The Doctor’s Dilemma

inject them a quarter of an hour before meals, three times a day. Ridgeon Appalled. Great heavens, B.B., no, no, no. 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. Ridgeon I am deeply obliged to you. Overcome, he sits down on the chair near the couch. B.B. Not at all, not at all. Your own merit. Come! come! come! don’t give way. Ridgeon It’s nothing. I was a little giddy just now. Overwork, I suppose. Walpole Blood-poisoning. B.B. Overwork! There’s no such thing. I do the work of ten men. Am I giddy? No. No. If you’re 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. Sir Patrick Suppose there’s no germ? B.B. Impossible, Sir Patrick: there must be a germ: else how could the patient be ill? Sir Patrick Can you show me the germ of overwork? 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 won’t stain. They won’t take cochineal: they won’t take methylene blue; they won’t take gentian violet: they won’t 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, show me a case of diphtheria without the bacillus? Sir Patrick No; but I’ll show you the same bacillus, without the disease, in your own throat. 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 pseudobacillus, exactly like it, which you could find, as you say, in my own throat. Sir Patrick And how do you tell one from the other? B.B.

Well, obviously, if the bacillus is the genuine Loeffler, you have diphtheria; and if it’s the pseudobacillus, you’re 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.

A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep; or taste not the Pierian spring.

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 can’t 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.

Emmy At the door, announcing. Dr. Blenkinsop. 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. Ridgeon How are you, Blenkinsop? Blenkinsop I’ve come to offer my humble congratulations. Oh dear! all the great guns are before me. B.B. Patronizing, but charming. How d’ye do, Blenkinsop? How d’ye do? Blenkinsop And Sir Patrick, too Sir Patrick grunts. Ridgeon You’ve met Walpole, of course? Walpole How d’ye do? Blenkinsop It’s the first time I’ve 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 you’re Sir Colenso. How does it feel? Ridgeon Foolish at first. Don’t take any notice of it. Blenkinsop I’m ashamed to say I haven’t a notion what your great discovery is; but I congratulate you all the same for the sake of old times. B.B. Shocked. But, my dear Blenkinsop, you used to be rather keen on science. 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