To one of the smaller Hudson River valley towns the Doctor was called by a local practitioner to see in consultation a man noted for his wealth, who lay critically ill. All the afternoon and evening were consumed in this rather trying trip. When the next morning at breakfast his wife made some mention of his arduous journey of the previous day, his face lighted up with interest at the recollection. To a practical wife, what could be more natural than an interest which embraced with some satisfaction the thought of her husband's immediate reward—that reward which could be readily converted into the shoes and frocks constantly needed by the little brood about her? So led on with the thought in her mind, she inquired how far the Doctor had travelled—the town to which he had gone. He told her with readiness the name of the railway station where the practitioner had met him and driven him to the patient's house; then his face relighting with the memory of the case which had so engrossed him, came out in his characteristic way with: "Very sick man; pneumonia; unusual type—very unusual." "But that very long trip, a whole afternoon and evening, that should mean a pretty good fee," said his wife. The Doctor, his mind still occupied with the sick man's problem, replied: "It was in the upper lobe, right side, quite solid, very rare—very rare to see that in these cases."
Then very gently from his wife came: "Did you remember to put down his address?" "No, no," was the somewhat irritable response. His mind then going back to the patient again: "But I have my notes on the case—on his condition." "But his name?" she came out with, "so that you can send your bill; you put that down?" "His name?" repeated the Doctor slowly, a slight frown of annoyance coming over his face as his train of thought was by then definitely derailed. "His name? No. Didn't get that."
IV
One morning I happened, for some reason or other, to be in the Doctor's office. A lady from a near-by town had been consulting him. As she was about to leave, she said: "Tell me, Dr. Janeway, about Dr. N. in our town. We have just gone there to live, you know, and we want to be sure to have the best doctor in case we have to call one in." Dr. Janeway replied: "You cannot do better than Dr. N. I know him very well. He is a good doctor. He won't do you any harm." The lady went away and I went back to my work in the laboratory, but that phrase kept ringing in my ears. "He is a very good doctor. He won't do you any harm." What had he meant by that? I kept wondering. Well, the woman seemed to be satisfied; at least she went away without further comment. Later on—perhaps two or three weeks later—I heard him make very much the same remark again: "Dr. R. is an excellent doctor. He won't do you any harm." I did not understand his meaning then, but the thing got stuck in my mind, and I remembered it. It was some years, I think, before that saying, for it would keep coming back to me, commenced to make its real impression. Then, as time and experience went on, clearer and clearer became its significance until I have come to see it as an expression of that wisdom—that deeper wisdom of the man whose simple words often revealed such subtle truths.
V
Dr. Janeway's relation to his profession and to his fellow physicians was one of rare felicity, and well it might have been, for his code of professional conduct stood squarely upon that principle of consideration for others, on which the hope of a some-time civilization in reality, must ever rest. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," was more than his motto; it was his motive; more than his precept, it was his practice. The revised version: "Do others before they do you," which has come so largely into recent vogue, both professionally as well as commercially, would have had little appeal to a man whose real goal lay so far on beyond personal position and private gain. In no better place than here, with his simple and straight code of conduct, can I mention something of Dr. Janeway's religion.
In days when doctors are flying from creeds and more—from faith, seeking to solace their souls in science alone, this great man's simple adherence to the teachings of Christ become dramatic proof of his powers of vision. But it was not the conventional Christ drawing a fashionable flock to a Sunday morning service to church and a Monday morning service to self, which gave the angle to this man's uprightness; his religion was one of action rather than exhibition; he used it to control his own life rather than to coerce the lives of others.