Life Unveiled, by a Child of the Drumlins — Chapter 11 Part I - Through the Gate of Dreams

THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS

Much of the good fortune that has come to me has come unsought: Shortly after returning home from Boston an elderly friend of our family, an invalid who spent her winters in Florida, invited me to go there with her.

In my somewhat reduced state of health the invitation was most opportune.

My first glimpse of New York, as we stopped there on the way, made Boston seem small.

We started for the South at night.

I was a bit timid at going so far from home with the frail little old woman who had tuberculosis, and already had had alarming hemorrhages, and who calmly told me that she would probably die while in the South that winter.

With only a kit of medicines and my inexperience to cope with what might arise, I felt rather helpless; but my patient had a stout heart and a cheery disposition, and was soon enjoying my enthusiasm for experiences and scenes which had become an old story to her.

We reached Palatka at sunset one night in February, so the calendar said, but how soft and sweet the air!

how like pictures every scene on the street!

The palm trees looked artificial, and the orange trees, with both blossoms and fruit on them, reminded me of the toy trees belonging to the Noah’s Ark with which I had played in childhood.

Darkies were everywhere, real darkies, with their soft voices and shiftless ways.

We had rooms in a fine old comfortable house with a Southern family, and a typical Southern darkey to wait on us who crooned Negro melodies as she lounged around and occasionally did a stroke of work.

Her deliberation and her dialect were most amusing.

When reminded that her tasks were still undone, she was always “jes’ a-fixin’ to begin to get ready” to do them.

Oh, the delight of the senses that first night under Florida skies!

I stepped out on the balcony into a moonlight such as I had never before known--and the delicious odours, the caressing air, the outline of those unfamiliar trees in the garden below!

I heard the fountain, and smelled the sulphur water as it trickled in the moonlight, and, gazing on the dreaming view, was stirred by the soft, sensuous beauty of the night.

Something seemed to awaken in me: I was happy and sad: lonely, yet wanting to be alone.

It was as though something very beautiful ought to happen; my heart seemed ready to burst with either joy or sorrow, I hardly knew which.

I suppose all the loveliness made me homesick without knowing it; and that I also vaguely felt that here, in all this sensuous beauty, life--my life--lacked something, perhaps always would lack something--Juliet was on her balcony in the moonlight, but only the roses were climbing to whisper to her; only the fountain trickled to her half-formed thoughts.

At the hotel where we took our meals we made acquaintances, but found none especially congenial.

I could not sit on the veranda and play cards, as most of the women did.

There were no young people, no children, and few books were accessible.

On rainy days the time dragged.

Several little excursions on the St. John’s River, and down Rice Creek, varied the monotony of visiting old plantations and orange groves, and strolling along the quiet streets basking in the sunshine.

The indolent life was a welcome change after my arduous year at the hospital, and for a time I was content to drift and dream.

I

enjoyed most the evenings when, in the hotel parlour, my patient would play on the piano.

Her touch had a peculiar charm.

She could bring the men in from the office; the darkies from the kitchen would peer in at the doors; people loitering on the street would come up on the veranda; even the women would stop their stupid cards and furtively wipe away the tears, as the frail little figure sat at the piano, and the thin white fingers twinkled over the keys, playing “Ben Bolt,” “By Bendermeer’s Stream,” “The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls,” and a host of other ballads and dance-tunes.

Sometimes she would sing a ballad, and the pathos of her voice made one’s heart ache.

She always left the piano with liquid eyes and a delicate flush on her cheek that made me apprehensive.

Music stirred her so much that she permitted herself to indulge in it but infrequently.

How she loved life and youth, and what a young heart she had to the last!

A coloured folks’ meeting which I attended there was like the things one reads about: The preacher’s text was “Under a Palm Tree”; he pronounced it “pam” tree, and nearly convulsed us with his big words misapplied.

An “experience meeting” followed.

Beginning quietly, the experiences and prayers gradually increased in fervour and unction till finally the dusky worshippers were all on their knees--one eloquent supplicant held forth in a lengthy, moving appeal, while the others kept up a monotonous undertone--a weird, melodious sing-song, with interjections of “Amen!

” “Hallelujah!

” and “Bless de Lawd!

” as they swayed and chanted in an abandonment of religious fervour.

At St. Augustine symptoms of “malaria,” which I had developed while in Palatka, suddenly left me.

(Our “Dr. Conrad” used to say scornfully, “‘Malaria’ is simply a convenient term to express the unknown.

”) What invigoration!

what skies!

and the sea!

Stealing away to the Sea Wall and old Fort Marion, I would look far out across the waters and dream--of what, I know not--just dream.

Keen as was already my realization that life is real and earnest, I was yet reluctant to pass through “girlhood’s Gate of Dreams”; I well knew that on my return North I must decide where I should begin to practise; must engage in the work for which the preceding years had been preparing me; but there on the old Sea Wall I could still hold back from the oncoming Future.

On our return we spent some delightful weeks in Washington; saw hundreds of children on Easter Monday at their egg-rolling on the White House lawn, and heard their united voices as they greeted President Harrison when he came out to watch them, with Baby McKee in his arms.

In New York, we witnessed the splendid spectacle of the Washington Centennial celebration; and then, in early May, returned to our little village amid the drumlins.

Spectacles and parades have never much interested me, but, besides the Washington Centennial parade, I recall one other (a few years later, however) which stands out significantly, more especially because of my own reactions to it.

As a girl I had always been more moved by history or fiction dealing with any other nationality than with my own.

When, as children, we had played at being Somebody Else, I chose to be French, Scotch, German--anything but American!

The romance of the distant, the unattainable!

In school I was never interested in American history, but the history of Greece and Rome--what charm they had!

I actually believed myself wanting in patriotism--a Girl without a Country--till, one summer when visiting in Buffalo, I saw a G. A.

R.

parade.

Parades as parades I abominated, but tried to show a polite interest when my hostess, Dr. Thorndike, announced what good seats she had been able to secure.

I learned something about myself that day.

I

had never supposed I would go across the street to see a president, but when McKinley rode by, and I saw his kindly face and gracious responses to the crowds’ salutes, something stirred within me.

Suddenly I got a conception of what it meant to be a president of a great republic.

I

seemed to realize that it was a nation doing homage to its government, as well as to its chief executive, when the cheers and huzzas greeted our president.

It was the first time I had ever thought of him or another as _our_ President; it was really the first time I had felt myself a part of our nation; and it was a thrilling awakening for one who had always believed herself wanting in patriotism.

What had done it?

Partly the sight of the army of soldiers, I suppose; but I believe it was largely due to the way in which McKinley responded to the greetings of the crowd.

There was that in his manner which seemed to say: “I am proud to be your servant; you appear to exalt me, but it is our nation and the office that you exalt.

I am one with you, and will do my best to serve you, or rather, to conserve the honour and interests of our nation.

” Always after that, the thought of McKinley was blended with gratitude that I was no longer a Girl without a Country.

This stirring of patriotism when he rode by was a feeble forerunner of what I felt later, when I saw on a banner the name of Cayuga County, and of the Post from our home town--saw in the old soldiers the remnant of the Company of which two of my uncles were a part.

The faded, tattered flag they carried stood to me for the one under which they had marched away; and, though scrutinizing the ranks in vain for their faces, still I knew the men marching past were among those with whom my young uncles had gone to the front.

I began to understand what Mother had always felt when the soldiers had marched by on Decoration Day: she would get away by herself, and, coming suddenly upon her, we would find her weeping--the martial music and the sight always bringing back those dreadful years when her young brothers went away to the War.

My Buffalo friends were surprised at the change in my attitude toward parades, for before the day was over I grew enthusiastic enough to suit the most exacting--and why not?

--that day I was born an American!

An old schoolmate living in U---- had written me that there was a good opening there for a woman physician, and as Father’s business took him to that city every month or so, I decided to investigate the possibilities there rather than in New England, where, personally, I was more inclined to go.

Accordingly, Father called on the leading woman physician in U---- (herself a graduate of Boston University) and reported her as eager to have me come and look the field over.

I had a long wait in Dr. Wyeth’s reception room that afternoon in July, as there were many patients ahead of me.

Each time she came out and smilingly said “Next,” I scrutinized her to learn what manner of woman she was.

I saw a tall, well-built, middle-aged woman, rather spare, of erect carriage, with a quick, nervous step.

Her soft brown hair was ’wavy and streaked with gray; she had clear blue eyes and a fair skin with pink cheeks.

Her face had a weary look, but her smile was kind, and I noted her long, white, capable-looking hands.

Quietly distinctive in dress, she gave one the impression of being untrammelled by her clothing, yet by no means unmindful of her appearance--there were certain little touches that showed her feminine side, businesslike as was her manner.

On the whole I approved of her.

She seemed to have all the business capability of “Our Caddie” without her masculinity.

I

saw her surrounded by evidences of prosperity; heard her spoken of as a successful physician and a noble woman; and thought with admiration and wonder, “Will the time ever come when I shall be a real woman physician--established, successful, and as independent as is she?

” At length she ushered me into her private office, and our acquaintance progressed rapidly.

We liked each other instantly; she urged me to come there; gave me sound advice; and prophesied advantages to us both should I come.

Practically alone, so far as sister physicians were concerned, she craved one with whom she could affiliate, for although there were three other women physicians in the city, one was intemperate and impossible, one a “bluffer,” and the other, though bright and well-educated, was so lacking in self-confidence as to be of no practical help in consultation.

At the Doctor’s home that night I met her mother, who had one of the sweetest faces I ever saw; it was framed in brown ringlets which hung in a waterfall under her cap; her hair was less tinged with gray than was her daughter’s--a sweet-souled woman, hospitable, with a good word for everyone; a clinging nature that called out the protective instinct in all who met her.

I saw that the numerous relatives of the Doctor’s leaned on her and looked to her as to an oracle, and that she lavishly spent herself for them.

It was “Dr. Sue” here, and “Dr. Sue” there; and as I came to see more of her, I used to wish she could get away for a long holiday and forget that she had relatives or patients depending upon her.

I have never known a life more beautifully and unselfishly lived than that of this noble woman--so resourceful, so ready, so full of reserve strength, even when worn and tired almost to the point of exhaustion.

The business proposition which the Doctor made was that I share her office, taking different office hours; pay the rent for a year, and receive, in turn, the benefit of her office furnishings and medical equipment.

She would call me in consultation whenever she had an opportunity, and turn over her practice to me whenever she went away, as she would do in a few weeks, if I would come soon.

How my head whirled that night as I pondered the proposition!

The cost seemed stupendous--twenty-eight dollars a month for office rent alone!

--but on reaching home and talking it over with Father, we decided to accept her terms.

So in mid-July Father and I started for U----, I with my trunk and books, my medicines, and few surgical instruments, and Father with the money to pay a month’s expenses, and a big fund of hope and faith in his daughter’s ability to make a success of this momentous undertaking.

When I look back and see how inexperienced I was, how little I knew of the world and of life, I wonder at my audacity; I wonder still more at the faith my friends had in me, and at the confidence and respect which Dr. Wyeth showed in my ability and opinions; but to such faith and confidence I owe largely what success I have attained.

How busy Father and I were that first day, making my few purchases--a small desk being the main one; making arrangements for my business cards in the papers; ordering stationery; renting a lodging-room; and looking up a boarding-place!

I recall the gown I wore--a dark green serge which Sister had made for me--very plain, as I had insisted, and suitable for a staid physician.

In a building adjoining the office building, I found a furnished room which I sub-rented from a woman living there, though just as I went there she went away for a time.

I have never had such a desolate feeling as I had those few nights when, after closing the office, I climbed the stairs to that lonely little room, the halls echoing to my steps.

And I kept thinking, “I am paying eight dollars a month extra for this loneliness!

” So it was not many days before I asked Dr. Wyeth if she minded if I slept in the office, using her operating-chair as my bed; arranging a place behind the draperies for my clothes; and making a few other little additions which would suffice for my needs, yet not detract from the professional appearance of the office.

She had no objection, but thought I ought to have a more comfortable bed.

The change was made, and few who visited the office ever knew that I lodged there.

For four years I slept on a narrow operating-chair, never thinking it a hardship.

Sending a month’s rent to the woman of whom I had engaged the room, I wrote her why I had decided to give it up.

Replying with a menacing letter, she tried to intimidate me into keeping the room.

Scared, though knowing I had made no compact with her for a stated time, I anxiously awaited her return to town, when I called upon her.

Pale with rage, her eyes blazing, she denounced me as a liar and a hypocrite, and said she would blast my reputation in U----.

I did not know what to make of such conduct.

It was the first time I had ever had threatening or abusive language used to me.

I had been perfectly honourable with her, but she was wildly unreasonable.

I could hardly speak for the dryness of my mouth as she continued her vituperations, and when I escaped from her presence, it was as though from the den of a wild beast.

For some time after I was uneasy, but she never took the steps she threatened.

I learned later that her mother was insane, and that she herself finally lost her mind.

Under the head of “Business” in one of the city papers, the day after I went to U----, were two items only, the first telling of a new doctor (my humble self) locating there, and the other of a new undertaker having set up in business.

Accidental as was the juxtaposition, it was nevertheless a bit startling.

One of the men in the office of the firm for which Father was then travelling had recommended to him a boarding-place for me near my office, and I had engaged board there at once.

Although disappointed on seeing the fellow-boarders, knowing I could not afford a high-priced place, I had decided to grin and bear it; but when Dr. Wyeth learned where I was boarding, she said it would not do at all; she named two places, either one of which would be desirable.

On asking what they charged, I found that one was two dollars more a week than I was paying, the other one dollar more.

So, telling her how necessary it was to count the cost till I could get a footing, I said I had better make no change.

But she earnestly and emphatically opposed my staying there; said it was poor policy, would immediately tell against me--a bit of worldly wisdom that I strongly rebelled against--a dollar a week more just to please Mrs. Grundy and board in a more aristocratic neighbourhood!

I was full of impotent rage at such a state of affairs, and Father had much the same feeling, but having great respect for Dr. Wyeth’s judgment, I reluctantly made the change.

Immediately I saw that she was right.

The people with whom I then came in contact were cultured; the whole atmosphere was desirable; and, in a short time, through acquaintances there, I was engaged in work which did much to introduce me well in the city.

“In the leisure of your first few months’ practice” was a phrase which one of our professors had often used in lecturing to us, and through this facetious reiteration, I was prepared for a long wait before that first patient should arrive.

But my second day in the city, the woman physician who had an office adjoining ours asked me to see a case with her.

It was a servant in a fine house next to the home of Roscoe Conklin.

As it was a case of varicose ulcers such as I had seen dozens of in the Dispensary clinics, I was able to make a positive diagnosis, and confidently to advise the Doctor as to treatment, for which she was grateful and gave me a dollar and a half--my first fee.

This physician was rather pompous, and not well grounded in medicine.

She had a fair exterior, an open countenance, and a big, motherly figure, but she did not inspire confidence in me, yet she was kind-hearted and disposed to be friendly.

When, some months later, Sister came to visit me, and the Doctor learned that we were sleeping together on that narrow office-chair, she insisted on our using the unused folding-bed in her office.

As a neighbour she was something of a nuisance, for whenever she knew I was alone in my office she would come in and stay the entire evening.

I tired of her talk, and soon resorted to subterfuge to rid myself of her: I would open my waiting-room door (which rang a bell whenever the door opened); would pretend to usher someone in, and then try to simulate the conversation of two persons, also moving about the office, rattling instruments, letting water run, and so on.

Knowing she could hear some sounds from her office, I hoped she would think I was engaged, and so stay away.

Sometimes I would read aloud, so she would think I had someone in there.

Perhaps she heard more distinctly than I thought, and saw through my deception.

My most serious grudge against her was for trying to destroy my ideal of one of our much-loved New England poets.

She had lived in the same city with him and claimed to have been a frequenter in his home, and she met my glowing enthusiasm for him with the rehearsal of gossip about an intrigue between him and some woman friend.

I did not believe her story, but it shocked and angered me, and I detested her for mentioning it.

I must have been pretty severe, for she grew apologetic and conciliatory, and never afterward talked to me about such things.

Her story may or may not have been true, but I smile sadly now at that girl who looked out upon the world with such unbounded faith in humanity; who held such rigid notions of right and wrong; and suffered such painful shocks on finding both good and bad mixed in the same individual.

I had been practising nine days when I received my first office call.

The time had seemed very long since that day after my arrival, when Dr. M---- had called me in consultation.

I had begun to feel that the waiting time was going to be no joke.

But on that momentous day, a working-girl strayed into my office.

Listening to her symptoms, I prescribed as carefully as I could, calmly took the seventy-five cents office-fee, and ushered her out in my most professional manner.

When the door had closed upon her, I literally danced for joy; the capers I cut would have made an onlooker laugh--or cry, for it had its pathetic side.

There was so much at stake; it meant so much to me, to my family, and friends--and here was the beginning!

a patient had actually come to me!

I had to be careful lest the physicians whose offices were each side of mine should hear my demonstrations.

I ran to the mirror and stood on tip-toe (it was hung high for Dr. Wyeth), and looked for sympathy into my own sparkling eyes, and saw my flushed face, and felt half ashamed, and wholly elated, as I nodded and smiled to myself.

Then I skipped about the room again, until I remembered my new account-book with its lone entry.

Proudly making my second entry, I then recorded in my case-book the patient’s symptoms and my prescription.

I do not recall that she ever came again, but hope the _bryonia_ which I gave her for rheumatism helped her as much as her coming helped me.

This was my red-letter day, for scarcely had I become presentable from the elation of that first call when another patient came.

I felt like an old hand at the business as I gave her the medicine and carelessly took the office-fee.

Although I had had patients for two years in dispensary and hospital, these were the first who had paid me for my services.

A check for several months of my present salary, put into my hands this minute, could not produce the elation I felt at receiving those paltry office-fees.

As though that were not enough for one day!

My cup literally ran over when, in the evening, the telephone rang and there was a hurry call from the hotel across the way.

Seizing my medicine-case, which I had heretofore been unnecessarily carrying in my walks about the city (in obedience to Dr. Wyeth, though I felt like a hypocrite in so doing), I flew down the stairs and across the street where I found the patient--a nervous, impressionable girl, whom I had no difficulty in quieting and relieving, at the same time alleviating her mother’s anxiety as well.

As I went through the hotel corridors I walked on air; my heart was beating tumultuously.

I wanted to shout for joy.

A band was playing in the street, making it harder still to maintain decorum until I could reach my friendly office--that office where I had spent so many lonely hours waiting for the door-bell to ring!

that office which had this day witnessed my triple triumph!

A few evenings later the bell rang.

In the waiting room stood a tall, lanky old chap.