The Doctor’s Dilemma

consumption. Are you one of the family or the doctor? Walpole I’m neither one nor the other. I am Mister Cutler Walpole. Put that down. Then put down Sir Colenso Ridgeon. The Newspaper Man Pigeon? Walpole Ridgeon. Contemptuously snatching his book. Here: you’d better let me write the names down for you: you’re sure to get them wrong. That comes of belonging to an illiterate profession, with no qualifications and no public register. He writes the particulars. The Newspaper Man Oh, I say: you have got your knife into us, haven’t you? Walpole Vindictively. I wish I had: I’d make a better man of you. Now attend. Showing him the book. These are the names of the three doctors. This is the patient. This is the address. This is the name of the disease. He shuts the book with a snap which makes the journalist blink, and returns it to him. Mr. Dubedat will be brought in here presently. He wants to see you because he doesn’t know how bad he is. We’ll allow you to wait a few minutes to humor him; but if you talk to him, out you go. He may die at any moment. The Newspaper Man Interested. Is he as bad as that? I say: I am in luck today. Would you mind letting me photograph you? He produces a camera. Could you have a lancet or something in your hand? Walpole Put it up. If you want my photograph you can get it in Baker Street in any of the series of celebrities. The Newspaper Man But they’ll want to be paid. If you wouldn’t mind⁠—?Fingering the camera. Walpole I would. Put it up, I tell you. Sit down there and be quiet. The Newspaper Man quickly sits down on the piano stool as Dubedat, in an invalid’s chair, is wheeled in by Mrs. Dubedat and Sir Ralph. They place the chair between the dais and the sofa, where the easel stood before. Louis is not changed as a robust man would be; and he is not scared. His eyes look larger; and he is so weak physically that he can hardly move, lying on his cushions, with complete languor; but his mind is active; it is making the most of his condition, finding voluptuousness in languor and drama in death. They are all impressed, in spite of themselves, except Ridgeon, who is implacable. B.B. is entirely sympathetic and forgiving. Ridgeon follows the chair with a tray of milk and stimulants. Sir Patrick, who accompanies him, takes the tea-table from the corner and places it behind the chair for the tray. B.B. takes the easel chair and places it for Jennifer at Dubedat’s side, next the dais, from which the lay figure ogles the dying artist. B.B. then returns to Dubedat’s left. Jennifer sits. Walpole sits down on the edge of the dais. Ridgeon stands near him. Louis Blissfully. That’s happiness! To be in a studio! Happiness! Mrs. Dubedat Yes, dear. Sir Patrick says you may stay here as long as you like. Louis Jennifer. Mrs. Dubedat Yes, my darling. Louis Is the newspaper man here? The Newspaper Man Glibly. Yes, Mr. Dubedat: I’m here, at your service. I represent the press. I thought you might like to let us have a few words about⁠—about⁠—er⁠—well, a few words on your illness, and your plans for the season. Louis My plans for the season are very simple. I’m going to die. Mrs. Dubedat Tortured. Louis⁠—dearest⁠— Louis My darling: I’m very weak and tired. Don’t put on me the horrible strain of pretending that I don’t know. I’ve been lying there listening to the doctors⁠—laughing to myself. They know. Dearest: don’t cry. It makes you ugly; and I can’t bear that. She dries her eyes and recovers herself with a proud effort. I want you to promise me something. Mrs. Dubedat Yes, yes: you know I will. Imploringly. Only, my love, my love, don’t talk: it will waste your strength. Louis No: it will only use it up. Ridgeon: give me something to keep me going for a few minutes⁠—one of your confounded antitoxins, if you don’t mind. I have some things to say before I go. Ridgeon Looking at Sir Patrick. I suppose it can do no harm? He pours out some spirit, and is about to add soda water when Sir Patrick corrects him. Sir Patrick In milk. Don’t set him coughing. Louis After drinking. Jennifer. Mrs. Dubedat Yes, dear. Louis If there’s one thing I hate more than another, it’s a widow. Promise me that you’ll never be a widow. Mrs. Dubedat My dear, what do you mean? Louis I want you to look beautiful. I want people to see in your eyes that you were married to me. The people in Italy used to point at Dante and say “There goes the man who has been in hell.” I want them to point at you and say “There goes a woman who has been in heaven.” It has been heaven, darling, hasn’t it⁠—sometimes? Mrs. Dubedat Oh yes, yes. Always, always. Louis If you wear black and cry, people will say “Look at that miserable woman: her husband made her miserable.” Mrs. Dubedat No, never. You are the light and the blessing of my life. I never lived until I knew you. Louis His eyes glistening. Then you must always wear beautiful dresses and splendid magic jewels. Think of all the wonderful pictures I shall never paint. She wins a terrible victory over a sob. Well, you must be transfigured with all the beauty of those pictures. Men must get such dreams from seeing you as they never could get from any daubing with paints and brushes. Painters must paint you as they never painted any mortal woman before. There must be a great tradition of beauty, a great atmosphere of wonder and romance. That is what men must always think of when they