Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

'but I believe the brush for the horse is better for man than the brush of the shops.' Mon avis: I shall need a currycomb soon.

May 31. To-day there were several cases of shock. I tried the respiratory machine. It did not work. All the muscles of these poor creatures were relaxed. Their lips would not close on the rubber mouthpiece. I am off for Paris to-morrow, to have made a frame enclosed in a kind of bag. The patient's head will go inside and carbon-dioxide gas will pass into the chamber from a pressure cylinder. The bag will be tied round the neck. The new device will have two advantages. First, the patient will have nothing to do but to breathe; he need not close his lips on a respiration tube. Second, the treatment need not be interrupted to wash out the apparatus with fresh air. There will be plenty of carbon dioxide and a hole can be left in the chamber, through which the patient will be able to get all the oxygen he needs. But probably, by the time that this apparatus has been made and tested, the fighting in this region will have quieted down, and it will then be necessary for me to go elsewhere.

My stay at the Massif de Moronvillers has been very profitable. I have demonstrated that the blood-pressure is not altered by a barrage fire said to be as violent as the worst in the great drive at Verdun. Further, I have myself examined more than a thousand wounded. Save a few wounds of the abdomen, in which the blood-vessels or their nerves in that great vascular region were probably directly injured, there has been no case of shock except after shell-fractures of the thigh and after multiple wounds through the subcutaneous fat. In these, closure of the capillaries by fat-globules is known to take place. This is strong support for my discovery that shock may be pro

duced in animals by injecting fat into the veins.

As might have been expected, the making of the new apparatus in Paris in war-time was a slow business. When it was finished, I tested it at the Collége de France in the laboratory of my kind friend, Professor Gley. It worked very well. A wire frame covered with a thin caoutchouc bag enclosed the head. Carbon-dioxide gas passed into this bag from a pressure cylinder controlled by a regulating valve. On its way, the gas bubbled through a flask half filled with water. The rate of passage could be told by counting the bubbles. When the inspired air contained about three per cent of carbon dioxide, the subject's respiration was doubled and the blood-pressure was plainly greater. Sufficient fresh air was obtained through an opening in the bag.

By this time the fighting at the Massif de Moronvillers had sunk to the habitual offensive; there were no longer enough wounded at Mourmelon-le-Petit. As only one in a hundred casualties has shock, I needed at least one hundred wounded a day. Since the point at which attacks might be made could not be foretold, it was necessary to obtain carte blanche to go anywhere on the French front. For this I went to Grand General Headquarters at Compiègne.

I

I felt at home at Compiègne. Months before, the French government had made me consulting physiologist to the Carrel Hospital there. I walked again in the wonderful beechen forest. stood upon the terrace of the Château, where Napoleon's Austrian bride had looked amazed along the entrancing vista, cut in one night through miles of billowing green by her all-powerful spouse. Compiègne fell to the Huns when the wave of invasion rolled over northern France. But they did not

harm the place. It was the Kaiser's plan, it is believed, to receive upon the celebrated terrace the submission of the dignitaries of France. Instead, one fateful day, during the battle of the Marne, there came over the wire words pregnant with the fate of civilization: 'Foch has pierced our centre. Fall back at once.'

In my former days at Compiègne, the great Château had been a sleepy place, almost deserted. It was now the seat of Grand General Headquarters. No doubt it would be profoundly altered. There would be many guards, a stream of officers coming and going, a crowd of automobiles, a rush of aides bearing messages. To my astonishment, it was scarcely changed. This centre of perhaps the greatest intellectual activity in the world was as quiet almost as the grave. A lonely sentinel guarded the iron gates. A single limousine stood within the court; the chauffeur drowsed in the warm June sun.

Madame C and I were admitted to a tiny room, economically boarded off from one of the salons. Presently a soldier led us up the ancient stairway to the third floor, where we traversed interminable corridors paved with brick. We passed door after door, each of which bore a white paper stating the name and business of the inhabitant. We met not a soul.

Finally, we arrived at the door we sought. We found within a pleasant officer at a large desk. He might have been writing his memoirs, so easy and good-natured was he. I stated my case, while my benevolent companion made signs behind my back that I was some kind of rare bird. Even the good are full of guile. The officer did not penetrate this aura. Next day I received a magic square of blue paper, giving me full powers and requiring every French officer to further my researches.

Returning to the Ministry of War, at Paris, on the Boulevard St. Germain, I obtained an order of transport, providing free passage and all civilities on the railways. A message was telephoned to the front, ordering a limousine and an officer to meet me at a certain station. The next day I departed, in the company of an enormous cylinder of carbon-dioxide gas. I reached a station near Soissons, where I was most politely conveyed to Division Headquarters. Here the general brought out a map on which were marked the postes de secours, the sorting hospitals, and other administrative details. Soon I found myself just behind the Chemin des Dames, welcomed by a friendly médecin chef, in private life Professor of Surgery at the University of Marseilles.

June 24. This is a hill country. The road to the Ambulance crosses a fold in one of these hills. On the left is a cliff, separated from the road by a narrow strip of ground holding a single line of low stone houses. On the right, a few others cling to the slope. It is Vauxtin. Below the village is a little valley containing barracks and stables. Beyond it the road rises to a rounded summit on which are the great tents of the hospital. It is almost a motorambulance. There are electric-light generators mounted upon an auto truck. There is an automobile dove-cote, with homing pigeons. The tents, with the exception of those used for operatingrooms, have dirt floors. There is good air, much sunshine, a wide view, a large and competent staff. The surgical results are excellent.

The staff sleep in the village — in caves dug in the cliff. I live in a house. It has a small courtyard, shut from the road by a wall. There is a wide gateway, closed by iron doors. Upon this yard open sheds in which are cows, swine, poultry, pigs, and rabbits. In

the centre is a dunghill, a pool of liquid manure, and several indolent open drains. My room has a dirty brick floor, dirty walls with great cobwebs, and a dirty duvet, of a color once red. The sheets are coarse but clean. There is no soap-dish, no towel, no anything but a small, battered tin basin and a rusty tin water-can. The door will not lock, or even latch. Two dogs, three cats, and all the chickens, wander at intervals through the manure and into the chamber of the interesting stranger. The cats find the duvet comforting.

I am writing on our mess-table in the adjoining courtyard. We eat in the open, protected from rain by some flimsy tarred paper. Near my bench is a rabbit-hutch. Two large and fluffy hens, each with many chicks, are trying to teach me how to manage a family. I should be more interested if they would show me how it is that my family manages me. The proprietors of this court are a wrinkled, leathery couple who are evidently moved by the example of the prudent Noah; they seem to have at least one pair of each species of animal indigenous to these parts. Their owners think that, pending the arrival of the flood, it would be a waste of energy to clean the court. Our supper consisted of onion soup, omelette soufflé, hash in slabs, green peas, lettuce salad, confiture, toasted war-bread, and coffee.

At ten o'clock, the apparatus was tried on the médecin chef. If he does not complain, the soldiers will not. The experiment goes smoothly and the chief is entirely comfortable.

June 25. It is nine o'clock, and I am sitting at the door of my shock tent, writing on my knee. I was called at 5.45 A.M. and worked without food till 1 P.M. Then an hour for dinner, and after this more work till 8 P.M. Then supper and a pipe, and here I am.

We have had five cases of shock.

Three recovered; one was hopeless from the start; and the fifth could not be treated constant vomiting and hemorrhage. A day full of dreadful sights. The battles here are fiercely fought; there are more than ten German divisions on our immediate front. The carbon-dioxide treatment is undoubtedly an advantage. Probably it is of considerable advantage. Just how much, can be determined only after many observations. But at least a forward step has been taken.

Yesterday I went for a walk to the end of our plateau, separated by a few miles from the Chemin des Dames. It was dusk. The flashes of the guns, the flares, and the smoke-clouds were all visible. Many years ago, the ladies of the French court had villas there and used to drive along the Chemin des Dames to get the view from the long, high ridge.

We had a grand lunch to-day. Tuffier and his aide were guests. The smoke from the green wood of the cook's fire mercifully deadened our capacity to smell his stove five feet away and the manure-pool ten feet away. After all, the rich agricultural aroma of rabbit and of cow is not so bad. The wrinkled peasants, proprietors of this demesne, enjoy these ancestral odors.

Pomona loved the straw-built shed,
Warm with the breath of kine.

The old dame has stolen out to catch a glimpse of the great surgeon. She stands with bared head before a plastered wall, on which a vine has drawn a pattern of classic beauty.

The lunch is interesting. An officer tells us his experience at Verdun. He might be describing the barrage on Mont Blond. I am comforted. He at least will know that I have spoken truth. Our feast had reached the cheese, eaten in the hope that its sharp

savor may correct our earlier excesses, when the air fills with a series of loud bangs mixed with the barking of pompoms. A Boche is trying to hit the barracks and stables down the slope of the hill. Last week sixteen horses were killed by a single bomb. This time the aviator is missing his mark. His bombs are falling at the edge of the low cliff above our heads. Our party leaves more or less hastily for the shelters under the cliff. The sensible ones run. Tuffier and I walk. After a minute or two we conclude that our German friend has done, and we sit down again. Our waiter fetches a jagged piece of steel which had struck about four feet from the plank on which rest my poor old bones at meal-time. I have saved the piece for daughter. But don't be alarmed. This is a quiet enough place. All the hills are bearing haycocks. The fields are poorly cared for, naturally, but there seems, nevertheless, much precious fodder.

Last night it rained, but to-day has been fine and cool. I hated to spend the long, sunny hours in an intolerably hot little room over the remains of what was once a whole man. The wounded are so patient, poor dears.

June 27. After writing you yesterday, I went almost at once to bed. It was still light. The cows and the chickens were at rest, but the peasants were cackling and soldiers and ambulances were constantly passing my open window. This window is three feet above an open drain at the side of the road. Nevertheless, I was soon asleep-fortunately, because at two o'clock a rat

tle at the shutter and a hoarse voice called me to a shock case. I dressed hurriedly and stumbled up the dark hill to the ambulance. I found the surgeons just bandaging the stump of an amputated thigh. The man was pulseless. The head surgeon turned him over to me they always do: the more desperate the case, the more pleased they are to bestow him on some one else. The man was taken to my tent and all the surgeons stood by to see what would happen. Hè was placed head down on a sloping table. Six large electric lights were arranged between him and his blanket. The mask was put over his head and the carbon dioxide turned on. In three minutes his pulse reappeared. Every one was much pleased.

I am anxious to get back to Paris to try out a new idea, an electrical method for raising the blood-pressure.

It is not my purpose to give an account of the busy weeks that followed and the long series of experiments in the laboratories of the Collége de France. The harvest was, as usual, a pennyworth of new truth in an intolerable deal of disappointment.

In August, I sailed for my own country, bearing with me the certainty that the carbon-dioxide respiration treatment of shock was at least of some advantage.

The voyage home was exciting. It was given chiefly to playing chess with a submarine officer. He maintained the high traditions of the United States Navy. I was usually beaten.

(The End)

THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB

THE AUTHOR AS CRITIC

UNDER cover of the blessed anonymity of the Contributor's Club, I hope to have space to say something which touches me nearly. I have that to say which cannot be signed. Yet I distinctly want to say it.

I spent certain years of my youth in an academic post where it was not only my privilege, but my duty, to sit in the seat of the scornful. It was my business, that is, to recommend to the young of my own sex such authors and works as seemed, to my slightly greater experience of literature, worth while. I was paid a living wage for being a highbrow. And I was a highbrow: so completely one that I could with impunity confess to the most frivolous undergraduate my keen delight in a good detective story. It was perfectly well known that I took an equally keen delight in seventeenth-century prose.

meant. It meant first-rate, from the point of view, as nearly as we could get it, of Time itself. I might point out to a class the value of De Quincey's prose, and at the same time condemn some of his more obvious artificialities. I could say that Thackeray was a snob

and prove it. I could give it as my opinion that Mr. Chesterton was usually very clever, sometimes very silly, often very illogical. I was at perfect liberty to denounce the literary product of the day for a highbrow is not supposed to be very enthusiastic about his contemporaries. And certainly no one expected me to like the things in the magazines. Yes, it was Arcadia.

Now I had naïvely supposed that, imperfect though one's own perceptions and judgments may be, one's right to standards as rigid as one can make them was unassailable. Such is not, I find, the case.

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

A few years ago, I began to 'write' Now the miles are many between worse, to publish. I have, since I me and Arcadia. I no longer occupy began, published quite a bit of stuff of that academic post. I am no longer my own. It did not occur to me, when paid for being a highbrow. It is not of I blithely began, that, because my the slightest official importance what own work was being printed, I must I think, either of Hooker or of Maurice straightway give up the privilege of Leblanc. Of course, I did not know, saying what I honestly felt about other when I was there, that it was Arcadia. people's work. Why, because I write Arcadia is always a place that you have plays myself, I do not write plays, left. Let me explain why I now know should it be forbidden me to say that, in truth, it was. that I do not personally enjoy seeing the plays of Mr. Bernard Shaw? Why, because I write verse myself, — I do not write verse, is it unpardonable of me to say that I do not care for the irregular margins of Miss Amy Lowell? Yet so it is. The moment one 'writes' one's self, one must not presume to criticize any one else who writes. Not

While I was being a critic at so many hours a day, I could say what I thought. In fact, the more literature one scorned, the better highbrow one was. Oh, Academe is Arcadia! I was free to admit that I did not consider Thomas Hardy absolutely first-rate, because we all knew what 'first-rate'

[ocr errors]
« AnkstesnisTęsti »