|
Our London Letter [excerpt]
(From Our Special Correspondent.)
L, September 21, 1901.
.
T medical profession
here has fully shared in the indignation and deep sorrow universally
felt by the British people at the shocking crime of which Mr. McKinley
was the victim. Many of us, perhaps, were a little doubtful as to
the wisdom of the early bulletins which to those who had had experience
of the wayward course so often taken by abdominal wounds seemed
imprudently optimistic. But we also knew that the late President
was in the hands of surgeons on whose skill and judgment the most
implicit reliance could be placed; and we awaited the result with
confidence. The shock of the fatal issue was all the greater when
it came. It has been said that the lowest death of human misery
is reached by the commander of a beaten army; but I have often thought
that the position of physicians and surgeons who have to fight a
losing battle against death at the bedside of one of the potentates
of the world is just as unenviable. For many years one of our foremost
surgeons was known to the public as “the man who killed the Emperor,”
and I have heard an American say in a public speech here that General
Grant’s end was hastened by the injudicious overfeeding forced on
him by his physicians. The late Czar dismissed a physician in whom
he had put his trust for years because he failed to achieve the
impossible. Foolish criticisms, by no means confined to the laity,
have been heard on the way in which the wound which caused the death
of President Carnot was dealt with, although the case was from the
first past all surgery.
Some superfine gentlemen of the medical
profession here profess to feel disgust at the publication in our
leading newspaper, the Times, of details as to the attempted
rectal feeding and its consequences in the case of your late President.
Such prudery in a doctor reminds one of the dainty lordling who
complained to Hotspur of the soldiers who brought a slovenly unhandsome
corse betwixt the wind and his nobility. The question of bulletins
must always be a difficult one, and any violation of the privacy
of the sick-room is of course in the highest degree indecent. But
it is surely absurd to treat the case of the ruler of a powerful
nation as on the level with that of an ordinary citizen. The people
have, it seems to me, every right to know the truth—if not the whole
truth—as to the condition of one in whose existence each of them
may justly claim to have a personal interest. Presidents, princes
and potentates and those about them should encourage this curiosity
within reasonable limits; in the case of monarchs, at any rate,
it would augur ill for the continuance of the dynasty if the people
were indifferent about their illnesses. This is a truth which the
Royal Family of Great Britain has never yet grasped. The late Queen,
our present “most gracious” sovereign, and even the smaller fry
of Royal personages have always shown a morbid dislike of publicity
in regard to the ills their august flesh has from time to time been
heir to. I suppose they do not care to have it known that they are
subject to the common lot of humanity. Hence bulletins about them
are edited with the rigor of a Russian press censor, and are carefully
pruned of any expression that might be likely to convey anything
but a vague general statement. Poor Lear said his hand smacked of
humanity. The humblest of our Royalties would not make such an admission
about any part of his sacrosanct person. As a curious instance of
the courtly reticence imposed on physicians even after the death
of a royal patient, I may quote a passage from the bulletin in which
the death of Queen Victoria was announced. It was stated that “in
the last few hours of life paresis of the pulmonary nerves set in,
the heart beating steadily to the end.” The exact meaning of this
cryptic phrase was the subject of some discussion among members
of the medical fraternity, and at last some one plucked up courage
to ask one of the distinguished men who had ministered to the Queen
in her last moments what the words were intended to convey. He threw
the responsibility on the author of the bulletin, suggesting, however,
that the phrase “paresis of the pulmonary nerves” was intended to
get over the ugly term “tracheal râles.” The author’s own account
was that it was used to cover the act of dying from what is known
as paralytic filling of the lungs. So that all this mystery and
diplomatic ingenuity of phrase were thought to be necessary to avoid
the blasphemy of saying that the Queen had the death-rattle in her
throat as she passed into the land of shadows!
In the account of the President’s
death given in our newspapers it was stated that the announcement
of the fatal result was made by Dr. Rixey in the words “The President
is dead!” There is a simple dignity about this that compares very
favorably with some announcements of a similar kind that have been
made in Europe. It is said that the fact of Queen Victoria having
vacated the throne she had occupied so long was notified to the
heir of the crown by one of the physicians as follows: “Your Majesty,
Her Majesty is dead!” For grotesque incongruity this would be difficult
to beat. After the close of the long agony of the Emperor Frederick
of Germany, Sir Morell Mackenzie announced the fact to those about
the bed with uncouth bluntness in the words “He is quite dead now.”
The most graceful of such announcements that I have seen is that
of Dr. Barth to Madame Thiers on the death of the first President
of the new French Republic: “Madame, votre illustre mari a vécu!”
|
