THE OPERATION
The students crowded the benches. Some wore hats and gloves,
and carried sticks or umbrellas; they had the appearance of having
just dropped in to enjoy a little passing relaxation. Others, hatless
and gloveless, wore instead an air of intense pre-occupation; they
had note-books in their hands, and spent the time studying anatomical
charts in sombre-covered volumes. Many were smoking pipes for the
most part; the air was heavy with tobacco smoke. Nearly everybody
talked; there was a continual clatter of voices; men on one side
called to men on the other, exchanging jokes and laughter.
In the well below were the tables for the operator and his
paraphernalia. Assistants were making all things ready. The smell of
antiseptic fluids mingled with the odour of tobacco. Omnipresent was
the pungent suggestion of carbolic acid. A glittering array of
instruments was being sterilised and placed in order for the
operator's hand. The anaesthetists were busy with their preparations
to expedite unconsciousness, the dressers with their bandages to be
applied when the knives had made an end.
There was about the whole theatre, and in particular about the little
array of men upon the floor in their white shrouds, who were occupied
in doing things the meaning of which was hidden from the average
layman, something which the unaccustomed eye and ear and stomach
would have found repulsive. But in the bearing of those who were
actually present there was no hint that the work in which they were
to be engaged had about it any of the elements of the disagreeable.
They were, taking them all in all, and so far as appearances went, a
careless, lighthearted, jovial crew.
When the operator entered, accompanied by two colleagues, there was
silence, or, rather, a distinct hush. Pipes were put out, men settled
in their seats, note-books were opened, opera-glasses were produced.
The operator was a man of medium height and slender build, with
slight side-whiskers and thin brown hair, which was turning gray. He
wore spectacles. Having donned the linen duster, he turned up his
shirtsleeves close to his shoulders, and with bare arms began to
examine the preparations which the assistants had made. He glanced at
the instruments, commented on the bandages, gave some final
directions to an irrigator; then each man fell into his place and
waited. The door opened and a procession entered. A stretcher was
carried in by two men, one at the head and one at the foot. A nurse
walked by the side, holding the patient by the hand; two other nurses
accompanied. The patient was lifted on to the table. The porters,
with the stretcher, withdrew. The nurse who had held the patient's
hand stooped and kissed her, whispering words of comfort. The
operator bent also. What he said was clearly audible.
'Don't be afraid; it will be all right.'
The patient said nothing. She was a woman of about thirty years, and
was suffering from cancer in the womb.
Anaesthetics were applied, but she took them badly, fighting,
struggling against their influence, crying and whimpering all the
time. Force had to be used to restrain her movements on the table.
When she felt their restraining hands, she began to be hysterical and
to scream. A second attempt was made to bring about unconsciousness;
again without result. The surgeons held a hurried consultation as to
whether the operation should be carried out with the patient still in
possession of her senses. It was resolved that there should be a
third and more drastic effort to produce anaesthesia. On that occasion
the desired result was brought about. Her cries and struggles ceased;
she was in a state of torpor.
The body was bared; the knife began its work....
The operation was not wholly successful. There had been fears that it
would fail; but as, if it were not attempted, an agonising death
would certainly ensue, it had been felt that it was a case in which
every possible chance should be taken advantage of, and in which the
undoubted risk was worth incurring. The woman was still young. She
had a husband who loved her and children whom she loved. She did not
wish to die; so it had been decided that surgical science should do
its best to win life for her.
But it appeared that the worst fears on her account were likely to be
realised. The operation was a prolonged one. The resistance she had
offered to the application of the anaesthetics had weakened her. Soon
after the surgeon began his labours it became obvious to those who
knew him best that he had grave doubts as to what would be the issue.
As he continued, his doubts grew more; they were exchanged for
certainties, until it began to be whispered through the theatre that
the operation, which was being brought to as rapid a conclusion as
possible, was being conducted on a subject who was already dead.
The woman had died under the surgeon's knife. Shortly the fact was
established beyond the possibility of challenge. Reagents of every
kind were applied in the most effective possible manner; medical
skill and experience did its utmost; but neither the Materia Medica
nor the brains of doctors shall prevail against death, and this woman
was already dead.
When the thing was made plain, there came into the atmosphere a
peculiar quality. The students were very still; they neither moved
nor spoke, but sat stiffly, with their eyes fixed on the naked woman
extended on the oilskin pad. Some of those faces were white, their
features set and rigid. This was notably the case with those who were
youngest and most inexperienced, though there were those among the
seniors who were ill at ease. It was almost as if they had been
assisting at a homicide; before their eyes they had seen this woman
done to death. The operator was a man whose nerve was notorious, or
he would not have held the position which he did; but even he seemed
to have been nonplussed by what had happened beneath his knife. His
assistants clustered together, eyeing him askance, and each other,
and the woman, with the useless bandages hiding the gaping wound. His
colleagues whispered apart. They and he were all drabbled with blood;
each seemed conscious of his ensanguined hands. All in the building
had come full of faith in the man whose fame as a surgeon was a
byword; it was as though their faith had received an ugly jar.
While the hush endured, One rose from His place on the benches, and
stepping on to the operating floor, moved towards the woman. An
assistant endeavoured to interpose.
'Go back to your place, sir. What do you mean by coming here?'
'You have done your work. Am I not, then, to do Mine?'
The assistant stared, taken aback by what seemed to him to be
impudence.
'Don't talk nonsense! Who are you, sir?'
'I am He you know not of--a help to those in pain.'
The assistant hesitated, glancing from the Speaker to his chief. The
Stranger drew a sheet over the woman, so that only her face remained
uncovered. Turning to the operator, He beckoned with His finger.
'Come!'
The surgeon went. The Stranger said to him, pointing towards the
woman:
'Insomuch as what you have done was done for her, it is well;
insomuch as it was done for your own advancing, it was ill. Yet be
not afraid. Blessed are the hands which heal men's wounds, and wipe
the tears of pain out of their eyes. Better to be of use to those
that suffer than to be a king. For the time shall come when you shall
say: "As I did unto others, so do, Lord, unto me." And it shall be
done. Yet do it, not for the swelling of your purse, but for your
brother's sake, and your payment shall be of God.'
And the Stranger, turning, spoke to the students on the benches; and
their eyes never moved from Him as, wondering, they listened to His
words.
'Hearken, O young men, while I speak to you of the things which your
fathers have forgotten, and would not remember if they could. You
would go forth as healers of men? It is well. Go forth! Heal! The
world is very sick. Women labour; men sigh because of their pains.
But, physicians, heal first yourselves. Be sure that you go forth in
the spirit of healing. Where there is suffering, there go; ask not
why it comes, nor whence, nor what shall be the fee. Heal only. The
labourer is worthy of his hire; yet it is not for his hire he should
labour. Heal for the healing's sake, and because of the pain which is
in the world. God shall measure out to the physician his appointed
fee. Trouble not yourselves with that. The less your gain, the
greater your gain. There is One that keeps count. Each piece of money
you heap upon the other lessens your store. I tell you that there is
joy in heaven each time a sufferer is eased, at his brother's hands,
of pain, because it was his brother.'
When the Stranger ceased, the students looked from him at each other.
They began to murmur among themselves.
'Who is this fellow?'
'What does he mean by preaching at us?'
'Inflicting on us a string of platitudes!'
And one, bolder than the rest, called out:
'Yours is excellent advice, sir, but in the light of what's just
occurred it seems hardly to the point. Couldn't you demonstrate
instead of talk?'
The Stranger looked in the direction from which the voice came.
'Stand up!'
The student stood up. He was a young man of about twenty-four, with a
shrewd, earnest face. In his hand he held an open note-book.
'Always the world seeks for a sign; without a sign it will not
believe--nor with a sign. What demonstration would you have of Me?'
'Are you a doctor, sir?'
'I am a healer of men.'
'With what degree?'
'One you know not of.'
'Yet I thought I knew something of all degrees.'
'Not all. Young man, you will find the world easy, heaven hard. Yet
because there are many here like unto you, I will show to you a sign;
exhibit My degree.'
The Stranger turned to the operating surgeon.
'You say that the woman whom you sought to heal is dead?'
'Beyond a doubt, unfortunately.'
'You are sure?'
'Certain.'
'Of that you are all persuaded?'
Again there came murmurs from the students on the benches:
'What's he up to?'
'Who's he getting at?'
'Throw him out!'
The Stranger waited till the murmuring was at an end. Then He turned
to the woman, and, stooping, kissed her on the lips.
'Daughter!' He said.
And, behold, the woman sat up and looked about her.
'Where am I?' she asked, as one who wakes from sleep.
'Is all well with you?'
'Oh, yes, all's well with me, thank God!'
'That is good hearing.'
Then there was a tumult in the theatre. The students stood up in
their places, speaking all together.
'How's he done it?'
'She must have been only shamming.'
'It's a trick!'
'It's a plant!'
'It's a got-up thing between them.'
Insults were hurled at the Stranger by a hundred different voices. In
the heat of their excitement the students came streaming down from
their seats on to the operating floor. They looked for the man who
had done this thing.
'Where is he?' they cried. 'We'll make him confess how the trick was
done.'
But He whom they sought was not there. He had already gone. When they
discovered that this was so, and that He whom they sought was not to
be found, but had vanished from before their eyes, their bewilderment
grew still more. With one accord they turned to look at the woman.
As if alarmed by the noise of their threatening voices, and the
confusion caused by their tumultuous movements, she had raised
herself upon the operating table, so that she stood upright before
them all, naked as she was born. And they saw that the bandages had
fallen from off her, and that her body was without scratch and
blemish, round and whole.
'It's a miracle!' they exclaimed.
A great silence fell over them all, until, presently, the surgeons
and the students, looking each into the other's faces, began to ask,
each of his neighbour:
'Who is the man that has done this thing?'
But the woman gave thanks unto God, weeping tears of joy.