Testimony Of Two Men (3 page)

“I thought we’d forget the operating rooms and the hospitals today,” said Jonathan. He laughed briefly. “Two diploma-mill hacks in frock coats who have never heard of Pasteur and Liston. But full of dignity and presence. They are slicing and sawing and grinding away at a great rate this morning, and if any of their patients survive, I’ll be surprised. Only good luck and excellent constitutions kept their other patients alive after the general bloody slaughter.”

“Why do the hospitals keep them, then, Doctor?”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Jon? After all, I’m not old enough to be your father. Why do they keep the hacks? Well, one of them is the Governor’s cousin, and the other is Chief-of-Staff of the medical board at St Hilda’s, our very fashionable private little hospital. Oil-well rich, on his wife’s side; he bought his way in.” He chuckled with a dry and cynical sound. “In fact, he is operating on his wife’s sister; ovarian tumor. I diagnosed it as probably carcinoma before—” He paused. “But affable Dr. Hedler thought, and thinks, my diagnosis ridiculous. He’s possibly just finding it out, or one of the interns is diffidently informing him, or even one of the nurses! He’d never know by himself.”

Robert was horrified. “And you say nothing—Jon?”

Jonathan gave him a brief hard stare. “Why should I? Oh,
a
year or so ago I’d have kicked up a stink. But not now. Why should I? She chose Dr. Hedler. He’s very impressive, and ladies love that, and he speaks with the authority of the ignorant. Presence. It’s true I’m still on the staff, and the Board, but I’ve learned recently when to keep my mouth shut. I recommend that to you, too, young Robert. At least for a few years. I had a bad time, myself, when I was first practicing and tried to introduce asepsis into the operating rooms, and white trousers and jackets for the surgeons, and lots of hand washing and rubber gloves. If it hadn’t been for my family’s name—and money—they’d have thrown me out. My mother had promised a wing at St. Hilda’s. The hacks still wear their frock coats and striped trousers and wipe their scalpels in a lordly fashion on their sleeves, or the nurses’ backsides, or whatever is handy. With a flourish. And they come, many of them, right from the dissection rooms. One’s an obstetrician. He’s delivering a baby this morning.” He laughed again. “The lady will be very lucky, indeed, not to die of puerperal fever.”

“And there’s nothing you will—I mean, nothing you can do?”

“No. Would they listen to me, some of them, these days? No. I’ve heard it said that few would trust me to treat their dogs.”

“Impossible!” Robert’s pink face flushed with indignation. Dr. Ferrier was amused.

“You haven’t the remotest idea, have you, about people, my boy? You’ll find out, unfortunately. Look at you. A doctor who can blush. Remarkable. Here’s another thought for you: What a surgeon or general practitioner does, or does not, do is only part of the story of a patient’s survival. At least fifty percent of his good luck is due to himself and his faith in his physician. Didn’t they teach you that in the great Johns Hopkins?”

“Well, yes.”

“But you don’t believe it?”

Robert was uncomfortable. “Of course I believe it. But still
a
hack, with all the confidence in the world, and his patient’s confidence in him, can literally commit murder in the operating room, or even in the ward.”

“True. But those are the overt cases. I had a patient one time with a mere wen on his neck, and he died of shock, the result of his fear beforehand. A minor operation at that. He didn’t have any confidence in me. That was a few weeks ago, after—”

After the trial, thought Robert.

“So,” said Jonathan Ferrier, “that sort of thing convinced me to get out of here.”

“You haven’t forgotten, though, that you’ll stay and make the rounds with me, and be on hand in the operating rooms?”

“I gave you my promise, didn’t I?” said Jonathan with impatience.

The granite cobblestones shone as if polished in the sun. They were rolling down the wide green streets of the better part of the town, with large pleasant houses standing far back on warm and glistening lawns blowing with glittering trees. Here and there the lawns were splashed with brilliant flower beds, and here and there tethered horses drank at concrete watering troughs. Robert could hear the lazy slapping of screen doors in the distance and the hissing of hoses as they watered the grass, and an occasional hammering. The sun splintered hotly on his face and hands; the tires on the phaeton’s wheels, rubber and thick, moved over the cobbles smoothly and the vehicle rocked just perceptibly. In the distance, Robert could see the mountains taking on a soft purplish cast, setting into relief the red roofs of rich houses, or the white walls. A lovely, prosperous town, this Hambledon. Robert already felt comfortable in it, and he also felt an eager affection for all who lived here whom he did not yet know.

Jonathan said, “I hope you’ll like it here. I had ten applications, you know, for my practice. I interviewed them all. You were the last.”

Robert colored with shy pleasure, and Jonathan again gave indication of his unaccountable amusement. “I’m glad you selected me,” said Robert, wondering how it was that he was always amusing the older man, and why he was amused at all.

“You were the best,” said Jonathan. “At least, you seemed the most harmless. Don’t be annoyed. It’s very important to be harmless, if you are a physician. Didn’t old Hippocrates say that? Yes. In fact, the greatest compliment you can say of us is that we didn’t hurt anyone, even if we didn’t help. I know an old fart who is very competent with the scalpel—ingenious at times, inspired—but they have to give the patient ether before they get a look at him. A gargoyle, with a temper to match. He could kill with a look, and I suppose he already has. He’s harmful. He’s usually called in desperate cases, after the first surgeon is about to give up. Really miraculous. But harmful.”

Robert had been told at Johns Hopkins that it was not necessary for physicians to “indulge in levity” even among themselves, when it came to patients. Apparently Dr. Ferrier had not been taught that. Sometimes he intimidated poor Robert, who greatly admired him but still did not know if he liked him. He had a harsh and bitter way of speaking and was often contemptuous. At first Robert had thought this all the result of the tragic trial, but others, in a whisper, had assured him that Jonathan had always been this way. “Of course, it is accentuated now, but he was usually a cynical devil.” Robert was not certain that it was good for a physician to be cynical in the least, and too objective. He had a very tender heart

“Don’t be too anxious to embrace this damn town,” said Jonathan, as they rolled rapidly through the streets. “We have a lot of new-rich here; oil people. The kind of precious vulgarians who refer to their houses as ‘homes.’ Upstarts. Modesty is something they don’t appreciate or value. They think it is a self-awareness of inferiority, and then they stamp on you. We have a few authentic families but not very many. Just an American town, just any town. Mostly populated by fools. Do you suffer fools gladly, Robert? Good. You ought to be very popular here. I never could. That’s where the Church and I differ. Violently.”

Robert could connect Jonathan Ferrier with many things but not with any church. He was constantly discovering startling things about the other man, some of them disconcerting.

“You—belong to a church, Jon?”

Jonathan turned his head slightly and gave Robert his unpleasant stark grin. “In a way. Why, does that surprise you? The Ferriers had a hard fence to climb over two hundred years ago, when they came to Pennsylvania. They were—are —what you people call Papists. Nominally I’m a Catholic. But I haven’t been to Mass for years. You see, once I was as downy-headed as you, Bob. My fellowman soon disillusioned me. I was seventeen then. You are nearly ten years older than that. How in hell can you be so innocent?”

“I’m not that innocent,” said Robert with dignity, and Jonathan was highly amused again and chuckled that dry chuckle of his.

“You surely had some of the nurses, and perhaps some of the trollops of the town, didn’t you?”

Robert’s too-ready color flushed his face once more. He thought of his mother. He was certain she believed him virginal. He remembered the quick and awkward episodes of the past few years, and it embarrassed him now to recall that he had always closed his eyes so that he would not see the women’s faces. He could feel Dr. Ferrier watching him, but he stared obdurately at the thin sunburned hands that held the reins -o surely.

“I once had an intern from a Methodist medical school,” said Jonathan with happy remembrance, “who could never bring himself to utter the word ‘vagina.’ He preferred to call it ‘the private parts.’ There’s nothing,” said Jonathan, “less private, in a hospital or an operating room, than those delicately mentioned ‘parts.’”

“One has to remember that—er—women have their reticences,” said the unfortunate Robert.

“Do they now?” said Jonathan, raising one of his thick black brows. “If there is anything less reticent, or modest, than a woman, I’ve yet to meet it. A woman in heat can make the most uncouth man seem like
a
choirboy.”

“I suppose you’ve had a lot of experience,” said Robert.

“Good! You aren’t all custard, are you, Bob? That’s one thing I wanted to be sure of; I was a little afraid, sometimes, that you were too gentle for the bloody arenas we call hospitals.”

“I was considered very competent at Johns Hopkins,” said Robert in a stiff tone. “Hardly a custard. Besides, my father was a surgeon, too, and before I even studied medicine, I watched many of his operations.”

“And didn’t faint once, I suppose. Never mind. I’m joshing you. I really like you, Bob, and I’m notable for not liking people. You must cultivate
a
sense of humor. Never mind. Do you know where we’re going today? To watch birds.”

“Watch birds!”

“It’s too nice
a
day to watch people. You should watch people only during murky weather, or storms, or when rivers rise, or houses burn. Very revealing. You see them at their worst, naked. Yes, I did mean birds.” He indicated, with an inclination of his head, the strap across his chest that held a binocular case. “You never watched birds?”

Birds, to Robert, were somewhat lovable vertebrates who sang in the spring and had feathers. He could not tell one from another, except for the robins and the cardinals. His mother spoke of “their dear little nests,” and had once told him, when he was a child, that birds had been created expressly by the anthropomorphic Almighty for the delight of humanity. To Mrs. Morgan they had no being of their own, no joy in life of their own, no celebration in living, no identity. It was obvious to her that they had eggs, but Robert doubted if she knew that they had a sex life also, which produced the eggs and the new, vital creatures. She had evidently believed that they begot as flowers beget, via pollen. Robert, remembering, decided that his mother was a trifle hard “to take.” Was she one of the fools of whom Dr. Ferrier had spoken? Possibly. Probably. Robert felt new irritation and did not know its source. Always he had been the solicitous and tender only son, the only child, devoted to his mother. This now seemed puerile to him, and embarrassing. He thought of his father, and suddenly it came to him that his paternal parent had had a lot to endure, and there was no wonder that there had been no other child of that sterile marriage.

She’s vulgar, too, thought Robert. She calls our house “the home.”

“What’re you scowling about?” asked Jonathan. “If you don’t want to watch birds, we won’t.”

“Did I say that?” Robert felt a thrill at the new vexation in his voice. He was rarely vexed at people; he was too kind. “I was thinking of something else. Yes, I’d like to watch your birds. But why?”

“Why watch birds? Some of them are still going north, even now. You can see some fine and unusual specimens, if you know where to look. Why birds? I don’t know exactly; I always did, even when I was a kid. The old man was a great bird-watcher. He almost genuflected at the name of Audubon. We gave a park to the city; at least my great-grandfather did, on the outskirts. A bird sanctuary. Birds are restful. They never have their little schemes. They’re all bird. Unlike people, who are rarely human in the best meaning of the term. It’s the same with other nonhuman animals. They are what they are—honest in their being. Solid in their being. But you never know what a man is.”

He’s right, thought Robert, struck disagreeably by mis truth.

“I have six dogs and eight cats,” said Jonathan. “One dog in town. The rest on my farms. Each one a distinct individual but honestly itself. You’ll never see a dog pretending to be better than he is; you’ll never find a cat without self-respect Even cattle are faithful to their nature. But coming down to that, man is faithful to his nature, too, almost always. Almost always he is a fool, a liar, a hypocrite, a coward, a pretender, a covert murderer, a thief,
a
traitor. Name any vice he doesn’t have. That’s his nature. It’s only when he pretends to virtue that he steps out of focus and out of character.”

Robert had always liked his fellowman. He was naturally gregarious and trusting. His new irritability made him say, “You know, Doctor, that sounds very sophomoric.”

To his surprise Jonathan burst out laughing, the first genuine laughter from him which Robert had heard. “What makes you think,” said Jonathan, “that sophomores are invariably softheaded and wrong? Some of the brightest people I’ve ever met were kids in preparatory schools. They see things whole and they see them truly. Later, adults corrupt and blind them and tell them a pack of winsome lies, and dull their perceptions. Seventeen ends the age of innocence, unfortunately. Come on, now, hasn’t anyone ever betrayed you, or lied about you, or done some mischief to you, Bob?”