In the which, two hours after, I find, I have written exactly ten lines.
These must be the sort of circumstances under which people commit journals. For some do—and heartily as I have always contemned the proceeding, as we are prone to contemn peculiarities and idiosyncrasies quite foreign to our own,—I begin to-day dimly to understand the state of mind in which such a thing might be possible.
“Diary of a Physician” shall I call it?—did not some one write a book with that title? I picked it up on ship-board—a story-book or some such thing—but I scarcely ever read what is called “light literature.” I have never had time. Besides, all fictions grow tame, compared to the realities of daily life, the horrible episodes of crime, the pitiful bits of hopeless misery that I meet with in my profession. Talk of romance!—
Was I ever romantic? Once perhaps. Or at least I might have been.
My profession, truly there is nothing like it for me. Therein I find incessant work, interest, hope. Daily do I thank heaven that I had courage to seize on it and go through with it, in order—according to the phrase I heard used last night—“to save life instead of destroying it.”
Poor little girl—she meant nothing—she had no idea what she was saying.
Is it that which makes me so unsettled today?
Perhaps it would be wiser never to go into society. A hospital-ward is far more natural to me than a ball-room. There, is work to be done, pain to be alleviated, evil of all kinds to be met and overcome—here, nothing but pleasure, nothing to do but to enjoy.
Yet some people can enjoy; and actually do so; I am sure that girl did. Several times during the evening she looked quite happy. I do not often see people looking happy.
Is suffering then our normal and natural state? Is to exist synonymous with to endure? Can this be the law of a beneficent Providence?—or are such results allowed—to happen in certain exceptional cases, utterly irremediable and irretrievable—like—