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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Doctor’s Dilemma</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: George Bernard Shaw</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 14, 2002 [eBook #5070]<br /> +[Most recently updated: February 8, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Eve Sobol and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOCTOR’S DILEMMA ***</div> + + <h1> + THE DOCTOR’S DILEMMA + </h1> + + <h2> + By Bernard Shaw + </h2> + + <h3> + 1906 + </h3> + + <hr /> + + <div class="mynote"> + <p> + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: The edition from which this play was taken was + printed with no contractions, thus “we’ve” is written as “weve”, + “hadn’t” as “hadnt”, etc. There is no trailing period after Mr, Dr, + etc., and “show” is spelt “shew”, “Shakespeare” is “Shakespear”. + </p> + <br /> + </div> + + <hr /> + + <blockquote> + <p> + I am grateful to Hesba Stretton, the authoress of “Jessica’s First + Prayer,” for permission to use the title of one of her stories for this + play. + </p> + </blockquote> + + <hr /> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> ACT I </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> ACT II </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ACT III </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ACT IV </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ACT V </a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + + <hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> + ACT I + </h2> + <p> + On the 15th June 1903, in the early forenoon, a medical student, surname + Redpenny, Christian name unknown and of no importance, sits at work in a + doctor’s consulting-room. He devils for the doctor by answering his + letters, acting as his domestic laboratory assistant, and making himself + indispensable generally, in return for unspecified advantages involved by + intimate intercourse with a leader of his profession, and amounting to an + informal apprenticeship and a temporary affiliation. Redpenny is not + proud, and will do anything he is asked without reservation of his + personal dignity if he is asked in a fellow-creaturely way. He is a + wide-open-eyed, ready, credulous, friendly, hasty youth, with his hair and + clothes in reluctant transition from the untidy boy to the tidy doctor. + </p> + <p> + Redpenny is interrupted by the entrance of an old serving-woman who has + never known the cares, the preoccupations, the responsibilities, + jealousies, and anxieties of personal beauty. She has the complexion of a + never-washed gypsy, incurable by any detergent; and she has, not a regular + beard and moustaches, which could at least be trimmed and waxed into a + masculine presentableness, but a whole crop of small beards and + moustaches, mostly springing from moles all over her face. She carries a + duster and toddles about meddlesomely, spying out dust so diligently that + whilst she is flicking off one speck she is already looking elsewhere for + another. In conversation she has the same trick, hardly ever looking at + the person she is addressing except when she is excited. She has only one + manner, and that is the manner of an old family nurse to a child just + after it has learnt to walk. She has used her ugliness to secure + indulgences unattainable by Cleopatra or Fair Rosamund, and has the + further great advantage over them that age increases her qualification + instead of impairing it. Being an industrious, agreeable, and popular old + soul, she is a walking sermon on the vanity of feminine prettiness. Just + as Redpenny has no discovered Christian name, she has no discovered + surname, and is known throughout the doctors’ quarter between Cavendish + Square and the Marylebone Road simply as Emmy. + </p> + <p> + The consulting-room has two windows looking on Queen Anne Street. Between + the two is a marble-topped console, with haunched gilt legs ending in + sphinx claws. The huge pier-glass which surmounts it is mostly disabled + from reflection by elaborate painting on its surface of palms, ferns, + lilies, tulips, and sunflowers. The adjoining wall contains the fireplace, + with two arm-chairs before it. As we happen to face the corner we see + nothing of the other two walls. On the right of the fireplace, or rather + on the right of any person facing the fireplace, is the door. On its left + is the writing-table at which Redpenny sits. It is an untidy table with a + microscope, several test tubes, and a spirit lamp standing up through its + litter of papers. There is a couch in the middle of the room, at right + angles to the console, and parallel to the fireplace. A chair stands + between the couch and the windowed wall. The windows have green Venetian + blinds and rep curtains; and there is a gasalier; but it is a convert to + electric lighting. The wall paper and carpets are mostly green, coeval + with the gasalier and the Venetian blinds. The house, in fact, was so well + furnished in the middle of the XIXth century that it stands unaltered to + this day and is still quite presentable. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [entering and immediately beginning to dust the couch] Theres a lady + bothering me to see the doctor. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY [distracted by the interruption] Well, she cant see the doctor. + Look here: whats the use of telling you that the doctor cant take any new + patients, when the moment a knock comes to the door, in you bounce to ask + whether he can see somebody? + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Who asked you whether he could see somebody? + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. You did. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. I said theres a lady bothering me to see the doctor. That isnt + asking. Its telling. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. Well, is the lady bothering you any reason for you to come + bothering me when I’m busy? + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Have you seen the papers? + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. No. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Not seen the birthday honors? + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY [beginning to swear] What the— + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Now, now, ducky! + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. What do you suppose I care about the birthday honors? Get out of + this with your chattering. Dr Ridgeon will be down before I have these + letters ready. Get out. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Dr Ridgeon wont never be down any more, young man. + </p> + <p> + She detects dust on the console and is down on it immediately. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY [jumping up and following her] What? + </p> + <p> + EMMY. He’s been made a knight. Mind you dont go Dr Ridgeoning him in them + letters. Sir Colenso Ridgeon is to be his name now. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. I’m jolly glad. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. I never was so taken aback. I always thought his great discoveries + was fudge (let alone the mess of them) with his drops of blood and tubes + full of Maltese fever and the like. Now he’ll have a rare laugh at me. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. Serve you right! It was like your cheek to talk to him about + science. [He returns to his table and resumes his writing]. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Oh, I dont think much of science; and neither will you when youve + lived as long with it as I have. Whats on my mind is answering the door. + Old Sir Patrick Cullen has been here already and left first + congratulations—hadnt time to come up on his way to the hospital, + but was determined to be first—coming back, he said. All the rest + will be here too: the knocker will be going all day. What Im afraid of is + that the doctor’ll want a footman like all the rest, now that he’s Sir + Colenso. Mind: dont you go putting him up to it, ducky; for he’ll never + have any comfort with anybody but me to answer the door. I know who to let + in and who to keep out. And that reminds me of the poor lady. I think he + ought to see her. Shes just the kind that puts him in a good temper. [She + dusts Redpenny’s papers]. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. I tell you he cant see anybody. Do go away, Emmy. How can I work + with you dusting all over me like this? + </p> + <p> + EMMY. I’m not hindering you working—if you call writing letters + working. There goes the bell. [She looks out of the window]. A doctor’s + carriage. Thats more congratulations. [She is going out when Sir Colenso + Ridgeon enters]. Have you finished your two eggs, sonny? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Have you put on your clean vest? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Thats my ducky diamond! Now keep yourself tidy and dont go messing + about and dirtying your hands: the people are coming to congratulate you. + [She goes out]. + </p> + <p> + Sir Colenso Ridgeon is a man of fifty who has never shaken off his youth. + He has the off-handed manner and the little audacities of address which a + shy and sensitive man acquires in breaking himself in to intercourse with + all sorts and conditions of men. His face is a good deal lined; his + movements are slower than, for instance, Redpenny’s; and his flaxen hair + has lost its lustre; but in figure and manner he is more the young man + than the titled physician. Even the lines in his face are those of + overwork and restless scepticism, perhaps partly of curiosity and + appetite, rather than of age. Just at present the announcement of his + knighthood in the morning papers makes him specially self-conscious, and + consequently specially off-hand with Redpenny. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Have you seen the papers? Youll have to alter the name in the + letters if you havnt. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. Emmy has just told me. I’m awfully glad. I— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Enough, young man, enough. You will soon get accustomed to it. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. They ought to have done it years ago. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. They would have; only they couldnt stand Emmy opening the door, I + daresay. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [at the door, announcing] Dr Shoemaker. [She withdraws]. + </p> + <p> + A middle-aged gentleman, well dressed, comes in with a friendly but + propitiatory air, not quite sure of his reception. His combination of soft + manners and responsive kindliness, with a certain unseizable reserve and a + familiar yet foreign chiselling of feature, reveal the Jew: in this + instance the handsome gentlemanly Jew, gone a little pigeon-breasted and + stale after thirty, as handsome young Jews often do, but still decidedly + good-looking. + </p> + <p> + THE GENTLEMAN. Do you remember me? Schutzmacher. University College school + and Belsize Avenue. Loony Schutzmacher, you know. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. What! Loony! [He shakes hands cordially]. Why, man, I thought you + were dead long ago. Sit down. [Schutzmacher sits on the couch: Ridgeon on + the chair between it and the window]. Where have you been these thirty + years? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. In general practice, until a few months ago. I’ve retired. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well done, Loony! I wish I could afford to retire. Was your + practice in London? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. No. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Fashionable coast practice, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. How could I afford to buy a fashionable practice? I hadnt a + rap. I set up in a manufacturing town in the midlands in a little surgery + at ten shillings a week. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. And made your fortune? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Well, I’m pretty comfortable. I have a place in + Hertfordshire besides our flat in town. If you ever want a quiet Saturday + to Monday, I’ll take you down in my motor at an hours notice. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Just rolling in money! I wish you rich g.p.’s would teach me how + to make some. Whats the secret of it? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Oh, in my case the secret was simple enough, though I + suppose I should have got into trouble if it had attracted any notice. And + I’m afraid you’ll think it rather infra dig. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Oh, I have an open mind. What was the secret? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Well, the secret was just two words. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Not Consultation Free, was it? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER [shocked] No, no. Really! + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [apologetic] Of course not. I was only joking. + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. My two words were simply Cure Guaranteed. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [admiring] Cure Guaranteed! + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Guaranteed. After all, thats what everybody wants from a + doctor, isnt it? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. My dear loony, it was an inspiration. Was it on the brass plate? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. There was no brass plate. It was a shop window: red, you + know, with black lettering. Doctor Leo Schutzmacher, L.R.C.P.M.R.C.S. + Advice and medicine sixpence. Cure Guaranteed. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. And the guarantee proved sound nine times out of ten, eh? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER [rather hurt at so moderate an estimate] Oh, much oftener + than that. You see, most people get well all right if they are careful and + you give them a little sensible advice. And the medicine really did them + good. Parrish’s Chemical Food: phosphates, you know. One tablespoonful to + a twelve-ounce bottle of water: nothing better, no matter what the case + is. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Redpenny: make a note of Parrish’s Chemical Food. + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. I take it myself, you know, when I feel run down. Good-bye. + You dont mind my calling, do you? Just to congratulate you. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Delighted, my dear Loony. Come to lunch on Saturday next week. + Bring your motor and take me down to Hertford. + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. I will. We shall be delighted. Thank you. Good-bye. [He goes + out with Ridgeon, who returns immediately]. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. Old Paddy Cullen was here before you were up, to be the first to + congratulate you. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Indeed. Who taught you to speak of Sir Patrick Cullen as old + Paddy Cullen, you young ruffian? + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. You never call him anything else. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Not now that I am Sir Colenso. Next thing, you fellows will be + calling me old Colly Ridgeon. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. We do, at St. Anne’s. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yach! Thats what makes the medical student the most disgusting + figure in modern civilization. No veneration, no manners—no— + </p> + <p> + EMMY [at the door, announcing]. Sir Patrick Cullen. [She retires]. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick Cullen is more than twenty years older than Ridgeon, not yet + quite at the end of his tether, but near it and resigned to it. His name, + his plain, downright, sometimes rather arid common sense, his large build + and stature, the absence of those odd moments of ceremonial servility by + which an old English doctor sometimes shews you what the status of the + profession was in England in his youth, and an occasional turn of speech, + are Irish; but he has lived all his life in England and is thoroughly + acclimatized. His manner to Ridgeon, whom he likes, is whimsical and + fatherly: to others he is a little gruff and uninviting, apt to substitute + more or less expressive grunts for articulate speech, and generally + indisposed, at his age, to make much social effort. He shakes Ridgeon’s + hand and beams at him cordially and jocularly. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Well, young chap. Is your hat too small for you, eh? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Much too small. I owe it all to you. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Blarney, my boy. Thank you all the same. [He sits in one of + the arm-chairs near the fireplace. Ridgeon sits on the couch]. Ive come to + talk to you a bit. [To Redpenny] Young man: get out. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. Certainly, Sir Patrick [He collects his papers and makes for the + door]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Thank you. Thats a good lad. [Redpenny vanishes]. They all + put up with me, these young chaps, because I’m an old man, a real old man, + not like you. Youre only beginning to give yourself the airs of age. Did + you ever see a boy cultivating a moustache? Well, a middle-aged doctor + cultivating a grey head is much the same sort of spectacle. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Good Lord! yes: I suppose so. And I thought that the days of my + vanity were past. Tell me at what age does a man leave off being a fool? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Remember the Frenchman who asked his grandmother at what age + we get free from the temptations of love. The old woman said she didn’t + know. [Ridgeon laughs]. Well, I make you the same answer. But the world’s + growing very interesting to me now, Colly. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. You keep up your interest in science, do you? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Lord! yes. Modern science is a wonderful thing. Look at your + great discovery! Look at all the great discoveries! Where are they leading + to? Why, right back to my poor dear old father’s ideas and discoveries. + He’s been dead now over forty years. Oh, it’s very interesting. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well, theres nothing like progress, is there? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Dont misunderstand me, my boy. I’m not belittling your + discovery. Most discoveries are made regularly every fifteen years; and + it’s fully a hundred and fifty since yours was made last. Thats something + to be proud of. But your discovery’s not new. It’s only inoculation. My + father practised inoculation until it was made criminal in eighteen-forty. + That broke the poor old man’s heart, Colly: he died of it. And now it + turns out that my father was right after all. Youve brought us back to + inoculation. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I know nothing about smallpox. My line is tuberculosis and + typhoid and plague. But of course the principle of all vaccines is the + same. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Tuberculosis? M-m-m-m! Youve found out how to cure + consumption, eh? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I believe so. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Ah yes. It’s very interesting. What is it the old cardinal + says in Browning’s play? “I have known four and twenty leaders of revolt.” + Well, Ive known over thirty men that found out how to cure consumption. + Why do people go on dying of it, Colly? Devilment, I suppose. There was my + father’s old friend George Boddington of Sutton Coldfield. He discovered + the open-air cure in eighteen-forty. He was ruined and driven out of his + practice for only opening the windows; and now we wont let a consumptive + patient have as much as a roof over his head. Oh, it’s very VERY + interesting to an old man. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. You old cynic, you dont believe a bit in my discovery. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. No, no: I dont go quite so far as that, Colly. But still, you + remember Jane Marsh? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Jane Marsh? No. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. You dont! + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. You mean to tell me you dont remember the woman with the + tuberculosis ulcer on her arm? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [enlightened] Oh, your washerwoman’s daughter. Was her name Jane + Marsh? I forgot. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Perhaps youve forgotten also that you undertook to cure her + with Koch’s tuberculin. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. And instead of curing her, it rotted her arm right off. Yes: I + remember. Poor Jane! However, she makes a good living out of that arm now + by shewing it at medical lectures. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Still, that wasnt quite what you intended, was it? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I took my chance of it. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Jane did, you mean. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well, it’s always the patient who has to take the chance when an + experiment is necessary. And we can find out nothing without experiment. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. What did you find out from Jane’s case? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I found out that the inoculation that ought to cure sometimes + kills. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. I could have told you that. Ive tried these modern + inoculations a bit myself. Ive killed people with them; and Ive cured + people with them; but I gave them up because I never could tell which I + was going to do. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [taking a pamphlet from a drawer in the writing-table and handing + it to him] Read that the next time you have an hour to spare; and youll + find out why. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [grumbling and fumbling for his spectacles] Oh, bother your + pamphlets. Whats the practice of it? [Looking at the pamphlet] Opsonin? + What the devil is opsonin? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Opsonin is what you butter the disease germs with to make your + white blood corpuscles eat them. [He sits down again on the couch]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Thats not new. Ive heard this notion that the white + corpuscles—what is it that whats his name?—Metchnikoff—calls + them? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Phagocytes. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Aye, phagocytes: yes, yes, yes. Well, I heard this theory + that the phagocytes eat up the disease germs years ago: long before you + came into fashion. Besides, they dont always eat them. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. They do when you butter them with opsonin. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Gammon. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No: it’s not gammon. What it comes to in practice is this. The + phagocytes wont eat the microbes unless the microbes are nicely buttered + for them. Well, the patient manufactures the butter for himself all right; + but my discovery is that the manufacture of that butter, which I call + opsonin, goes on in the system by ups and downs—Nature being always + rhythmical, you know—and that what the inoculation does is to + stimulate the ups or downs, as the case may be. If we had inoculated Jane + Marsh when her butter factory was on the up-grade, we should have cured + her arm. But we got in on the downgrade and lost her arm for her. I call + the up-grade the positive phase and the down-grade the negative phase. + Everything depends on your inoculating at the right moment. Inoculate when + the patient is in the negative phase and you kill: inoculate when the + patient is in the positive phase and you cure. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. And pray how are you to know whether the patient is in the + positive or the negative phase? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Send a drop of the patient’s blood to the laboratory at St. + Anne’s; and in fifteen minutes I’ll give you his opsonin index in figures. + If the figure is one, inoculate and cure: if it’s under point eight, + inoculate and kill. Thats my discovery: the most important that has been + made since Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood. My tuberculosis + patients dont die now. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. And mine do when my inoculation catches them in the negative + phase, as you call it. Eh? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Precisely. To inject a vaccine into a patient without first + testing his opsonin is as near murder as a respectable practitioner can + get. If I wanted to kill a man I should kill him that way. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [looking in] Will you see a lady that wants her husband’s lungs + cured? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [impatiently] No. Havnt I told you I will see nobody? [To Sir + Patrick] I live in a state of siege ever since it got about that I’m a + magician who can cure consumption with a drop of serum. [To Emmy] Dont + come to me again about people who have no appointments. I tell you I can + see nobody. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Well, I’ll tell her to wait a bit. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [furious] Youll tell her I cant see her, and send her away: do you + hear? + </p> + <p> + EMMY [unmoved] Well, will you see Mr Cutler Walpole? He dont want a cure: + he only wants to congratulate you. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Of course. Shew him up. [She turns to go]. Stop. [To Sir Patrick] + I want two minutes more with you between ourselves. [To Emmy] Emmy: ask + Mr. Walpole to wait just two minutes, while I finish a consultation. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Oh, he’ll wait all right. He’s talking to the poor lady. [She goes + out]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Well? what is it? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Dont laugh at me. I want your advice. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Professional advice? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes. Theres something the matter with me. I dont know what it is. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Neither do I. I suppose youve been sounded. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes, of course. Theres nothing wrong with any of the organs: + nothing special, anyhow. But I have a curious aching: I dont know where: I + cant localize it. Sometimes I think it’s my heart: sometimes I suspect my + spine. It doesnt exactly hurt me; but it unsettles me completely. I feel + that something is going to happen. And there are other symptoms. Scraps of + tunes come into my head that seem to me very pretty, though theyre quite + commonplace. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Do you hear voices? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. I’m glad of that. When my patients tell me that theyve made a + greater discovery than Harvey, and that they hear voices, I lock them up. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. You think I’m mad! Thats just the suspicion that has come across + me once or twice. Tell me the truth: I can bear it. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Youre sure there are no voices? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Quite sure. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Then it’s only foolishness. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Have you ever met anything like it before in your practice? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Oh, yes: often. It’s very common between the ages of + seventeen and twenty-two. It sometimes comes on again at forty or + thereabouts. Youre a bachelor, you see. It’s not serious—if youre + careful. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. About my food? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. No: about your behavior. Theres nothing wrong with your + spine; and theres nothing wrong with your heart; but theres something + wrong with your common sense. Youre not going to die; but you may be going + to make a fool of yourself. So be careful. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I see you dont believe in my discovery. Well, sometimes I dont + believe in it myself. Thank you all the same. Shall we have Walpole up? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Oh, have him up. [Ridgeon rings]. He’s a clever operator, is + Walpole, though he’s only one of your chloroform surgeons. In my early + days, you made your man drunk; and the porters and students held him down; + and you had to set your teeth and finish the job fast. Nowadays you work + at your ease; and the pain doesn’t come until afterwards, when youve taken + your cheque and rolled up your bag and left the house. I tell you, Colly, + chloroform has done a lot of mischief. It’s enabled every fool to be a + surgeon. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [to Emmy, who answers the bell] Shew Mr Walpole up. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. He’s talking to the lady. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [exasperated] Did I not tell you— + </p> + <p> + Emmy goes out without heeding him. He gives it up, with a shrug, and + plants himself with his back to the console, leaning resignedly against + it. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. I know your Cutler Walpoles and their like. Theyve found out + that a man’s body’s full of bits and scraps of old organs he has no mortal + use for. Thanks to chloroform, you can cut half a dozen of them out + without leaving him any the worse, except for the illness and the guineas + it costs him. I knew the Walpoles well fifteen years ago. The father used + to snip off the ends of people’s uvulas for fifty guineas, and paint + throats with caustic every day for a year at two guineas a time. His + brother-in-law extirpated tonsils for two hundred guineas until he took up + women’s cases at double the fees. Cutler himself worked hard at anatomy to + find something fresh to operate on; and at last he got hold of something + he calls the nuciform sac, which he’s made quite the fashion. People pay + him five hundred guineas to cut it out. They might as well get their hair + cut for all the difference it makes; but I suppose they feel important + after it. You cant go out to dinner now without your neighbor bragging to + you of some useless operation or other. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [announcing] Mr Cutler Walpole. [She goes out]. + </p> + <p> + Cutler Walpole is an energetic, unhesitating man of forty, with a cleanly + modelled face, very decisive and symmetrical about the shortish, salient, + rather pretty nose, and the three trimly turned corners made by his chin + and jaws. In comparison with Ridgeon’s delicate broken lines, and Sir + Patrick’s softly rugged aged ones, his face looks machine-made and + beeswaxed; but his scrutinizing, daring eyes give it life and force. He + seems never at a loss, never in doubt: one feels that if he made a mistake + he would make it thoroughly and firmly. He has neat, well-nourished hands, + short arms, and is built for strength and compactness rather than for + height. He is smartly dressed with a fancy waistcoat, a richly colored + scarf secured by a handsome ring, ornaments on his watch chain, spats on + his shoes, and a general air of the well-to-do sportsman about him. He + goes straight across to Ridgeon and shakes hands with him. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. My dear Ridgeon, best wishes! heartiest congratulations! You + deserve it. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Thank you. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. As a man, mind you. You deserve it as a man. The opsonin is + simple rot, as any capable surgeon can tell you; but we’re all delighted + to see your personal qualities officially recognized. Sir Patrick: how are + you? I sent you a paper lately about a little thing I invented: a new saw. + For shoulder blades. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [meditatively] Yes: I got it. It’s a good saw: a useful, handy + instrument. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [confidently] I knew youd see its points. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Yes: I remember that saw sixty-five years ago. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. What! + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. It was called a cabinetmaker’s jimmy then. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Get out! Nonsense! Cabinetmaker be— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Never mind him, Walpole. He’s jealous. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. By the way, I hope I’m not disturbing you two in anything + private. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No no. Sit down. I was only consulting him. I’m rather out of + sorts. Overwork, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [swiftly] I know whats the matter with you. I can see it in your + complexion. I can feel it in the grip of your hand. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. What is it? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Blood-poisoning. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Blood-poisoning! Impossible. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. I tell you, blood-poisoning. Ninety-five per cent of the human + race suffer from chronic blood-poisoning, and die of it. It’s as simple as + A.B.C. Your nuciform sac is full of decaying matter—undigested food + and waste products—rank ptomaines. Now you take my advice, Ridgeon. + Let me cut it out for you. You’ll be another man afterwards. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Dont you like him as he is? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. No I dont. I dont like any man who hasnt a healthy circulation. I + tell you this: in an intelligently governed country people wouldnt be + allowed to go about with nuciform sacs, making themselves centres of + infection. The operation ought to be compulsory: it’s ten times more + important than vaccination. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Have you had your own sac removed, may I ask? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [triumphantly] I havnt got one. Look at me! Ive no symptoms. I’m + as sound as a bell. About five per cent of the population havnt got any; + and I’m one of the five per cent. I’ll give you an instance. You know Mrs + Jack Foljambe: the smart Mrs Foljambe? I operated at Easter on her + sister-in-law, Lady Gorran, and found she had the biggest sac I ever saw: + it held about two ounces. Well, Mrs. Foljambe had the right spirit—the + genuine hygienic instinct. She couldnt stand her sister-in-law being a + clean, sound woman, and she simply a whited sepulchre. So she insisted on + my operating on her, too. And by George, sir, she hadnt any sac at all. + Not a trace! Not a rudiment!! I was so taken aback—so interested, + that I forgot to take the sponges out, and was stitching them up inside + her when the nurse missed them. Somehow, I’d made sure she’d have an + exceptionally large one. [He sits down on the couch, squaring his + shoulders and shooting his hands out of his cuffs as he sets his knuckles + akimbo]. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [looking in] Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington. + </p> + <p> + A long and expectant pause follows this announcement. All look to the + door; but there is no Sir Ralph. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [at last] Were is he? + </p> + <p> + EMMY [looking back] Drat him, I thought he was following me. He’s stayed + down to talk to that lady. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [exploding] I told you to tell that lady—[Emmy vanishes]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [jumping up again] Oh, by the way, Ridgeon, that reminds me. Ive + been talking to that poor girl. It’s her husband; and she thinks it’s a + case of consumption: the usual wrong diagnosis: these damned general + practitioners ought never to be allowed to touch a patient except under + the orders of a consultant. She’s been describing his symptoms to me; and + the case is as plain as a pikestaff: bad blood-poisoning. Now she’s poor. + She cant afford to have him operated on. Well, you send him to me: I’ll do + it for nothing. Theres room for him in my nursing home. I’ll put him + straight, and feed him up and make him happy. I like making people happy. + [He goes to the chair near the window]. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [looking in] Here he is. + </p> + <p> + Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington wafts himself into the room. He is a tall + man, with a head like a tall and slender egg. He has been in his time a + slender man; but now, in his sixth decade, his waistcoat has filled out + somewhat. His fair eyebrows arch good-naturedly and uncritically. He has a + most musical voice; his speech is a perpetual anthem; and he never tires + of the sound of it. He radiates an enormous self-satisfaction, cheering, + reassuring, healing by the mere incompatibility of disease or anxiety with + his welcome presence. Even broken bones, it is said, have been known to + unite at the sound of his voice: he is a born healer, as independent of + mere treatment and skill as any Christian scientist. When he expands into + oratory or scientific exposition, he is as energetic as Walpole; but it is + with a bland, voluminous, atmospheric energy, which envelops its subject + and its audience, and makes interruption or inattention impossible, and + imposes veneration and credulity on all but the strongest minds. He is + known in the medical world as B. B.; and the envy roused by his success in + practice is softened by the conviction that he is, scientifically + considered, a colossal humbug: the fact being that, though he knows just + as much (and just as little) as his contemporaries, the qualifications + that pass muster in common men reveal their weakness when hung on his + egregious personality. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Aha! Sir Colenso. Sir Colenso, eh? Welcome to the order of + knighthood. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [shaking hands] Thank you, B. B. + </p> + <p> + B. B. What! Sir Patrick! And how are we to-day? a little chilly? a little + stiff? but hale and still the cleverest of us all. [Sir Patrick grunts]. + What! Walpole! the absent-minded beggar: eh? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. What does that mean? + </p> + <p> + B. B. Have you forgotten the lovely opera singer I sent you to have that + growth taken off her vocal cords? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [springing to his feet] Great heavens, man, you dont mean to say + you sent her for a throat operation! + </p> + <p> + B. B. [archly] Aha! Ha ha! Aha! [trilling like a lark as he shakes his + finger at Walpole]. You removed her nuciform sac. Well, well! force of + habit! force of habit! Never mind, ne-e-e-ver mind. She got back her voice + after it, and thinks you the greatest surgeon alive; and so you are, so + you are, so you are. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [in a tragic whisper, intensely serious] Blood-poisoning. I see. I + see. [He sits down again]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. And how is a certain distinguished family getting on under + your care, Sir Ralph? + </p> + <p> + B. B. Our friend Ridgeon will be gratified to hear that I have tried his + opsonin treatment on little Prince Henry with complete success. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [startled and anxious] But how— + </p> + <p> + B. B. [continuing] I suspected typhoid: the head gardener’s boy had it; so + I just called at St Anne’s one day and got a tube of your very excellent + serum. You were out, unfortunately. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I hope they explained to you carefully— + </p> + <p> + B. B. [waving away the absurd suggestion] Lord bless you, my dear fellow, + I didnt need any explanations. I’d left my wife in the carriage at the + door; and I’d no time to be taught my business by your young chaps. I know + all about it. Ive handled these anti-toxins ever since they first came + out. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. But theyre not anti-toxins; and theyre dangerous unless you use + them at the right time. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Of course they are. Everything is dangerous unless you take it at + the right time. An apple at breakfast does you good: an apple at bedtime + upsets you for a week. There are only two rules for anti-toxins. First, + dont be afraid of them: second, inject them a quarter of an hour before + meals, three times a day. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [appalled] Great heavens, B. B., no, no, no. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [sweeping on irresistibly] Yes, yes, yes, Colly. The proof of the + pudding is in the eating, you know. It was an immense success. It acted + like magic on the little prince. Up went his temperature; off to bed I + packed him; and in a week he was all right again, and absolutely immune + from typhoid for the rest of his life. The family were very nice about it: + their gratitude was quite touching; but I said they owed it all to you, + Ridgeon; and I am glad to think that your knighthood is the result. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I am deeply obliged to you. [Overcome, he sits down on the chair + near the couch]. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Not at all, not at all. Your own merit. Come! come! come! dont give + way. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. It’s nothing. I was a little giddy just now. Overwork, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Blood-poisoning. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Overwork! Theres no such thing. I do the work of ten men. Am I + giddy? No. NO. If youre not well, you have a disease. It may be a slight + one; but it’s a disease. And what is a disease? The lodgment in the system + of a pathogenic germ, and the multiplication of that germ. What is the + remedy? A very simple one. Find the germ and kill it. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Suppose theres no germ? + </p> + <p> + B. B. Impossible, Sir Patrick: there must be a germ: else how could the + patient be ill? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Can you shew me the germ of overwork? + </p> + <p> + B. B. No; but why? Why? Because, my dear Sir Patrick, though the germ is + there, it’s invisible. Nature has given it no danger signal for us. These + germs—these bacilli—are translucent bodies, like glass, like + water. To make them visible you must stain them. Well, my dear Paddy, do + what you will, some of them wont stain. They wont take cochineal: they + wont take methylene blue; they wont take gentian violet: they wont take + any coloring matter. Consequently, though we know, as scientific men, that + they exist, we cannot see them. But can you disprove their existence? Can + you conceive the disease existing without them? Can you, for instance, + shew me a case of diphtheria without the bacillus? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. No; but I’ll shew you the same bacillus, without the disease, + in your own throat. + </p> + <p> + B. B. No, not the same, Sir Patrick. It is an entirely different bacillus; + only the two are, unfortunately, so exactly alike that you cannot see the + difference. You must understand, my dear Sir Patrick, that every one of + these interesting little creatures has an imitator. Just as men imitate + each other, germs imitate each other. There is the genuine diphtheria + bacillus discovered by Loeffler; and there is the pseudo-bacillus, exactly + like it, which you could find, as you say, in my own throat. + </p> +<p> + SIR PATRICK. And how do you tell one from the other? +</p> + <p> + B. B. Well, obviously, if the bacillus is the genuine Loeffler, you have + diphtheria; and if it’s the pseudobacillus, youre quite well. Nothing + simpler. Science is always simple and always profound. It is only the + half-truths that are dangerous. Ignorant faddists pick up some superficial + information about germs; and they write to the papers and try to discredit + science. They dupe and mislead many honest and worthy people. But science + has a perfect answer to them on every point. + </p> + + <p class="indent30">A little learning is a dangerous thing; +</p> + <p class="indent30">Drink deep; or taste not the Pierian spring. +</p> + <p> + I mean no disrespect to your generation, Sir Patrick: some of you old + stagers did marvels through sheer professional intuition and clinical + experience; but when I think of the average men of your day, ignorantly + bleeding and cupping and purging, and scattering germs over their patients + from their clothes and instruments, and contrast all that with the + scientific certainty and simplicity of my treatment of the little prince + the other day, I cant help being proud of my own generation: the men who + were trained on the germ theory, the veterans of the great struggle over + Evolution in the seventies. We may have our faults; but at least we are + men of science. That is why I am taking up your treatment, Ridgeon, and + pushing it. It’s scientific. [He sits down on the chair near the couch]. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [at the door, announcing] Dr Blenkinsop. + </p> + <p> + Dr Blenkinsop is a very different case from the others. He is clearly not + a prosperous man. He is flabby and shabby, cheaply fed and cheaply + clothed. He has the lines made by a conscience between his eyes, and the + lines made by continual money worries all over his face, cut all the + deeper as he has seen better days, and hails his well-to-do colleagues as + their contemporary and old hospital friend, though even in this he has to + struggle with the diffidence of poverty and relegation to the poorer + middle class. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. How are you, Blenkinsop? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Ive come to offer my humble congratulations. Oh dear! all the + great guns are before me. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [patronizing, but charming] How d’ye do Blenkinsop? How d’ye do? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. And Sir Patrick, too [Sir Patrick grunts]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Youve met Walpole, of course? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. How d’ye do? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. It’s the first time Ive had that honor. In my poor little + practice there are no chances of meeting you great men. I know nobody but + the St Anne’s men of my own day. [To Ridgeon] And so youre Sir Colenso. + How does it feel? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Foolish at first. Dont take any notice of it. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. I’m ashamed to say I havnt a notion what your great discovery + is; but I congratulate you all the same for the sake of old times. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [shocked] But, my dear Blenkinsop, you used to be rather keen on + science. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Ah, I used to be a lot of things. I used to have two or three + decent suits of clothes, and flannels to go up the river on Sundays. Look + at me now: this is my best; and it must last till Christmas. What can I + do? Ive never opened a book since I was qualified thirty years ago. I used + to read the medical papers at first; but you know how soon a man drops + that; besides, I cant afford them; and what are they after all but trade + papers, full of advertisements? Ive forgotten all my science: whats the + use of my pretending I havnt? But I have great experience: clinical + experience; and bedside experience is the main thing, isn’t it? + </p> + <p> + B. B. No doubt; always provided, mind you, that you have a sound + scientific theory to correlate your observations at the bedside. Mere + experience by itself is nothing. If I take my dog to the bedside with me, + he sees what I see. But he learns nothing from it. Why? Because he’s not a + scientific dog. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. It amuses me to hear you physicians and general practitioners + talking about clinical experience. What do you see at the bedside but the + outside of the patient? Well: it isnt his outside thats wrong, except + perhaps in skin cases. What you want is a daily familiarity with people’s + insides; and that you can only get at the operating table. I know what I’m + talking about: Ive been a surgeon and a consultant for twenty years; and + Ive never known a general practitioner right in his diagnosis yet. Bring + them a perfectly simple case; and they diagnose cancer, and arthritis, and + appendicitis, and every other itis, when any really experienced surgeon + can see that it’s a plain case of blood-poisoning. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Ah, it’s easy for you gentlemen to talk; but what would you + say if you had my practice? Except for the workmen’s clubs, my patients + are all clerks and shopmen. They darent be ill: they cant afford it. And + when they break down, what can I do for them? You can send your people to + St Moritz or to Egypt, or recommend horse exercise or motoring or + champagne jelly or complete change and rest for six months. I might as + well order my people a slice of the moon. And the worst of it is, I’m too + poor to keep well myself on the cooking I have to put up with. Ive such a + wretched digestion; and I look it. How am I to inspire confidence? [He + sits disconsolately on the couch]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [restlessly] Dont, Blenkinsop: its too painful. The most tragic + thing in the world is a sick doctor. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Yes, by George: its like a bald-headed man trying to sell a hair + restorer. Thank God I’m a surgeon! + </p> + <p> + B. B. [sunnily] I am never sick. Never had a day’s illness in my life. + Thats what enables me to sympathize with my patients. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [interested] What! youre never ill? + </p> + <p> + B. B. Never. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Thats interesting. I believe you have no nuciform sac. If you + ever do feel at all queer, I should very much like to have a look. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Thank you, my dear fellow; but I’m too busy just now. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I was just telling them when you came in, Blenkinsop, that I have + worked myself out of sorts. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Well, it seems presumptuous of me to offer a prescription to a + great man like you; but still I have great experience; and if I might + recommend a pound of ripe greengages every day half an hour before lunch, + I’m sure youd find a benefit. Theyre very cheap. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. What do you say to that B. B.? + </p> + <p> + B. B. [encouragingly] Very sensible, Blenkinsop: very sensible indeed. I’m + delighted to see that you disapprove of drugs. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [grunts]! + </p> + <p> + B. B. [archly] Aha! Haha! Did I hear from the fireside armchair the + bow-wow of the old school defending its drugs? Ah, believe me, Paddy, the + world would be healthier if every chemist’s shop in England were + demolished. Look at the papers! full of scandalous advertisements of + patent medicines! a huge commercial system of quackery and poison. Well, + whose fault is it? Ours. I say, ours. We set the example. We spread the + superstition. We taught the people to believe in bottles of doctor’s + stuff; and now they buy it at the stores instead of consulting a medical + man. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Quite true. Ive not prescribed a drug for the last fifteen years. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Drugs can only repress symptoms: they cannot eradicate disease. The + true remedy for all diseases is Nature’s remedy. Nature and Science are at + one, Sir Patrick, believe me; though you were taught differently. Nature + has provided, in the white corpuscles as you call them—in the + phagocytes as we call them—a natural means of devouring and + destroying all disease germs. There is at bottom only one genuinely + scientific treatment for all diseases, and that is to stimulate the + phagocytes. Stimulate the phagocytes. Drugs are a delusion. Find the germ + of the disease; prepare from it a suitable anti-toxin; inject it three + times a day quarter of an hour before meals; and what is the result? The + phagocytes are stimulated; they devour the disease; and the patient + recovers—unless, of course, he’s too far gone. That, I take it, is + the essence of Ridgeon’s discovery. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [dreamily] As I sit here, I seem to hear my poor old father + talking again. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [rising in incredulous amazement] Your father! But, Lord bless my + soul, Paddy, your father must have been an older man than you. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Word for word almost, he said what you say. No more drugs. + Nothing but inoculation. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [almost contemptuously] Inoculation! Do you mean smallpox + inoculation? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Yes. In the privacy of our family circle, sir, my father used + to declare his belief that smallpox inoculation was good, not only for + smallpox, but for all fevers. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [suddenly rising to the new idea with immense interest and + excitement] What! Ridgeon: did you hear that? Sir Patrick: I am more + struck by what you have just told me than I can well express. Your father, + sir, anticipated a discovery of my own. Listen, Walpole. Blenkinsop: + attend one moment. You will all be intensely interested in this. I was put + on the track by accident. I had a typhoid case and a tetanus case side by + side in the hospital: a beadle and a city missionary. Think of what that + meant for them, poor fellows! Can a beadle be dignified with typhoid? Can + a missionary be eloquent with lockjaw? No. NO. Well, I got some typhoid + anti-toxin from Ridgeon and a tube of Muldooley’s anti-tetanus serum. But + the missionary jerked all my things off the table in one of his paroxysms; + and in replacing them I put Ridgeon’s tube where Muldooley’s ought to have + been. The consequence was that I inoculated the typhoid case for tetanus + and the tetanus case for typhoid. [The doctors look greatly concerned. B. + B., undamped, smiles triumphantly]. Well, they recovered. THEY RECOVERED. + Except for a touch of St Vitus’s dance the missionary’s as well to-day as + ever; and the beadle’s ten times the man he was. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Ive known things like that happen. They cant be explained. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [severely] Blenkinsop: there is nothing that cannot be explained by + science. What did I do? Did I fold my hands helplessly and say that the + case could not be explained? By no means. I sat down and used my brains. I + thought the case out on scientific principles. I asked myself why didnt + the missionary die of typhoid on top of tetanus, and the beadle of tetanus + on top of typhoid? Theres a problem for you, Ridgeon. Think, Sir Patrick. + Reflect, Blenkinsop. Look at it without prejudice, Walpole. What is the + real work of the anti-toxin? Simply to stimulate the phagocytes. Very + well. But so long as you stimulate the phagocytes, what does it matter + which particular sort of serum you use for the purpose? Haha! Eh? Do you + see? Do you grasp it? Ever since that Ive used all sorts of anti-toxins + absolutely indiscriminately, with perfectly satisfactory results. I + inoculated the little prince with your stuff, Ridgeon, because I wanted to + give you a lift; but two years ago I tried the experiment of treating a + scarlet fever case with a sample of hydrophobia serum from the Pasteur + Institute, and it answered capitally. It stimulated the phagocytes; and + the phagocytes did the rest. That is why Sir Patrick’s father found that + inoculation cured all fevers. It stimulated the phagocytes. [He throws + himself into his chair, exhausted with the triumph of his demonstration, + and beams magnificently on them]. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [looking in] Mr Walpole: your motor’s come for you; and it’s + frightening Sir Patrick’s horses; so come along quick. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [rising] Good-bye, Ridgeon. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Good-bye; and many thanks. + </p> + <p> + B. B. You see my point, Walpole? + </p> + <p> + EMMY. He cant wait, Sir Ralph. The carriage will be into the area if he + dont come. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. I’m coming. [To B. B.] Theres nothing in your point: phagocytosis + is pure rot: the cases are all blood-poisoning; and the knife is the real + remedy. Bye-bye, Sir Paddy. Happy to have met you, Mr. Blenkinsop. Now, + Emmy. [He goes out, followed by Emmy]. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [sadly] Walpole has no intellect. A mere surgeon. Wonderful + operator; but, after all, what is operating? Only manual labor. Brain—BRAIN + remains master of the situation. The nuciform sac is utter nonsense: + theres no such organ. It’s a mere accidental kink in the membrane, + occurring in perhaps two-and-a-half per cent of the population. Of course + I’m glad for Walpole’s sake that the operation is fashionable; for he’s a + dear good fellow; and after all, as I always tell people, the operation + will do them no harm: indeed, Ive known the nervous shake-up and the + fortnight in bed do people a lot of good after a hard London season; but + still it’s a shocking fraud. [Rising] Well, I must be toddling. Good-bye, + Paddy [Sir Patrick grunts] good-bye, goodbye. Good-bye, my dear + Blenkinsop, good-bye! Goodbye, Ridgeon. Dont fret about your health: you + know what to do: if your liver is sluggish, a little mercury never does + any harm. If you feel restless, try bromide, If that doesnt answer, a + stimulant, you know: a little phosphorus and strychnine. If you cant + sleep, trional, trional, trion— + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [drily] But no drugs, Colly, remember that. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [firmly] Certainly not. Quite right, Sir Patrick. As temporary + expedients, of course; but as treatment, no, No. Keep away from the + chemist’s shop, my dear Ridgeon, whatever you do. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [going to the door with him] I will. And thank you for the + knighthood. Good-bye. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [stopping at the door, with the beam in his eye twinkling a little] + By the way, who’s your patient? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Who? + </p> + <p> + B. B. Downstairs. Charming woman. Tuberculous husband. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Is she there still? + </p> + <p> + Emmy [looking in] Come on, Sir Ralph: your wife’s waiting in the carriage. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [suddenly sobered] Oh! Good-bye. [He goes out almost precipitately]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Emmy: is that woman there still? If so, tell her once for all + that I cant and wont see her. Do you hear? + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Oh, she aint in a hurry: she doesnt mind how long she waits. [She + goes out]. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. I must be off, too: every half-hour I spend away from my work + costs me eighteenpence. Good-bye, Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Good-bye. Good-bye. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Come to lunch with me some day this week. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. I cant afford it, dear boy; and it would put me off my own + food for a week. Thank you all the same. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [uneasy at Blenkinsop’s poverty] Can I do nothing for you? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Well, if you have an old frock-coat to spare? you see what + would be an old one for you would be a new one for me; so remember the + next time you turn out your wardrobe. Good-bye. [He hurries out]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [looking after him] Poor chap! [Turning to Sir Patrick] So thats + why they made me a knight! And thats the medical profession! + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. And a very good profession, too, my lad. When you know as + much as I know of the ignorance and superstition of the patients, youll + wonder that we’re half as good as we are. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. We’re not a profession: we’re a conspiracy. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. All professions are conspiracies against the laity. And we + cant all be geniuses like you. Every fool can get ill; but every fool cant + be a good doctor: there are not enough good ones to go round. And for all + you know, Bloomfield Bonington kills less people than you do. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Oh, very likely. But he really ought to know the difference + between a vaccine and an anti-toxin. Stimulate the phagocytes! The vaccine + doesnt affect the phagocytes at all. He’s all wrong: hopelessly, + dangerously wrong. To put a tube of serum into his hands is murder: simple + murder. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [returning] Now, Sir Patrick. How long more are you going to keep + them horses standing in the draught? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Whats that to you, you old catamaran? + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Come, come, now! none of your temper to me. And it’s time for Colly + to get to his work. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Behave yourself, Emmy. Get out. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Oh, I learnt how to behave myself before I learnt you to do it. I + know what doctors are: sitting talking together about themselves when they + ought to be with their poor patients. And I know what horses are, Sir + Patrick. I was brought up in the country. Now be good; and come along. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [rising] Very well, very well, very well. Good-bye, Colly. [He + pats Ridgeon on the shoulder and goes out, turning for a moment at the + door to look meditatively at Emmy and say, with grave conviction] You are + an ugly old devil, and no mistake. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [highly indignant, calling after him] Youre no beauty yourself. [To + Ridgeon, much flustered] Theyve no manners: they think they can say what + they like to me; and you set them on, you do. I’ll teach them their + places. Here now: are you going to see that poor thing or are you not? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I tell you for the fiftieth time I wont see anybody. Send her + away. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Oh, I’m tired of being told to send her away. What good will that do + her? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Must I get angry with you, Emmy? + </p> + <p> + EMMY [coaxing] Come now: just see her for a minute to please me: theres a + good boy. She’s given me half-a-crown. She thinks it’s life and death to + her husband for her to see you. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Values her husband’s life at half-a-crown! + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Well, it’s all she can afford, poor lamb. Them others think nothing + of half-a-sovereign just to talk about themselves to you, the sluts! + Besides, she’ll put you in a good temper for the day, because it’s a good + deed to see her; and she’s the sort that gets round you. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well, she hasnt done so badly. For half-a-crown she’s had a + consultation with Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington and Cutler Walpole. Thats + six guineas’ worth to start with. I dare say she’s consulted Blenkinsop + too: thats another eighteenpence. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Then youll see her for me, wont you? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Oh, send her up and be hanged. [Emmy trots out, satisfied. + Ridgeon calls] Redpenny! + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY [appearing at the door] What is it? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Theres a patient coming up. If she hasnt gone in five minutes, + come in with an urgent call from the hospital for me. You understand: + she’s to have a strong hint to go. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. Right O! [He vanishes]. + </p> + <p> + Ridgeon goes to the glass, and arranges his tie a little. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [announcing] Mrs Doobidad [Ridgeon leaves the glass and goes to the + writing-table]. + </p> + <p> + The lady comes in. Emmy goes out and shuts the door. Ridgeon, who has put + on an impenetrable and rather distant professional manner, turns to the + lady, and invites her, by a gesture, to sit down on the couch. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Dubedat is beyond all demur an arrestingly good-looking young woman. + She has something of the grace and romance of a wild creature, with a good + deal of the elegance and dignity of a fine lady. Ridgeon, who is extremely + susceptible to the beauty of women, instinctively assumes the defensive at + once, and hardens his manner still more. He has an impression that she is + very well dressed, but she has a figure on which any dress would look + well, and carries herself with the unaffected distinction of a woman who + has never in her life suffered from those doubts and fears as to her + social position which spoil the manners of most middling people. She is + tall, slender, and strong; has dark hair, dressed so as to look like hair + and not like a bird’s nest or a pantaloon’s wig (fashion wavering just + then between these two models); has unexpectedly narrow, subtle, + dark-fringed eyes that alter her expression disturbingly when she is + excited and flashes them wide open; is softly impetuous in her speech and + swift in her movements; and is just now in mortal anxiety. She carries a + portfolio. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [in low urgent tones] Doctor— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [curtly] Wait. Before you begin, let me tell you at once that I + can do nothing for you. My hands are full. I sent you that message by my + old servant. You would not take that answer. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. How could I? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. You bribed her. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. That doesnt matter. She coaxed me to see you. Well, you must take + it from me now that with all the good will in the world, I cannot + undertake another case. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Doctor: you must save my husband. You must. When I explain to + you, you will see that you must. It is not an ordinary case, not like any + other case. He is not like anybody else in the world: oh, believe me, he + is not. I can prove it to you: [fingering her portfolio] I have brought + some things to shew you. And you can save him: the papers say you can. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Whats the matter? Tuberculosis? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes. His left lung— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON Yes: you neednt tell me about that. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. You can cure him, if only you will. It is true that you can, + isnt it? [In great distress] Oh, tell me, please. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [warningly] You are going to be quiet and self-possessed, arnt + you? + </p> + <p> + MRs DUBEDAT. Yes. I beg your pardon. I know I shouldnt—[Giving way + again] Oh, please, say that you can; and then I shall be all right. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [huffily] I am not a curemonger: if you want cures, you must go to + the people who sell them. [Recovering himself, ashamed of the tone of his + own voice] But I have at the hospital ten tuberculous patients whose lives + I believe I can save. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Thank God! + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Wait a moment. Try to think of those ten patients as ten + shipwrecked men on a raft—a raft that is barely large enough to save + them—that will not support one more. Another head bobs up through + the waves at the side. Another man begs to be taken aboard. He implores + the captain of the raft to save him. But the captain can only do that by + pushing one of his ten off the raft and drowning him to make room for the + new comer. That is what you are asking me to do. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. But how can that be? I dont understand. Surely— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. You must take my word for it that it is so. My laboratory, my + staff, and myself are working at full pressure. We are doing our utmost. + The treatment is a new one. It takes time, means, and skill; and there is + not enough for another case. Our ten cases are already chosen cases. Do + you understand what I mean by chosen? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Chosen. No: I cant understand. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [sternly] You must understand. Youve got to understand and to face + it. In every single one of those ten cases I have had to consider, not + only whether the man could be saved, but whether he was worth saving. + There were fifty cases to choose from; and forty had to be condemned to + death. Some of the forty had young wives and helpless children. If the + hardness of their cases could have saved them they would have been saved + ten times over. Ive no doubt your case is a hard one: I can see the tears + in your eyes [she hastily wipes her eyes]: I know that you have a torrent + of entreaties ready for me the moment I stop speaking; but it’s no use. + You must go to another doctor. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. But can you give me the name of another doctor who + understands your secret? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I have no secret: I am not a quack. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I beg your pardon: I didnt mean to say anything wrong. I dont + understand how to speak to you. Oh, pray dont be offended. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [again a little ashamed] There! there! never mind. [He relaxes and + sits down]. After all, I’m talking nonsense: I daresay I AM a quack, a + quack with a qualification. But my discovery is not patented. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Then can any doctor cure my husband? Oh, why dont they do it? + I have tried so many: I have spent so much. If only you would give me the + name of another doctor. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Every man in this street is a doctor. But outside myself and the + handful of men I am training at St Anne’s, there is nobody as yet who has + mastered the opsonin treatment. And we are full up? I’m sorry; but that is + all I can say. [Rising] Good morning. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [suddenly and desperately taking some drawings from her + portfolio] Doctor: look at these. You understand drawings: you have good + ones in your waiting-room. Look at them. They are his work. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. It’s no use my looking. [He looks, all the same] Hallo! [He takes + one to the window and studies it]. Yes: this is the real thing. Yes, yes. + [He looks at another and returns to her]. These are very clever. Theyre + unfinished, arnt they? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. He gets tired so soon. But you see, dont you, what a genius + he is? You see that he is worth saving. Oh, doctor, I married him just to + help him to begin: I had money enough to tide him over the hard years at + the beginning—to enable him to follow his inspiration until his + genius was recognized. And I was useful to him as a model: his drawings of + me sold quite quickly. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Have you got one? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [producing another] Only this one. It was the first. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [devouring it with his eyes] Thats a wonderful drawing. Why is it + called Jennifer? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. My name is Jennifer. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. A strange name. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Not in Cornwall. I am Cornish. It’s only what you call + Guinevere. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [repeating the names with a certain pleasure in them] Guinevere. + Jennifer. [Looking again at the drawing] Yes: it’s really a wonderful + drawing. Excuse me; but may I ask is it for sale? I’ll buy it. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, take it. It’s my own: he gave it to me. Take it. Take + them all. Take everything; ask anything; but save him. You can: you will: + you must. + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY [entering with every sign of alarm] Theyve just telephoned from + the hospital that youre to come instantly—a patient on the point of + death. The carriage is waiting. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [intolerantly] Oh, nonsense: get out. [Greatly annoyed] What do + you mean by interrupting me like this? + </p> + <p> + REDPENNY. But— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Chut! cant you see I’m engaged? Be off. + </p> + <p> + Redpenny, bewildered, vanishes. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [rising] Doctor: one instant only before you go— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Sit down. It’s nothing. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. But the patient. He said he was dying. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Oh, he’s dead by this time. Never mind. Sit down. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [sitting down and breaking down] Oh, you none of you care. You + see people die every day. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [petting her] Nonsense! it’s nothing: I told him to come in and + say that. I thought I should want to get rid of you. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [shocked at the falsehood] Oh! +</p> + <p> +RIDGEON [continuing] Dont look + so bewildered: theres nobody dying. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. My husband is. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [pulling himself together] Ah, yes: I had forgotten your husband. + Mrs Dubedat: you are asking me to do a very serious thing. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I am asking you to save the life of a great man. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. You are asking me to kill another man for his sake; for as surely + as I undertake another case, I shall have to hand back one of the old ones + to the ordinary treatment. Well, I dont shrink from that. I have had to do + it before; and I will do it again if you can convince me that his life is + more important than the worst life I am now saving. But you must convince + me first. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. He made those drawings; and they are not the best—nothing + like the best; only I did not bring the really best: so few people like + them. He is twenty-three: his whole life is before him. Wont you let me + bring him to you? wont you speak to him? wont you see for yourself? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Is he well enough to come to a dinner at the Star and Garter at + Richmond? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh yes. Why? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I’ll tell you. I am inviting all my old friends to a dinner to + celebrate my knighthood—youve seen about it in the papers, havnt + you? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, oh yes. That was how I found out about you. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. It will be a doctors’ dinner; and it was to have been a + bachelors’ dinner. I’m a bachelor. Now if you will entertain for me, and + bring your husband, he will meet me; and he will meet some of the most + eminent men in my profession: Sir Patrick Cullen, Sir Ralph Bloomfield + Bonington, Cutler Walpole, and others. I can put the case to them; and + your husband will have to stand or fall by what we think of him. Will you + come? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, of course I will come. Oh, thank you, thank you. And may + I bring some of his drawings—the really good ones? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes. I will let you know the date in the course of to-morrow. + Leave me your address. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Thank you again and again. You have made me so happy: I know + you will admire him and like him. This is my address. [She gives him her + card]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Thank you. [He rings]. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [embarrassed] May I—is there—should I—I mean—[she + blushes and stops in confusion]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Whats the matter? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Your fee for this consultation? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Oh, I forgot that. Shall we say a beautiful drawing of his + favorite model for the whole treatment, including the cure? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. You are very generous. Thank you. I know you will cure him. + Good-bye. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I will. Good-bye. [They shake hands]. By the way, you know, dont + you, that tuberculosis is catching. You take every precaution, I hope. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I am not likely to forget it. They treat us like lepers at + the hotels. + </p> + <p> + EMMY [at the door] Well, deary: have you got round him? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes. Attend to the door and hold your tongue. + </p> + <p> + EMMY. Thats a good boy. [She goes out with Mrs Dubedat]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [alone] Consultation free. Cure guaranteed. [He heaves a great + sigh]. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> + ACT II + </h2> + <p> + After dinner on the terrace at the Star and Garter, Richmond. Cloudless + summer night; nothing disturbs the stillness except from time to time the + long trajectory of a distant train and the measured clucking of oars + coming up from the Thames in the valley below. The dinner is over; and + three of the eight chairs are empty. Sir Patrick, with his back to the + view, is at the head of the square table with Ridgeon. The two chairs + opposite them are empty. On their right come, first, a vacant chair, and + then one very fully occupied by B. B., who basks blissfully in the + moonbeams. On their left, Schutzmacher and Walpole. The entrance to the + hotel is on their right, behind B. B. The five men are silently enjoying + their coffee and cigarets, full of food, and not altogether void of wine. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Dubedat, wrapped up for departure, comes in. They rise, except Sir + Patrick; but she takes one of the vacant places at the foot of the table, + next B. B.; and they sit down again. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [as she enters] Louis will be here presently. He is shewing Dr + Blenkinsop how to work the telephone. [She sits.] Oh, I am so sorry we + have to go. It seems such a shame, this beautiful night. And we have + enjoyed ourselves so much. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I dont believe another half-hour would do Mr Dubedat a bit of + harm. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Come now, Colly, come! come! none of that. You take your man + home, Mrs Dubedat; and get him to bed before eleven. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Yes, yes. Bed before eleven. Quite right, quite right. Sorry to lose + you, my dear lady; but Sir Patrick’s orders are the laws of—er—of + Tyre and Sidon. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Let me take you home in my motor. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. No. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Walpole. Your motor + will take Mr and Mrs Dubedat to the station, and quite far enough too for + an open carriage at night. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, I am sure the train is best. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well, Mrs Dubedat, we have had a most enjoyable evening. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. {Most enjoyable. +</p> + <p> +B. B. {Delightful. Charming. Unforgettable. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [with a touch of shy anxiety] What did you think of Louis? Or + am I wrong to ask? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Wrong! Why, we are all charmed with him. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Delighted. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Most happy to have met him. A privilege, a real privilege. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [grunts]! + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [quickly] Sir Patrick: are YOU uneasy about him? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [discreetly] I admire his drawings greatly, maam. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes; but I meant— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. You shall go away quite happy. He’s worth saving. He must and + shall be saved. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Dubedat rises and gasps with delight, relief, and gratitude. They all + rise except Sir Patrick and Schutzmacher, and come reassuringly to her. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Certainly, CER-tainly. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Theres no real difficulty, if only you know what to do. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, how can I ever thank you! From this night I can begin to + be happy at last. You dont know what I feel. + </p> + <p> + She sits down in tears. They crowd about her to console her. + </p> + <p> + B. B. My dear lady: come come! come come! [very persuasively] come come! + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Dont mind us. Have a good cry. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No: dont cry. Your husband had better not know that weve been + talking about him. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [quickly pulling herself together] No, of course not. Please + dont mind me. What a glorious thing it must be to be a doctor! [They + laugh]. Dont laugh. You dont know what youve done for me. I never knew + until now how deadly afraid I was—how I had come to dread the worst. + I never dared let myself know. But now the relief has come: now I know. + </p> + <p> + Louis Dubedat comes from the hotel, in his overcoat, his throat wrapped in + a shawl. He is a slim young man of 23, physically still a stripling, and + pretty, though not effeminate. He has turquoise blue eyes, and a trick of + looking you straight in the face with them, which, combined with a frank + smile, is very engaging. Although he is all nerves, and very observant and + quick of apprehension, he is not in the least shy. He is younger than + Jennifer; but he patronizes her as a matter of course. The doctors do not + put him out in the least: neither Sir Patrick’s years nor Bloomfield + Bonington’s majesty have the smallest apparent effect on him: he is as + natural as a cat: he moves among men as most men move among things, though + he is intentionally making himself agreeable to them on this occasion. + Like all people who can be depended on to take care of themselves, he is + welcome company; and his artist’s power of appealing to the imagination + gains him credit for all sorts of qualities and powers, whether he + possesses them or not. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [pulling on his gloves behind Ridgeon’s chair] Now, Jinny-Gwinny: + the motor has come round. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Why do you let him spoil your beautiful name like that, Mrs + Dubedat? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, on grand occasions I am Jennifer. + </p> + <p> + B. B. You are a bachelor: you do not understand these things, Ridgeon. + Look at me [They look]. I also have two names. In moments of domestic + worry, I am simple Ralph. When the sun shines in the home, I am + Beedle-Deedle-Dumkins. Such is married life! Mr Dubedat: may I ask you to + do me a favor before you go. Will you sign your name to this menu card, + under the sketch you have made of me? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Yes; and mine too, if you will be so good. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Certainly. [He sits down and signs the cards]. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Wont you sign Dr Schutzmacher’s for him, Louis? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. I dont think Dr Schutzmacher is pleased with his portrait. I’ll + tear it up. [He reaches across the table for Schutzmacher’s menu card, and + is about to tear it. Schutzmacher makes no sign]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No, no: if Loony doesnt want it, I do. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. I’ll sign it for you with pleasure. [He signs and hands it to + Ridgeon]. Ive just been making a little note of the river to-night: it + will work up into something good [he shews a pocket sketch-book]. I think + I’ll call it the Silver Danube. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Ah, charming, charming. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Very sweet. Youre a nailer at pastel. + </p> + <p> + Louis coughs, first out of modesty, then from tuberculosis. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Now then, Mr Dubedat: youve had enough of the night air. Take + him home, maam. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes. Come, Louis. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Never fear. Never mind. I’ll make that cough all right. + </p> + <p> + B. B. We will stimulate the phagocytes. [With tender effusion, shaking her + hand] Good-night, Mrs Dubedat. Good-night. Good-night. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. If the phagocytes fail, come to me. I’ll put you right. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Good-night, Sir Patrick. Happy to have met you. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Night [half a grunt]. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Good-night, Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Cover yourself well up. Dont think your lungs are made of + iron because theyre better than his. Good-night. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Thank you. Thank you. Nothing hurts me. Good-night. + </p> + <p> + Louis goes out through the hotel without noticing Schutzmacher. Mrs + Dubedat hesitates, then bows to him. Schutzmacher rises and bows formally, + German fashion. She goes out, attended by Ridgeon. The rest resume their + seats, ruminating or smoking quietly. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [harmoniously] Dee-lightful couple! Charming woman! Gifted lad! + Remarkable talent! Graceful outlines! Perfect evening! Great success! + Interesting case! Glorious night! Exquisite scenery! Capital dinner! + Stimulating conversation! Restful outing! Good wine! Happy ending! + Touching gratitude! Lucky Ridgeon— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [returning] Whats that? Calling me, B. B.? [He goes back to his + seat next Sir Patrick]. + </p> + <p> + B. B. No, no. Only congratulating you on a most successful evening! + Enchanting woman! Thorough breeding! Gentle nature! Refined— + </p> + <p> + Blenkinsop comes from the hotel and takes the empty chair next Ridgeon. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. I’m so sorry to have left you like this, Ridgeon; but it was a + telephone message from the police. Theyve found half a milkman at our + level crossing with a prescription of mine in its pocket. Wheres Mr + Dubedat? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Gone. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP [rising, very pale] Gone! + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Just this moment— + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Perhaps I could overtake him—[he rushes into the hotel]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [calling after him] He’s in the motor, man, miles off. You can—[giving + it up]. No use. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Theyre really very nice people. I confess I was afraid the + husband would turn out an appalling bounder. But he’s almost as charming + in his way as she is in hers. And theres no mistake about his being a + genius. It’s something to have got a case really worth saving. Somebody + else will have to go; but at all events it will be easy to find a worse + man. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. How do you know? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Come now, Sir Paddy, no growling. Have something more to drink. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. No, thank you. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Do you see anything wrong with Dubedat, B. B.? + </p> + <p> + B. B. Oh, a charming young fellow. Besides, after all, what could be wrong + with him? Look at him. What could be wrong with him? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. There are two things that can be wrong with any man. One of + them is a cheque. The other is a woman. Until you know that a man’s sound + on these two points, you know nothing about him. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Ah, cynic, cynic! + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. He’s all right as to the cheque, for a while at all events. He + talked to me quite frankly before dinner as to the pressure of money + difficulties on an artist. He says he has no vices and is very economical, + but that theres one extravagance he cant afford and yet cant resist; and + that is dressing his wife prettily. So I said, bang plump out, “Let me + lend you twenty pounds, and pay me when your ship comes home.” He was + really very nice about it. He took it like a man; and it was a pleasure to + see how happy it made him, poor chap. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [who has listened to Walpole with growing perturbation] But—but—but—when + was this, may I ask? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. When I joined you that time down by the river. + </p> + <p> + B. B. But, my dear Walpole, he had just borrowed ten pounds from me. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. What! + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [grunts]! + </p> + <p> + B. B. [indulgently] Well, well, it was really hardly borrowing; for he + said heaven only knew when he could pay me. I couldnt refuse. It appears + that Mrs Dubedat has taken a sort of fancy to me— + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [quickly] No: it was to me. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Certainly not. Your name was never mentioned between us. He is so + wrapped up in his work that he has to leave her a good deal alone; and the + poor innocent young fellow—he has of course no idea of my position + or how busy I am—actually wanted me to call occasionally and talk to + her. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Exactly what he said to me! + </p> + <p> + B. B. Pooh! Pooh pooh! Really, I must say. [Much disturbed, he rises and + goes up to the balustrade, contemplating the landscape vexedly]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Look here, Ridgeon! this is beginning to look serious. + </p> + <p> + Blenkinsop, very anxious and wretched, but trying to look unconcerned, + comes back. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well, did you catch him? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. No. Excuse my running away like that. [He sits down at the + foot of the table, next Bloomfeld Bonington’s chair]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Anything the matter? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Oh no. A trifle—something ridiculous. It cant be helped. + Never mind. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Was it anything about Dubedat? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP [almost breaking down] I ought to keep it to myself, I know. I + cant tell you, Ridgeon, how ashamed I am of dragging my miserable poverty + to your dinner after all your kindness. It’s not that you wont ask me + again; but it’s so humiliating. And I did so look forward to one evening + in my dress clothes (THEYRE still presentable, you see) with all my + troubles left behind, just like old times. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. But what has happened? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Oh, nothing. It’s too ridiculous. I had just scraped up four + shillings for this little outing; and it cost me one-and-fourpence to get + here. Well, Dubedat asked me to lend him half-a-crown to tip the + chambermaid of the room his wife left her wraps in, and for the cloakroom. + He said he only wanted it for five minutes, as she had his purse. So of + course I lent it to him. And he’s forgotten to pay me. I’ve just tuppence + to get back with. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Oh, never mind that— + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP [stopping him resolutely] No: I know what youre going to say; + but I wont take it. Ive never borrowed a penny; and I never will. Ive + nothing left but my friends; and I wont sell them. If none of you were to + be able to meet me without being afraid that my civility was leading up to + the loan of five shillings, there would be an end of everything for me. + I’ll take your old clothes, Colly, sooner than disgrace you by talking to + you in the street in my own; but I wont borrow money. I’ll train it as far + as the twopence will take me; and I’ll tramp the rest. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Youll do the whole distance in my motor. [They are all greatly + relieved; and Walpole hastens to get away from the painful subject by + adding] Did he get anything out of you, Mr Schutzmacher? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER [shakes his head in a most expressive negative]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. You didnt appreciate his drawing, I think. + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Oh yes I did. I should have liked very much to have kept the + sketch and got it autographed. + </p> + <p> + B. B. But why didnt you? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Well, the fact is, when I joined Dubedat after his + conversation with Mr Walpole, he said the Jews were the only people who + knew anything about art, and that though he had to put up with your + Philistine twaddle, as he called it, it was what I said about the drawings + that really pleased him. He also said that his wife was greatly struck + with my knowledge, and that she always admired Jews. Then he asked me to + advance him 50 pounds on the security of the drawings. + </p> + <p> + B. B. { [All } No, no. Positively! Seriously! +</p> + <p> +WALPOLE { exclaiming } What! Another fifty! +</p> + <p> +BLENKINSOP { together] } Think of that! +</p> + <p> +SIR PATRICK { } [grunts]! + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Of course I couldnt lend money to a stranger like that. + </p> + <p> + B. B. I envy you the power to say No, Mr Schutzmacher. Of course, I knew I + oughtnt to lend money to a young fellow in that way; but I simply hadnt + the nerve to refuse. I couldnt very well, you know, could I? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. I dont understand that. I felt that I couldnt very well lend + it. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. What did he say? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Well, he made a very uncalled-for remark about a Jew not + understanding the feelings of a gentleman. I must say you Gentiles are + very hard to please. You say we are no gentlemen when we lend money; and + when we refuse to lend it you say just the same. I didnt mean to behave + badly. As I told him, I might have lent it to him if he had been a Jew + himself. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [with a grunt] And what did he say to that? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Oh, he began trying to persuade me that he was one of the + chosen people—that his artistic faculty shewed it, and that his name + was as foreign as my own. He said he didnt really want 50 pounds; that he + was only joking; that all he wanted was a couple of sovereigns. + </p> + <p> + B. B. No, no, Mr Schutzmacher. You invented that last touch. Seriously, + now? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. No. You cant improve on Nature in telling stories about + gentlemen like Mr Dubedat. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. You certainly do stand by one another, you chosen people, Mr + Schutzmacher. + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Not at all. Personally, I like Englishmen better than Jews, + and always associate with them. Thats only natural, because, as I am a + Jew, theres nothing interesting in a Jew to me, whereas there is always + something interesting and foreign in an Englishman. But in money matters + it’s quite different. You see, when an Englishman borrows, all he knows or + cares is that he wants money; and he’ll sign anything to get it, without + in the least understanding it, or intending to carry out the agreement if + it turns out badly for him. In fact, he thinks you a cad if you ask him to + carry it out under such circumstances. Just like the Merchant of Venice, + you know. But if a Jew makes an agreement, he means to keep it and expects + you to keep it. If he wants money for a time, he borrows it and knows he + must pay it at the end of the time. If he knows he cant pay, he begs it as + a gift. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Come, Loony! do you mean to say that Jews are never rogues and + thieves? + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Oh, not at all. But I was not talking of criminals. I was + comparing honest Englishmen with honest Jews. + </p> + <p> + One of the hotel maids, a pretty, fair-haired woman of about 25, comes + from the hotel, rather furtively. She accosts Ridgeon. + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. I beg your pardon, sir— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Eh? + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. I beg pardon, sir. It’s not about the hotel. I’m not allowed to + be on the terrace; and I should be discharged if I were seen speaking to + you, unless you were kind enough to say you called me to ask whether the + motor has come back from the station yet. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Has it? + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well, what do you want? + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. Would you mind, sir, giving me the address of the gentleman that + was with you at dinner? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [sharply] Yes, of course I should mind very much. You have no + right to ask. + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. Yes, sir, I know it looks like that. But what am I to do? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Whats the matter with you? + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. Nothing, sir. I want the address: thats all. + </p> + <p> + B. B. You mean the young gentleman? + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. Yes, sir: that went to catch the train with the woman he brought + with him. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. The woman! Do you mean the lady who dined here? the gentleman’s + wife? + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. Dont believe them, sir. She cant be his wife. I’m his wife. + </p> + <p> + B. B. {[in amazed remonstrance] My good girl! +</p> + <p> +RIDGEON {You his wife! +</p> + <p> + WALPOLE {What! whats that? Oh, this is getting perfectly fascinating, + Ridgeon. + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. I could run upstairs and get you my marriage lines in a minute, + sir, if you doubt my word. He’s Mr Louis Dubedat, isnt he? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes. + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. Well, sir, you may believe me or not; but I’m the lawful Mrs + Dubedat. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. And why arnt you living with your husband? + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. We couldnt afford it, sir. I had thirty pounds saved; and we + spent it all on our honeymoon in three weeks, and a lot more that he + borrowed. Then I had to go back into service, and he went to London to get + work at his drawing; and he never wrote me a line or sent me an address. I + never saw nor heard of him again until I caught sight of him from the + window going off in the motor with that woman. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Well, thats two wives to start with. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Now upon my soul I dont want to be uncharitable; but really I’m + beginning to suspect that our young friend is rather careless. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Beginning to think! How long will it take you, man, to find + out that he’s a damned young blackguard? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Oh, thats severe, Sir Patrick, very severe. Of course it’s + bigamy; but still he’s very young; and she’s very pretty. Mr Walpole: may + I spunge on you for another of those nice cigarets of yours? [He changes + his seat for the one next Walpole]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Certainly. [He feels in his pockets]. Oh bother! Where—? + [Suddenly remembering] I say: I recollect now: I passed my cigaret case to + Dubedat and he didnt return it. It was a gold one. + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. He didnt mean any harm: he never thinks about things like that, + sir. I’ll get it back for you, sir, if youll tell me where to find him. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. What am I to do? Shall I give her the address or not? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Give her your own address; and then we’ll see. [To the maid] + Youll have to be content with that for the present, my girl. [Ridgeon + gives her his card]. Whats your name? + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. Minnie Tinwell, sir. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Well, you write him a letter to care of this gentleman; and + it will be sent on. Now be off with you. + </p> + <p> + THE MAID. Thank you, sir. I’m sure you wouldnt see me wronged. Thank you + all, gentlemen; and excuse the liberty. + </p> + <p> + [She goes into the hotel. They watch her in silence.] + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [when she is gone] Do you realize, chaps, that we have promised + Mrs Dubedat to save this fellow’s life? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Whats the matter with him? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Tuberculosis. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP [interested] And can you cure that? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I believe so. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Then I wish youd cure me. My right lung is touched, I’m sorry + to say. + </p> + + <p> +RIDGEON } [all together] { What! Your lung is going? +</p> + <p> +B.B } { My dear Blenkinsop, what do you tell me? [full of concern for +Blenkinsop he comes back from the balustrade]. +</p> + <p> +SIR PATRICK } { Eh? Eh? Whats that? +</p> + <p> +WALPOLE } { Hullo, you mustn’t neglect this, you know. +</p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP [putting his fingers in his ears] No, no: it’s no use. I know + what youre going to say: Ive said it often to others. I cant afford to + take care of myself; and theres an end of it. If a fortnight’s holiday + would save my life, I’d have to die. I shall get on as others have to get + on. We cant all go to St Moritz or to Egypt, you know, Sir Ralph. Dont + talk about it. + </p> + <p> + Embarrassed silence. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [grunts and looks hard at Ridgeon]! + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER [looking at his watch and rising] I must go. It’s been a very + pleasant evening, Colly. You might let me have my portrait if you dont + mind. I’ll send Mr Dubedat that couple of sovereigns for it. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [giving him the menu card] Oh dont do that, Loony. I dont think + he’d like that. + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER. Well, of course I shant if you feel that way about it. But I + dont think you understand Dubedat. However, perhaps thats because I’m a + Jew. Good-night, Dr Blenkinsop [shaking hands]. + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Good-night, sir—I mean—Good-night. + </p> + <p> + SCHUTZMACHER [waving his hand to the rest] Goodnight, everybody. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE { B. B. { SIR PATRICK { RIDGEON {Good-night. + </p> + <p> + B. B. repeats the salutation several times, in varied musical tones. + Schutzmacher goes out. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Its time for us all to move. [He rises and comes between + Blenkinsop and Walpole. Ridgeon also rises]. Mr Walpole: take Blenkinsop + home: he’s had enough of the open air cure for to-night. Have you a thick + overcoat to wear in the motor, Dr Blenkinsop? + </p> + <p> + BLENKINSOP. Oh, theyll give me some brown paper in the hotel; and a few + thicknesses of brown paper across the chest are better than any fur coat. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Well, come along. Good-night, Colly. Youre coming with us, arnt + you, B. B.? + </p> + <p> + B. B. Yes: I’m coming. [Walpole and Blenkinsop go into the hotel]. + Good-night, my dear Ridgeon [shaking hands affectionately]. Dont let us + lose sight of your interesting patient and his very charming wife. We must + not judge him too hastily, you know. [With unction] G o o o o o o o o + d-night, Paddy. Bless you, dear old chap. [Sir Patrick utters a formidable + grunt. B. B. laughs and pats him indulgently on the shoulder] Good-night. + Good-night. Good-night. Good-night. [He good-nights himself into the + hotel]. + </p> + <p> + The others have meanwhile gone without ceremony. Ridgeon and Sir Patrick + are left alone together. Ridgeon, deep in thought, comes down to Sir + Patrick. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Well, Mr Savior of Lives: which is it to be? that honest + decent man Blenkinsop, or that rotten blackguard of an artist, eh? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Its not an easy case to judge, is it? Blenkinsop’s an honest + decent man; but is he any use? Dubedat’s a rotten blackguard; but he’s a + genuine source of pretty and pleasant and good things. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. What will he be a source of for that poor innocent wife of + his, when she finds him out? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Thats true. Her life will be a hell. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. And tell me this. Suppose you had this choice put before you: + either to go through life and find all the pictures bad but all the men + and women good, or to go through life and find all the pictures good and + all the men and women rotten. Which would you choose? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Thats a devilishly difficult question, Paddy. The pictures are so + agreeable, and the good people so infernally disagreeable and mischievous, + that I really cant undertake to say offhand which I should prefer to do + without. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Come come! none of your cleverness with me: I’m too old for + it. Blenkinsop isnt that sort of good man; and you know it. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. It would be simpler if Blenkinsop could paint Dubedat’s pictures. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. It would be simpler still if Dubedat had some of Blenkinsop’s + honesty. The world isnt going to be made simple for you, my lad: you must + take it as it is. Youve to hold the scales between Blenkinsop and Dubedat. + Hold them fairly. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well, I’ll be as fair as I can. I’ll put into one scale all the + pounds Dubedat has borrowed, and into the other all the half-crowns that + Blenkinsop hasnt borrowed. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. And youll take out of Dubedat’s scale all the faith he has + destroyed and the honor he has lost, and youll put into Blenkinsop’s scale + all the faith he has justified and the honor he has created. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Come come, Paddy! none of your claptrap with me: I’m too + sceptical for it. I’m not at all convinced that the world wouldnt be a + better world if everybody behaved as Dubedat does than it is now that + everybody behaves as Blenkinsop does. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Then why dont you behave as Dubedat does? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Ah, that beats me. Thats the experimental test. Still, it’s a + dilemma. It’s a dilemma. You see theres a complication we havnt mentioned. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Whats that? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well, if I let Blenkinsop die, at least nobody can say I did it + because I wanted to marry his widow. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Eh? Whats that? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Now if I let Dubedat die, I’ll marry his widow. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Perhaps she wont have you, you know. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [with a self-assured shake of the head] I’ve a pretty good flair + for that sort of thing. I know when a woman is interested in me. She is. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Well, sometimes a man knows best; and sometimes he knows + worst. Youd much better cure them both. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I cant. I’m at my limit. I can squeeze in one more case, but not + two. I must choose. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Well, you must choose as if she didnt exist: thats clear. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Is that clear to you? Mind: it’s not clear to me. She troubles my + judgment. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. To me, it’s a plain choice between a man and a lot of + pictures. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. It’s easier to replace a dead man than a good picture. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Colly: when you live in an age that runs to pictures and + statues and plays and brass bands because its men and women are not good + enough to comfort its poor aching soul, you should thank Providence that + you belong to a profession which is a high and great profession because + its business is to heal and mend men and women. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. In short, as a member of a high and great profession, I’m to kill + my patient. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Dont talk wicked nonsense. You cant kill him. But you can + leave him in other hands. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. In B. B.’s, for instance: eh? [looking at him significantly]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [demurely facing his look] Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington is a + very eminent physician. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. He is. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. I’m going for my hat. + </p> + <p> + Ridgeon strikes the bell as Sir Patrick makes for the hotel. A waiter + comes. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [to the waiter] My bill, please. + </p> + <p> + WAITER. Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + He goes for it. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> + ACT III + </h2> + <p> + In Dubedat’s studio. Viewed from the large window the outer door is in the + wall on the left at the near end. The door leading to the inner rooms is + in the opposite wall, at the far end. The facing wall has neither window + nor door. The plaster on all the walls is uncovered and undecorated, + except by scrawlings of charcoal sketches and memoranda. There is a studio + throne (a chair on a dais) a little to the left, opposite the inner door, + and an easel to the right, opposite the outer door, with a dilapidated + chair at it. Near the easel and against the wall is a bare wooden table + with bottles and jars of oil and medium, paint-smudged rags, tubes of + color, brushes, charcoal, a small lay figure, a kettle and spirit-lamp, + and other odds and ends. By the table is a sofa, littered with drawing + blocks, sketch-books, loose sheets of paper, newspapers, books, and more + smudged rags. Next the outer door is an umbrella and hat stand, occupied + partly by Louis’ hats and cloak and muffler, and partly by odds and ends + of costumes. There is an old piano stool on the near side of this door. In + the corner near the inner door is a little tea-table. A lay figure, in a + cardinal’s robe and hat, with an hour-glass in one hand and a scythe slung + on its back, smiles with inane malice at Louis, who, in a milkman’s smock + much smudged with colors, is painting a piece of brocade which he has + draped about his wife. + </p> + <p> + She is sitting on the throne, not interested in the painting, and + appealing to him very anxiously about another matter. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Promise. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [putting on a touch of paint with notable skill and care and + answering quite perfunctorily] I promise, my darling. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. When you want money, you will always come to me. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. But it’s so sordid, dearest. I hate money. I cant keep always + bothering you for money, money, money. Thats what drives me sometimes to + ask other people, though I hate doing it. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. It is far better to ask me, dear. It gives people a wrong + idea of you. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. But I want to spare your little fortune, and raise money on my own + work. Dont be unhappy, love: I can easily earn enough to pay it all back. + I shall have a one-man-show next season; and then there will be no more + money troubles. [Putting down his palette] There! I mustnt do any more on + that until it’s bone-dry; so you may come down. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [throwing off the drapery as she steps down, and revealing a + plain frock of tussore silk] But you have promised, remember, seriously + and faithfully, never to borrow again until you have first asked me. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Seriously and faithfully. [Embracing her] Ah, my love, how right + you are! how much it means to me to have you by me to guard me against + living too much in the skies. On my solemn oath, from this moment forth I + will never borrow another penny. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [delighted] Ah, thats right. Does his wicked worrying wife + torment him and drag him down from the clouds? [She kisses him]. And now, + dear, wont you finish those drawings for Maclean? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh, they dont matter. Ive got nearly all the money from him in + advance. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. But, dearest, that is just the reason why you should finish + them. He asked me the other day whether you really intended to finish + them. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Confound his impudence! What the devil does he take me for? Now + that just destroys all my interest in the beastly job. Ive a good mind to + throw up the commission, and pay him back his money. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. We cant afford that, dear. You had better finish the drawings + and have done with them. I think it is a mistake to accept money in + advance. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. But how are we to live? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Well, Louis, it is getting hard enough as it is, now that + they are all refusing to pay except on delivery. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Damn those fellows! they think of nothing and care for nothing but + their wretched money. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Still, if they pay us, they ought to have what they pay for. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [coaxing;] There now: thats enough lecturing for to-day. Ive + promised to be good, havnt I? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUDEBAT [putting her arms round his neck] You know that I hate + lecturing, and that I dont for a moment misunderstand you, dear, dont you? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [fondly] I know. I know. I’m a wretch; and youre an angel. Oh, if + only I were strong enough to work steadily, I’d make my darling’s house a + temple, and her shrine a chapel more beautiful than was ever imagined. I + cant pass the shops without wrestling with the temptation to go in and + order all the really good things they have for you. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I want nothing but you, dear. [She gives him a caress, to + which he responds so passionately that she disengages herself]. There! be + good now: remember that the doctors are coming this morning. Isnt it + extraordinarily kind of them, Louis, to insist on coming? all of them, to + consult about you? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [coolly] Oh, I daresay they think it will be a feather in their cap + to cure a rising artist. They wouldnt come if it didnt amuse them, anyhow. + [Someone knocks at the door]. I say: its not time yet, is it? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUDEBAT. No, not quite yet. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [opening the door and finding Ridgeon there] Hello, Ridgeon. + Delighted to see you. Come in. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUDEBAT [shaking hands] It’s so good of you to come, doctor. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Excuse this place, wont you? Its only a studio, you know: theres no + real convenience for living here. But we pig along somehow, thanks to + Jennifer. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Now I’ll run away. Perhaps later on, when youre finished with + Louis, I may come in and hear the verdict. [Ridgeon bows rather + constrainedly]. Would you rather I didnt? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Not at all. Not at all. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Dubedat looks at him, a little puzzled by his formal manner; then goes + into the inner room. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [flippantly] I say: dont look so grave. Theres nothing awful going + to happen, is there? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Thats all right. Poor Jennifer has been looking forward to your + visit more than you can imagine. Shes taken quite a fancy to you, Ridgeon. + The poor girl has nobody to talk to: I’m always painting. [Taking up a + sketch] Theres a little sketch I made of her yesterday. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. She shewed it to me a fortnight ago when she first called on me. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [quite unabashed] Oh! did she? Good Lord! how time does fly! I could + have sworn I’d only just finished it. It’s hard for her here, seeing me + piling up drawings and nothing coming in for them. Of course I shall sell + them next year fast enough, after my one-man-show; but while the grass + grows the steed starves. I hate to have her coming to me for money, and + having none to give her. But what can I do? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I understood that Mrs Dubedat had some property of her own. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh yes, a little; but how could a man with any decency of feeling + touch that? Suppose I did, what would she have to live on if I died? I’m + not insured: cant afford the premiums. [Picking out another drawing] How + do you like that? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [putting it aside] I have not come here to-day to look at your + drawings. I have more serious and pressing business with you. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. You want to sound my wretched lung. [With impulsive candor] My dear + Ridgeon: I’ll be frank with you. Whats the matter in this house isnt lungs + but bills. It doesnt matter about me; but Jennifer has actually to + economize in the matter of food. Youve made us feel that we can treat you + as a friend. Will you lend us a hundred and fifty pounds? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [surprised] Why not? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I am not a rich man; and I want every penny I can spare and more + for my researches. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. You mean youd want the money back again. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I presume people sometimes have that in view when they lend + money. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [after a moment’s reflection] Well, I can manage that for you. I’ll + give you a cheque—or see here: theres no reason why you shouldnt + have your bit too: I’ll give you a cheque for two hundred. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Why not cash the cheque at once without troubling me? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Bless you! they wouldnt cash it: I’m overdrawn as it is. No: the + way to work it is this. I’ll postdate the cheque next October. In October + Jennifer’s dividends come in. Well, you present the cheque. It will be + returned marked “refer to drawer” or some rubbish of that sort. Then you + can take it to Jennifer, and hint that if the cheque isnt taken up at once + I shall be put in prison. She’ll pay you like a shot. Youll clear 50 + pounds; and youll do me a real service; for I do want the money very + badly, old chap, I assure you. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [staring at him] You see no objection to the transaction; and you + anticipate none from me! + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Well, what objection can there be? It’s quite safe. I can convince + you about the dividends. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I mean on the score of its being—shall I say dishonorable? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Well, of course I shouldnt suggest it if I didnt want the money. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Indeed! Well, you will have to find some other means of getting + it. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Do you mean that you refuse? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Do I mean—! [letting his indignation loose] Of course I + refuse, man. What do you take me for? How dare you make such a proposal to + me? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Why not? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Faugh! You would not understand me if I tried to explain. Now, + once for all, I will not lend you a farthing. I should be glad to help + your wife; but lending you money is no service to her. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh well, if youre in earnest about helping her, I’ll tell you what + you might do. You might get your patients to buy some of my things, or to + give me a few portrait commissions. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. My patients call me in as a physician, not as a commercial + traveller. + </p> + <p> + A knock at the door. + </p> + <p> + Louis goes unconcernedly to open it, pursuing the subject as he goes. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. But you must have great influence with them. You must know such + lots of things about them—private things that they wouldnt like to + have known. They wouldnt dare to refuse you. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [exploding] Well, upon my— + </p> + <p> + Louis opens the door, and admits Sir Patrick, Sir Ralph, and Walpole. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [proceeding furiously] Walpole: Ive been here hardly ten minutes; + and already he’s tried to borrow 150 pounds from me. Then he proposed that + I should get the money for him by blackmailing his wife; and youve just + interrupted him in the act of suggesting that I should blackmail my + patients into sitting to him for their portraits. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Well, Ridgeon, if this is what you call being an honorable man! I + spoke to you in confidence. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. We’re all going to speak to you in confidence, young man. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [hanging his hat on the only peg left vacant on the hat-stand] We + shall make ourselves at home for half an hour, Dubedat. Dont be alarmed: + youre a most fascinating chap; and we love you. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh, all right, all right. Sit down—anywhere you can. Take + this chair, Sir Patrick [indicating the one on the throne]. Up-z-z-z! + [helping him up: Sir Patrick grunts and enthrones himself]. Here you are, + B. B. [Sir Ralph glares at the familiarity; but Louis, quite undisturbed, + puts a big book and a sofa cushion on the dais, on Sir Patrick’s right; + and B. B. sits down, under protest]. Let me take your hat. [He takes B. + B.’s hat unceremoniously, and substitutes it for the cardinal’s hat on the + head of the lay figure, thereby ingeniously destroying the dignity of the + conclave. He then draws the piano stool from the wall and offers it to + Walpole]. You dont mind this, Walpole, do you? [Walpole accepts the stool, + and puts his hand into his pocket for his cigaret case. Missing it, he is + reminded of his loss]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. By the way, I’ll trouble you for my cigaret case, if you dont + mind? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. What cigaret case? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. The gold one I lent you at the Star and Garter. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [surprised] Was that yours? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Yes. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. I’m awfully sorry, old chap. I wondered whose it was. I’m sorry to + say this is all thats left of it. [He hitches up his smock; produces a + card from his waistcoat pocket; and hands it to Walpole]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. A pawn ticket! + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [reassuringly] It’s quite safe: he cant sell it for a year, you + know. I say, my dear Walpole, I am sorry. [He places his hand ingenuously + on Walpole’s shoulder and looks frankly at him]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [sinking on the stool with a gasp] Dont mention it. It adds to + your fascination. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [who has been standing near the easel] Before we go any further, + you have a debt to pay, Mr Dubedat. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. I have a precious lot of debts to pay, Ridgeon. I’ll fetch you a + chair. [He makes for the inner door]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [stopping him] You shall not leave the room until you pay it. It’s + a small one; and pay it you must and shall. I dont so much mind your + borrowing 10 pounds from one of my guests and 20 pounds from the other— + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. I walked into it, you know. I offered it. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON.—they could afford it. But to clean poor Blenkinsop out of + his last half-crown was damnable. I intend to give him that half-crown and + to be in a position to pledge him my word that you paid it. I’ll have that + out of you, at all events. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Quite right, Ridgeon. Quite right. Come, young man! down with the + dust. Pay up. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh, you neednt make such a fuss about it. Of course I’ll pay it. I + had no idea the poor fellow was hard up. I’m as shocked as any of you + about it. [Putting his hand into his pocket] Here you are. [Finding his + pocket empty] Oh, I say, I havnt any money on me just at present. Walpole: + would you mind lending me half-a-crown just to settle this. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Lend you half—[his voice faints away]. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Well, if you dont, Blenkinsop wont get it; for I havnt a rap: you + may search my pockets if you like. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Thats conclusive. [He produces half-a-crown]. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [passing it to Ridgeon] There! I’m really glad thats settled: it was + the only thing that was on my conscience. Now I hope youre all satisfied. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Not quite, Mr Dubedat. Do you happen to know a young woman + named Minnie Tinwell? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Minnie! I should think I do; and Minnie knows me too. She’s a + really nice good girl, considering her station. Whats become of her? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. It’s no use bluffing, Dubedat. Weve seen Minnie’s marriage lines. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [coolly] Indeed? Have you seen Jennifer’s? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [rising in irrepressible rage] Do you dare insinuate that Mrs + Dubedat is living with you without being married to you? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Why not? + </p> + <p> + B. B. { [echoing him in } Why not! +</p> + <p> +SIR PATRICK { various tones of } Why not! +</p> + <p> +RIDGEON { scandalized } Why not! +</p> + <p> +WALPOLE { amazement] } Why not! + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Yes, why not? Lots of people do it: just as good people as you. Why + dont you learn to think, instead of bleating and bashing like a lot of + sheep when you come up against anything youre not accustomed to? + [Contemplating their amazed faces with a chuckle] I say: I should like to + draw the lot of you now: you do look jolly foolish. Especially you, + Ridgeon. I had you that time, you know. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. How, pray? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Well, you set up to appreciate Jennifer, you know. And you despise + me, dont you? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [curtly] I loathe you. [He sits down again on the sofa]. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Just so. And yet you believe that Jennifer is a bad lot because you + think I told you so. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Were you lying? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. No; but you were smelling out a scandal instead of keeping your + mind clean and wholesome. I can just play with people like you. I only + asked you had you seen Jennifer’s marriage lines; and you concluded + straight away that she hadnt got any. You dont know a lady when you see + one. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [majestically] What do you mean by that, may I ask? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Now, I’m only an immoral artist; but if YOUD told me that Jennifer + wasnt married, I’d have had the gentlemanly feeling and artistic instinct + to say that she carried her marriage certificate in her face and in her + character. But you are all moral men; and Jennifer is only an artist’s + wife—probably a model; and morality consists in suspecting other + people of not being legally married. Arnt you ashamed of yourselves? Can + one of you look me in the face after it? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Its very hard to look you in the face, Dubedat; you have such a + dazzling cheek. What about Minnie Tinwell, eh? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Minnie Tinwell is a young woman who has had three weeks of glorious + happiness in her poor little life, which is more than most girls in her + position get, I can tell you. Ask her whether she’d take it back if she + could. She’s got her name into history, that girl. My little sketches of + her will be bought by collectors at Christie’s. She’ll have a page in my + biography. Pretty good, that, for a still-room maid at a seaside hotel, I + think. What have you fellows done for her to compare with that? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. We havnt trapped her into a mock marriage and deserted her. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. No: you wouldnt have the pluck. But dont fuss yourselves. I didnt + desert little Minnie. We spent all our money— + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. All HER money. Thirty pounds. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. I said all our money: hers and mine too. Her thirty pounds didnt + last three days. I had to borrow four times as much to spend on her. But I + didnt grudge it; and she didnt grudge her few pounds either, the brave + little lassie. When we were cleaned out, we’d had enough of it: you can + hardly suppose that we were fit company for longer than that: I an artist, + and she quite out of art and literature and refined living and everything + else. There was no desertion, no misunderstanding, no police court or + divorce court sensation for you moral chaps to lick your lips over at + breakfast. We just said, Well, the money’s gone: weve had a good time that + can never be taken from us; so kiss; part good friends; and she back to + service, and I back to my studio and my Jennifer, both the better and + happier for our holiday. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Quite a little poem, by George! + </p> + <p> + B. B. If you had been scientifically trained, Mr Dubedat, you would know + how very seldom an actual case bears out a principle. In medical practice + a man may die when, scientifically speaking, he ought to have lived. I + have actually known a man die of a disease from which he was + scientifically speaking, immune. But that does not affect the fundamental + truth of science. In just the same way, in moral cases, a man’s behavior + may be quite harmless and even beneficial, when he is morally behaving + like a scoundrel. And he may do great harm when he is morally acting on + the highest principles. But that does not affect the fundamental truth of + morality. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. And it doesnt affect the criminal law on the subject of + bigamy. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh bigamy! bigamy! bigamy! What a fascination anything connected + with the police has for you all, you moralists! Ive proved to you that you + were utterly wrong on the moral point: now I’m going to shew you that + youre utterly wrong on the legal point; and I hope it will be a lesson to + you not to be so jolly cocksure next time. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Rot! You were married already when you married her; and that + settles it. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Does it! Why cant you think? How do you know she wasnt married + already too? + </p> + <p> + B.B. { [all } Walpole! Ridgeon! +</p> + <p> +RIDGEON { crying } This is beyond everything! +</p> + <p> +WALPOLE { out } Well, damn me! +</p> + <p> +SIR PATRICK { together] } You young rascal. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [ignoring their outcry] She was married to the steward of a liner. + He cleared out and left her; and she thought, poor girl, that it was the + law that if you hadnt heard of your husband for three years you might + marry again. So as she was a thoroughly respectable girl and refused to + have anything to say to me unless we were married I went through the + ceremony to please her and to preserve her self-respect. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Did you tell her you were already married? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Of course not. Dont you see that if she had known, she wouldnt have + considered herself my wife? You dont seem to understand, somehow. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. You let her risk imprisonment in her ignorance of the law? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Well, <i>I</i> risked imprisonment for her sake. I could have been + had up for it just as much as she. But when a man makes a sacrifice of + that sort for a woman, he doesnt go and brag about it to her; at least, + not if he’s a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. What are we to do with this daisy? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. [impatiently] Oh, go and do whatever the devil you please. Put + Minnie in prison. Put me in prison. Kill Jennifer with the disgrace of it + all. And then, when youve done all the mischief you can, go to church and + feel good about it. [He sits down pettishly on the old chair at the easel, + and takes up a sketching block, on which he begins to draw] + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. He’s got us. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [grimly] He has. + </p> + <p> + B. B. But is he to be allowed to defy the criminal law of the land? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. The criminal law is no use to decent people. It only helps + blackguards to blackmail their families. What are we family doctors doing + half our time but conspiring with the family solicitor to keep some rascal + out of jail and some family out of disgrace? + </p> + <p> + B. B. But at least it will punish him. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Oh, yes: Itll punish him. Itll punish not only him but + everybody connected with him, innocent and guilty alike. Itll throw his + board and lodging on our rates and taxes for a couple of years, and then + turn him loose on us a more dangerous blackguard than ever. Itll put the + girl in prison and ruin her: Itll lay his wife’s life waste. You may put + the criminal law out of your head once for all: it’s only fit for fools + and savages. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Would you mind turning your face a little more this way, Sir + Patrick. [Sir Patrick turns indignantly and glares at him]. Oh, thats too + much. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Put down your foolish pencil, man; and think of your + position. You can defy the laws made by men; but there are other laws to + reckon with. Do you know that youre going to die? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. We’re all going to die, arnt we? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. We’re not all going to die in six months. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. How do you know? + </p> + <p> + This for B. B. is the last straw. He completely loses his temper and + begins to walk excitedly about. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Upon my soul, I will not stand this. It is in questionable taste + under any circumstances or in any company to harp on the subject of death; + but it is a dastardly advantage to take of a medical man. [Thundering at + Dubedat] I will not allow it, do you hear? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Well, I didn’t begin it: you chaps did. It’s always the way with + the inartistic professions: when theyre beaten in argument they fall back + on intimidation. I never knew a lawyer who didnt threaten to put me in + prison sooner or later. I never knew a parson who didnt threaten me with + damnation. And now you threaten me with death. With all your talk youve + only one real trump in your hand, and thats Intimidation. Well, I’m not a + coward; so it’s no use with me. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [advancing upon him] I’ll tell you what you are, sir. Youre a + scoundrel. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh, I don’t mind you calling me a scoundrel a bit. It’s only a + word: a word that you dont know the meaning of. What is a scoundrel? + </p> + <p> + B. B. You are a scoundrel, sir. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Just so. What is a scoundrel? I am. What am I? A Scoundrel. It’s + just arguing in a circle. And you imagine youre a man of science! + </p> + <p> + B. B. I—I—I—I have a good mind to take you by the scruff + of your neck, you infamous rascal, and give you a sound thrashing. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. I wish you would. Youd pay me something handsome to keep it out of + court afterwards. [B. B., baffled, flings away from him with a snort]. + Have you any more civilities to address to me in my own house? I should + like to get them over before my wife comes back. [He resumes his + sketching]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. My mind’s made up. When the law breaks down, honest men must find + a remedy for themselves. I will not lift a finger to save this reptile. + </p> + <p> + B. B. That is the word I was trying to remember. Reptile. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. I cant help rather liking you, Dubedat. But you certainly are a + thoroughgoing specimen. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. You know our opinion of you now, at all events. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [patiently putting down his pencil] Look here. All this is no good. + You dont understand. You imagine that I’m simply an ordinary criminal. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Not an ordinary one, Dubedat. Do yourself justice. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Well youre on the wrong tack altogether. I’m not a criminal. All + your moralizings have no value for me. I don’t believe in morality. I’m a + disciple of Bernard Shaw. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [puzzled] Eh? + </p> + <p> + B.B. [waving his hand as if the subject was now disposed of] Thats enough, + I wish to hear no more. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Of course I havnt the ridiculous vanity to set up to be exactly a + Superman; but still, it’s an ideal that I strive towards just as any other + man strives towards his ideal. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [intolerant] Dont trouble to explain. I now understand you + perfectly. Say no more, please. When a man pretends to discuss science, + morals, and religion, and then avows himself a follower of a notorious and + avowed anti-vaccinationist, there is nothing more to be said. [Suddenly + putting in an effusive saving clause in parenthesis to Ridgeon] Not, my + dear Ridgeon, that I believe in vaccination in the popular sense any more + than you do: I neednt tell you that. But there are things that place a man + socially; and anti-vaccination is one of them. [He resumes his seat on the + dais]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Bernard Shaw? I never heard of him. He’s a Methodist + preacher, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [scandalized] No, no. He’s the most advanced man now living: he + isn’t anything. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. I assure you, young man, my father learnt the doctrine of + deliverance from sin from John Wesley’s own lips before you or Mr. Shaw + were born. It used to be very popular as an excuse for putting sand in + sugar and water in milk. Youre a sound Methodist, my lad; only you don’t + know it. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [seriously annoyed for the first time] Its an intellectual insult. I + don’t believe theres such a thing as sin. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Well, sir, there are people who dont believe theres such a + thing as disease either. They call themselves Christian Scientists, I + believe. Theyll just suit your complaint. We can do nothing for you. [He + rises]. Good afternoon to you. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [running to him piteously] Oh dont get up, Sir Patrick. Don’t go. + Please dont. I didnt mean to shock you, on my word. Do sit down again. + Give me another chance. Two minutes more: thats all I ask. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [surprised by this sign of grace, and a little touched] Well—[He + sits down] + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [gratefully] Thanks awfully. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [continuing] I don’t mind giving you two minutes more. But + dont address yourself to me; for Ive retired from practice; and I dont + pretend to be able to cure your complaint. Your life is in the hands of + these gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Not in mine. My hands are full. I have no time and no means + available for this case. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. What do you say, Mr. Walpole? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Oh, I’ll take him in hand: I dont mind. I feel perfectly + convinced that this is not a moral case at all: it’s a physical one. + Theres something abnormal about his brain. That means, probably, some + morbid condition affecting the spinal cord. And that means the + circulation. In short, it’s clear to me that he’s suffering from an + obscure form of blood-poisoning, which is almost certainly due to an + accumulation of ptomaines in the nuciform sac. I’ll remove the sac— + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [changing color] Do you mean, operate on me? Ugh! No, thank you. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Never fear: you wont feel anything. Youll be under an + anaesthetic, of course. And it will be extraordinarily interesting. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh, well, if it would interest you, and if it wont hurt, thats + another matter. How much will you give me to let you do it? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [rising indignantly] How much! What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Well, you dont expect me to let you cut me up for nothing, do you? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Will you paint my portrait for nothing? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. No; but I’ll give you the portrait when its painted; and you can + sell it afterwards for perhaps double the money. But I cant sell my + nuciform sac when youve cut it out. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Ridgeon: did you ever hear anything like this! [To Louis] Well, + you can keep your nuciform sac, and your tubercular lung, and your + diseased brain: Ive done with you. One would think I was not conferring a + favor on the fellow! [He returns to his stool in high dudgeon]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. That leaves only one medical man who has not withdrawn from + your case, Mr. Dubedat. You have nobody left to appeal to now but Sir + Ralph Bloomfield Bonington. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. If I were you, B. B., I shouldnt touch him with a pair of tongs. + Let him take his lungs to the Brompton Hospital. They wont cure him; but + theyll teach him manners. + </p> + <p> + B. B. My weakness is that I have never been able to say No, even to the + most thoroughly undeserving people. Besides, I am bound to say that I dont + think it is possible in medical practice to go into the question of the + value of the lives we save. Just consider, Ridgeon. Let me put it to you, + Paddy. Clear your mind of cant, Walpole. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [indignantly] My mind is clear of cant. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Quite so. Well now, look at my practice. It is what I suppose you + would call a fashionable practice, a smart practice, a practice among the + best people. You ask me to go into the question of whether my patients are + of any use either to themselves or anyone else. Well, if you apply any + scientific test known to me, you will achieve a reductio ad absurdum. You + will be driven to the conclusion that the majority of them would be, as my + friend Mr J. M. Barrie has tersely phrased it, better dead. Better dead. + There are exceptions, no doubt. For instance, there is the court, an + essentially social-democratic institution, supported out of public funds + by the public because the public wants it and likes it. My court patients + are hard-working people who give satisfaction, undoubtedly. Then I have a + duke or two whose estates are probably better managed than they would be + in public hands. But as to most of the rest, if I once began to argue + about them, unquestionably the verdict would be, Better dead. When they + actually do die, I sometimes have to offer that consolation, thinly + disguised, to the family. [Lulled by the cadences of his own voice, he + becomes drowsier and drowsier]. The fact that they spend money so + extravagantly on medical attendance really would not justify me in wasting + my talents—such as they are—in keeping them alive. After all, + if my fees are high, I have to spend heavily. My own tastes are simple: a + camp bed, a couple of rooms, a crust, a bottle of wine; and I am happy and + contented. My wife’s tastes are perhaps more luxurious; but even she + deplores an expenditure the sole object of which is to maintain the state + my patients require from their medical attendant. The—er—er—er—[suddenly + waking up] I have lost the thread of these remarks. What was I talking + about, Ridgeon? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. About Dubedat. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Ah yes. Precisely. Thank you. Dubedat, of course. Well, what is our + friend Dubedat? A vicious and ignorant young man with a talent for + drawing. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Thank you. Dont mind me. + </p> + <p> + B. B. But then, what are many of my patients? Vicious and ignorant young + men without a talent for anything. If I were to stop to argue about their + merits I should have to give up three-quarters of my practice. Therefore I + have made it a rule not so to argue. Now, as an honorable man, having made + that rule as to paying patients, can I make an exception as to a patient + who, far from being a paying patient, may more fitly be described as a + borrowing patient? No. I say No. Mr Dubedat: your moral character is + nothing to me. I look at you from a purely scientific point of view. To me + you are simply a field of battle in which an invading army of tubercle + bacilli struggles with a patriotic force of phagocytes. Having made a + promise to your wife, which my principles will not allow me to break, to + stimulate those phagocytes, I will stimulate them. And I take no further + responsibility. [He digs himself back in his seat exhausted]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Well, Mr Dubedat, as Sir Ralph has very kindly offered to + take charge of your case, and as the two minutes I promised you are up, I + must ask you to excuse me. [He rises]. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh, certainly. Ive quite done with you. [Rising and holding up the + sketch block] There! While youve been talking, Ive been doing. What is + there left of your moralizing? Only a little carbonic acid gas which makes + the room unhealthy. What is there left of my work? That. Look at it + [Ridgeon rises to look at it]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [who has come down to him from the throne] You young rascal, + was it drawing me you were? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Of course. What else? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [takes the drawing from him and grunts approvingly] Thats + rather good. Dont you think so, Lolly? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes. So good that I should like to have it. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Thank you; but <i>I</i> should like to have it myself. What + d’ye think, Walpole? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [rising and coming over to look] No, by Jove: <i>I</i> must have + this. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. I wish I could afford to give it to you, Sir Patrick. But I’d pay + five guineas sooner than part with it. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Oh, for that matter, I will give you six for it. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Ten. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. I think Sir Patrick is morally entitled to it, as he sat for it. + May I send it to your house, Sir Patrick, for twelve guineas? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Twelve guineas! Not if you were President of the Royal + Academy, young man. [He gives him back the drawing decisively and turns + away, taking up his hat]. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [to B. B.] Would you like to take it at twelve, Sir Ralph? + </p> + <p> + B. B. [coming between Louis and Walpole] Twelve guineas? Thank you: I’ll + take it at that. [He takes it and presents it to Sir Patrick]. Accept it + from me, Paddy; and may you long be spared to contemplate it. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Thank you. [He puts the drawing into his hat]. + </p> + <p> + B. B. I neednt settle with you now, Mr Dubedat: my fees will come to more + than that. [He also retrieves his hat]. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [indignantly] Well, of all the mean—[words fail him]! I’d let + myself be shot sooner than do a thing like that. I consider youve stolen + that drawing. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [drily] So weve converted you to a belief in morality after + all, eh? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Yah! [To Walpole] I’ll do another one for you, Walpole, if youll + let me have the ten you promised. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Very good. I’ll pay on delivery. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh! What do you take me for? Have you no confidence in my honor? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. None whatever. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Oh well, of course if you feel that way, you cant help it. Before + you go, Sir Patrick, let me fetch Jennifer. I know she’d like to see you, + if you dont mind. [He goes to the inner door]. And now, before she comes + in, one word. Youve all been talking here pretty freely about me—in + my own house too. I dont mind that: I’m a man and can take care of myself. + But when Jennifer comes in, please remember that she’s a lady, and that + you are supposed to be gentlemen. [He goes out]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Well!!! [He gives the situation up as indescribable, and goes for + his hat]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Damn his impudence! + </p> + <p> + B. B. I shouldnt be at all surprised to learn that he’s well connected. + Whenever I meet dignity and self-possession without any discoverable + basis, I diagnose good family. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Diagnose artistic genius, B. B. Thats what saves his + self-respect. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. The world is made like that. The decent fellows are always + being lectured and put out of countenance by the snobs. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [altogether refusing to accept this] <i>I</i> am not out of + countenance. I should like, by Jupiter, to see the man who could put me + out of countenance. [Jennifer comes in]. Ah, Mrs. Dubedat! And how are we + to-day? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [shaking hands with him] Thank you all so much for coming. + [She shakes Walpole’s hand]. Thank you, Sir Patrick [she shakes Sir + Patrick’s]. Oh, life has been worth living since I have known you. Since + Richmond I have not known a moment’s fear. And it used to be nothing but + fear. Wont you sit down and tell me the result of the consultation? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. I’ll go, if you dont mind, Mrs. Dubedat. I have an appointment. + Before I go, let me say that I am quite agreed with my colleagues here as + to the character of the case. As to the cause and the remedy, thats not my + business: I’m only a surgeon; and these gentlemen are physicians and will + advise you. I may have my own views: in fact I HAVE them; and they are + perfectly well known to my colleagues. If I am needed—and needed I + shall be finally—they know where to find me; and I am always at your + service. So for to-day, good-bye. [He goes out, leaving Jennifer much + puzzled by his unexpected withdrawal and formal manner]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. I also will ask you to excuse me, Mrs Dubedat. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [anxiously] Are you going? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Yes: I can be of no use here; and I must be getting back. As + you know, maam, I’m not in practice now; and I shall not be in charge of + the case. It rests between Sir Colenso Ridgeon and Sir Ralph Bloomfield + Bonington. They know my opinion. Good afternoon to you, maam. [He bows and + makes for the door]. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [detaining him] Theres nothing wrong, is there? You dont think + Louis is worse, do you? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. No: he’s not worse. Just the same as at Richmond. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, thank you: you frightened me. Excuse me. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Dont mention it, maam. [He goes out]. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Now, Mrs Dubedat, if I am to take the patient in hand— + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [apprehensively, with a glance at Ridgeon] You! But I thought + that Sir Colenso— + </p> + <p> + B. B. [beaming with the conviction that he is giving her a most gratifying + surprise] My dear lady, your husband shall have Me. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. But— + </p> + <p> + B. B. Not a word: it is a pleasure to me, for your sake. Sir Colenso + Ridgeon will be in his proper place, in the bacteriological laboratory. <i>I</i> + shall be in my proper place, at the bedside. Your husband shall be treated + exactly as if he were a member of the royal family. [Mrs Dubedat, uneasy, + again is about to protest]. No gratitude: it would embarrass me, I assure + you. Now, may I ask whether you are particularly tied to these apartments. + Of course, the motor has annihilated distance; but I confess that if you + were rather nearer to me, it would be a little more convenient. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. You see, this studio and flat are self-contained. I have + suffered so much in lodgings. The servants are so frightfully dishonest. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Ah! Are they? Are they? Dear me! + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I was never accustomed to lock things up. And I missed so + many small sums. At last a dreadful thing happened. I missed a five-pound + note. It was traced to the housemaid; and she actually said Louis had + given it to her. And he wouldnt let me do anything: he is so sensitive + that these things drive him mad. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Ah—hm—ha—yes—say no more, Mrs. Dubedat: you + shall not move. If the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must + come to the mountain. Now I must be off. I will write and make an + appointment. We shall begin stimulating the phagocytes on—on—probably + on Tuesday next; but I will let you know. Depend on me; dont fret; eat + regularly; sleep well; keep your spirits up; keep the patient cheerful; + hope for the best; no tonic like a charming woman; no medicine like + cheerfulness; no resource like science; goodbye, good-bye, good-bye. + [Having shaken hands—she being too overwhelmed to speak—he + goes out, stopping to say to Ridgeon] On Tuesday morning send me down a + tube of some really stiff anti-toxin. Any kind will do. Dont forget. + Good-bye, Colly. [He goes out.] + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. You look quite discouraged again. [She is almost in tears]. + What’s the matter? Are you disappointed? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I know I ought to be very grateful. Believe me, I am very + grateful. But—but— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I had set my heart <i>your</i> curing Louis. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well, Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington— + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, I know, I know. It is a great privilege to have him. But + oh, I wish it had been you. I know it’s unreasonable; I cant explain; but + I had such a strong instinct that you would cure him. I dont—I cant feel + the same about Sir Ralph. You promised me. Why did you give Louis up? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I explained to you. I cannot take another case. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. But at Richmond? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. At Richmond I thought I could make room for one more case. But my + old friend Dr Blenkinsop claimed that place. His lung is attacked. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [attaching no importance whatever to Blenkinsop] Do you mean + that elderly man—that rather— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [sternly] I mean the gentleman that dined with us: an excellent + and honest man, whose life is as valuable as anyone else’s. I have + arranged that I shall take his case, and that Sir Ralph Bloomfield + Bonington shall take Mr Dubedat’s. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [turning indignantly on him] I see what it is. Oh! it is + envious, mean, cruel. And I thought that you would be above such a thing. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, do you think I dont know? do you think it has never + happened before? Why does everybody turn against him? Can you not forgive + him for being superior to you? for being cleverer? for being braver? for + being a great artist? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes: I can forgive him for all that. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Well, have you anything to say against him? I have challenged + everyone who has turned against him—challenged them face to face to + tell me any wrong thing he has done, any ignoble thought he has uttered. + They have always confessed that they could not tell me one. I challenge + you now. What do you accuse him of? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I am like all the rest. Face to face, I cannot tell you one thing + against him. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [not satisfied] But your manner is changed. And you have + broken your promise to me to make room for him as your patient. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I think you are a little unreasonable. You have had the very best + medical advice in London for him; and his case has been taken in hand by a + leader of the profession. Surely— + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, it is so cruel to keep telling me that. It seems all + right; and it puts me in the wrong. But I am not in the wrong. I have + faith in you; and I have no faith in the others. We have seen so many + doctors: I have come to know at last when they are only talking and can do + nothing. It is different with you. I feel that you know. You must listen + to me, doctor. [With sudden misgiving] Am I offending you by calling you + doctor instead of remembering your title? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Nonsense. I AM a doctor. But mind you, dont call Walpole one. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEBAT. I dont care about Mr Walpole: it is you who must befriend me. + Oh, will you please sit down and listen to me just for a few minutes. [He + assents with a grave inclination, and sits on the sofa. She sits on the + easel chair] Thank you. I wont keep you long; but I must tell you the + whole truth. Listen. I know Louis as nobody else in the world knows him or + ever can know him. I am his wife. I know he has little faults: + impatiences, sensitivenesses, even little selfishnesses that are too + trivial for him to notice. I know that he sometimes shocks people about + money because he is so utterly above it, and cant understand the value + ordinary people set on it. Tell me: did he—did he borrow any money + from you? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. He asked me for some once. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [tears again in her eyes] Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry. + But he will never do it again: I pledge you my word for that. He has given + me his promise: here in this room just before you came; and he is + incapable of breaking his word. That was his only real weakness; and now + it is conquered and done with for ever. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Was that really his only weakness? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. He is perhaps sometimes weak about women, because they adore + him so, and are always laying traps for him. And of course when he says he + doesnt believe in morality, ordinary pious people think he must be wicked. + You can understand, cant you, how all this starts a great deal of gossip + about him, and gets repeated until even good friends get set against him? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes: I understand. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, if you only knew the other side of him as I do! Do you + know, doctor, that if Louis dishonored himself by a really bad action, I + should kill myself. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Come! dont exaggerate. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I should. You don’t understand that, you east country people. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. You did not see much of the world in Cornwall, did you? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [naively] Oh yes. I saw a great deal every day of the beauty + of the world—more than you ever see here in London. But I saw very + few people, if that is what you mean. I was an only child. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. That explains a good deal. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I had a great many dreams; but at last they all came to one + dream. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [with half a sigh] Yes, the usual dream. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [surprised] Is it usual? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. As I guess. You havnt yet told me what it was. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I didn’t want to waste myself. I could do nothing myself; but + I had a little property and I could help with it. I had even a little + beauty: dont think me vain for knowing it. I always had a terrible + struggle with poverty and neglect at first. My dream was to save one of + them from that, and bring some charm and happiness into his life. I prayed + Heaven to send me one. I firmly believe that Louis was guided to me in + answer to my prayer. He was no more like the other men I had met than the + Thames Embankment is like our Cornish coasts. He saw everything that I + saw, and drew it for me. He understood everything. He came to me like a + child. Only fancy, doctor: he never even wanted to marry me: he never + thought of the things other men think of! I had to propose it myself. Then + he said he had no money. When I told him I had some, he said “Oh, all + right,” just like a boy. He is still like that, quite unspoiled, a man in + his thoughts, a great poet and artist in his dreams, and a child in his + ways. I gave him myself and all I had that he might grow to his full + height with plenty of sunshine. If I lost faith in him, it would mean the + wreck and failure of my life. I should go back to Cornwall and die. I + could show you the very cliff I should jump off. You must cure him: you + must make him quite well again for me. I know that you can do it and that + nobody else can. I implore you not to refuse what I am going to ask you to + do. Take Louis yourself; and let Sir Ralph cure Dr Blenkinsop. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [slowly] Mrs Dubedat: do you really believe in my knowledge and + skill as you say you do? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Absolutely. I do not give my trust by halves. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I know that. Well, I am going to test you—hard. Will you + believe me when I tell you that I understand what you have just told me; + that I have no desire but to serve you in the most faithful friendship; + and that your hero must be preserved to you. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh forgive me. Forgive what I said. You will preserve him to + me. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. At all hazards. [She kisses his hand. He rises hastily]. No: you + have not heard the rest. [She rises too]. You must believe me when I tell + you that the one chance of preserving the hero lies in Louis being in the + care of Sir Ralph. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [firmly] You say so: I have no more doubt: I believe you. + Thank you. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Good-bye. [She takes his hand]. I hope this will be a lasting + friendship. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. It will. My friendships end only with death. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Death ends everything, doesnt it? Goodbye. + </p> + <p> + With a sigh and a look of pity at her which she does not understand, he + goes. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a> + ACT IV + </h2> + <p> + The studio. The easel is pushed back to the wall. Cardinal Death, holding + his scythe and hour-glass like a sceptre and globe, sits on the throne. On + the hat-stand hang the hats of Sir Patrick and Bloomfield Bonington. + Walpole, just come in, is hanging up his beside them. There is a knock. He + opens the door and finds Ridgeon there. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Hallo, Ridgeon! + </p> + <p> + They come into the middle of the room together, taking off their gloves. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Whats the matter! Have you been sent for, too? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Weve all been sent for. Ive only just come: I havnt 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: whats up? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Go in and see. B. B. is in there with him. + </p> + <p> + Walpole goes. Ridgeon is about to follow him; but Sir Patrick stops him + with a look. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. What has happened? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Do you remember Jane Marsh’s arm? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Is that whats happened? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Thats whats 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. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. B. B. got in on the negative phase. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Negative or positive, the lad’s done for. He wont last out + the afternoon. He’ll go suddenly: Ive often seen it. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. So long as he goes before his wife finds him out, I dont care. I + fully expected this. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Sir Ralph comes from the inner room and hastens between them, humanely + concerned, but professionally elate and communicative. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Ah, here you are, Ridgeon. Paddy’s told you, of course. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes. + </p> + <p> + B. B. It’s an enormously interesting case. You know, Colly, by Jupiter, if + I didnt 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. + </p> + <p> + Walpole comes back, very serious, even shocked. He comes between B. B. and + Ridgeon. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Whew! B. B.: youve done it this time. + </p> + <p> + B. B. What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [offended] Killed! Really, Walpole, if your monomania were not well + known, I should take such an expession very seriously. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Come come! When youve both killed as many people as I have in + my time youll feel humble enough about it. Come and look at him, Colly. + </p> + <p> + Ridgeon and Sir Patrick go into the inner room. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. I apologize, B. B. But it’s blood-poisoning. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Jennifer, worried and distressed, but always gentle, comes between them + from the inner room. She wears a nurse’s apron. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [moving vengefully towards the door] You just leave me to deal + with him! + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [stopping him] But Louis insists on seeing him: he almost + began to cry about it. And he says he cant 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 mustnt exhaust him by + talking? [Walpole nods and goes out by the outer door]. Sir Ralph, dont be + angry with me; but Louis will die if he stays here. I must take him to + Cornwall. He will recover there. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [comforted and touched] You are so kind, Sir Ralph. But dont + give me much or I shall cry; and Louis cant bear that. + </p> + <p> + 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]. + </p> + <p> + 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 note-book, + 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. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN [looking round and making indecisive attempts at notes] + This is the studio, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Yes. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN [wittily] Where he has his models, eh? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [grimly irresponsive] No doubt. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Cubicle, you said it was? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Yes, tubercle. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Which way do you spell it: is it c-u-b-i-c-a-l or + c-l-e? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Tubercle, man, not cubical. [Spelling it for him] + T-u-b-e-r-c-l-e. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Oh! tubercle. Some disease, I suppose. I thought he had + consumption. Are you one of the family or the doctor? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. I’m neither one nor the other. I am Mister Cutler Walpole. Put + that down. Then put down Sir Colenso Ridgeon. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Pigeon? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Ridgeon. [Contemptuously snatching his book] Here: youd better + let me write the names down for you: youre sure to get them wrong. That + comes of belonging to an illiterate profession, with no qualifications and + no public register. [He writes the particulars]. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Oh, I say: you have got your knife into us, havnt you? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [vindictively] I wish I had: I’d make a better man of you. Now + attend. [Shewing 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 doesnt 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. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN [interested] Is he as bad as that? I say: I am in luck + to-day. Would you mind letting me photograph you? [He produces a camera]. + Could you have a lancet or something in your hand? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Put it up. If you want my photograph you can get it in Baker + Street in any of the series of celebrities. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN. But theyll want to be paid. If you wouldnt mind + [fingering the camera]—? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. I would. Put it up, I tell you. Sit down there and be quiet. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [blissfully] Thats happiness! To be in a studio! Happiness! + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear. Sir Patrick says you may stay here as long as you + like. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Jennifer. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, my darling. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Is the newspaper man here? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. My plans for the season are very simple. I’m going to die. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [tortured] Louis—dearest— + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. My darling: I’m very weak and tired. Dont put on me the horrible + strain of pretending that I dont know. Ive been lying there listening to + the doctors—laughing to myself. They know. Dearest: dont cry. It + makes you ugly; and I cant bear that. [She dries her eyes and recovers + herself with a proud effort]. I want you to promise me something. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, yes: you know I will. [Imploringly] Only, my love, my + love, dont talk: it will waste your strength. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. No: it will only use it up. Ridgeon: give me something to keep me + going for a few minutes—one of your confounded anti-toxins, if you + dont mind. I have some things to say before I go. + </p> + <p> + 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]. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. In milk. Dont set him coughing. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [after drinking] Jennifer. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. If theres one thing I hate more than another, it’s a widow. Promise + me that youll never be a widow. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. My dear, what do you mean? + </p> + <p> + 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, hasnt it—sometimes? + </p> + <p> + MRs DUBEDAT. Oh yes, yes. Always, always. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. If you wear black and cry, people will say “Look at that miserable + woman: her husband made her miserable.” + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. No, never. You are the light and the blessing of my life. I + never lived until I knew you. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + [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 dont 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Poor old B. B. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [affected to tears, turns away and whispers to Sir Patrick] Poor + fellow! Brain going. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Sir Patrick’s there, isn’t he? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Yes, yes. I’m here. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Sit down, wont you? It’s a shame to keep you standing about. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Yes, Yes. Thank you. All right. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Jennifer. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [with a strange look of delight] Do you remember the burning bush? + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, Yes. Oh, my dear, how it strains my heart to remember it + now! + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Does it? It fills me with joy. Tell them about it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, if I might be with you, Louis! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. I’m listening. I shall not forget. You know that I promise. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Well, thats about all; except that you are to hang my pictures at + the one-man show. I can trust your eye. You wont let anyone else touch + them. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. You can trust me. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Then theres nothing more to worry about, is there? Give me some + more of that milk. I’m fearfully tired; but if I stop talking I shant + 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? + </p> + <p> + B. B. [almost unmanned] He confuses me with you, Paddy. Poor fellow! Poor + fellow! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [heartbroken] Stay with me, Louis. Oh, dont leave me, dearest. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Not that I’m selfish. With all my faults I dont think Ive ever been + really selfish. No artist can: Art is too large for that. You will marry + again, Jennifer. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, how can you, Louis? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [insisting childishly] Yes, because people who have found marriage + happy always marry again. Ah, I shant be jealous. [Slyly.] But dont talk + to the other fellow too much about me: he wont like it. [Almost chuckling] + I shall be your lover all the time; but it will be a secret from him, poor + devil! + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Come! youve talked enough. Try to rest awhile. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [wearily] Yes: I’m fearfully tired; but I shall have a long rest + presently. I have something to say to you fellows. Youre all there, arnt + you? I’m too weak to see anything but Jennifer’s bosom. That promises + rest. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. We are all here. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [startled] That voice sounded devilish. Take care, Ridgeon: my ears + hear things that other people’s cant. Ive been thinking—thinking. + I’m cleverer than you imagine. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [whispering to Ridgeon] Youve got on his nerves, Colly. Slip + out quietly. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [apart to Sir Patrick] Would you deprive the dying actor of his + audience? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [his face lighting up faintly with mischievous glee] I heard that, + Ridgeon. That was good. Jennifer dear: be kind to Ridgeon always; because + he was the last man who amused me. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [relentless] Was I? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. But it’s not true. It’s you who are still on the stage. I’m half + way home already. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [to Ridgeon] What did you say? + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [answering for him] Nothing, dear. Only one of those little secrets + that men keep among themselves. Well, all you chaps have thought pretty + hard things of me, and said them. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [quite overcome] No, no, Dubedat. Not at all. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Yes, you have. I know what you all think of me. Dont imagine I’m + sore about it. I forgive you. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE [involuntarily] Well, damn me! [Ashamed] I beg your pardon. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. That was old Walpole, I know. Don’t grieve, Walpole. I’m perfectly + happy. I’m not in pain. I don’t want to live. Ive escaped from myself. I’m + in heaven, immortal in the heart of my beautiful Jennifer. I’m not afraid, + and not ashamed. [Reflectively, puzzling it out for himself weakly] I know + that in an accidental sort of way, struggling through the unreal part of + life, I havnt always been able to live up to my ideal. But in my own real + world I have never done anything wrong, never denied my faith, never been + untrue to myself. Ive been threatened and blackmailed and insulted and + starved. But Ive played the game. Ive fought the good fight. And now it’s + all over, theres an indescribable peace. [He feebly folds his hands and + utters his creed] I believe in Michael Angelo, Velasquez, and Rembrandt; + in the might of design, the mystery of color, the redemption of all things + by Beauty everlasting, and the message of Art that has made these hands + blessed. Amen. Amen. [He closes his eyes and lies still]. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [breathless] Louis: are you— + </p> + <p> + Walpole rises and comes quickly to see whether he is dead. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Not yet, dear. Very nearly, but not yet. I should like to rest my + head on your bosom; only it would tire you. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. No, no, no, darling: how could you tire me? [She lifts him so + that he lies on her bosom]. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Thats good. Thats real. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Dont spare me, dear. Indeed, indeed you will not tire me. + Lean on me with all your weight. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS [with a sudden half return of his normal strength and comfort] Jinny + Gwinny: I think I shall recover after all. [Sir Patrick looks + significantly at Ridgeon, mutely warning him that this is the end]. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [hopefully] Yes, yes: you shall. + </p> + <p> + LOUIS. Because I suddenly want to sleep. Just an ordinary sleep. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [rocking him] Yes, dear. Sleep. [He seems to go to sleep. + Walpole makes another movement. She protests]. Sh—sh: please dont + disturb him. [His lips move]. What did you say, dear? [In great distress] + I cant listen without moving him. [His lips move again; Walpole bends down + and listens]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. He wants to know is the newspaper man here. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN [excited; for he has been enjoying himself enormously] + Yes, Mr Dubedat. Here I am. + </p> + <p> + Walpole raises his hand warningly to silence him. Sir Ralph sits down + quietly on the sofa and frankly buries his face in his handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [with great relief] Oh thats right, dear: dont spare me: lean + with all your weight on me. Now you are really resting. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick quickly comes forward and feels Louis’s pulse; then takes him + by the shoulders. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Let me put him back on the pillow, maam. He will be better + so. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [piteously] Oh no, please, please, doctor. He is not tiring + me; and he will be so hurt when he wakes if he finds I have put him away. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. He will never wake again. [He takes the body from her and + replaces it in the chair. Ridgeon, unmoved, lets down the back and makes a + bier of it]. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [who has unexpectedly sprung to her feet, and stands dry-eyed + and stately] Was that death? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Yes. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [with complete dignity] Will you wait for me a moment? I will + come back. [She goes out]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Ought we to follow her? Is she in her right senses? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [with quiet conviction]. Yes. Shes all right. Leave her alone. + She’ll come back. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [callously] Let us get this thing out of the way before she comes. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [rising, shocked] My dear Colly! The poor lad! He died splendidly. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK: +</p> +<p class="indent30">Aye! that is how the wicked die. + </p> +<p class="indent30"> For there are no bands in their death; +</p> +<p class="indent30">But their strength is firm: +</p> +<p class="indent30"> They are not in trouble as other men. +</p> +<p class="indent30"> No matter: its not for us to judge. +</p> +<p class="indent30">Hes in another world now. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Borrowing his first five-pound note there, probably. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I said the other day that the most tragic thing in the world is a + sick doctor. I was wrong. The most tragic thing in the world is a man of + genius who is not also a man of honor. + </p> + <p> + Ridgeon and Walpole wheel the chair into the recess. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN [to Sir Ralph] I thought it shewed a very nice feeling, + his being so particular about his wife going into proper mourning for him + and making her promise never to marry again. + </p> + <p> + B. B. [impressively] Mrs Dubedat is not in a position to carry the + interview any further. Neither are we. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Good afternoon to you. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Mrs. Dubedat said she was coming back. + </p> + <p> + B. B. After you have gone. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Do you think she would give me a few words on How It + Feels to be a Widow? Rather a good title for an article, isnt it? + </p> + <p> + B. B. Young man: if you wait until Mrs Dubedat comes back, you will be + able to write an article on How It Feels to be Turned Out of the House. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN [unconvinced] You think she’d rather not— + </p> + <p> + B. B. [cutting him short] Good day to you. [Giving him a visiting-card] + Mind you get my name correctly. Good day. + </p> + <p> + THE NEWSPAPER MAN. Good day. Thank you. [Vaguely trying to read the card] + Mr— + </p> + <p> + B. B. No, not Mister. This is your hat, I think [giving it to him]. + Gloves? No, of course: no gloves. Good day to you. [He edges him out at + last; shuts the door on him; and returns to Sir Patrick as Ridgeon and + Walpole come back from the recess, Walpole crossing the room to the + hat-stand, and Ridgeon coming between Sir Ralph and Sir Patrick]. Poor + fellow! Poor young fellow! How well he died! I feel a better man, really. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. When youre as old as I am, youll know that it matters very + little how a man dies. What matters is, how he lives. Every fool that runs + his nose against a bullet is a hero nowadays, because he dies for his + country. Why dont he live for it to some purpose? + </p> + <p> + B. B. No, please, Paddy: dont be hard on the poor lad. Not now, not now. + After all, was he so bad? He had only two failings: money and women. Well, + let us be honest. Tell the truth, Paddy. Dont be hypocritical, Ridgeon. + Throw off the mask, Walpole. Are these two matters so well arranged at + present that a disregard of the usual arrangements indicates real + depravity? + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. I dont mind his disregarding the usual arrangements. Confound the + usual arrangements! To a man of science theyre beneath contempt both as to + money and women. What I mind is his disregarding everything except his own + pocket and his own fancy. He didn’t disregard the usual arrangements when + they paid him. Did he give us his pictures for nothing? Do you suppose + he’d have hesitated to blackmail me if I’d compromised myself with his + wife? Not he. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. Dont waste your time wrangling over him. A blackguard’s a + blackguard; an honest man’s an honest man; and neither of them will ever + be at a loss for a religion or a morality to prove that their ways are the + right ways. It’s the same with nations, the same with professions, the + same all the world over and always will be. + </p> + <p> + B. B. Ah, well, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Still, de mortuis nil nisi + bonum. He died extremely well, remarkably well. He has set us an example: + let us endeavor to follow it rather than harp on the weaknesses that have + perished with him. I think it is Shakespear who says that the good that + most men do lives after them: the evil lies interred with their bones. + Yes: interred with their bones. Believe me, Paddy, we are all mortal. It + is the common lot, Ridgeon. Say what you will, Walpole, Nature’s debt must + be paid. If tis not to-day, twill be to-morrow. + </p> +<p class="indent20"> + To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow +</p> +<p class="indent20"> + After life’s fitful fever they sleep well +</p> +<p class="indent20"> + And like this insubstantial bourne from which +</p> +<p class="indent20"> + No traveller returns +</p> +<p class="indent20"> + Leave not a wrack behind. +</p> + <p> + [Walpole is about to speak, but B. B., suddenly and vehemently proceeding, + extinguishes him.] + </p> +<p class="indent20"> + Out, out, brief candle: +</p> +<p class="indent20"> + For nothing canst thou to damnation add +</p> +<p class="indent20"> + The readiness is all. +</p> + <p> + WALPOLE [gently; for B. B.’s feeling, absurdly expressed as it is, is too + sincere and humane to be ridiculed] Yes, B. B. Death makes people go on + like that. I dont know why it should; but it does. By the way, what are we + going to do? Ought we to clear out; or had we better wait and see whether + Mrs Dubedat will come back? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK. I think we’d better go. We can tell the charwoman what to do. + </p> + <p> + They take their hats and go to the door. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [coming from the inner door wonderfully and beautifully + dressed, and radiant, carrying a great piece of purple silk, handsomely + embroidered, over her arm] I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK } [amazed, all] { Dont mention it, madam. +</p> + <p> +B.B. } [together] { Not at all, not at all. +</p> + <p> +RIDGEON } [in a confused] { By no means. +</p> + <p> +WALPOLE } [murmur] { It doesnt matter in the least. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DUBEDAT [coming to them] I felt that I must shake hands with his + friends once before we part to-day. We have shared together a great + privilege and a great happiness. I dont think we can ever think of + ourselves ordinary people again. We have had a wonderful experience; and + that gives us a common faith, a common ideal, that nobody else can quite + have. Life will always be beautiful to us: death will always be beautiful + to us. May we shake hands on that? + </p> + <p> + SIR PATRICK [shaking hands] Remember: all letters had better be left to + your solicitor. Let him open everything and settle everything. Thats the + law, you know. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT. Oh, thank you: I didnt know. [Sir Patrick goes]. + </p> + <p> + WALPOLE. Good-bye. I blame myself: I should have insisted on operating. + [He goes]. + </p> + <p> + B.B. I will send the proper people: they will know it to do: you shall + have no trouble. Good-bye, my dear lady. [He goes]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Good-bye. [He offers his hand]. + </p> + <p> + MRS DUBEDAT [drawing back with gentle majesty] I said his friends, Sir + Colenso. [He bows and goes]. + </p> + <p> + She unfolds the great piece of silk, and goes into the recess to cover her + dead. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a> + ACT V + </h2> + <p> + One of the smaller Bond Street Picture Galleries. The entrance is from a + picture shop. Nearly in the middle of the gallery there is a + writing-table, at which the Secretary, fashionably dressed, sits with his + back to the entrance, correcting catalogue proofs. Some copies of a new + book are on the desk, also the Secretary’s shining hat and a couple of + magnifying glasses. At the side, on his left, a little behind him, is a + small door marked PRIVATE. Near the same side is a cushioned bench + parallel to the walls, which are covered with Dubedat’s works. Two + screens, also covered with drawings, stand near the corners right and left + of the entrance. + </p> + <p> + Jennifer, beautifully dressed and apparently very happy and prosperous, + comes into the gallery through the private door. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. Have the catalogues come yet, Mr Danby? + </p> + <p> + THE SECRETARY. Not yet. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. What a shame! It’s a quarter past: the private view will begin + in less than half an hour. + </p> + <p> + THE SECRETARY. I think I’d better run over to the printers to hurry them + up. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. Oh, if you would be so good, Mr Danby. I’ll take your place + while youre away. + </p> + <p> + THE SECRETARY. If anyone should come before the time dont take any notice. + The commissionaire wont let anyone through unless he knows him. We have a + few people who like to come before the crowd—people who really buy; + and of course we’re glad to see them. Have you seen the notices in Brush + and Crayon and in The Easel? + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [indignantly] Yes: most disgraceful. They write quite + patronizingly, as if they were Mr Dubedat’s superiors. After all the + cigars and sandwiches they had from us on the press day, and all they + drank, I really think it is infamous that they should write like that. I + hope you have not sent them tickets for to-day. + </p> + <p> + THE SECRETARY. Oh, they wont come again: theres no lunch to-day. The + advance copies of your book have come. [He indicates the new books]. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [pouncing on a copy, wildly excited] Give it to me. Oh! excuse me + a moment [she runs away with it through the private door]. + </p> + <p> + The Secretary takes a mirror from his drawer and smartens himself before + going out. Ridgeon comes in. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Good morning. May I look round, as well, before the doors open? + </p> + <p> + THE SECRETARY. Certainly, Sir Colenso. I’m sorry catalogues have not come: + I’m just going to see about them. Heres my own list, if you dont mind. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Thanks. Whats this? [He takes up one the new books]. + </p> + <p> + THE SECRETARY. Thats just come in. An advance copy of Mrs Dubedat’s Life + of her late husband. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [reading the title] The Story of a King By His Wife. [He looks at + the portrait frontise]. Ay: there he is. You knew him here, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + THE SECRETARY. Oh, we knew him. Better than she did, Sir Colenso, in some + ways, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. So did I. [They look significantly at one another]. I’ll take a + look round. + </p> + <p> + The Secretary puts on the shining hat and goes out. Ridgeon begins looking + at the pictures. Presently he comes back to the table for a magnifying + glass, and scrutinizes a drawing very closely. He sighs; shakes his head, + as if constrained to admit the extraordinary fascination and merit of the + work; then marks the Secretary’s list. Proceeding with his survey, he + disappears behind the screen. Jennifer comes back with her book. A look + round satisfies her that she is alone. She seats herself at the table and + admires the memoir—her first printed book—to her heart’s + content. Ridgeon re-appears, face to the wall, scrutinizing the drawings. + After using his glass again, he steps back to get a more distant view of + one of the larger pictures. She hastily closes the book at the sound; + looks round; recognizes him; and stares, petrified. He takes a further + step back which brings him nearer to her. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [shaking his head as before, ejaculates] Clever brute! [She + flushes as though he had struck her. He turns to put the glass down on the + desk, and finds himself face to face with her intent gaze]. I beg your + pardon. I thought I was alone. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [controlling herself, and speaking steadily and meaningly] I am + glad we have met, Sir Colenso Ridgeon. I met Dr Blenkinsop yesterday. I + congratulate you on a wonderful cure. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [can find no words; makes an embarrassed gesture of assent after a + moment’s silence, and puts down the glass and the Secretary’s list on the + table]. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. He looked the picture of health and strength and prosperity. + [She looks for a moment at the walls, contrasting Blenkinsop’s fortune + with the artist’s fate]. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [in low tones, still embarrassed] He has been fortunate. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. Very fortunate. His life has been spared. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I mean that he has been made a Medical Officer of Health. He + cured the Chairman of the Borough Council very successfully. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. With your medicines? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No. I believe it was with a pound of ripe greengages. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [with deep gravity] Funny! + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes. Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more + than it ceases to be serious when people laugh. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. Dr Blenkinsop said one very strange thing to me. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. What was that? + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. He said that private practice in medicine ought to be put down + by law. When I asked him why, he said that private doctors were ignorant + licensed murderers. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. That is what the public doctor always thinks of the private + doctor. Well, Blenkinsop ought to know. He was a private doctor long + enough himself. Come! you have talked at me long enough. Talk to me. You + have something to reproach me with. There is reproach in your face, in + your voice: you are full of it. Out with it. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. It is too late for reproaches now. When I turned and saw you + just now, I wondered how you could come here coolly to look at his + pictures. You answered the question. To you, he was only a clever brute. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [quivering] Oh, dont. You know I did not know you were here. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [raising her head a little with a quite gentle impulse of pride] + You think it only mattered because I heard it. As if it could touch me, or + touch him! Dont you see that what is really dreadful is that to you living + things have no souls. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [with a sceptical shrug] The soul is an organ I have not come + across in the course of my anatomical work. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. You know you would not dare to say such a silly thing as that to + anybody but a woman whose mind you despise. If you dissected me you could + not find my conscience. Do you think I have got none? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I have met people who had none. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. Clever brutes? Do you know, doctor, that some of the dearest and + most faithful friends I ever had were only brutes! You would have + vivisected them. The dearest and greatest of all my friends had a sort of + beauty and affectionateness that only animals have. I hope you may never + feel what I felt when I had to put him into the hands of men who defend + the torture of animals because they are only brutes. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Well, did you find us so very cruel, after all? They tell me that + though you have dropped me, you stay for weeks with the Bloomfield + Boningtons and the Walpoles. I think it must be true, because they never + mention you to me now. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. The animals in Sir Ralph’s house are like spoiled children. When + Mr. Walpole had to take a splinter out of the mastiff’s paw, I had to hold + the poor dog myself; and Mr Walpole had to turn Sir Ralph out of the room. + And Mrs. Walpole has to tell the gardener not to kill wasps when Mr. + Walpole is looking. But there are doctors who are naturally cruel; and + there are others who get used to cruelty and are callous about it. They + blind themselves to the souls of animals; and that blinds them to the + souls of men and women. You made a dreadful mistake about Louis; but you + would not have made it if you had not trained yourself to make the same + mistake about dogs. You saw nothing in them but dumb brutes; and so you + could see nothing in him but a clever brute. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [with sudden resolution] I made no mistake whatever about him. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. Oh, doctor! + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [obstinately] I made no mistake whatever about him. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. Have you forgotten that he died? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [with a sweep of his hand towards the pictures] He is not dead. He + is there. [Taking up the book] And there. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [springing up with blazing eyes] Put that down. How dare you + touch it? + </p> + <p> + Ridgeon, amazed at the fierceness of the outburst, puts it down with a + deprecatory shrug. She takes it up and looks at it as if he had profaned a + relic. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I am very sorry. I see I had better go. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [putting the book down] I beg your pardon. I forgot myself. But + it is not yet—it is a private copy. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. But for me it would have been a very different book. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. But for you it would have been a longer one. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. You know then that I killed him? + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [suddenly moved and softened] Oh, doctor, if you acknowledge that—if + you have confessed it to yourself—if you realize what you have done, + then there is forgiveness. I trusted in your strength instinctively at + first; then I thought I had mistaken callousness for strength. Can you + blame me? But if it was really strength—if it was only such a + mistake as we all make sometimes—it will make me so happy to be + friends with you again. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I tell you I made no mistake. I cured Blenkinsop: was there any + mistake there? + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. He recovered. Oh, dont be foolishly proud, doctor. Confess to a + failure, and save our friendship. Remember, Sir Ralph gave Louis your + medicine; and it made him worse. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I cant be your friend on false pretences. Something has got me by + the throat: the truth must come out. I used that medicine myself on + Blenkinsop. It did not make him worse. It is a dangerous medicine: it + cured Blenkinsop: it killed Louis Dubedat. When I handle it, it cures. + When another man handles it, it kills—sometimes. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [naively: not yet taking it all in] Then why did you let Sir + Ralph give it to Louis? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I’m going to tell you. I did it because I was in love with you. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [innocently surprised] In lo— You! elderly man! + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [thunderstruck, raising his fists to heaven] Dubedat: thou art + avenged! [He drops his hands and collapses on the bench]. I never thought + of that. I suppose I appear to you a ridiculous old fogey. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. But surely—I did not mean to offend you, indeed—but + you must be at least twenty years older than I am. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Oh, quite. More, perhaps. In twenty years you will understand how + little difference that makes. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. But even so, how could you think that I—his wife—could + ever think of YOU— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [stopping her with a nervous waving of his fingers] Yes, yes, yes, + yes: I quite understand: you neednt rub it in. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. But—oh, it is only dawning on me now—I was so + surprised at first—do you dare to tell me that it was to gratify a + miserable jealousy that you deliberately—oh! oh! you murdered him. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I think I did. It really comes to that. + </p> +<p class="indent20"> + Thou shalt not kill, but needst not strive +</p> +<p class="indent20"> + Officiously to keep alive. +</p> + <p> + I suppose—yes: I killed him. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. And you tell me that! to my face! callously! You are not afraid! + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I am a doctor: I have nothing to fear. It is not an indictable + offense to call in B. B. Perhaps it ought to be; but it isnt. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. I did not mean that. I meant afraid of my taking the law into my + own hands, and killing you. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. I am so hopelessly idiotic about you that I should not mind it a + bit. You would always remember me if you did that. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. I shall remember you always as a little man who tried to kill a + great one. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Pardon me. I succeeded. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [with quiet conviction] No. Doctors think they hold the keys of + life and death; but it is not their will that is fulfilled. I dont believe + you made any difference at all. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Perhaps not. But I intended to. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [looking at him amazedly: not without pity] And you tried to + destroy that wonderful and beautiful life merely because you grudged him a + woman whom you could never have expected to care for you! + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Who kissed my hands. Who believed in me. Who told me her + friendship lasted until death. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. And whom you were betraying. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No. Whom I was saving. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [gently] Pray, doctor, from what? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. From making a terrible discovery. From having your life laid + waste. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. How? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No matter. I have saved you. I have been the best friend you ever + had. You are happy. You are well. His works are an imperishable joy and + pride for you. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. And you think that is your doing. Oh doctor, doctor! Sir Patrick + is right: you do think you are a little god. How can you be so silly? You + did not paint those pictures which are my imperishable joy and pride: you + did not speak the words that will always be heavenly music in my ears. I + listen to them now whenever I am tired or sad. That is why I am always + happy. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes, now that he is dead. Were you always happy when he was + alive? + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [wounded] Oh, you are cruel, cruel. When he was alive I did not + know the greatness of my blessing. I worried meanly about little things. I + was unkind to him. I was unworthy of him. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [laughing bitterly] Ha! + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. Dont insult me: dont blaspheme. [She snatches up the book and + presses it to her heart in a paroxysm of remorse, exclaiming] Oh, my King + of Men! + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. King of Men! Oh, this is too monstrous, too grotesque. We cruel + doctors have kept the secret from you faithfully; but it is like all + secrets: it will not keep itself. The buried truth germinates and breaks + through to the light. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. What truth? + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. What truth! Why, that Louis Dubedat, King of Men, was the most + entire and perfect scoundrel, the most miraculously mean rascal, the most + callously selfish blackguard that ever made a wife miserable. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [unshaken: calm and lovely] He made his wife the happiest woman + in the world, doctor. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. No: by all thats true on earth, he made his WIDOW the happiest + woman in the world; but it was I who made her a widow. And her happiness + is my justification and my reward. Now you know what I did and what I + thought of him. Be as angry with me as you like: at least you know me as I + really am. If you ever come to care for an elderly man, you will know what + you are caring for. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [kind and quiet] I am not angry with you any more, Sir Colenso. I + knew quite well that you did not like Louis; but it is not your fault: you + dont understand: that is all. You never could have believed in him. It is + just like your not believing in my religion: it is a sort of sixth sense + that you have not got. And [with a gentle reassuring movement towards him] + dont think that you have shocked me so dreadfully. I know quite well what + you mean by his selfishness. He sacrificed everything for his art. In a + certain sense he had even to sacrifice everybody— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Everybody except himself. By keeping that back he lost the right + to sacrifice you, and gave me the right to sacrifice him. Which I did. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [shaking her head, pitying his error] He was one of the men who + know what women know: that self-sacrifice is vain and cowardly. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Yes, when the sacrifice is rejected and thrown away. Not when it + becomes the food of godhead. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. I dont understand that. And I cant argue with you: you are + clever enough to puzzle me, but not to shake me. You are so utterly, so + wildly wrong; so incapable of appreciating Louis— + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Oh! [taking up the Secretary’s list] I have marked five pictures + as sold to me. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. They will not be sold to you. Louis’ creditors insisted on + selling them; but this is my birthday; and they were all bought in for me + this morning by my husband. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. By whom?!!! + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. By my husband. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON [gabbling and stuttering] What husband? Whose husband? Which + husband? Whom? how? what? Do you mean to say that you have married again? + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER. Do you forget that Louis disliked widows, and that people who + have married happily once always marry again? + </p> + <p> + The Secretary returns with a pile of catalogues. + </p> + <p> + THE SECRETARY. Just got the first batch of catalogues in time. The doors + are open. + </p> + <p> + JENNIFER [to Ridgeon, politely] So glad you like the pictures, Sir + Colenso. Good morning. + </p> + <p> + RIDGEON. Good morning. [He goes towards the door; hesitates; turns to say + something more; gives it up as a bad job; and goes]. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOCTOR’S DILEMMA ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 5070-h.htm or 5070-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/7/5070/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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