The Doctor’s Dilemma · Act IV (2/2) (1/2)
Walpole Hallo, Ridgeon!
They come into the middle of the room together, taking off their gloves.
Ridgeon What’s the matter! Have you been sent for, too?
Walpole We’ve all been sent for. I’ve only just come: I haven’t seen him yet. The charwoman says that old Paddy Cullen has been here with B.B. for the last half-hour. Sir Patrick, with bad news in his face, enters from the inner room. Well: what’s up?
Sir Patrick Go in and see. B.B. is in there with him.
Walpole* goes. Ridgeon is about to follow him; but Sir Patrick* stops him with a look.
Ridgeon What has happened?
Sir Patrick Do you remember Jane Marsh’s arm?
Ridgeon Is that what’s happened?
Sir Patrick That’s what’s happened. His lung has gone like Jane’s arm. I never saw such a case. He has got through three months galloping consumption in three days.
Ridgeon B.B. got in on the negative phase.
Sir Patrick Negative or positive, the lad’s done for. He won’t last out the afternoon. He’ll go suddenly: I’ve often seen it.
Ridgeon So long as he goes before his wife finds him out, I don’t care. I fully expected this.
Sir Patrick Drily. It’s a little hard on a lad to be killed because his wife has too high an opinion of him. Fortunately few of us are in any danger of that.
Sir Ralph comes from the inner room and hastens between them, humanely concerned, but professionally elate and communicative.
B.B. Ah, here you are, Ridgeon. Paddy’s told you, of course.
Ridgeon Yes.
B.B. It’s an enormously interesting case. You know, Colly, by Jupiter, if I didn’t know as a matter of scientific fact that I’d been stimulating the phagocytes, I should say I’d been stimulating the other things. What is the explanation of it, Sir Patrick? How do you account for it, Ridgeon? Have we over-stimulated the phagocytes? Have they not only eaten up the bacilli, but attacked and destroyed the red corpuscles as well? a possibility suggested by the patient’s pallor. Nay, have they finally begun to prey on the lungs themselves? Or on one another? I shall write a paper about this case.
Walpole* comes back, very serious, even shocked. He comes between B.B. and Ridgeon*.
Walpole Whew! B.B.: you’ve done it this time.
B.B. What do you mean?
Walpole Killed him. The worst case of neglected blood-poisoning I ever saw. It’s too late now to do anything. He’d die under the anaesthetic.
B.B. Offended. Killed! Really, Walpole, if your monomania were not well known, I should take such an expession very seriously.
Sir Patrick Come come! When you’ve both killed as many people as I have in my time you’ll feel humble enough about it. Come and look at him, Colly.
Ridgeon* and Sir Patrick* go into the inner room.
Walpole I apologize, B.B. But it’s blood-poisoning.
B.B. Recovering his irresistible good nature. My dear Walpole, everything is blood-poisoning. But upon my soul, I shall not use any of that stuff of Ridgeon’s again. What made me so sensitive about what you said just now is that, strictly between ourselves, Ridgeon cooked our young friend’s goose.
Jennifer, worried and distressed, but always gentle, comes between them from the inner room. She wears a nurse’s apron.
Mrs. Dubedat Sir Ralph: what am I to do? That man who insisted on seeing me, and sent in word that business was important to Louis, is a newspaper man. A paragraph appeared in the paper this morning saying that Louis is seriously ill; and this man wants to interview him about it. How can people be so brutally callous?
Walpole Moving vengefully towards the door. You just leave me to deal with him!
Mrs. Dubedat Stopping him. But Louis insists on seeing him: he almost began to cry about it. And he says he can’t bear his room any longer. He says he wants to she struggles with a sob⁠—to die in his studio. Sir Patrick says let him have his way: it can do no harm. What shall we do?
b b Encouragingly. Why, follow Sir Patrick’s excellent advice, of course. As he says, it can do him no harm; and it will no doubt do him good⁠—a great deal of good. He will be much the better for it.
Mrs. Dubedat A little cheered. Will you bring the man up here, Mr. Walpole, and tell him that he may see Louis, but that he mustn’t exhaust him by talking? Walpole nods and goes out by the outer door. Sir Ralph, don’t be angry with me; but Louis will die if he stays here. I must take him to Cornwall. He will recover there.
B.B. Brightening wonderfully, as if Dubedat were already saved. Cornwall! The very place for him! Wonderful for the lungs. Stupid of me not to think of it before. You are his best physician after all, dear lady. An inspiration! Cornwall: of course, yes, yes, yes.
Mrs. Dubedat Comforted and touched. You are so kind, Sir Ralph. But don’t give me much or I shall cry; and Louis can’t bear that.
B.B. Gently putting his protecting arm round her shoulders. Then let us come back to him and help to carry him in. Cornwall! of course, of course. The very thing! They go together into the bedroom.
Walpole* returns with The Newspaper Man*, a cheerful, affable young man who is disabled for ordinary business pursuits by a congenital erroneousness which renders him incapable of describing accurately anything he sees, or understanding or reporting accurately anything he hears. As the only employment in which these defects do not matter is journalism (for a newspaper, not having to act on its description and reports, but only to sell them to idly curious people, has nothing but honor to lose by inaccuracy and unveracity), he has perforce become a journalist, and has to keep up an air of high spirits through a daily struggle with his own illiteracy and the precariousness of his employment. He has a notebook, and occasionally attempts to make a note; but as he cannot write shorthand, and does not write with ease in any hand, he generally gives it up as a bad job before he succeeds in finishing a sentence.
The Newspaper Man Looking round and making indecisive attempts at notes. This is the studio, I suppose.
Walpole Yes.
The Newspaper Man Wittily. Where he has his models, eh?
Walpole Grimly irresponsive. No doubt.
The Newspaper Man Cubicle, you said it was?
Walpole Yes, tubercle.
The Newspaper Man Which way do you spell it: is it c-u-b-i-c-a-l or c-l-e?
Walpole Tubercle, man, not cubical. Spelling it for him. T-u-b-e-r-c-l-e.
The Newspaper Man Oh! tubercle. Some disease, I suppose. I thought he had consumption. Are you one of the family or the doctor?
Walpole I’m neither one nor the other. I am Mister Cutler Walpole. Put that down. Then put down Sir Colenso Ridgeon.
The Newspaper Man Pigeon?
Walpole Ridgeon. Contemptuously snatching his book. Here: you’d better let me write the names down for you: you’re sure to get them wrong. That comes of belonging to an illiterate profession, with no qualifications and no public register. He writes the particulars.
The Newspaper Man Oh, I say: you have got your knife into us, haven’t you?
Walpole Vindictively. I wish I had: I’d make a better man of you. Now attend. Showing him the book. These are the names of the three doctors. This is the patient. This is the address. This is the name of the disease. He shuts the book with a snap which makes the journalist blink, and returns it to him. Mr. Dubedat will be brought in here presently. He wants to see you because he doesn’t know how bad he is. We’ll allow you to wait a few minutes to humor him; but if you talk to him, out you go. He may die at any moment.
The Newspaper Man Interested. Is he as bad as that? I say: I am in luck today. Would you mind letting me photograph you? He produces a camera. Could you have a lancet or something in your hand?
Walpole Put it up. If you want my photograph you can get it in Baker Street in any of the series of celebrities.
The Newspaper Man But they’ll want to be paid. If you wouldn’t mind⁠—?Fingering the camera.
Walpole I would. Put it up, I tell you. Sit down there and be quiet.
The Newspaper Man* quickly sits down on the piano stool as Dubedat, in an invalid’s chair, is wheeled in by Mrs. Dubedat and Sir Ralph. They place the chair between the dais and the sofa, where the easel stood before. Louis is not changed as a robust man would be; and he is not scared. His eyes look larger; and he is so weak physically that he can hardly move, lying on his cushions, with complete languor; but his mind is active; it is making the most of his condition, finding voluptuousness in languor and drama in death. They are all impressed, in spite of themselves, except Ridgeon, who is implacable. B.B. is entirely sympathetic and forgiving. Ridgeon follows the chair with a tray of milk and stimulants. Sir Patrick, who accompanies him, takes the tea-table from the corner and places it behind the chair for the tray. B.B. takes the easel chair and places it for Jennifer at Dubedat’s side, next the dais, from which the lay figure ogles the dying artist. B.B. then returns to Dubedat’s left. Jennifer sits. Walpole sits down on the edge of the dais. Ridgeon* stands near him.
Louis Blissfully. That’s happiness! To be in a studio! Happiness!
Mrs. Dubedat Yes, dear. Sir Patrick says you may stay here as long as you like.
Louis Jennifer.
Mrs. Dubedat Yes, my darling.
Louis Is the newspaper man here?
The Newspaper Man Glibly. Yes, Mr. Dubedat: I’m here, at your service. I represent the press. I thought you might like to let us have a few words about⁠—about⁠—er⁠—well, a few words on your illness, and your plans for the season.
Louis My plans for the season are very simple. I’m going to die.
Mrs. Dubedat Tortured. Louis⁠—dearest⁠—
Louis My darling: I’m very weak and tired. Don’t put on me the horrible strain of pretending that I don’t know. I’ve been lying there listening to the doctors⁠—laughing to myself. They know. Dearest: don’t cry. It makes you ugly; and I can’t bear that. She dries her eyes and recovers herself with a proud effort. I want you to promise me something.
Mrs. Dubedat Yes, yes: you know I will. Imploringly. Only, my love, my love, don’t talk: it will waste your strength.
Louis No: it will only use it up. Ridgeon: give me something to keep me going for a few minutes⁠—one of your confounded antitoxins, if you don’t mind. I have some things to say before I go.
Ridgeon Looking at Sir Patrick. I suppose it can do no harm? He pours out some spirit, and is about to add soda water when Sir Patrick corrects him.
Sir Patrick In milk. Don’t set him coughing.
Louis After drinking. Jennifer.
Mrs. Dubedat Yes, dear.
Louis If there’s one thing I hate more than another, it’s a widow. Promise me that you’ll never be a widow.
Mrs. Dubedat My dear, what do you mean?
Louis I want you to look beautiful. I want people to see in your eyes that you were married to me. The people in Italy used to point at Dante and say “There goes the man who has been in hell.” I want them to point at you and say “There goes a woman who has been in heaven.” It has been heaven, darling, hasn’t it⁠—sometimes?
Mrs. Dubedat Oh yes, yes. Always, always.
Louis If you wear black and cry, people will say “Look at that miserable woman: her husband made her miserable.”
Mrs. Dubedat No, never. You are the light and the blessing of my life. I never lived until I knew you.
Louis His eyes glistening. Then you must always wear beautiful dresses and splendid magic jewels. Think of all the wonderful pictures I shall never paint. She wins a terrible victory over a sob. Well, you must be transfigured with all the beauty of those pictures. Men must get such dreams from seeing you as they never could get from any daubing with paints and brushes. Painters must paint you as they never painted any mortal woman before. There must be a great tradition of beauty, a great atmosphere of wonder and romance. That is what men must always think of when they think of me. That is the sort of immortality I want. You can make that for me, Jennifer. There are lots of things you don’t understand that every woman in the street understands; but you can understand that and do it as nobody else can. Promise me that immortality. Promise me you will not make a little hell of crape and crying and undertaker’s horrors and withering flowers and all that vulgar rubbish.
Mrs. Dubedat I promise. But all that is far off, dear. You are to come to Cornwall with me and get well. Sir Ralph says so.
Louis Poor old B.B.
B.B. Affected to tears, turns away and whispers to Sir Patrick. Poor fellow! Brain going.
Louis Sir Patrick’s there, isn’t he?
Sir Patrick Yes, yes. I’m here.
Louis Sit down, won’t you? It’s a shame to keep you standing about.
Sir Patrick Yes, Yes. Thank you. All right.
Louis Jennifer.
Mrs. Dubedat Yes, dear.
Louis With a strange look of delight. Do you remember the burning bush?
Mrs. Dubedat Yes, Yes. Oh, my dear, how it strains my heart to remember it now!
Louis Does it? It fills me with joy. Tell them about it.
Mrs. Dubedat It was nothing⁠—only that once in my old Cornish home we lit the first fire of the winter; and when we looked through the window we saw the flames dancing in a bush in the garden.
Louis Such a color! Garnet color. Waving like silk. Liquid lovely flame flowing up through the bay leaves, and not burning them. Well, I shall be a flame like that. I’m sorry to disappoint the poor little worms; but the last of me shall be the flame in the burning bush. Whenever you see the flame, Jennifer, that will be me. Promise me that I shall be burnt.
Mrs. Dubedat Oh, if I might be with you, Louis!
Louis No: you must always be in the garden when the bush flames. You are my hold on the world: you are my immortality. Promise.
Mrs. Dubedat I’m listening. I shall not forget. You know that I promise.
Louis Well, that’s about all; except that you are to hang my pictures at the one-man show. I can trust your eye. You won’t let anyone else touch them.
Mrs. Dubedat You can trust me.
Louis Then there’s nothing more to worry about, is there? Give me some more of that milk. I’m fearfully tired; but if I stop talking I shan’t begin again. Sir Ralph gives him a drink. He takes it and looks up quaintly. I say, B.B., do you think anything would stop you talking?
B.B. Almost unmanned. He confuses me with you, Paddy. Poor fellow! Poor fellow!
Louis Musing. I used to be awfully afraid of death; but now it’s come I have no fear; and I’m perfectly happy. Jennifer.
Mrs. Dubedat Yes, dear?
Louis I’ll tell you a secret. I used to think that our marriage was all an affectation, and that I’d break loose and run away some day. But now that I’m going to be broken loose whether I like it or not, I’m perfectly fond of you, and perfectly satisfied because I’m going to live as part of you and not as my troublesome self.
Mrs. Dubedat Heartbroken. Stay with me, Louis. Oh, don’t leave me, dearest.
Louis Not that I’m selfish. With all my faults I don’t think I’ve ever been really selfish. No artist can: Art is too large for that. You will marry again, Jennifer.
Mrs. Dubedat Oh, how can you, Louis?