A painful silence ensued, and as I remained quiet, the doctor went on, with frequent pauses:
“We are beginning to understand these injuries of the skull. Your friend does not know, and must not know, how serious his condition is. He doesn’t even know that we have failed to extract the projectile which struck him. And even if the thing was possible....”
Then suddenly the doctor went off into a philosophical dissertation in which he seemed to be both at his ease and at a loss, as in a familiar labyrinth.
“We have accomplished much—very much. We have even restored the dead to life; but we cannot restore all the dead to life. There are a few very difficult problems.... We think we have solved them.... I do not speak of God. The very idea of God seems to be detached from this immense calamity. I do not speak of God, but of men. They must be told quite simply: there are wounds which we cannot cure. Therefore, let them stop inflicting such wounds, and the question will not arise again. That is a solution; but the members of my profession are too proud to make that suggestion to the world, and the world is too mad to listen.”
My respect for this digression prevented me from interrupting; when, however, he had finished, I whispered:
“Really, you say this missile——?”
“You can’t get at it, you understand. Beyond reach! It’s rather degrading for a proud man to admit it, but at least it’s honest. And, besides, it’s a fact. Man placed it there; and it is beyond his power to remove it.”
Though embarrassed by the presence of the doctor, I was deeply moved by his words.
“Yet, in spite of it, one can live——”
“No,” he said in a grave voice, “one can only die.”