_The assembly room of the main building of the sanatorium--early in
the morning of a fine day in June, four months later. The room is
large, light and airy, painted a fresh white. On the left forward,
an armchair. Farther back, a door opening on the main hall. To the
rear of this door, a pianola on a raised platform. At back of the
pianola, a door leading into the office. In the rear wall, a long
series of French windows looking out on the lawn, with wooded hills
in the far background. Shrubs in flower grow immediately outside
the windows Inside, there is a row of potted plants. In the right
wall, rear, four windows. Farther forward, a long well-filled
bookcase, and a doorway leading into the dining-room. Following the
walls, but about five feet out from them a stiff line of chairs
placed closely against each other forms a sort of right-angled
auditorium of which the large, square table that stands at centre,
forward, would seem to be the stage._
_From the dining-room comes the clatter of dishes, the confused
murmur of many voices, male and female--all the mingled sounds of a
crowd of people at a meal._
_After the curtain rises,_ Doctor Stanton _enters from the hall,
followed by a visitor,_ Mr. Sloan, _and the assistant physician,_
Doctor Simms. Doctor Stanton _is a handsome man of forty-five or so
with a grave, care-lined, studious face lightened by a kindly,
humorous smile. His grey eyes, saddened by the suffering they have
witnessed, have the sympathetic quality of real understanding. The
look they give is full of companionship, the courage-renewing,
human companionship of a hope which is shared. He speaks with a
slight Southern accent, soft and slurring._ Doctor Simms _is a
tall, angular young man with a long sallow face and a sheepish,
self-conscious grin._ Mr. Sloan _is fifty, short and stout, well
dressed--one of the successful business men whose endowments have
made the Hill Farm a possibility._
STANTON (_as they enter_). This is what you might see in the general
assembly room, Mr. Sloan--where the patients of both sexes are allowed
to congregate together after meals, for diets, and in the evening.
SLOAN (_looking around him_). Couldn't be more pleasant, I must
say--light and airy. (_He walks to where he can take a peep into the
dining-room._) Ah, they're all at breakfast, I see.
STANTON (_smiling_). Yes, and with no lack of appetite, let me tell
you. (_With a laugh of proud satisfaction._) They'd sure eat us out of
house and home at one sitting, if we'd give them the opportunity. (_To
his assistant._) Wouldn't they, Doctor?
SIMMS (_with his abashed grin_). You bet they would, sir.
SLOAN (_with a smile_). That's fine. (_With a nod towards the
dining-room._) The ones in there are the sure cures, aren't they?
STANTON (_a shadow coming over his face_). Strictly speaking, there are
no sure cures in this disease, Mr. Sloan. When we permit a patient to
return to take up his or her activities in the world, the patient is
what we call an arrested case. The disease is overcome, quiescent; the
wound is healed over. It's then up to the patient to so take care of
himself that this condition remains permanent. It isn't hard for them
to do this, usually. Just ordinary, bull-headed common sense--added to
what they've learned here--is enough for their safety. And the
precautions we teach them to take don't diminish their social
usefulness in the slightest, either, as I can prove by our statistics
of former patients. (_With a smile._) It's rather early in the morning
for statistics, though.
SLOAN (_with a wave of the hand_). Oh, you needn't. Your reputation in
that respect, Doctor---- (Stanton _inclines his head in
acknowledgment._ Sloan _jerks his thumb towards the dining-room_.) But
the ones in there _are_ getting well, aren't they?
STANTON. To all appearances, yes. You don't dare swear to it, though.
Sometimes, just when a case looks most favourably, there's a sudden,
unforeseen breakdown, and they have to be sent back to bed, or, if it's
very serious, back to the Infirmary again. These are the exceptions,
however, not the rule. You can bank on most of those eaters being out
in the world and usefully employed within six months.
SLOAN. You couldn't say more than that (_Abruptly._) But--the
unfortunate ones--do you have many deaths?
STANTON (_with a frown_). No. We're under a very hard, almost cruel
imperative which prevents that. If, at the end of six months, a case
shows no response to treatment, continues to go down hill--if, in a
word, it seems hopeless--we send them away, to one of the State Farms
if they have no private means. (_Apologetically._) You see, this
sanatorium is overcrowded and has a long waiting list, most of the
time, of others who demand their chance for life. We have to make
places for them. We have no time to waste on incurables. There are
other places for them--and sometimes, too, a change is beneficial and
they pick up in new surroundings. You never can tell. But we're bound
by the rule. It may seem cruel--but it's as near justice to all
concerned as we can come.
SLOAN (_soberly_). I see. (_His eyes fall on the pianola in surprise._)
Ah--a piano.
STANTON (_replying to the other's thought_). Yes, some patients play
and sing. (_With a smile._) If you'd call the noise they make by those
terms. They'd dance, too, if we permitted it. There's only one big
taboo--Home, Sweet Home. We forbid that--for obvious reasons.
SLOAN. I see. (_With a final look around._) Did I understand you to say
this is the only place where the sexes are permitted to mingle?
STANTON. Yes, sir.
SLOAN (_with a smile_). Not much chance for a love affair then.
STANTON (_seriously_). We do our best to prevent them. We even have a
strict rule which allows us to step in and put a stop to any intimacy
which grows beyond the casual. People up here, Mr. Sloan, are expected
to put aside all ideas except the one--getting well.
SLOAN (_somewhat embarrassed_). A damn good rule, too, I should say,
under the circumstances.
STANTON (_with a laugh_). Yes, we're strictly anti-Cupid, sir, from top
to bottom, (_Turning to the door to the hall._) And now, if you don't
mind, Mr. Sloan, I'm going to turn you loose to wander about the
grounds on an unconducted tour. To-day is my busy morning--Saturday. We
weigh each patient immediately after breakfast.
SLOAN. Every week?
STANTON. Every Saturday. You see we depend on fluctuations in weight to
tell us a lot about the patient's condition. If they gain, or stay at
normal, all's usually well. If they lose week after week without any
reason we can definitely point to, we keep careful watch. It's a sign
that something's wrong. We're forewarned by it and on our guard.
SLOAN (_with a smile_). Well, I'm certainly learning things. (_He turns
to the door._) And you just shoo me off wherever you please and go on
with the good work. I'll be glad of a ramble in the open on such a
glorious morning.