SCENE I.
A small ward—the women’s ward—in a hospital; several cots with patients in them are visible. One patient is in a wheeled chair. Screens stand by the cots. There are plants, pictures, the cheerful features of the modern hospital. Two nurses are seen busy with patients.
Enter Dr. Gazell and Dr. Carver.
Dr. Gazell (seats himself by one of the patients; speaks blandly). And how do we find ourselves to-day?
Patient (turning her face, on which can be seen traces of tears). Bad enough—worse. I’ve been so upset by—
Dr. Gazell. Yes, yes. I know. It is truly shocking!
Dr. Carver (addressing one of the nurses). You become your cap to-day. You have an uncommonly good color—I mean to operate on No. 21.
Nurse. Do you really? We thought her improving. She’s nervous to-day—on account of Dr. Thorne.
Dr. Carver. Yes. Thorne had things all his own way here, as usual. I mean to operate,—if Dr. Gazell can manage her.
Nurse (coquettishly). You are so expert,—such an easy surgeon. You don’t mind it more than a layman would carving a Christmas goo—oose. And what would you operate for—on No. 21?
Dr. Carver. Appendicitis, of course.
Nurse. Really? You are so clever on diagnosis. Now, I hadn’t thought of appendicitis—in her case. Do you know—I thought it more like pleurisy?
Dr. Carver (looks keenly at the nurse to discover if she is making game of him; speaks pompously). The nurse, as you have been taught in your training-school, can have no opinions. Now, the physician—
Nurse (demurely). Oh, of course. I wouldn’t have you think I’m presuming to set up mine. She might have measles, or the grippe, for anything I should know.
Dr. Carver. Now you speak very properly indeed.
Dr. Gazell (at bedside of No. 21). Is the pain more severe on the right?
Patient. I didn’t say I had any pain—now.
Dr. Gazell (soothingly). Increasing toward night? Paroxysms? Or is it steady?
Patient. I said I’d got over the pain. That has all gone. It is the weakness—the deadly weakness.
Dr. Gazell. Just so. That weakness is a most significant symptom—I think you said it was accompanied by nausea?
Patient. No, I didn’t. Not a bit.
Dr. Gazell. Just so. Dr. Carver? Here a moment? (To the patient.) I’m sure we can relieve all that. Just a little operation—a very pretty little operation—would set you right again in a week or two.
Dr. Carver (coming to the cotside of No. 21; speaks eagerly). It is such a beautiful operation! Why, I’ve known patients beg for it,—it is so beautiful.
Patient (beginning to cry). Dr. Thorne said there was no need of anything of the kind.
Dr. Gazell (stiffening). Dr. Thorne was an able man—but eccentric. His professional colleagues did not always agree with him.
Enter Dr. Thorne. (He has wasted since
his last appearance; looks outcast,
wan, and wretched; is splashed with
mud; still hatless; stands at the
lower end of the ward, gazing blindly
about.)
Patient No. 21. Dr. Thorne used to say that if we had better doctors, we shouldn’t need so many surgeons. He said the true treatment would prevent half the surgery in the city.
(Dr. Thorne starts, and moves towards the patient.)
Dr. Gazell (soothingly). Yes. Just so. Dr. Thorne had great confidence in himself.
Patient (rousing). No more than his patients had in him.
Dr. Carver. Irritable! Very irritable! A significant symptom, Dr. Gazell. In my opinion, this extreme irritability demands an operation for appendicitis.
First Nurse (listening, laughs; addresses Second Nurse). Now, if one could only apply that! Take a cross man,—any cross man,—say a brother, or a husband, or even a doctor, and if he carried it too far, just call on Dr. Carver. Why, it would revolutionize society. And he is so expert! He doesn’t mind it any more than carving a goo—oose. Yes, sir! I’m coming. (Demurely obedient; hurries to Dr. Gazell.)
(Second Nurse moves to the rear of the ward to a patient behind a screen.)
(Dr. Thorne advances slowly; stands in the middle of the ward, unnoticed.)
Patient No. 21 (louder). I say, when a man’s dead is the time to speak for him. And I’ll stand up for my dear dead doctor as long as I live.
Voice from another cot. And so would I,—and longer, if I got the chance.
Another voice. He doesn’t need anybody to stand up for him. His deeds do follow him. And he rests from his labors.
(Dr. Thorne smiles bitterly; stands with his face towards the speaker. He knots his hands in front of him, and thus advances with a motion so slow as to be almost stealthy.)
Voice from another cot. He wouldn’t care so much for that. It’s Bible. He was not a religious man. But he was as kind to me! (Weeps.)
Other voices. And to me! Oh, yes, and to me,—as kind!
Patient in the wheeled chair. I couldn’t move in my bed when I came here. I’d been so three years. Look what he’s done for me. (Sobs.)
Dr. Thorne (in a low tone). Miss Jessie? Don’t cry so. You’ll make yourself worse. Go back to bed, Jessie, and—see. I’ll tell you a secret. Don’t tell the others just yet. I wasn’t killed, Jessie. That was a newspaper canard. I’m a live man yet. See! Look up, Jessie. Look at me,—can’t you? (Pleads.) Won’t you, Jessie?
Patient in the wheeled chair (stares past him at Dr. Gazell and Dr. Carver). And to think of the likes of them,—in his place! What ever’ll become of this hospital without him?
Dr. Thorne (with trembling lip). You don’t hear me, do you, Jessie? Well—well. I must have met with some cerebral shock affecting the organs of speech. It is a clear case of aphasia. I can’t make myself understood. It—it’s hard. Jessie? (Louder.) I can’t see things go wrong with you,—no matter how it is with me. You’ve been in that chair long enough for to-day. (Imperiously.) Jessie, go back to bed! Stop crying about me, and go back to your bed.
(Jessie wavers; shades her eyes with her hands; stares about her; slowly turns her wheeled chair and moves away.)
[Exit Jessie.
Dr. Thorne (moves more naturally and rapidly; stands by the cot of No. 21; speaks). Good-morning, Mrs. True. I meant to have seen you last night. I was—unavoidably detained. I hope you’re not worse this morning?
Patient (with tears). I’ve cried half the night.
Dr. Thorne. That’s a pity. But you won’t cry any more. I’ll take care of you now.
Patient (looks up wearily; turns her face on her pillow and sobs).
Dr. Thorne. Clearly aphasia. She does not understand a word I say. Dr. Gazell! Gazell! Dr. Carver?
(The two physicians murmur together.)
Dr. Thorne. Gazell? What’s that? The knife? For Mrs. True? Excuse me, but I cannot permit it.
Dr. Carver. It would be such a pretty little operation. The students are getting restless for something. I told them—
Dr. Gazell. It is well-defined appendicitis.
Dr. Thorne. Well-defined appendi—fiddlesticks! It is nothing but pleurisy. I tell you, Gazell, I will not have it!
Dr. Gazell (looks around uncomfortably; speaks with hesitation). Of course, Thorne would not have agreed with us.
Dr. Thorne (grips Dr. Gazell by the arm). I tell you it would be butchery, Gazell! What are you thinking of? Gazell!
Dr. Gazell. But he was a very opinionated man,—everybody knew that.
(Dr. Thorne drops Dr. Gazell’s arm and walks away with a gesture of distress.)
Second Nurse (to First Nurse; moves out from behind the screen). Very invigorating day!
First Nurse (to Second Nurse). Father Sullivan’s late with the Sacrament. I hope Norah, yonder, won’t get ahead of him. She’s ’most gone. (Approaching the cot of the patient behind the screen.)
Second Nurse (moves away). Yes. She’s been unconscious half an hour.
Enter Priest. (He advances to offer Extreme Unction to the dying patient.)
First Nurse. Lovely morning, Father.
Dr. Thorne (standing in the middle of the ward). They used to call my name when I came in. “Oh, there’s the doctor!” “The doctor’s come!” It ran from cot to cot—like light. And everybody used to smile. Seems to me some of them blessed me. Now—
(Sobs from the ward.)
Dr. Thorne (tremulously). My patients! Isn’t there one of you who knows me? Doesn’t anybody hear me? Don’t cry so! All the symptoms will be worse for it.
The dying patient. Doctor? Doctor?
Dr. Thorne. That sounds like Norah.
Priest (recites behind the screen at Norah’s bedside the prayer for the passing soul). “Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, qui te creavit; in nomine Jesu Christi Filii Dei vivi, qui pro te passus est; in nomine Spiritus Sancti”—
Dr. Thorne (softly). Thank you, Father. (Stands silently with bowed head.)
Reënter the patient in the wheeled chair.
Jessie (happily). I’ve had such a lovely dream! I thought Dr. Thorne was here—in this ward. Oh! (With disappointment.)
Dr. Thorne. Jessie!
Jessie (sadly). It was such a lovely dream! (Droops and turns away.)
(Dr. Thorne walks apart; stands drearily, with downcast eyes.)
Enter Mrs. Fayth. (She looks pale and
agitated, but quite happy. She is
dressed as before, for the street, but
her head is bare; is wrapped from
head to foot in her long, pale, dove-colored
opera cape. She goes straight
to Dr. Thorne, and touches him upon
the arm; speaks softly.)
Mrs. Fayth. Doctor?
Dr. Thorne (starts). Oh! Mary Fayth! You? (He grasps her hand with pathetic eagerness.) Oh, I never was so glad! You are the first person—the only one—nobody else seemed to know me. I might have known you would. Where’s Helen? Isn’t she with you? And you weren’t hurt at all, were you? I have been—anxious about you. Those cowardly papers said—I tried to get right over and see you. And, after all, you’re not hurt. I thank— (Looks around confusedly.) Ah, what shall I thank?
Priest. Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.
(Dr. Thorne listens with troubled interest, like a child learning a hard lesson.)
Mrs. Fayth (smiling). I can only stay a minute. I must get back to my poor Fred.
Dr. Thorne. Don’t leave me.
Mrs. Fayth. Oh, poor doctor! Don’t you see? The carriage overturned. I was badly hurt. I only died an hour ago.
Dr. Thorne (gasps, and stares at Mrs. Fayth. He tries to speak, but can only articulate). You died an hour ago? And I? And I?
Mrs. Fayth (still smiling, with her sweet, mysterious smile). Don’t take it so hard, doctor. I came to ex-plain it to you. Why, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world! (Glides away slowly, but smiling to the last.)
Dr. Thorne (throws up his arms in anguish). I am dead! My God! I am a dead man!
(His face falls into his hands, his whole body collapses slowly, he drops.)
End of Scene I.