College, I saw Breynton signalling
the cab-man to stop--he had stationed himself there at the entrance
to say good-bye. It touched me to see his altered manner--instead of
his jovial hectoring ways, a big brotherly fondness and regret showed
in face and voice. A warm handclasp, then, as the horses started up,
his wholesome smile shone out encouragingly, and he said in his old
bantering way, “So _this_ is the last of the ‘Little Angel’!”
The cab whirled me to the station, the same station where Belle and I
had landed three and one half years before when we had come to this
strange city--the city I was now leaving with such a store of memories!
It had grown very clear, it always will be dear--my beloved Boston!