In consequence he now looked at Roberta in an extremely sober manner. By no means, he now said to himself, must he allow himself to become emotionally or otherwise involved here. And so in order to help himself as well as her to attain and maintain a balance which would permit of both extricating themselves without too much trouble, he drew toward him his black leather case record book and, opening it, said: “Now, let’s see if we can’t find out what the trouble is here. What is your name?”
“Ruth Howard. Mrs. Howard,” replied Roberta nervously and tensely, at once fixing upon a name which Clyde had suggested for her use. And now, interestingly enough, at mention of the fact that she was married, he breathed easier. But why the tears then? What reason could a young married woman have for being so intensely shy and nervous?
“And your husband’s first name?” he went on.
As simple as the question was, and as easy as it should have been to answer, Roberta nevertheless hesitated before she could bring herself to say; “Gifford,” her older brother’s name.
“You live around here, I presume?”
“In Fonda.”
“Yes. And how old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“How long have you been married?”
This inquiry being so intimately connected with the problem before her, she again hesitated before saying, “Let me see—three months.”
At once Dr. Glenn became dubious again, though he gave her no sign. Her hesitancy arrested him. Why the uncertainty? He was wondering now again whether he was dealing with a truthful girl or whether his first suspicions were being substantiated. In consequence he now asked: “Well, now what seems to be the trouble, Mrs. Howard? You need have no hesitancy in telling me—none whatsoever. I am used to such things year in and out, whatever they are. That is my business, listening to the troubles of people.”
“Well,” began Roberta, nervously once more, this terrible confession drying her throat and thickening her tongue almost, while once more she turned the same button of her coat and gazed at the floor. “It’s like this . . . You see . . . my husband hasn’t much money . . . and I have to work to help out with expenses and neither of us make so very much.” (She was astonishing herself with her own shameful power to lie in this instance—she, who had always hated to lie.) “So . . . of course . . . we can’t afford to . . . to have . . . well, any . . . children, you see, so soon, anyhow, and . . .”
She paused, her breath catching, and really unable to proceed further with this wholesale lying.
The doctor realizing from this, as he thought, what the true problem was—that she was a newly-married girl who was probably faced by just such a problem as she was attempting to outline—yet not wishing to enter upon any form of malpractice and at the same time not wishing to appear too discouraging to a young couple just starting out in life, gazed at her somewhat more sympathetically, the decidedly unfortunate predicament of these young people, as well as her appropriate modesty in the face of such a conventionally delicate situation, appealing to him. It was too bad. Young people these days did have a rather hard time of it, getting started in some cases, anyhow. And they were no doubt faced by some pressing financial situations. Nearly all young people were. Nevertheless, this business of a contraceptal operation or interference with the normal or God-arranged life processes, well, that was a ticklish and unnatural business at best which he wanted as little as possible to do with. Besides, young, healthy people, even though poor, when they undertook marriage, knew what they were about. And it was not impossible for them to work, the husband anyhow, and hence manage in some way.
And now straightening himself around in his chair very soberly and authoritatively, he began: “I think I understand what you want to say to me, Mrs. Howard. But I’m also wondering if you have considered what a very serious and dangerous thing it is you have in mind. But,” he added, suddenly, another thought as to whether his own reputation in this community was in any way being tarnished by rumor of anything he had done in the past coming to him, “just how did you happen to come to me, anyway?”
Something about the tone of his voice, the manner in which he asked the question—the caution of it as well as the possibility impending resentment in case it should turn out that any one suspected him of a practice of this sort—caused Roberta to hesitate and to feel that any statement to the effect that she had heard of or been sent by any one else—Clyde to the contrary notwithstanding—might be dangerous. Perhaps she had better not say that she had been sent by any one. He might resent it as an insult to his character as a reputable physician. A budding instinct for diplomacy helped her in this instance, and she replied: “I’ve noticed your sign in passing several times and I’ve heard different people say you were a good doctor.”
His uncertainty allayed, he now continued; “In the first place, the thing you want done is something my conscience would not permit me to advise. I understand, of course, that you consider it necessary. You and your husband are both young and you probably haven’t very much money to go on, and you both feel that an interruption of this kind will be a great strain in every way. And no doubt it will be. Still, as I see it, marriage is a very sacred thing, and children are a blessing—not a curse. And when you went to the altar three months ago you were probably not unaware that you might have to face just such a situation as this. All young married people are, I think.” (“The altar,” thought Roberta sadly. If only it were so.) “Now I know that the tendency of the day in some quarters is very much in this direction, I am sorry to say. There are those who feel it quite all right if they can shirk the normal responsibilities in such cases as to perform these operations, but it’s very dangerous, Mrs. Howard, very dangerous legally and ethically as well as medically very wrong. Many women who seek to escape childbirth die in this way. Besides it is a prison offense for any doctor to assist them, whether there are bad consequences or not.
You know that, I suppose. At any rate, I, for one, am heartily opposed to this sort of thing from every point of view. The only excuse I have ever been able to see for it is when the life of the mother, for instance, depends upon such an operation. Not otherwise. And in such cases the medical profession is in accord. But in this instance I’m sure the situation isn’t one which warrants anything like that. You seem to me to be a strong, healthy girl. Motherhood should hold no serious consequences for you. And as for money reasons, don’t you really think now that if you just go ahead and have this baby, you and your husband would find means of getting along? You say your husband is an electrician?”
“Yes,” replied Roberta, nervously, not a little overawed and subdued by his solemn moralizing.
“Well, now, there you are,” he went on. “That’s not such an unprofitable profession. At least all electricians charge enough. And when you consider, as you must, how serious a thing you are thinking of doing, that you are actually planning to destroy a young life that has as good a right to its existence as you have to yours . . .” he paused in order to let the substance of what he was saying sink in—“well, then, I think you might feel called upon to stop and consider—both you and your husband. Besides,” he added, in a diplomatic and more fatherly and even intriguing tone of voice, “I think that once you have it it will more than make up to you both for whatever little hardship its coming will bring you. Tell me,” he added curiously at this point, “does your husband know of this? Or is this just some plan of yours to save him and yourself from too much hardship?” He almost beamed cheerfully as, fancying he had captured Roberta in some purely nervous and feminine economy as well as dread, he decided that if so he could easily extract her from her present mood. And she, sensing his present drift and feeling that one lie more or less could neither help nor harm her, replied quickly: “He knows.”
“Well, then,” he went on, slightly reduced by the fact that his surmise was incorrect, but none the less resolved to dissuade her and him, too: “I think you two should really consider very seriously before you
go further in this manner. I know when young people first face a situation like this they always look on the darker side of it, but it doesn’t always work out that way. I know my wife and I did with our first child. But we got along. And if you will only stop now and talk it over, you’ll see it in a different light, I’m sure. And then you won’t have your conscience to deal with afterwards, either.” He ceased, feeling reasonably sure that he had dispelled the fear, as well as the determination that had brought Roberta to him—that, being a sensible, ordinary wife, she would now desist of course—think nothing more of her plan and leave.
But instead of either acquiescing cheerfully or rising to go, as he though she might, she gave him a wide-eyed terrified look and then as instantly burst into tears. For the total effect of his address had been to first revive more clearly than ever the normal social or conventional aspect of the situation which all along she was attempting to shut out from her thoughts and which, under ordinary circumstances, assuming that she was really married, was exactly the attitude she would have taken. But now the realization that her problem was not to be solved at all, by this man at least, caused her to be seized with what might best be described as morbid panic.
Suddenly beginning to open and shut her fingers and at the same time beating her knees, while her face contorted itself with pain and terror, she exclaimed; “But you don’t understand, doctor, you don’t understand! I have to get out of this in some way! I have to. It isn’t like I told you at all. I’m not married. I haven’t any husband at all. But, oh, you don’t know what this means to me. My family! My father! My mother! I can’t tell you. But I must get out of it. I must! I must! Oh, you don’t know, you don’t know! I must! I must!” She began to rock backward and forward, at the same time swaying from side to side as in a trance.
And Glenn, surprised and startled by this sudden demonstration as well as emotionally affected, and yet at the same time advised thereby that his original surmise had been correct, and hence that Roberta had been lying, as well as that if he wished to keep himself out of this he must now assume a firm and even heartless attitude, asked solemnly: “You are not married, you say?”
For answer now Roberta merely shook her head negatively and continued to cry. And at last gathering the full import of her situation, Dr. Glenn got up, his face a study of troubled and yet conservative caution and sympathy. But without saying anything at first he merely looked at her as she wept. Later he added; “Well, well, this is too bad. I’m sorry.” But fearing to commit himself in any way, he merely paused, adding after a time soothingly and dubiously; “You mustn’t cry. That won’t help you any.” He then paused again, still determined not to have anything to do with this case. Yet a bit curious as to the true nature of the story he finally asked: “Well, then where is the young man who is the cause of your trouble? Is he here?”
Still too overcome by shame and despair to speak, Roberta merely shook her head negatively.
“But, he knows that you’re in trouble, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” replied Roberta faintly.
“And he won’t marry you?”
“He’s gone away.”
“Oh, I see. The young scamp! And don’t you know where he’s gone?”
“No,” lied Roberta, weakly.
“How long has it been since he left you?”
“About a week now.” Once more she lied.
“And you don’t know where he is?”
“No.”
“How long has it been since you were sick?”
“Over two weeks now,” sobbed Roberta.
“And before that you have always been regular?”
“Yes.”
“Well, in the first place,” his tone was more comfortable and pleasant than before—he seemed to be snatching at a plausible excuse for extricating himself from a case which promised little other than danger and difficulty, “this may not be as serious as you think. I know you’re probably very much frightened, but it’s not unusual for women to miss a period. At any rate, without an examination it wouldn’t be possible to be sure, and even if you were, the most advisable thing would be to wait another two weeks. You may find then that there is nothing wrong. I wouldn’t be surprised if you did. You seem to be oversensitive and nervous and that sometimes brings about delays of this kind—mere nervousness. At any rate, if you’ll take my advice, whatever you do, you’ll not do anything now but just go home and wait until you’re really sure. For even if anything were to be done, it wouldn’t be advisable for you to do anything before then.”
“But I’ve already taken some pills and they haven’t helped me,” pleaded Roberta.
“What were they?” asked Glenn interestedly, and, after he had learned, merely commented: “Oh, those. Well, they wouldn’t be likely to be of any real service to you, if you were pregnant. But I still suggest that you wait, and if you find you pass your second period, then it will be time enough to act, although I earnestly advise you, even then, to do nothing if you can help it, because I consider it wrong to interfere with nature in this way. It would be much better, if you would arrange to have the child and take care of it. Then you wouldn’t have the additional sin of destroying a life upon your conscience.”
He was very grave and felt very righteous as he said this. But Roberta, faced by terrors which he did not appear to be able to grasp, merely exclaimed, and as dramatically as before: “But I can’t do that, doctor, I tell you! I can’t. I can’t! You don’t understand. Oh, I don’t know what I shall do unless I find some way out of this. I don’t! I don’t! I don’t!”
She shook her head and clenched her fingers and rocked to and fro while Glenn, impressed by her own terrors, the pity of the folly which, as he saw it, had led her to this dreadful pass, yet professionally alienated by a type of case that spelled nothing but difficulty for him stood determinedly before her and added: “As I told you before, Miss—” (he paused) “Howard, if that is your name, I am seriously opposed to operations of this kind, just as I am to the folly that brings girls and young men to the point where they seem to think they are necessary. A physician may not interfere in a case of this kind unless he is willing to spend ten years in prison, and I think that law is fair enough. Not that I don’t realize how painful your present situation appears to you. But there are always those who are willing to help a girl in your state, providing she doesn’t wish to do something which is morally and legally wrong. And so the very best advice I can give you now is that you do nothing at all now or at any time. Better go home and see your parents and confess. It will be much better—much better, I assure you. Not nearly as hard as you think or as wicked as this other way. Don’t forget there is a life there—a human—if it is really as you think. A human life which you are seeking to end and that I cannot help you to do. I really cannot. There may be doctors—I know there are—men here and there who take their professional ethics a little less seriously than I do; but I cannot let myself become one of them. I am sorry—very.
“So now the best I can say is—go home to your parents and tell them. It may look hard now but you are going to feel better about it in the long run. If it will make you or them feel any better about it, let them come and talk to me. I will try and make them see that this is not the worst thing in the world, either. But as for doing what you want—I am very, very sorry, but I cannot. My conscience will not permit me.”
He paused and gazed at her sympathetically, yet with a determined and concluded look in his eye. And Roberta, dumbfounded by this sudden termination of all her hopes in connection with him and realizing at last that not only had she been misled by Clyde’s information in regard to this doctor, but that her technical as well as emotional plea had failed, now walked unsteadily to the door, the terrors of the future crowding thick upon her. And once outside in the dark, after the doctor had most courteously and ruefully closed the door behind her, she paused to lean against a tree that was there—her nervous and physical strength all but failing her. He had refused
to help her. He had refused to help her. And now what?
An American Tragedy Page 53
