During October and November, the Doctor being away, I was busy and happy—busy mostly with work which would have been hers had she been there, but with occasional patients who came to me. How the sight of my old account-book brings back those days—my struggles, hopes, exultations, and dismays, and Father’s visits! He came to the city every few weeks, and always after the greeting and home news were over would ask with assumed indifference to see the book. And I would watch him look it over—the tears often coming to his eyes as he saw evidences of a streak of good luck. And what a lively interest he took in my rehearsal of experiences and descriptions of people and incidents!
Spendthrift that I am, I practised the strictest economy those days; but then, as now, I would walk miles to save a carfare; then, on occasion, suddenly launch out in some expenditure that proved how prone I was to strain at gnats and swallow camels.
That first year I saw a great deal of Dr. Holton, a timid, conscientious, romantic person several years my senior. She was much addicted to novel-reading and prone to neglect things which she knew would have contributed to her success. Her comments on her own failures were most amusing; she had the real Irish wit, and enjoyed a joke on herself. As she urged me to, I often visited her during her office hours, usually finding her with nothing to do; we talked over books, cases, people, and experiences, and got on famously together. I throve on her expressed admiration of certain qualities which I had and she lacked. She would comment on the friendliness of the County Society members toward me, and how easily I talked with them, while she, who had long known them, felt so abashed in their presence. She said they treated all women physicians better since I had come among them. I told her they would treat her in a more friendly way if she were not so shrinking and apologetic; that they took her at her own valuation. But how I used to wish they could hear her witty and caustic remarks about them! They little dreamed how keen she was because in their presence she was so Uriah-Heepish.
The men respected Dr. Wyeth, but her reserve and apparent coldness stood in the way of a really cordial feeling. She had started in medicine when much more antagonism had existed between men and women physicians than obtained when I began the study, and had never quite overcome the feeling that the men considered the women as interlopers. She used to say it did her good to see the frank, fearless way in which I spoke to Dr. Torrey, the surgeon of whom everyone else, even the other men, stood in awe; she declared I could smile and talk him into anything I wanted to. Occasionally he asked me to anesthetize his patients, and, knowing I had been in hospital service, would sometimes inquire what I thought of this or that procedure, and I would tell him, without hesitation, which Dr. Wyeth and Dr. Holton would never have dared to do, though having as decided opinions perhaps as I had.
Dr. Torrey was a sandy-haired man with a mouthful of fine teeth and a ready smile; jovial yet irascible; a bachelor; always well-groomed; and with the ego ever on duty. He had a habit of preparing papers for the medical society, whirling in and asking to be allowed to read them right away, as he had an important engagement. Everything would be set aside for him, and, on finishing, he would whirl out again, indifferent to all other papers. I had watched this happen on several occasions; then once, when he asked me to write a paper, I spoke out in meeting and said that I would, if he would have the uncommon courtesy to stay and listen to it. A little chagrined, but amused, he really did better after that. Dr. Wyeth said that if she had attempted to say that to him, she would have incurred his lasting enmity; and Dr. Holton declared that the very thought of her undertaking it paralyzed her; yet my temerity made him more friendly than before. He was something of a nettle in disposition, and because I laid hold with a firm grasp I didn’t get hurt.
One of the leading physicians, Dr. Lord, turned practically all his gynecological cases over to me. This physician had great charm of manner, an engaging smile, and the most infectious laugh I have ever heard—a valuable asset in the sick room. But what an alarmist! His patients were always being saved as by fire. He could make most persons believe that black was white, and when confronted by his irresistible manner, I was almost as ready as others to espouse his various medical fads, though I soon found that his fad of to-day was ousted by that of the day after to-morrow. What a study the different ones among my confrères were! Dr. Hood, another of them, boarded where I boarded the first year—a big, lymphatic man with a smooth, fat face, eyes that could smile merrily, but a mouth that drooped at the corners as though with a perpetual grievance. He looked profound, but was not. Always chivalrous in his treatment of women, his courtesy had a Southern flavour. His friends and associates were chiefly women, and, I am bound to say, he excelled them in gossip. He had a never-failing curiosity, seemed interested in everybody, remembered details, was a capital raconteur. Delightful as a table-companion, but as full of sarcasm and prejudices as a dressmaker’s pincushion is of pin-pricks; back-biting was, in his case, one of the little foxes that spoiled the vines. Never busy, never in a hurry, he apparently never cared whether he had any professional work to do. He knew how to cook better than most women can; would on occasion go into the homes of his patients and prepare special diets; more than that, he could knit, crochet, and embroider, and they used to say that he made most of the trimming for his step-daughter’s underwear when she was preparing her wedding trousseau! Dr. Chapin, another brother physician, was a mild, easy-going man, somewhat lacking in decision, unassuming, conscientious, dependable; never one to make a big stir, but one of a class now fast disappearing—a typical family physician. Besides these in our own school of medicine, there were a few of the old school physicians with whom I became friendly.
Early in October of my first year of practice, through the secretary of the Y. M. C. A., who boarded where I boarded, I was engaged to make the physical examination of about two hundred women who were to join the ladies’ club of the gymnasium. Professor Barton, the Physical Director, called on me and explained the work: each applicant was to be examined as to heart and lungs, general nutrition, and abnormalities; and certain measurements were to be taken so that the Director could ascertain what parts needed special development.
The Director himself was a fine specimen of physical manhood, past forty, slightly below medium height, a strong, masculine frame, vigorous, energetic; dark brown, penetrating eyes, black hair, a firm chin—a forceful personality. Almost boyish in his love for his work, his enthusiasm was contagious. Firmly believing in the efficacy of body-building to form mind and character, his work was his religion; and so impressed was I with its importance, I consented to undertake it without the question of compensation for my services being even mentioned. The ladies came to my office, I gave the greater part of my time for a month to the work, and the only remuneration I received was my ticket to the gymnasium class for a year! The Secretary had probably left the question of my remuneration to the Physical Director, and he probably thought the Secretary had arranged it; while I supposed that, in time, one or the other would attend to it. So when the ladies, on being examined, asked what the charges were, I foolishly said, “Nothing”; therefore, I came out with no financial gain whatever when, but for my timidity in speaking up when engaged for the work, I should have realized, at the very least, two hundred dollars; while, the probabilities are, it would have amounted to double that sum, had I let each lady pay me, as the most of them evidently expected to do, when I made the examination. The whole thing is rather characteristic of my way of dealing with financial matters when my own interests are at stake—a trait which I share in common with my father. But the work was interesting, and by its means I gained a speedy introduction to the “Two Hundred” of U——, while the gymnasium practice was beneficial to me.
Early in my practice, when I had but few acquaintances in U——, I became intimate with a certain family, through having the wife and children as patients. My old school-mate had moved away shortly after I went there, and as I had no place to go during Dr. Wyeth’s office hours, I got in the way of spending a good deal of time in the Richards’s home. Mrs. Richards, a woman of tall, handsome figure, was a mild, placid woman, an excellent housekeeper, kind and motherly. She made me welcome in her home; her boys, of whom I was fond, were fine little fellows. The freedom with which I came and went in their home was delightful. The father of the family was a forceful man of keen intellect, impulsive, ardent, magnetic, and of ungovernable temper when aroused. He was alive to all that pertained to the development and guidance of his boys, and got in the way of coming to my office of an evening to borrow books and chat awhile about them; he said it did him good to discuss these matters with me, and he was glad to have my influence on his boys. He was frank in his liking for me, and his occasional calls were welcome in my lonely evenings. Sometimes he would say: “I fear I come here too much—I don’t want to do that; Jane likes to have me come—but if you mind, you must tell me.”
It was perhaps after a half dozen calls that he began telling me about his early life, of his proud and passionate mother, and of her second marriage to a man so vastly inferior in race and breeding that his childhood and youth were made utterly miserable. As he recounted some of the experiences of his boyhood, and the shame and rage he had often been made to feel because of taunts concerning his step-father, I felt a great pity for him, and was able to understand, in a measure, his curious outbursts of temper of which he told me. Later he began speaking more freely about his wife, of her goodness, but also of her limitations; her incapacity for companionship, her unresponsiveness. Because of all this, he said, he especially appreciated my kindness to him, and thanked God he had found such a friend; he thought we could be of help to each other, and was sure I understood him as no one else ever had. That night when he left he held my hand longer than his wont, and I felt an uneasiness, combined with an unwonted pleasure.