Читать книгу Doctor Hudson's Secret Journal - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 14

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DURING that summer I frequently spent Sunday evenings with Randolph. On these occasions I would finish at the hospital about four and drive home in the primitive but expensive Cadillac that Joyce had bought before we went to Arizona—an extravagance we could not afford, but it was her money. And I didn't have the heart to tell her how low we were in funds. She was not to be here long, and it was no time to be economical.

After making sure that my little girl was being properly cared for (it would presently be her bedtime), I would drive out to Randolph's sequestered home on the north side, where there would be a light supper and some good talk, with my host usually initiating the conversation. I think it was these serious but stimulating chats with Randolph that sustained my spirit through that perplexing period. But for him I fear I might have found my professional duties too irksome to be borne. I had very little work to do that presented any challenge. The nearest approach to it had been an emergency case—a pretty bad concussion—that had come in, late one night, when the only ranking surgeon available was Doctor Pyle, who, though a very able abdominal man, never tackled a head if there was anybody else at hand competent to do it. This operation wouldn't wait; and Pyle, remembering that I had been much attracted to brain surgery while in school, summoned me in. It was not a difficult operation—as such things go—and the patient made a prompt recovery, as he should have done. I lived on the thrill of that experience for many days. But events calculated to stir my interest and professional pride were few and far between. It was Randolph who held me up.

Looking back from this distance, I think Randolph was wise in not pressing me too urgently with his strange theory. After the first few days' enchanted wistfulness, following the night when Randolph confided his secret for more important living, the sheen faded perceptibly from this promising prospect. This was, of course, inevitable. It is very difficult to endure an unabating emotional storm, even if that were desirable. And I want to call your attention to this fact, before it is overlooked.

If you, my friend, are moved to a deep interest in this subject, keep it in mind that your resolve to pursue it does not insure you against the inescapable sag that follows an unaccustomed emotional exaltation. If this thing really lays hold upon you, it is likely that you will feel—for a few days, at least—as if you had come into the possession of some magic, good for all weathers; and, when you find the same old rain dampening your spirit as usual, you are very apt to say, "Oh— what the hell!" Let me assure you that this witchery does not guarantee against any further experience of boredom; neither does it pledge that from henceforth you will enjoy all your routine tasks and smile steadily at your disappointments.

In other words—don't consider this thing as a Pullman car in which you have engaged a berth, with the understanding that it will carry you forward—waking or sleeping—toward your desired destination.

Randolph made no effort to fan the flame he had lighted in me. To the contrary, he counselled an exercise of cool common-sense in accepting the theory that had literally transformed his life.

"Some day," he would remark placidly, "you will find a project, and then you can attempt an experiment. But don't go feverishly sniffing about for a beneficiary. That would certainly put you into the wrong state of mind. It would mean that you wanted to do someone a service with the expectation of material reward."

And I needed this counsel, too; for that's what I had been doing. For example: there was an old orderly at the hospital who had been there for a long time, and couldn't keep up with his job. They let him out, and I promptly nosed into his affairs to see if I could do him some little kindness. I was emphatically snubbed by the family, for they considered me a part of the heartless hospital organization that had tossed the old man out onto the scrap- pile for the relatives to gather up. He was a surly old codger, and before I had finished my proffered ministration I realized that I had picked the wrong fellow for clinical material. I told Randolph about it and he grinned.

"Better let the family attend to such matters," he advised. "It is their responsibility and it will be good for them to accept it. It is quite possible, though," he added, with a twinkle, "that the family's haughty repudiation of your interest in papa will require them to take much better care of him than they might have if you hadn't welded them together with their own outraged pride. So—perhaps it isn't a total loss—what you did."

And we had a middle-aged nurse who was worried over the truancy of her twelve-year-old boy. This problem had provided the woman with so many alibis that I decided to look into the case. The boy was indeed a problem. While I was trying to think of something to do about it, I observed that the incorrigible's silly mother—utterly mistaking my motives—coyly conceived the idea that I was interested in her. When it became clear that she was even more eager to help me than I was to help her obnoxious son, we both dropped the matter by mutual consent.

Randolph was amused. "Don't grow impatient for an opportunity," he said. "Doubtless you will recognize it when it comes."