the professor at the breakfast table-第58章

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for　so　many　years。



I　have　heard　it　said　that　the　art　of　healing　makes　men　hard…hearted

and　indifferent　to　human　suffering。　　I　am　willing　to　own　that　there

is　often　a　professional　hardness　in　surgeons；　just　as　there　is　in

theologians；only　much　less　in　degree　than　in　these　last。　　It　does

not　commonly　improve　the　sympathies　of　a　man　to　be　in　the　habit　of

thrusting　knives　into　his　fellow…creatures　and　burning　them　with

red…hot　irons；　any　more　than　it　improves　them　to　hold　the　blinding…

white　cantery　of　Gehenna　by　its　cool　handle　and　score　and　crisp

young　souls　with　it　until　they　are　scorched　into　the　belief　of

Transubstantiation　or　the　Immaculate　Conception。　　And；　to　say　the

plain　truth；　I　think　there　are　a　good　many　coarse　people　in　both

callings。　　A　delicate　nature　will　not　commonly　choose　a　pursuit

which　implies　the　habitual　infliction　of　suffering；　so　readily　as

some　gentler　office。　　Yet；　while　I　am　writing　this　paragraph；　there

passes　by　my　window；　on　his　daily　errand　of　duty；　not　seeing　me；

though　I　catch　a　glimpse　of　his　manly　features　through　the　oval

glass　of　his　chaise；　as　he　drives　by；　a　surgeon　of　skill　and

standing；　so　friendly；　so　modest；　so　tenderhearted　in　all　his　ways；

that；　if　he　had　not　approved　himself　at　once　adroit　and　firm；　one

would　have　said　he　was　of　too　kindly　a　mould　to　be　the　minister　of

pain；　even　if　he　were　saving　pain。



You　may　be　sure　that　some　men；　even　among　those　who　have　chosen　the

task　of　pruning　their　fellow…creatures；　grow　more　and　more

thoughtful　and　truly　compassionate　in　the　midst　of　their　cruel

experience。　　They　become　less　nervous；　but　more　sympathetic。　　They

have　a　truer　sensibility　for　others'　pain；　the　more　they　study　pain

and　disease　in　the　light　of　science。　　I　have　said　this　without

claiming　any　special　growth　in　humanity　for　myself；　though　I　do　hope

I　grow　tenderer　in　my　feelings　as　I　grow　older。　　At　any　rate；　this

was　not　a　time　in　which　professional　habits　could　keep　down　certain

instincts　of　older　date　than　these。



This　poor　little　man's　appeal　to　my　humanity　against　the　supposed

rapacity　of　Science；　which　he　feared　would　have　her　〃specimen；〃　if

his　ghost　should　walk　restlessly　a　thousand　years；　waiting　for　his

bones　to　be　laid　in　the　dust；　touched　my　heart。　　But　I　felt　bound　to

speak　cheerily。



We　won't　die　yet　awhile；　if　we　can　help　it；I　said；and　I　trust

we　can　help　it。　　But　don't　be　afraid；　if　I　live　longest；　I　will　see

that　your　resting　place　is　kept　sacred　till　the　dandelions　and

buttercups　blow　over　you。



He　seemed　to　have　got　his　wits　together　by　this　time；　and　to　have　a

vague　consciousness　that　he　might　have　been　saying　more　than　he

meant　for　anybody's　ears。　I　have　been　talking　a　little　wild；　Sir；

eh？　he　said。　There　is　a　great　buzzing　in　my　head　with　those　drops

of　yours；　and　I　doubt　if　my　tongue　has　not　been　a　little　looser　than

I　would　have　it；　Sir。　　But　I　don't　much　want　to　live；　Sir；　that's

the　truth　of　the　matter；　and　it　does　rather　please　me　to　think　that

fifty　years　from　now　nobody　will　know　that　the　place　where　I　lie

does　n't　hold　as　stout　and　straight　a　man　as　the　best　of　'em　that

stretch　out　as　if　they　were　proud　of　the　room　they　take。　　You　may

get　me　well；　if　you　can；　Sir；　if　you　think　it　worth　while　to　try；

but　I　tell　you　there　has　been　no　time　for　this　many　a　year　when　the

smell　of　fresh　earth　was　not　sweeter　to　me　than　all　the　flowers　that

grow　out　of　it。　　There's　no　anodyne　like　your　good　clean　gravel；

Sir。　　But　if　you　can　keep　me　about　awhile；　and　it　amuses　you　to　try；

you　may　show　your　skill　upon　me；　if　you　like。　　There　is　a　pleasure

or　two　that　I　love　the　daylight　for；　and　I　think　the　night　is　not

far　off；　at　best。　I　believe　I　shall　sleep　now；　you　may　leave　me；

and　come；　if　you　like；　in　the　morning。



Before　I　passed　out；　I　took　one　more　glance　round　the　apartment。

The　beautiful　face　of　the　portrait　looked　at　me；　as　portraits　often

do；　with　a　frightful　kind　of　intelligence　in　its　eyes。　　The　drapery

fluttered　on　the　still　outstretched　arm　of　the　tall　object　near　the

window；a　crack　of　this　was　open；　no　doubt；　and　some　breath　of　wind

stirred　the　hanging　folds。　　In　my　excited　state；　I　seemed　to　see

something　ominous　in　that　arm　pointing　to　the　heavens。　　I　thought　of

the　figures　in　the　Dance　of　Death　at　Basle；　and　that　other　on　the

panels　of　the　covered　Bridge　at　Lucerne；　and　it　seemed　to　me　that

the　grim　mask　who　mingles　with　every　crowd　and　glides　over　every

threshold　was　pointing　the　sick　man　to　his　far　home；　and　would　soon

stretch　out　his　bony　hand　and　lead　him　or　drag　him　on　the　unmeasured

journey　towards　it。



The　fancy　had　possession　of　me；　and　I　shivered　again　as　when　I　first

entered　the　chamber。　　The　picture　and　the　shrouded　shape；　I　saw　only

these　two　objects。　　They　were　enough。　　The　house　was　deadly　still；

and　the　night…wind；　blowing　through　an　open　window；　struck　me　as

from　a　field　of　ice；　at　the　moment　I　passed　into　the　creaking

corridor。　　As　I　turned　into　the　common　passage；　a　white　figure；

holding　a　lamp；　stood　full　before　me。　　I　thought　at　first　it　was　one

of　those　images　made　to　stand　in　niches　and　hold　a　light　in　their

hands。　　But　the　illusion　was　momentary；　and　my　eyes　speedily

recovered　from　the　shock　of　the　bright　flame　and　snowy　drapery　to

see　that　the　figure　was　a　breathing　one。　　It　was　Iris；　in　one　of　her

statue…trances。　　She　had　come　down；　whether　sleeping　or　waking；　I

knew　not　at　first；　led　by　an　instinct　that　told　her　she　was　wanted；…

…or；　possibly；　having　overheard　and　interpreted　the　sound　of　our

movements；or；　it　may　be；　having　learned　from　the　servant　that

there　was　trouble　which　might　ask　for　a　woman's　hand。　　I　sometimes

think　women　have　a　sixth　sense；　which　tells　them　that　others；　whom

they　cannot　see　or　hear；　are　in　suffering。　　How　surely　we　find　them

at　the　bedside　of　the　dying！　　How　strongly　does　Nature　plead　for

them；　that　we　should　draw　our　first　breath　in　their　arms；　as　we　sigh

away　our　last　upon　their　faithful　breasts！



With　white；　bare　feet；　her　hair　loosely　knotted；　clad　as　the

starlight　knew　her；　and　the　morning　when　she　rose　from　slumber；　save

that　she　had　twisted　a　scarf　round　her　long　dress；　she　stood　still

as　a　stone　before　me；　holding　in　one　hand　a　lighted　coil　of

waxtaper；　and　in　the　other　a　silver　goblet。　　I　held　my　own　lamp

close　to　her；　as　if　she　had　been　a　figure　of　marble；　and　she　did　not

stir。　　There　was　no　breach　of　propriety　then；　to　scare　the　Poor

Relation　with　and　breed　scandal　out　of。　　She　had　been　〃warned　in　a

dream；〃　doubtless　suggested　by　her　waking　knowledge　and　the　sounds

which　had　reached　her　exalted　sense。　　There　was　nothing　more　natural

than　that　she　should　have　risen　and　girdled　her　waist；　and　lighted

her　taper；　and　found　the　silver　goblet　with　〃Ex　dono　pupillorum〃　on

it；　from　which　she　had　taken　her　milk　and　possets　through　all　her

childish　years；　and　so　gone　blindly　out　to　find　her　place　at　the

bedside；a　Sister　of　Charity　without　the　cap　and　rosary；　nay；

unknowing　whither　her　feet　were　leading　her；　and　with　wide　blank

eyes　seeing　nothing　but　the　vision　that　beckoned　her　along。　Well；

I　must　wake　her　from　her　slumber　or　trance。　I　called　her　name；　but

she　did　not　heed　my　voice。



The　Devil　put　it　into　my　head　that　I　would　kiss　one　handsome　young

girl　before　I　died；　and　now　was　my　chance。　　She　never　would　know　it；

and　I　should　carry　the　remembrance　of　it　with　me　into　the　grave；　and

a　rose　perhaps　grow　out　of　my　dust；　as　a　brier　did　out　of　Lord

Lovers；　in　memory　of　that　immortal　moment！　　Would　it　wake　her　from

her　trance？　　and　would　she　see　me　in　the　flush　of　my　stolen　triumph；

and　hate　and　despise　me　ever　after？　　Or　should　I　carry　off　my　trophy

undetected；　and　always　from　that　time　say　to　myself；　when　I　looked

upon　her　in　the　glory　of　youth　and　the　splendor　of　beauty；　〃My　lips

have　touched　those　roses　and　made　their　sweetness　mine　forever〃？

You　think　my　cheek　was　flushed；　perhaps；　and　my　eyes　were　glittering