‘Dec. 1893.
‘I have done nothing but race after cases to-day. One old woman was killing. She came for Dr. B., whom she said she had known before he was born. Dr. B. could not go, so I went. “Hech,” she said, “I came for a doctor.” “Well, I’m the doctor. Come along.” “Deed no,” she said; “ye’re no a doctor—ye’re just a wumman.” I did laugh, and marched her off. She was grandly tipsy when I left the home, so I am going back to see how the patient has got on, in spite of the nursing.
‘I had a second polite speech made to me last night. I was introduced into a house by the person who came for me as the doctor. When I had been in about two minutes, a small man of four years old, said suddenly in a clear voice “That is not a doctor, it’s a girl!” I told him he was behind the age not to know that one could be both.
‘We had a chloroform scare this morning. I admired Dr. S.’s coolness immensely. He finished tying his stitches quietly while two doctors were skipping round like a pair of frightened girls. It ended all right. They don’t know how to give chloroform anywhere out of Scotland. It is very odd.
‘Mrs. D. declared she was going to write to you that she had found I had gone out without my breakfast. So, here are the facts! I was out last night, and was not up when they rang over for me. So, before having my breakfast I just ran over to see what they wanted me for, and finding it would keep I came back for my breakfast to find Mrs. D. here. I am not such an idiot as to miss my meals, Papa, dearest. My temper won’t stand it! I always have a glass of milk and a biscuit when I go out at night. I am as sensible as I can be. I know you cannot do work with blunt instruments, and this instrument blunts very easily without food and exercise.
‘Jan. 1, 1894.
‘I have been round all my patients to-day, and had to drink glasses of very questionable wine in each house. It is really very trying to a practical teetotaller like me. Literally, I could hardly see them when I left the last house! There was simply no getting off it, and I did not want to hurt their feelings. When they catch hold of your hand and say “Now, doctor dear, or doctor jewel, ye’ll just be takin’ a wee glass, deed an ye will,” what are you to do?
‘Do you think this “Famasha” with the French in Africa is going to be the beginning of the big war? That is an awful idea. England single-handed against Europe. But, it would be the English-speaking peoples, Australia, the States, and Canada.
‘I have made a convert to the ranks of women’s rights. Did I tell you that Dr. B. and I had had an awful argument. I never mentioned the subject again, for it is no good arguing with a man who has made up his mind (and is a North of Ireland man, who will die in the last ditch into the bargain). However, in the middle of the operation, he suddenly said, “By the way, you are right about the suffrage, Miss Inglis.” Then I found he had come over about the whole question. As a convert is always the most violent supporter, I hope he’ll do some good.
‘Feb. 5, 1894.
‘After three months you have learnt all the Rotunda can teach. If you were a man, it would be worth while to stay, because senior students, if they are men, get a lot of the C.C.’s work to do. But they never think of letting you do it if you are a woman. It is not deliberate unfairness, but they never think of it. If one stays six months they examine one, and give a degree, L.M., Licentiate of Midwifery. If I could I would rather spend three months in Paris with Pozzi. I have learnt a tremendous lot here, and feel very happy about my work in this special line. It is their methods which are so good. If you can really afford to give me another three months it would be wiser to go to Paris. There are three men who are quite in the front rank there, Pozzi, Apostoli, and Péon.’
‘Costigan’s, Upper Sackville Street,
‘Dublin, Feb. 10, 1894.‘I got your letter at eleven when I came down to breakfast. I shall never get into regular order for home again. No one blames one for lying in bed here or being late, for no one knows how late you have been up the night before, or how many cases you have been at before you get to the lecture. It is partly that, and partly their casual Irish ways. I have had a letter from Miss MacGregor this morning, asking what I should say to our starting together in Edinburgh. It is a thing to be thought about. It is quite true, as she says, that two women are much more comfortable working together. They can give chloroform for one another and so on, and consult together. On the other hand, we could do that just as well if we simply started separately, and were friends.
‘Miss MacGregor was one of the J.-B. lot, and she and I had awful rows over that question. But we certainly got on very well before that, and, as she says, that was not a personal question. I am quite sure Miss MacGregor is Scotch enough not to propose any arrangement which won’t be to her own advantage. Probably, I know a good many more people than she does. The question for me is whether it will be for my advantage. I am rather inclined to think it will. Miss MacGregor is a splendid pathologist. Nowadays one ought to do a lot of that work with one’s cases, and I have been puzzling over how one could, and yet keep aseptic. If we could make some arrangement by which we could work into one another’s hands in that way, I think it would be for both our advantages. There is one thing in favour of it, if Miss MacGregor and I are definitely working together, no one can be astonished at our not calling in other people. Miss MacGregor, apart from everything else, is distinctly one of our best women, and it would be nice working with her. What do you think of it, Papa, dear? Of course I should live at home in any case. My consulting rooms anyhow would have to be outside, for the old ladies would not climb up the stair!
‘Dublin, Feb. 1894.
‘I do thank you so much for having let me come here. I have learnt such a lot. The money has certainly not been wasted. But it was awfully good of you to let me come. I am sure it will make a difference all my life. I really feel on my feet in this subject now. The more I think of it, the more I think it would be wise to start with Miss MacGregor. Apart altogether from Eva’s instincts! we will start the dispensary, and we’ll end by having a hospital like the Rotunda, where students shall live on the premises—female students only. Not that these boys are not very nice and good-natured, only they are out of place in the Rotunda.’
This was nearly the last letter written by Elsie to her father. In most of her letters during the preceding months it was obvious Mr. Inglis’ health was causing her anxiety, and the inquiries and suggestions for his well-being grew more urgent as the shadow of death fell increasingly dark on the written pages.
Elsie returned to receive his eager welcome, but even her eyes were blinded to the rapidly approaching parting. On the 15th of March 1894, she wrote to her brother Ernest in India, telling all the story of Mr. Inglis’ passing on the 13th of that month. There was much suffering borne with quiet patience, ‘He never once complained: I never saw such a patient.’ At the end, he turned towards the window, and then a bright look came into his eyes. He said, ‘Pull down the blind.’ Then the chivalrous, knightly soul passed into the light that never was on sea or land.
‘It was a splendid life he led,’ writes Elsie to her brother; ‘his old Indian friends write now and say how “the name of John Inglis always represented everything that was upright and straightforward and high principled in the character of a Christian gentleman.” He always said that he did not believe that death was the stopping place, but that one would go on growing and learning through all eternity. God bless him in his onward journey. I simply cannot imagine life without him. We had made such plans, and now it does not seem worth while to go on working at all. I wish he could have seen me begin. He was so pleased about my beginning. I said it would be such a joke to see Dr. Elsie Inglis up. Saturday afternoons were to be his, and he was to come over in my trap.
‘He never thought of himself at all. Even when he was very ill at the end, he always looked up when one went in, and said, “Well, my darling.” I am glad I knew about nursing, for we did not need to have any stranger about him. He would have hated that.’