Perhaps what the critic of gold calls the “acid test” is provided by the test of an operation. Here is something very definite to be faced. A man is usually credited with more courage than a woman. This is no doubt a just estimate in situations of panic and violence where less is expected of a woman; but in the cold, deliberate presence of an operation she stands out well.
A display of courage in a man is instinctive9, a feature of his upbringing, a matter of tradition. With women is associated a rather attractive element of timidity. It is considered to be a not indecorous attribute of her sex. It is apt to be exaggerated and to become often somewhat of a pose. A woman may be terrified at a mouse in her bedroom and yet will view the entrance into that room of two white-clad inquisitors—the an?sthetist and the surgeon—with composure. A woman will frankly10 allow, under certain conditions, that she95 is “frightened to death”; the man will not permit himself that expression, although he is none the less alarmed. A woman seldom displays bravado11; a man often does. To sum up the matter—a woman before the tribunal of the operating theatre is, in my experience, as courageous12 as a man, although she may show less resolve in concealing13 her emotions.
In the determination to live, which plays no little part in the success of a grave operation, a woman is, I think, the more resolute14. Her powers of endurance are often amazing. Life may hang by a thread, but to that thread she will cling as if it were a straining rope. I recall the case of a lady who had undergone an operation of unusual duration and severity. She was a small, fragile woman, pale and delicate-looking. The blow she had received would have felled a giant. I stood by her bedside some hours after the operation. She was a mere5 grey shadow of a woman in whom the signs of life seemed to be growing fainter and fainter. The heat of the body was maintained by artificial means. She was still pulseless and her breathing but a succession of low sighs. She evidently read anxiety and alarm in the faces of those around her, for, by a movement of her lips, she indicated that she wished to speak to me. I96 bent15 down and heard in the faintest whisper the words, “I am not going to die.” She did not die; yet her recovery was a thing incredible. Although twenty-eight years have elapsed since that memorable16 occasion, I am happy to say that she is still alive and well.
There are other traits in women that the surgeon comes upon which, if not actually peculiar17 to their sex, are at least displayed by them in the highest degree of perfection. Two of these characteristics—or it may be that the two are one—are illustrated18 by the incidents which follow.
The first episode may appear to be trivial, although an eminent19 novelist to whom I told the story thought otherwise and included it, much modified, in one of his books.
The subject was a woman nearing forty. She was plain to look at, commonplace and totally uninteresting. Her husband was of the same pattern and type, a type that embraces the majority of the people in these islands. He was engaged in some humdrum20 business in the city of London. His means were small and his life as monotonous21 as a downpour of rain. The couple lived in a small red-brick house in the suburbs. The house was one of twenty in a row. The twenty were all exactly alike. Each was marked by a97 pathetic pretence22 to be “a place in the country”; each was occupied by a family of a uniform and wearying respectability. These houses were like a row of chubby23 inmates24 from an institution, all wearing white cotton gloves and all dressed alike in their best.
The street in which the houses stood was called “The Avenue,” and the house occupied by the couple in question was named “The Limes.” It was difficult to imagine that anything of real interest could ever occur in “The Avenue.” It was impossible to associate that decorous road with a murder or even a burglary, much less with an elopement. The only event that had disturbed its peace for long was an occasion when the husband of one of the respected residents had returned home at night in a state of noisy intoxication25. For months afterwards the dwellers27 in “The Avenue,” as they passed that house, looked at it askance. It may be said, in brief, that all the villas28 were “genteel” and that all those who lived in them were “worthy.”
The plain lady of whom I am speaking had no children. She had been happy in a stagnant29, unambitious way. Everything went well with her and her household, until one horrifying30 day when it was discovered that she had developed a98 malignant31 tumour32 of the breast. The growth was operated upon by a competent surgeon, and for a while the spectre was banished33. The event, of course, greatly troubled her; but it caused even more anxiety to her husband. The two were very deeply attached. Having few outside interests or diversions, their pleasure in life was bound up with themselves and their small home.
The husband was a nervous and imaginative man. He brooded over the calamity34 that had befallen his cherished mate. He was haunted by the dread35 that the horrid36 thing would come back again. When he was busy at his office he forgot it, and when he was at home and with a wife who seemed in such beaming health it left his mind. In his leisure moments, however, in his journeyings to London and back and in sleepless37 hours of the night, the terror would come upon him again. It followed him like a shadow.
Time passed; the overhanging cloud became less black and a hope arose that it would fade away altogether. This, however, was not to be. The patient began to be aware of changes at the site of the operation. Unpleasant nodules appeared. They grew and grew and every day looked angrier and more vicious. She had little doubt that “it”—the awful unmentionable thing99—had come back. She dared not tell her husband. He was happy again; the look of anxiety had left his face and everything was as it had been. To save him from distress38 she kept the dread secret and, although the loathsome39 thing was gnawing40 at her vitals, she smiled and maintained her wonted cheerfulness when he and she were together.
She kept the secret too long. In time she began to look ill, to become pallid41 and feeble and very thin. She struggled on and laughed and joked as in the old days. Her husband was soon aware that something was amiss. Although he dared not express the thought, a presentiment42 arose in his mind that the thing of terror was coming back. He suggested that she should see her surgeon again, but she pooh-poohed the idea. “Why should a healthy woman see a surgeon?” At last her husband, gravely alarmed, insisted, and she did as he wished.
The surgeon, of course, saw the position at a glance. The disease had returned, and during the long weeks of concealment43 had made such progress that any operation or indeed any curative measure was entirely44 out of the question. Should he tell her? If he told her what would be gained thereby45? Nothing could be done to hinder the progress of the malady46. To tell her would be to plunge47 her100 and her husband into the direst distress. The worry that would be occasioned could only do her harm. Her days were numbered; why not make what remained of her life as free from unhappiness as possible? It was sheer cruelty to tell her. Influenced by these humane48 arguments he assured her it was all right, patted her on the back and told her to run away home.
For a while both she and her husband were content. She was ready to believe that she had deceived herself and regretted the anxiety she had occasioned; but the unfortunate man did not remain long at ease. His wife was getting weaker and weaker. He wondered why. The surgeon said she was all right; she herself maintained that she was well, but why was she changing so quickly? The doubt and the uncertainty49 troubled both of them; so it was resolved that a second opinion should be obtained, with the result that she came to see me in London.
A mere glimpse was enough to reveal the condition of affairs. The case was absolutely hopeless as her surgeon, in a letter, had already told me. I was wondering how I should put the matter to her but she made the decision herself. She begged me to tell her the absolute truth. She was not afraid to hear it. She had plans to make. She101 had already more than a suspicion in her mind and for every reason she must know, honestly and openly, the real state of affairs. I felt that matters were too far gone to justify50 any further concealment. I told her. She asked if any treatment was possible. I was obliged to answer “No.” She asked if she would live six months and again I was compelled to answer “No.”
What happened when she left my house I learned later. It was on a Saturday morning in June that she came to see me. For her husband Saturday was a half-holiday and a day that he looked forward to with eager anticipation51. So anxious was he as to my verdict that he had not gone to his business on this particular day. He had not the courage to accompany his wife to London and, indeed, she had begged him not to be present at the consultation52. He had seen his wife into the train and spent the rest of the morning wandering listlessly about, traversing every street, road and lane in the neighbourhood in a condition of misery54 and apprehension55.
He knew by what train she would return, but he had not the courage to meet it. He would know the verdict as she stepped out of the carriage and as he caught a glimpse of her face. The platform would be crowded with City friends of his,102 and whatever the news—good or bad—he felt that he would be unable to control himself.
He resolved to wait for her at the top of “The Avenue,” a quiet and secluded56 road. He could not, however, stand still. He continued to roam about aimlessly. He tried to distract his thoughts. He counted the railings on one side of a street, assuring himself that if the last railing proved to be an even number his wife would be all right. It proved to be uneven57. He jingled58 the coins in his pocket and decided59 that if the first coin he drew out came up “Heads,” it would be a sign that his wife was well. It came up “Heads.” Once he found that he had wandered some way from “The Avenue” and was seized by the panic that he would not get back there in time. He ran back all the way to find, when he drew up, breathless, that he had still twenty-five minutes to wait.
He thought the train would never arrive. It seemed hours and hours late. He looked at his watch a dozen times. At last he heard the train rumble60 in and pull up at the station. The moment had come. He paced the road to and fro like a caged beast. He opened his coat the better to breathe. He took off his hat to wipe his streaming forehead. He watched the corner at which she103 would appear. She came suddenly in sight. He saw that she was skipping along, that she was waving her hand and that her face was beaming with smiles. As she approached she called out, “It is all right!”
He rushed to her, she told me, with a yell, threw his arms round her and hugged her until she thought she would have fainted. On the way to the house he almost danced round her. He waved his hat to everybody he saw and, on entering the house, shook the astonished maid-servant so violently by the hand that she thought he was mad.
That afternoon he enjoyed himself as he had never done before. The cloud was removed, his world was a blaze of sunshine again, his wife was saved. She took him to the golf links and went round with him as he played, although she was so weak she could hardly crawl along. His game was a series of ridiculous antics. He used the handle of his club on the tee, did his putting with a driver and finished up by giving the caddie half a sovereign. In the evening his wife hurriedly invited a few of his choicest friends to supper. It was such a supper as never was known in “The Avenue” either before or since. He laughed and joked, was generally uproarious, and finished by104 proposing the health of his wife in a rapturous speech. It was the day of his life.
Next morning she told him the truth.
I asked her why she had not told him at once. She replied, “It was his half-holiday and I wished to give him just one more happy day.”
The second episode belongs to the days of my youth when I was a house-surgeon. The affair was known in the hospital as “The Lamp Murder Case.” It concerned a family of three—husband, wife and grown-up daughter. They lived in an ill-smelling slum in the most abject61 quarter of Whitechapel. The conditions under which this family existed were very evil, although not exceptional in the dark places of any town.
The husband was just a drunken loafer, vicious and brutal62, and in his most fitting place when he was lying in the filth63 of the gutter64. He had probably never done a day’s work in his life. He lived on the earnings65 of his wife and daughter. They were seamstresses and those were the doleful days of “The Song of the Shirt.” As the girl was delicate most of the work fell upon the mother. This wretched woman toiled66 day by day, from year’s end to year’s end, to keep this unholy family together. She had neither rest nor relaxation67, never a gleam of joy nor a respite68 from unhappiness.105 The money gained by fifteen hours’ continuous work with her needle might vanish in one uproarious drinking bout53. Her husband beat her and kicked her as the fancy pleased him. He did not disable her, since he must have money for drink and she alone could provide it. She could work just as well with a black eye and a bruised69 body as without those marks of her lord’s pleasure.
As she had to work late at night she kept a lamp for her table. One evening the sodden70 brute71, as he staggered into the room, said that he also must have a lamp, must have a lamp of his own. What he wanted it for did not matter. He would have it. He was, as a rule, too muddled72 to read even if he had ever learnt to read. Possibly he wanted the lamp to curse by. Anyhow, if she did not get him a lamp to-morrow he would “give her hell,” and the poor woman had already seen enough of hell. Next day she bought a lamp, lit it and placed it on the table with some hope no doubt in her heart that it would please him and bring a ray of peace.
He came home at night not only drunk but quarrelsome. The two lamps were shining together on the table. The room was quite bright and, indeed, almost cheerful; but the spectacle drove him to fury. He cursed the shrinking, tired106 woman. He cursed the room. He cursed the lamp. It was not the kind of lamp he wanted. It was not so good as her lamp and it was like her meanness to get it. As she stood up to show him how nice a lamp it really was he hit her in the face with such violence that he knocked her into a corner of the room. She was wedged in and unable to rise. He then took up his lamp and, with a yell of profanity, threw it at her as she lay on the ground. At once her apron73 and cotton dress were ablaze74 and, as she lay there burning and screaming for mercy, he hurled75 the other lamp at her.
The place was now lit only by the horrible, dancing flames that rose from the burning woman. The daughter was hiding in terror in the adjoining room. The partition which separated it from her mother’s was so thin that she had heard everything that passed. She rushed in and endeavoured to quench76 the flames; but streams of burning oil were trickling77 all over the floor, while the saturated78 clothes on her mother’s body flared79 like a wick. Her father was rolling about, laughing. He might have been a demon80 out of the Pit. Neighbours poured in and, by means of snatched-up fragments of carpet, bits of sacking and odd clothes, the fire was smothered81; but it was too late.
107
There followed a period of commotion82. A crowd gathered in the dingy83 lane with faces upturned to the window from the broken panes84 of which smoke was escaping. People pressed up the stair, now thick with the smell of paraffin and of burning flesh. The room, utterly85 wrecked86, was in darkness, but by the light of an unsteady candle stuck in a bottle the body of the woman, moaning with pain, was dragged out. An improvised87 stretcher was obtained and on it the poor seamstress, wrapped up in a dirty quilt, was marched off to the hospital, followed by a mob. The police had appeared early on the scene and, acting88 on the evidence of the daughter, had arrested the now terrified drunkard.
When the woman reached the hospital she was still alive but in acute suffering. She was taken into the female accident ward26 and placed on a bed in a corner by the door. The hour was very late and the ward had been long closed down for the night. It was almost in darkness. The gas jets were lowered and the little light they shed fell upon the white figures of alarmed patients sitting up in bed to watch this sudden company with something dreadful on a stretcher.
A screen was drawn89 round the burnt woman’s bed, and in this little enclosure, full of shadow, a108 strange and moving spectacle came to pass. The miserable90 patient was burned to death. Her clothes were reduced to a dark, adhesive91 crust. In the layers of cinder92 that marked the front of her dress I noticed two needles that had evidently been stuck there when she ceased her work. Her face was hideously93 disfigured, the eyes closed, the lips swollen94 and bladder-like and the cheeks charred95 in patches to a shiny brown. All her hair was burnt off and was represented by a little greasy96 ash on the pillow, her eyebrows97 were streaks98 of black, while her eyelashes were marked by a line of charcoal99 at the edge of the lids. She might have been burnt at the stake at Smithfield.
As she was sinking it was necessary that her dying depositions100 should be taken. For this purpose a magistrate101 was summoned. With him came two policemen, supporting between them the shaking form of the now partly-sobered husband. The scene was one of the most memorable I have witnessed. I can still see the darkened ward, the whispering patients sitting bolt upright in their nightdresses, the darker corner behind the screen, lit only by the light of a hand lamp, the motionless figure, the tray of dressings102 no longer needed, the half-emptied feeding-cup. I can recall too the109 ward cat, rudely disturbed, stalking away with a leisurely103 air of cynical104 unconcern.
The patient’s face was in shadow, the nurse and I stood on one side of the bed, the magistrate was seated on the other. At the foot of the bed were the two policemen and the prisoner. The man—who was in the full light of the lamp—was a disgustful object. He could barely stand; his knees shook under him; his hair was wild; his eyes blood-shot; his face bloated and bestial105. From time to time he blubbered hysterically106, rocking to and fro. Whenever he looked at his wife he blubbered and seemed in a daze107 until a tug108 at his arm by the policeman woke him up.
The magistrate called upon me to inform the woman that she was dying. I did so. She nodded. The magistrate then said to her—having warned her of the import of her evidence—“Tell me how this happened.” She replied, as clearly as her swollen lips would allow, “It was a pure accident.”
These were the last words she uttered, for she soon became unconscious and in a little while was dead. She died with a lie on her lips to save the life of the brute who had murdered her, who had burned her alive. She had lied and yet her words110 expressed a dominating truth. They expressed her faithfulness to the man who had called her wife, her forgiveness for his deeds of fiendish cruelty and a mercy so magnificent as to be almost divine.
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1
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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purview
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| n.范围；眼界 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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tumour
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| n.(tumor)(肿)瘤，肿块 | |
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33
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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47
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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49
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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50
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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51
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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52
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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53
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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54
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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56
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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57
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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58
jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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adhesive
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| n.粘合剂；adj.可粘着的，粘性的 | |
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cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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depositions
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| 沉积（物）( deposition的名词复数 )； （在法庭上的）宣誓作证； 处置； 罢免 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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dressings
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| n.敷料剂；穿衣( dressing的名词复数 )；穿戴；（拌制色拉的）调料；（保护伤口的）敷料 | |
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103
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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104
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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105
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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106
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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107
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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108
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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