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Introduction:

What’s a Doctor, After All?

What’s a doctor, after all?—A legitimized voyeur, a stranger whom we permit to poke fingers and even hands into places where we would not permit most people to insert so much as a finger-tip, who gazes on what we take trouble to hide; a sitter-at-bedsides, an outsider admitted to our most intimate moments (birth, death, etc.), anonymous, a minor character, yet also, paradoxically, central, especially at the crisis . . . yes, yes.

—Salman Rushdie, Shame, 1983

The profession to which we belong, once venerated on account of its antiquity,—its various and profound science—its elegant literature—its polite accomplishment—its virtues,—has become corrupt, and degenerate, to the forfeiture of its social position, and with it the homage it formerly received spontaneously and universally.

—Minutes of the First Annual Meeting of the American Medical Association, 1847

The world of illness and pain is a foreign land we would rather not visit. We distance ourselves from the sick, and those we anoint as official healers carry the burden of our most ambivalent feelings about the shame and pleasure of living in material, mortal bodies.¹ We may wish to think of the healer as a minor character in our lives, one who lingers in the wings and makes only brief appearances. But we also turn to healers in moments of great need, hoping that they, along with their expertise, wisdom, language, and therapies, will return us to the land of the healthy. Inevitably, then, in every portrait of a doctor, nurse, shaman, or lay healer, we hear a culture negotiating who should have the duty and privilege of entering the sick room, listening to the patient’s story, attending the ailing body, and witnessing at the deathbed.

Medical practice in the United States has two traditions—folk and professional.² Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the divide between the two was not rigid. A family might call in a lay healer on one occasion and a “regular” on another, and practitioners turned often to the pharmacopoeia and therapies of their competitors.³ But there were important differences. Folk healers typically identified themselves with the political rhetoric of health reform, populism, egalitarianism, untutored and independent thinking, democracy, and a free market. Professional medical men, by contrast, identified themselves with advances in medical science, specialized education, and the notion of a guild. In the first decades of the nineteenth century, as a national culture began to emerge, these differences erupted into lively public battles and professional medicine lost much of its prestige. Historians agree that in 1850 professional medicine was at its nadir and “appeared to be coming apart at the seams.”⁴ State licensing laws were repealed in the 1830s and 1840s, competition was fierce in a crowded, deregulated market, and regulars were often branded as aristocrats bent on establishing a healthcare monopoly. One New York newspaper suggested that medicine “should be thrown open to the observation and study of all,” and that “the whole machinery of mystification and concealment—wigs, gold canes, and the gibberish of prescriptions” that kept regulars in business should be destroyed.⁵

Fifty years later the battles were over, and regulars had, in large part, won the veneration they had so coveted in 1847 when they founded the American Medical Association (AMA) in an effort to recover the “homage” the profession had “formerly received spontaneously and universally.” Four lavish oil paintings testify to the prestige accorded the professional doctor by the final decades of the nineteenth century: Thomas Eakins’s 1875 The Gross Clinic, his 1889 The Agnew Clinic, Robert C. Hinckley’s 1893 commemoration of the first surgery under ether, and John Singer Sargent’s 1906 commissioned portrait of the four world-renowned doctors who were leading medical studies at Johns Hopkins Medical School.⁶ Folk healers, of course, continued to practice, and as late as 1900 more dollars were spent promoting patent medicines than on advertising any other consumer product.⁷ But the question of prestige had been settled, and by 1910, with support from the Carnegie Foundation, most small, proprietary medical schools, including many that trained “irregulars,” had been shut down and foundation money was flowing to elite schools. In fact, by the end of the century, not only had professional medicine laid to rest the challenge from folk medicine, it had also supplanted the clergy and its cultural authority.⁸ The body had replaced the soul as a person’s most prized possession, and the professional doctor was, as the founders of the AMA had hoped, widely venerated as a man of profound science, elegant literature, polite accomplishments, and virtue.

Not surprisingly, given the rapidity and magnitude of the changes, historians have combed medical archives and identified scientific, economic, sociological, and ideological factors in the emergence of medicine as the most lucrative and prestigious profession in the United States. I propose to add to these efforts by looking at how fiction writers, a diverse group with its own sectarian quarrels and its own claims to knowing the body, responded. Fiction offers a rich, detailed record of anxieties raised and assuaged by regulars’ efforts to professionalize and to claim exclusive somatic authority. Fiction reveals some of the terms on which medicine’s professional prestige was eventually accepted and how the doctor was often envisioned as a stabilizing force in a rapidly expanding nation vulnerable to political, economic, and social troubles. It also reveals the ways in which the aesthetic imperative to make the body meaningful led fiction to resist the medicalized body, “a thing with physical, anatomical and physiological properties.”⁹ None of the writers I discuss denied medicine’s achievements in these years. Their concern was with the political implications of medicine’s ascent into elite privilege and authority and the collateral damage done by medicine as it installed its peculiar understanding of the body.

Writers were alert to medicine’s class aspirations. At mid-century, when regulars were under attack from many quarters for seeking prestige and market privileges, the doctor was often represented as a stiff aristocrat. Rebecca Harding Davis, Charles Frederick Briggs, and Herman Melville, for example, suggested that elite medicine was unresponsive or even cruel to the bodies of the disenfranchised—mill laborers, minstrel performers, and common sailors. For these authors, professionalism was undemocratic. For other writers, especially later in the century, the professional doctor was just what a heterogeneous nation needed. Professional medicine promised to cure the “ills” posed by increased immigration, poverty, and urbanization, and highbrow literature often abetted the professionalization of medicine. In elite magazines of the day, for example, the fictional doctor was often a liberal gentleman who could encounter the diseased and the bizarre and remain untainted. He brought stability to worlds riven by disorder, and, like the elite fiction that represented him, he dispensed wise, temperate counsel. The doctor’s scientific training was also, by the end of the century, not always evidence of elitism but of legitimate expertise, especially in fiction that negotiated gender and race issues. As an image of manly science, the fictional doctor endowed domesticity, highbrow aesthetics, and racial uplift with the prestige and seriousness of science. The image of the black physician, for example, served for some African American writers as a powerful challenge to popular images and scientific theories of innate black inferiority.

Fiction was also wary of medicine’s claim to know the body. Mid-century fiction often worried that although medicine might nurture embodied democracy and corporeal equality by identifying basic somatic facts, generalizable “truths” about the body might also leave individual bodies with no history, no intimacy, no narrative particularly their own. Medicine threatened to empty the body of meaning. Nathaniel Hawthorne’s tales of medical ambition, for example, warned against empiricism, suggesting that when medicine understood a birthmark as a curable lesion or the body’s interior as a domain that it could colonize, it dishonored the body so profoundly that it destroyed the very thing it sought to know. Or, as Melville suggested, when medicine devoted itself to garnering prestige, making money, and rationalizing the body, it lost sight of precisely the democratic virtues it might facilitate—compassion and conversation. Later in the century, for writers such as William Dean Howells and Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, doctoring was associated with physical vigor, intuitive responses to the bodies of others, and firm grounding in empiricism. And yet, even for these writers medical epistemology was limited and incapable of responding to the diverse beauty, sexuality, history, and politics that might be written on the body. The scientific doctor (male or female) needed a mate with a fine aesthetic sensibility, and white physicians who misread black bodies needed racial education. On occasion, however, and especially for Sarah Orne Jewett and Henry James, the truly great doctor represented a sensibility that achieved both the rigor of science and the aesthetic refinement of highbrow culture, making him or her sensitive to all the complex realities and meanings of embodiment.

In short, as both medicine and literature professionalized and laid claim to widespread authority and elite privilege, their trajectories into respectability sometimes paralleled one another, sometimes reinforced each other, and sometimes were in tension. At times, fiction challenged medicine’s somatic knowledge, contested doctors’ ability to name and solve the body’s mysteries, exposed the violence inherent in medicine’s drive to epistemological mastery, and questioned science’s equation of rational disinterest with white, educated masculinity. And yet fiction also found ways to use the figure of the doctor to argue for compassion as well as management, corporeal pleasure as well as normative health, sensitivity to the political history of bodies as well as somatic mastery, and appreciation of the body’s mortal beauty as well as definitive diagnoses of disease.¹⁰

The Body in the Nineteenth Century

As scholars from a variety of disciplines have shown, sometime over the course of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries thinking about the body changed profoundly. Francis Barker describes the change as a shift from “spectacular corporeality,” in which self and body are one, to “tremulous subjectivity,” in which a private, desiring self is separate from the physical body.¹¹ The body became something the self “loosely possessed” and something science could know.¹² With the rise of clinical studies in hospital wards and the increasing importance of dissection, the body became a material object that could be known through direct and repeated observations that yielded not just idiosyncratic interpretations of an individual patient and his or her world, but facts about all bodies.¹³ The body was now a standardized, normalized, positive object that functioned according to scientific laws, and the predictability of the body, especially as known on the dissecting table, remains a defining presumption in medicine today. As one recent medical school graduate observed, it probably never “occurred to me or my fellow medical students that the human body which we dissected and examined was other than a stable experience.”¹⁴

One result, as Catherine Gallagher notes, is that in the nineteenth century the body was considered a troubling, provocative problem and valorized as a site for definitive answers.¹⁵ As a result, the body was measured, weighed, categorized, and dissected—work deemed serious and important. For example, in the 1840s U.S. ethnographers devoted their careers and sometimes their personal resources to collecting and measuring crania. In 1861, Abraham Lincoln allocated national resources to establishing the U.S. Sanitary Commission and also to an effort to gather information about the Union troops by measuring the “most important physical dimensions and personal characteristics” of as many soldiers as possible.¹⁶ By the end of the century, criminologists created taxonomies of somatic features common to a “hereditary genetic criminal class” and began creating databanks of fingerprints with the hope of identifying hereditary features for various types.¹⁷ The body became prima facie evidence, and it was hoped that by knowing the body, men and nations might build stable, healthy worlds in which disease was eradicable and social troubles manageable.¹⁸

In theory, the modern body is an egalitarian notion—everyone has a body that functions according to the laws of physiology.¹⁹ But in the nineteenth century, some bodies were more visible, more measured than others. While some traits “could go unmarked, even grammatically,” as Michael Warner has noted, “other features of bodies could only be acknowledged . . . as the humiliating positivity of the particular. “²⁰ The fetishistic attention, for example, to cataloging the width of noses, the height of foreheads, the length of femurs, the color of skin, or the size of breasts made some bodies more visible than others, some features more humiliating for being a site of difference. In short, as scholars have amply documented, social categories—gender, race, ethnicity, class, and nationality—were made real, written on the body by medicine, biology, and ethnography, “naturalizing discourses of the body” that “locate difference in a pre-cultural realm where corporeal significations supposedly speak a truth which the body inherently means.”²¹

The Professions in the Nineteenth Century

While those who were measured had bodies that were different and visible, those who were authorized to measure bodies seemed free of the particularizing positivity of corporeality. As Dana Nelson suggests, the “disembodied, objective, and universalized standpoint offered by Enlightenment science” became the perspective of “white manhood” in general and professional authority in particular.²² More specifically, those who measured bodies were not part of a visible group (they were white men, for the most part), and their methods, they believed, were disinterested and rational. Of course, the U.S. doctor studying in Paris, the ethnographer cataloging skulls, the Sanitary Commission doctor measuring femurs, and the fingerprint expert collecting specimens were individuals with particular histories and perspectives. It was supposed, however, that if they were good scientists, their results would have nothing to do with them as idiosyncratic, corporeal men. By definition, in good science the measurer is immaterial and the results are reproducible. In short, bodies measured and cataloged came into view as unmediated facts, and science reproduced its authority in “captioned and ever-multiplying displays of the ‘other.’”²³

In addition to being disinterested and objective, the professional man in the nineteenth century was a liberal gentleman. He was respected as a man of learning, culture, and virtue, and in some ways he was an updated version of the eighteenth-century English gentleman. The professional was neither a capitalist nor a laborer. His prestige was not derived from wealth, and yet he was not a worker because even though he was employed by others, “he worked from a position of command . . . and was therefore never wholly at the bidding of those who employed him.”²⁴ As a group, professionals offered an implicit contract: in return for market advantages, they would guarantee the ethical use of their special knowledge. This included establishing fair fees, adopting ethical codes, forming associations dedicated to setting standards for the profession, and providing leadership in other areas. More generally, professionals promised to be the nation’s managers. As Burton Bledstein explains, the professional “excavated nature for its principles, its theoretical rules” and had “masterful command” over complex phenomena such as disease. The professional’s knowledge was by definition beyond the layperson’s grasp, and, as Bledstein notes, amateurs and clients alike simply had to trust the professional’s mastery and his integrity.²⁵ As a result, the professional was often infused with what Max Weber identifies as the charismatic authority of experts, and his manners were as important as his scientific skills.²⁶ An 1873 Atlantic article, for example, suggests that the doctor cures not by “drug or knife, but by means of his counsel, and, above all, by force of his manner. . . . It is the doctor cures us, not the doctor’s physic.”²⁷

Fiction in the Nineteenth Century

At mid-century, writing, like medicine, was open to a wide variety of practitioners. The production and availability of print materials expanded rapidly in the second half of the nineteenth century with the availability of cheap paper, less expensive presses, and better distribution of print materials. This expansion made it possible for publishers to pay authors, and authorship became an economically viable occupation open to anyone who could write. At the same time, writing became professionalized, and genres, magazines, and publishing houses became stratified according to class. Domestic fiction, for example, was women’s work, sensational fiction was authored by anonymous industrial hands who were expected to produce on a schedule, and highbrow literature was the work of public figures with visible careers.²⁸

Along with class and gender identities, genres were associated with particular somatic sensibilities. Sentimental and sensational fiction, for example, offered literal representations of somatic experiences—tears, crimsoned bosoms, and throbbing pulses—and readers were expected to respond similarly.²⁹ Maudlin death scenes were supposed to move one to tears, and seduction scenes would make a modest reader blush. Both genres, reviewers of the day warned, might agitate the body and appeal especially to female appetites for physical experiences. Dime novels aligned themselves with a masculine physicality by featuring visceral images of bodies engaged in labor and physical struggle. Realism, by contrast, shunned the body Associated with taste, refinement, and science, realism conformed to bourgeois preferences for privatizing all things bodily As Nancy Glazener notes, while reviewers linked sentimental and sensational fiction with alcohol, opiates, coffee, tea, and desserts, they suggested that realism was a healthy food, an effective antidote to excess and stimulation.³⁰

Imagining Doctors in Nineteenth-Century America: Six Case Studies

By outlining these broad historical contexts, I do not mean to suggest that the professionalization of medicine was achieved neatly, that the limitations of scientific objectivity were never acknowledged, or that doctors never considered a patient as anything other than a material body Nor do I mean to suggest that highbrow literature was a stable, uncontested category or that literary representations of the body always followed generic dictates. History and texts are never so simple. Indeed, the texts in this study, medical and literary texts, are useful precisely because they mediate in complex ways the rise of professional authority and the emergence of the modern body.

To gain a fuller understanding of how the tension between professionalism and the nation’s democratic ideals played out in medicine, Chapter 1 focuses on a specific moment in medical history—the discovery of ether in 1846 by an enterprising dentist whose image did not conform to that of the gentleman scientist. The texts generated by the discovery of etherization and the ensuing controversies reveal the efforts of regulars to position professional medicine within and not against the egalitarian sentiments of the day. In these texts, we hear regulars presenting themselves as open to the discoveries of untutored genius, and we hear them negotiate professional medicine’s relationship to a free market. We also hear, in one leading physician’s enthusiasm for etherization, an argument for medical science and medicine’s view of the body as fundamentally egalitarian. Pain, he suggests, is something all men suffer, and medicine’s embrace of a new technology—etherization—testifies to regulars’ egalitarian effort to improve the lot of all men.

Chapters 2 and 3 focus on critiques of medicine offered by Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville. In “The Birth-mark” and “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” Hawthorne borrows from the sensational and melodramatic tradition the trope of the mad medical experimenter who is driven by a dangerous mix of intellectual ambition, professional arrogance, and sexual energy. Essentially cautionary tales, both stories imagine a body that exceeds medicine’s ambitious grasp. To Aylmer, the mark on Georgiana’s cheek is a sign of pathology remediable by surgery, a diagnosis and remedy that echo contemporary thinking about lesions, perhaps the most important sign of disease in early nineteenth-century clinical medicine. But for Hawthorne, the mark is much more: indeed, it vibrates with multiple and contradictory meanings. And it cannot be erased without destroying Georgiana’s body and an entire world of heightened meanings—aesthetic, erotic, psychological, dramatic, and somatic—that Hawthorne believes literature can and must honor and imagine. “Rappaccini’s Daughter” is set at the moment (sixteenth-century Padua) when medicine first began to map the body’s interior, and it examines the Renaissance notion of the body’s interior as a continent ripe for exploration and colonization, suggesting that such colonization is akin to poisoning. As sixteenth-century anatomists put their names upon the organs they discovered, so Rappaccini marks his daughter’s interior with the botanical poisons he cultivates. Significantly, Hawthorne finds medical ambition appealing as well as disturbing. Aylmer and especially Rappaccini have an intellectual interest in carnality that Hawthorne seems to have shared, and yet Hawthorne also critiques medicine’s role in somaticizing a domestic middle-class subjectivity that made women and their bodies bear the burden of the unresolved psychological, sexual, and economic tensions hidden beneath a valorization of feminine purity, piousness, and self-sacrifice.

Melville’s critique of medicine is based less on a sense of the body’s significatory excesses and more on a love of carnality and a desire to challenge a political order in which corporeality is used to define certain classes of people as uncivilized, irrational, and deeply embodied. Melville seems to have stumbled into his interest in body politics: nakedness is a staple of exotic travel literature, and in Typee, Melville delights in coy descriptions of naked islanders. But in addition to celebrating the primitive’s innocent carnality (and thus lamenting its destruction by Western dress, religion, and diseases), Melville also suggests that all bodies, including seemingly innocent primitive bodies, are intricately woven into a society’s political and cultural life. Medicine, he suggests in later works, dishonors both the carnal and political body. In White-Jacket, a U.S. fleet surgeon—a figure of naval, professional, and scientific authority—is at the center of the most barbaric naval practices. He officiates at hangings and floggings, he operates a sick bay in the bowels of the frigate where there is no fresh air, while officers promenade on the deck above, and he cuts off a sailor’s leg simply to flaunt his surgical skills. He presides over the destruction of bodies and the democratic fraternity that the common sailors’ bodies figure for Melville. In The Confidence-Man, Melville considers the power of medicine to silence the body. He caricatures quacks and regulars in their efforts to persuade the public to trust them but not their competitors, suggesting that medicine’s sales rhetoric colonizes the pain of others and is aimed solely at profits. But, in a rare moment of hope in a deeply cynical work, Melville also suggests that if those who claim to be healers listen to the patient and to tales of pain and injustice, the spirit of calculation that dominates human interaction may give way to generosity. Melville underscores the democratic possibilities of compassion and conversation, noting, however, that while medicine might facilitate both, sectarian battles allowed profit motives to supplant compassion and intimacy.

Chapter 4 examines the discourse of good character and cultural refinement that underpins the professional claims of both medical and literary elites at mid-century. The chapter begins by tracing the wealth, family connections, access to power, and cultural connoisseurship that helped early white male medical leaders legitimate their authority. Then the chapter turns to periodical fiction (including works by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Rebecca Harding Davis, and Henry James), tracing an alliance between regular medicine and highbrow literature in the pages of elite magazines of the day. Although regulars often came in for rough treatment in newspapers and sectarian medical journals, prestigious literary magazines rarely published articles critical of regulars, and many printed essays and fiction that defended the medical profession and celebrated the doctor’s character. The Atlantic and similar magazines were deeply enmeshed in “the construction and justification of social hierarchy,”³¹ and in these magazines the doctor is usually a white, liberal, upper-class gentleman with the virtues the AMA claimed for its members—equanimity, objectivity, disinterest, wise counsel, and ethical leadership. These virtues were also meant to characterize elite fiction itself and thus buttress highbrow literature’s own cultural claims over such popular and populist genres as dime novels and sensational fiction. The good doctor, like the highbrow fiction that tells his story, manages the bodies of others, and he is a figure of stability in stories that admit and seek to contain difference, discord, disruption—forces that democracy may too readily tolerate. The chapter also notes, however, that on occasion the doctor’s class affiliation comes in for close scrutiny and that the doctor is sometimes critiqued for his allegiance to an outdated class order or for his efforts to protect his class status. These stories record a resistance to the cultural claims of the AMA and an inclination to interrogate professionalism. Indeed, elite literature’s willingness to envision for itself a role other than that of conservator of the status quo and handmaiden to the emergence of a class of prestigious doctors was an integral part of its image of itself as disinterested and objective.³²

Chapter 5 focuses on the intertwined and shifting gender identities of medicine and literature in the second half of the century as women entered the medical profession, as professionalism supplanted domesticity, and as empiricism eclipsed other ways of knowing. In these years, the doctoress was featured in tracts debating what women could and could not do, in titillating images of women medical students examining or dissecting naked bodies, and in a flurry of short stories and novels by writers such as Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, William Dean Howells, Rebecca Harding Davis, Annie Nathan Meyer, Sarah Orne Jewett, S. Weir Mitchell, and Henry James. The doctoress was a topic “rich in actuality,” as Howells noted, because she threatened deeply held, yet fragile presumptions about masculinity and femininity. More generally, the chapter considers how representations of medicine became a way to negotiate the taint of femininity that worried the nation and particularly threatened the arts, which were increasingly defined as a feminine complement to the manly world of science. For these writers, the good doctor is well-trained, intuitive, objective, and caring, and he or she is a professional who does important work that is both scientific and domestic, work that depends upon expertise and brings the physician into intimate settings. For some of these writers, the doctor’s presence in the home makes the domestic something more than the traditional female world of home and heart. It is where the fabric of the nation is woven, and writing fiction that is good for the nation requires expertise not unlike the doctor’s. But if the doctor’s visits to the world of domesticity and romance endow this world with masculine virtues associated with professionalism, they also reveal medicine’s limitations. Some of these authors note a possible narrowness in medicine’s understanding of the body, and they suggest that health requires not only an absence of disease but also a psychological and aesthetic well-being that is literature’s domain. Others offered the well-trained and well-read male doctor as a reassuring national icon of masculine vigor and cultural refinement.

Chapter 6 considers the relationship between medicine and race at the end of the century, in part by examining the political/racial work that the figure of the physician was pressed to do just when African Americans in medicine were professionalizing and challenging racist medical ideology. In 1895, at the Cotton States and International Exposition in Atlanta, black physicians founded the National Medical Association, an alternative to the AMA, and during these years they founded black-controlled hospitals that offered training for black medical professionals and health care for African Americans. Notably in these same years, between 1891 and 1901, a flurry of stories and novels took up the question of race and medicine: Francis Harper, Katherine Davis Chapman Tillman, Rebecca Harding Davis, Victoria Earle Matthews, Charles Chesnutt, and William Dean Howells all wrote fiction that made a physician living or working on the color line a central issue. Three of these—“Aunt Lindy,” The House Behind the Cedars, and An Imperative Duty—place the white doctor in a racialized world, using him as a trope for medicine’s racism, historical amnesia, and vulnerability to race melodrama. The others—Iola Leroy, Beryl Weston, and The Marrow of Tradition—imagine the black physician as a figure of hope. Not surprisingly, as black physicians gained institutional training and became venerated community leaders, the black doctor in fiction became a ready symbol of racial uplift. His success in medicine challenges racist notions of black inferiority, and he often serves as a figure of a moderate but race-proud leader. All but one of the stories consider the physician as a man as well as a professional, and in several the doctor is judged by his response to the mulatta, a figure that bears the burden of embodying and responding to the nation’s gender and race psychoses. For Harper, the black doctor mediates gender stereotypes, and she makes the black male physician a figure for the promise of institutionalizing tender, maternal care of black bodies. In Harper’s novel, the black doctor stands as an antidote to the caricatures of blacks as primitives that permeated U.S. culture and also as a challenge to the image of black maternal care lavished on white children and the image of black bodies bloodied and destroyed by race violence. For Harper, the black doctor cares for and loves black bodies. For Chesnutt, the black physician figures the possibility of new race relations. Always sensitive to the nation’s anxiety about and fascination with the color line, Chesnutt concludes his novel about the race riots in Wilmington, North Carolina, with a black doctor heading upstairs to perform a tracheotomy on the scion of a white racist. The white body, Chesnutt suggests, needs radical surgery, and the black physician (and writer) must both cut and suture this body.

Finally, the book ends with an epilogue that looks forward into the first years of the twentieth century, when medicine moved decisively from home care into the world of regimented hospital care and from clinical medicine’s emphasis on organic, narrative case histories to pathology’s emphasis on somatic bits and pieces. By looking briefly at short stories by Theodore Dreiser, Jack London, and William Carlos Williams, I trace the disappearance of the beneficent master physician and the emergence of the ruthless, virtuoso surgeon and the sick doctor. As a new century dawned and a sense of a radical break with the past deepened, the coherent, unified body was no longer a reliable ground for literature or medicine. Diagnoses required examining excised tissue under microscopes, and storytelling demanded narrative fragmentation and violence.

Archives, Methodologies, Predecessors

There are two questions about texts and methodologies that should be addressed up front. Does a study that focuses only on U.S. medicine and literature endorse a notion of American exceptionalism? And is a study that focuses on “regular” medicine merely a history of the winners? Recent attention to the discourse of American exceptionalism has helped to make visible just how deeply nationalist habits are embedded in our thinking. But, as Michael Kammen points out, when evidence suggests that the United States at some moments and in some areas is distinct, then we need not run from the observation. In his study of literature and medicine in Europe, Lawrence Rothfield notes that he excludes United States literary and medical culture, despite extensive exchanges across the Atlantic, because the “history of American medicine during the nineteenth century is so different, both in professional and intellectual conditions, as to constitute an entirely separate field of inquiry”³³ Historians and sociologists of medicine agree. For example, Paul Starr notes in his introduction to The Social Transformation of American Medicine that “not all societies with scientifically advanced medical institutions have powerful medical professions” and that “hardly anywhere have doctors been as successful as American physicians.”³⁴ Indeed, the distinct and remarkable success of nineteenth-century U.S. physicians both in marginalizing other medical paradigms and in becoming the most prestigious and well-paid profession in the nation has shaped U.S. healthcare ever since.

By focusing on “regulars,” I do not mean to endorse the marginalization of other paradigms. The impact of “irregular” medicine (a term devised by regulars to discredit all others) on individual lives, literary discourse, and elite, popular, local, and national culture was significant and has earned astute scholarly commentary. This study seeks to provide a fresh perspective on the remarkable and rapid rise of regular medicine, even though its boundaries were not firmly in place until the first years of the twentieth century, when the Flexner report led to medical school closings and certification. And it seeks to do this by looking closely, though not exclusively, at fictional representations of doctors. Cynthia Davis, in her study of literature and medicine in these same years, examines the power of literary forms to determine the contours of bodily representations.³⁵ I hope to add to her fine work by examining fiction’s intervention in the rise of professional medicine and the modern body.

Salman Rushdie is right: the doctor is never a minor character, not in our lives and not in nineteenth-century American fiction. Indeed, the simplest point of Profound Science and Elegant Literature is that representations of healers tell us much about a culture and that every portrait of a doctor, nurse, shaman, or lay healer deserves a second look. More specifically, I want to suggest that representations of doctors in the second half of the nineteenth century are particularly telling because in these years modern, scientific, professionalized medicine was established in the United States.

Historians have tended to tell two distinct though not necessarily incompatible stories of professional medicine’s rise. One is an account of progress. Through access to bodies in clinics, observations at the bedside, statistical studies, the development of new tools, and conceptual innovations, there was a “gradual triumph of a critical spirit over ancient obscurantism.”³⁶ In the second account, economically motivated regulars squeeze folk healers out of a crowded healthcare market and scientific medicine “converts the body into an object of knowledge.”³⁷ In the first account, medical scientists discover the real body and practitioners apply this knowledge skillfully as they treat individual cases. In the second, medical scientists colonize the body and regulars seek power.

Nineteenth-century fiction considers both accounts. In some tales, the doctor is skillful, in others he is cruel; sometimes he is wise, sometimes merely ambitious; sometimes he invades the body, sometimes he is racist, and sometimes he leads a community. In short, representations of doctors interrogate the dangers posed and promises offered by the establishment of an exclusive class of esteemed, scientifically trained professional healers. The value of individual texts is that they offer local history and intervene in debates of the day. Each fictional portrait speaks to specific issues such as new ideas about interiority, the increased use of dissection, the gender identity of authorship, and the limits of empiricism. Each is also shaped by a writer’s lived experience of medicine. Louisa May Alcott’s uncle was active in health reform, Herman Melville watched a respected fleet surgeon authorize floggings, Henry James never forgot being dismissed with a comparative “pooh-pooh” by a Boston specialist. William Dean Howells was devastated when his daughter died despite visits to homeopaths, nerve specialists, and the renowned S. Weir Mitchell; and Charles Chesnutt considered becoming a doctor.³⁸ In addition to serving as individual case studies, the texts taken together testify to a broader picture, to increased acceptance of medicine’s prestige and scientific authority and to continued questioning of the implications—political, physical, and psychological—of medicine’s claim to exclusive and complete somatic authority.