The Doctor’s Dilemma

there’s an indescribable peace. He feebly folds his hands and utters his creed. I believe in Michelangelo, Velasquez, and Rembrandt; in the might of design, the mystery of color, the redemption of all things by Beauty everlasting, and the message of Art that has made these hands blessed. Amen. Amen. He closes his eyes and lies still. Mrs. Dubedat Breathless. Louis: are you⁠— Walpole rises and comes quickly to see whether he is dead. Louis Not yet, dear. Very nearly, but not yet. I should like to rest my head on your bosom; only it would tire you. Mrs. Dubedat No, no, no, darling: how could you tire me? She lifts him so that he lies on her bosom. Louis That’s good. That’s real. Mrs. Dubedat Don’t spare me, dear. Indeed, indeed you will not tire me. Lean on me with all your weight. Louis With a sudden half return of his normal strength and comfort. Jinny Gwinny: I think I shall recover after all. Sir Patrick looks significantly at Ridgeon, mutely warning him that this is the end. Mrs. Dubedat Hopefully. Yes, yes: you shall. Louis Because I suddenly want to sleep. Just an ordinary sleep. Mrs. Dubedat Rocking him. Yes, dear. Sleep. He seems to go to sleep. Walpole makes another movement. She protests. Sh⁠—sh: please don’t disturb him. His lips move. What did you say, dear? In great distress. I can’t listen without moving him. His lips move again; Walpole bends down and listens. Walpole He wants to know is the newspaper man here. The Newspaper Man Excited; for he has been enjoying himself enormously. Yes, Mr. Dubedat. Here I am. Walpole raises his hand warningly to silence him. Sir Ralph sits down quietly on the sofa and frankly buries his face in his handkerchief. Mrs. Dubedat With great relief. Oh that’s right, dear: don’t spare me: lean with all your weight on me. Now you are really resting. Sir Patrick quickly comes forward and feels Louis’s pulse; then takes him by the shoulders. Sir Patrick Let me put him back on the pillow, ma’am. He will be better so. Mrs. Dubedat Piteously. Oh no, please, please, doctor. He is not tiring me; and he will be so hurt when he wakes if he finds I have put him away. Sir Patrick He will never wake again. He takes the body from her and replaces it in the chair. Ridgeon, unmoved, lets down the back and makes a bier of it. Mrs. Dubedat Who has unexpectedly sprung to her feet, and stands dry-eyed and stately. Was that death? Walpole Yes. Mrs. Dubedat With complete dignity. Will you wait for me a moment? I will come back. She goes out. Walpole Ought we to follow her? Is she in her right senses? Sir Patrick With quiet conviction. Yes. She’s all right. Leave her alone. She’ll come back. Ridgeon Callously. Let us get this thing out of the way before she comes. B.B. Rising, shocked. My dear Colly! The poor lad! He died splendidly. Sir Patrick

Aye! that is how the wicked die.
For there are no bands in their death;
But their strength is firm:
They are not in trouble as other men.
No matter: it’s not for us to judge.
He’s in another world now.

Walpole Borrowing his first five-pound note there, probably. Ridgeon I said the other day that the most tragic thing in the world is a sick doctor. I was wrong. The most tragic thing in the world is a man of genius who is not also a man of honor. Ridgeon and Walpole wheel the chair into the recess. The Newspaper Man To Sir Ralph. I thought it showed a very nice feeling, his being so particular about his wife going into proper mourning for him and making her promise never to marry again. B.B. Impressively. Mrs. Dubedat is not in a position to carry the interview any further. Neither are we. Sir Patrick Good afternoon to you. The Newspaper Man Mrs. Dubedat said she was coming back. B.B. After you have gone. The Newspaper Man Do you think she would give me a few words on How It Feels to be a Widow? Rather a good title for an article, isn’t it? B.B. Young man: if you wait until Mrs. Dubedat comes back, you will be able to write an article on How It Feels to be Turned Out of the House. The Newspaper Man Unconvinced. You think she’d rather not⁠— B.B. Cutting him short. Good day to you. Giving him a visiting-card. Mind you get my name correctly. Good day. The Newspaper Man Good day. Thank you. Vaguely trying to read the card. Mr.⁠— B.B. No, not Mister. This is your hat, I think giving it to him. Gloves? No, of course: no gloves. Good day to you. He edges him out at last; shuts the door on him; and returns to Sir Patrick as Ridgeon and Walpole come back from the recess, Walpole crossing the room to the hatstand, and Ridgeon coming between Sir Ralph and Sir Patrick. Poor fellow! Poor young fellow! How well he died! I feel a better man, really. Sir Patrick When you’re as old as I am, you’ll know that it matters very little how a man dies. What matters is, how he lives. Every fool that runs his nose against a bullet is a hero nowadays, because he dies for his country. Why don’t he live for it to some purpose? B.B. No, please, Paddy: don’t be hard on the poor lad. Not now, not now. After all, was he so bad? He had only two failings: money and women. Well, let us be honest. Tell the truth, Paddy. Don’t be hypocritical, Ridgeon. Throw off the mask, Walpole. Are these two matters so well arranged at present that a disregard of the usual arrangements indicates real depravity? Walpole I