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Essay
In the year 1929 I spent several weeks in the Hôpital X, in the fifteenth
ARRONDISSEMENT of Paris. The clerks put me through the usual third-degree
at the reception desk, and indeed I was kept answering questions for some
twenty minutes before they would let me in. If you have ever had to fill
up forms in a Latin country you will know the kind of questions I mean.
For some days past I had been unequal to translating Reaumur into
Fahrenheit, but I know that my temperature was round about 103, and by
the end of the interview I had some difficulty in standing on my feet. At
my back a resigned little knot of patients, carrying bundles done up in
coloured handkerchiefs, waited their turn to be questioned.
After the questioning came the bath--a compulsory routine for all
newcomers, apparently, just as in prison or the workhouse. My clothes
were taken away from me, and after I had sat shivering for some minutes
in five inches of warm water I was given a linen nightshirt and a short
blue flannel dressing-gown--no slippers, they had none big enough for
me, they said--and led out into the open air. This was a night in
February and I was suffering from pneumonia. The ward we were going to
was 200 yards away and it seemed that to get to it you had to cross the
hospital grounds. Someone stumbled in front of me with a lantern. The
gravel path was frosty underfoot, and the wind whipped the nightshirt
round my bare calves. When we got into the ward I was aware of a strange
feeling of familiarity whose origin I did not succeed in pinning down
till later in the night. It was a long, rather low, ill-lit room, full of
murmuring voices and with three rows of beds surprisingly close together.
There was a foul smell, faecal and yet sweetish. As I lay down I saw on a
bed nearly opposite me a small, round-shouldered, sandy-haired man
sitting half naked while a doctor and a student performed some strange
operation on him. First the doctor produced from his black bag a dozen
small glasses like wine glasses, then the student burned a match inside
each glass to exhaust the air, then the glass was popped on to the man's
back or chest and the vacuum drew up a huge yellow blister. Only after
some moments did I realize what they were doing to him. It was something
called cupping, a treatment which you can read about in old medical
text-books but which till then I had vaguely thought of as one of those
things they do to horses.
The cold air outside had probably lowered my temperature, and I watched
this barbarous remedy with detachment and even a certain amount of
amusement. The next moment, however, the doctor and the student came
across to my bed, hoisted me upright and without a word began applying
the same set of glasses, which had not been sterilized in any way. A few
feeble protests that I uttered got no more response than if I had been an
animal. I was very much impressed by the impersonal way in which the two
men started on me. I had never been in the public ward of a hospital
before, and it was my first experience of doctors who handle you without
speaking to you or, in a human sense, taking any notice of you. They only
put on six glasses in my case, but after doing so they scarified the
blisters and applied the glasses again. Each glass now drew about a
dessert-spoonful of dark-coloured blood. As I lay down again, humiliated,
disgusted and frightened by the thing that had been done to me, I
reflected that now at least they would leave me alone. But no, not a bit
of it. There was another treatment. coming, the mustard poultice,
seemingly a matter of routine like the hot bath. Two slatternly nurses
had already got the poultice ready, and they lashed it round my chest as
tight as a strait-jacket while some men who were wandering about the ward
in shirt and trousers began to collect round my bed with half-sympathetic
grins. I learned later that watching a patient have a mustard poultice
was a favourite pastime in the ward. These things are normally applied
for a quarter of an hour and certainly they are funny enough if you don't
happen to be the person inside. For the first five minutes the pain is
severe, but you believe you can bear it. During the second five minutes
this belief evaporates, but the poultice is buckled at the back and you
can't get it off. This is the period the onlookers enjoy most. During the
last five minutes, I noted, a sort of numbness supervenes. After the
poultice had been removed a waterproof pillow packed with ice was thrust
beneath my head and I was left alone. I did not sleep, and to the best of
my knowledge this was the only night of my life--I mean the only night
spent in bed--in which I have not slept at all, not even a minute.
During my first hour in the Hôpital X I had had a whole series of
different and contradictory treatments, but this was misleading, for in
general you got very little treatment at all, either good or bad, unless
you were ill in some interesting and instructive way. At five in the
morning the nurses came round, woke the patients and took their
temperatures, but did not wash them. If you were well enough you washed
yourself, otherwise you depended on the kindness of some walking patient.
It was generally patients, too, who carried the bedbottles and die grim
bedpan, nicknamed LA CASSEROLE. At eight breakfast arrived, called
army-fashion LA SOUPE. It was soup, too, a thin vegetable soup with slimy
hunks of bread floating about in it. Later in the day the tall, solemn,
black-bearded doctor made his rounds, with an INTERNE and a troop of
students following at his heels, but there were about sixty of us in the
ward and it was evident that he had other wards to attend to as well.
There were many beds past which he walked day after day, sometimes
followed by imploring cries. On the other hand if you had some disease
with which the students wanted to familiarize themselves you got plenty
of attention of a kind. I myself, with an exceptionally fine specimen of
a bronchial rattle, sometimes had as many as a dozen students queuing up
to listen to my chest. It was a very queer feeling--queer, I mean,
because of their intense interest in learning their job, together with a
seeming lack of any perception that the patients were human beings. It is
strange to relate, but sometimes as some young student stepped forward to
take his turn at manipulating you he would be actually tremulous with
excitement, like a boy who has at last got his hands on some expensive
piece of machinery. And then ear after ear--ears of young men, of girls,
of negroes--pressed against your back, relays of fingers solemnly but
clumsily tapping, and not from any one of them did you get a word of
conversation or a look direct in your face. As a non-paying patient, in
the uniform nightshirt, you were primarily A SPECIMEN, a thing I did not
resent but could never quite get used to.
After some days I grew well enough to sit up and study the surrounding
patients. The stuffy room, with its narrow beds so close together that
you could easily touch your neighbour's hand, had every sort of disease
in it except, I suppose, acutely infectious cases. My right-hand
neighbour was a little red-haired cobbler with one leg shorter than the
other, who used to announce the death of any other patient (this happened
a number of times, and my neighbour was always the first to hear of it)
by whistling to me, exclaiming "NUMÉRO 43!" (or whatever it was) and
flinging his arms above his head. This man had not much wrong with him,
but in most of the other beds within my angle of vision some squalid
tragedy or some plain horror was being enacted. In the bed that was foot
to foot with mine there lay, until he died (I didn't see him die--they
moved him to another bed), a little weazened man who was suffering from I
do not know what disease, but something that made his whole body so
intensely sensitive that any movement from side to side, sometimes even
the weight of the bedclothes, would make him shout out with pain. His
worst suffering was when he urinated, which he did with the greatest
difficulty. A nurse would bring him the bedbottle and then for a long
time stand beside his bed, whistling, as grooms are said to do with
horses, until at last with an agonized shriek of "Je fissel" he would get
started. In the bed next to him the sandy-haired man whom I had seen
being cupped used to cough up blood-streaked mucus at all hours. My
left-hand neighbour was a tall, flaccid-looking young man who used
periodically to have a tube inserted into his back and astonishing
quantities of frothy liquid drawn off from some part of his body. In the
bed beyond that a veteran of the war of 1870 was dying, a handsome old
man with a white imperial, round whose bed, at all hours when visiting
was allowed, four elderly female relatives dressed all in black sat
exactly like crows, obviously scheming for some pitiful legacy. In the
bed opposite me in the farther row was an old bald-headed man with
drooping moustaches and greatly swollen face and body, who was suffering
from some disease that made him urinate almost incessantly. A huge glass
receptacle stood always beside his bed. One day his wife and daughter
came to visit him. At sight of them the old man's bloated face lit up
with a smile of surprising sweetness, and as his daughter, a pretty girl
of about twenty, approached the bed I saw that his hand was slowly
working its way from under the bedclothes. I seemed to see in advance the
gesture that was coming--the girl kneeling beside the bed, the old man's
hand laid on her head in his dying blessing. But no, he merely handed her
the bedbottle, which she promptly took from him and emptied into the
receptacle.
About a dozen beds away from me was Numéro 57--I think that was his
number--a cirrhosis-of-the-liver case. Everyone in the ward knew him by
sight because he was sometimes the subject of a medical lecture. On two
afternoons a week the tall, grave doctor would lecture in the ward to a
party of students, and on more than one occasion old NUMÉRO 57 was
wheeled in on a sort of trolley into the middle of the ward, where the
doctor would roll back his nightshirt, dilate with his fingers a huge
flabby protruber-ance on the man's belly--the diseased liver, I suppose
--and explain solemnly that this was a disease attributable to
alcoholism, commoner in the wine-drinking countries. As usual he neither
spoke to his patient nor gave him a smile, a nod or any kind of
recognition. While he talked, very grave and upright, he would hold the
wasted body beneath his two hands, sometimes giving it a gentle roll to
and fro, in just the attitude of a woman handling a rolling-pin. Not that
NUMÉRO 57 minded this kind of thing. Obviously he was an old hospital
inmate, a regular exhibit at lectures, his liver long since marked down
for a bottle in some pathological museum. Utterly uninterested in what
was said about him, he would lie with his colourless eyes gazing at
nothing, while the doctor showed him off like a piece of antique china.
He was a man of about sixty, astonishingly shrunken. His face, pale as
vellum, had shrunken away till it seemed no bigger than a doll's.
One morning my cobbler neighbour woke me up plucking at my pillow before
the nurses arrived. "NUMÉRO 57!"--he flung his arms above his head.
There was a light in the ward, enough to see by. I could see old NUMÉRO
57 lying crumpled up on his side, his face sticking out over the side of
the bed, and towards me. He had died some rime during the night, nobody
knew when. When the nurses came they received the news of his death
indifferendy and went about their work. After a long dme, an hour or
more, two other nurses marched in abreast like soldiers, with a great
clumping of sabots, and knotted the corpse up in the sheets, but it was
not removed till some dme later. Meanwhile, in the better light, I had
had time for a good look at NUMÉRO 57. Indeed I lay on my side to look at
him. Curiously enough he was the first dead European I had seen. I had
seen dead men before, but always Asiatics and usually people who had died
violent deaths. NUMÉRO 57's eyes were still open, his mouth also open,
his small face contorted into an expression of agony. What most impressed
me, however, was the whiteness of his face. It had been pale before, but
now it was little darker than die sheets. As I gazed at the tiny,
screwed-up face it struck me that dlis disgusting piece of refuse,
waiting to be carted away and dumped on a slab in the dissecting room,
was an example of "natural" death, one of the things you pray for in the
Litany. There you are, then, I thought, that's what is waiting for you,
twenty, thirty, forty years hence: that is how the lucky ones die, the
ones who live to be old. One wants to live, of course, indeed one only
stays alive by virtue of the fear of death, but I think now, as I thought
then, that it's better to die violently and not too old. People talk
about the horrors of war, but what weapon has man invented that even
approaches in cruelty some of the commoner diseases? "Natural" death,
almost by definition, means something slow, smelly and painful. Even at
that, it makes a difference if you can achieve it in your own home and
not in a public institution. This poor old wretch who had just flickered
out like a candle-end was not even important enough to have anyone
watching by his deathbed. He was merely a number, then a "subject" for
the students' scalpels. And the sordid publicity of dying in such a
place! In the Hôpital X the beds were very close together and there were
no screens. Fancy, for instance, dying like the little man whose bed was
for a while foot to foot with mine, the one who cried out when the
bedclothes touched him! I dare say "JE PISSE!" were his last recorded
words. Perhaps the dying don't bother about such things--that at least
would be the standard answer: nevertheless dying people are often more or
less normal in their minds till within a day or so of the end.
In the public wards of a hospital you see horrors that you don't seem to
meet with among people who manage to die in their own homes, as though
certain diseases only attacked people at the lower income levels. But it
is a fact that you would not in any English hospitals see some of the
things I saw in the Hôpital X. This business of people just dying like
animals, for instance, with nobody standing by, nobody interested, the
death not even noticed till the morning--this happened more than once.
You certainly would not see that in England, and still less would you see
a corpse left exposed to the view of the other patients. I remember that
once in a cottage hospital in England a man died while we were at tea,
and though there were only six of us in the ward the nurses managed
things so adroitly that the man was dead and his body removed without our
even hearing about it till tea was over. A thing we perhaps underrate in
England is the advantage we enjoy in having large numbers of well-trained
and rigidly-disciplined nurses. No doubt English nurses are dumb enough,
they may tell fortunes with tea-leaves, wear Union Jack badges and keep
photographs of the Queen on their mantelpieces, but at least they don't
let you lie unwashed and constipated on an unmade bed, out of sheer
laziness. The nurses at the Hôpital X still had a tinge of Mrs Gamp about
them, and later, in the military hospitals of Republican Spain, I was to
see nurses almost too ignorant to take a temperature. You wouldn't,
either, see in England such dirt as existed in the Hôpital X. Later on,
when I was well enough to wash myself in the bathroom, I found that there
was kept there a huge packing case into which the scraps of food and
dirty dressings from the ward were flung, and the wainscodngs were
infested by crickets. When I had got back my clothes and grown strong on
my legs I fled from the Hôpital X, before my time was up and without
waiting for a medical discharge. It was not the only hospital I have fled
from, but its gloom and bareness, its sickly smell and, above all,
something in its mental atmosphere stand out in my memory as exceptional.
I had been taken there because it was the hospital belonging to my
ARRONDISSEMENT, and I did not learn till after I was in it that it bore a
bad reputation. A year or two later the celebrated swindler, Madame
Han-aud, who was ill while on remand, was taken to the Hôpital X, and
after a few days of it she managed to elude her guards, took a taxi and
drove back to the prison, explaining that she was more comfortable there.
I have no doubt that the Hôpital X was quite untypical of French
hospitals even at that date. But the patients, nearly all of them working
men, were surprisingly resigned. Some of them seemed to find the
conditions almost comfortable, for at least two were destitute
malingerers who found this a good way of getting through the winter. The
nurses connived because the malingerers made themselves useful by doing
odd jobs. But the attitude of the majority was: of course this is a lousy
place, but what else do you expect? It did not seem strange to them that
you should be woken at five and then wait three hours before starting the
day on watery soup, or that people should die with no one at their
bedside, or even that your chance of getting medical attention should
depend on catching the doctor's eye as he went past. According to their
traditions that was what hospitals were like. If you are seriously ill
and if you are too poor to be treated in your own home, then you must go
into hospital, and once there you must put up with harshness and
discomfort, just as you would in the army. But on top of this I was
interested to find a lingering belief in the old stories that have now
almost faded from memory in England--stories, for instance, about
doctors cutting you open out of sheer curiosity or thinking it funny to
start operating before you were properly "under". There were dark tales
about a little operating-room said to be situated just beyond the
bathroom. Dreadful screams were said to issue from this room. I saw
nothing to confirm these stories and no doubt they were all nonsense,
though I did see two students kill a sixteen-year-old boy, or nearly kill
him (he appeared to be dying when I left the hospital, but he may have
recovered later) by a mischievous experiment which they probably could
not have tried on a paying patient. Well within living memory it used to
be believed in London that in some of the big hospitals patients were
killed off to get dissection subjects. I didn't hear this tale repeated
at the Hôpital X, but I should think some of the men there would have
found it credible. For it was a hospital in which not the methods,
perhaps, but something of the atmosphere of the nineteenth century had
managed to survive, and therein lay its peculiar interest.
During the past fifty years or so there has been a great change in the
relationship between doctor and patient. If you look at almost any
literature before the later part of the nineteenth century, you find that
a hospital is popularly regarded as much the same thing as a prison, and
an old-fashioned, dungeon-like prison at that. A hospital is a place of
filth, torture and death, a sort of antechamber to the tomb. No one who
was not more or less destitute would have thought of going into such a
place for treatment. And especially in the early part of the last
century, when medical science had grown bolder than before without being
any more successful, the whole business of doctoring was looked on with
horror and dread by ordinary people. Surgery, in particular, was believed
to be no more than a peculiarly gruesome form of sadism, and dissection,
possible only with the aid of bodysnatchers, was even confused with
necromancy. From the nineteenth century you could collect a large
horror-literature connected with doctors and hospitals. Think of poor old
George III, in his dotage, shrieking for mercy as he sees his surgeons
approaching to "bleed him till he faints"! Think of the conversations of
Bob Sawyer and Benjamin Alien, which no doubt are hardly parodies, or the
field hospitals in LA DÉBÂCLE and WAR AND PEACE, or that shocking
description of an amputation in Melville's WHITEJACKET! Even the names
given to doctors in nineteenth-century English fiction, Slasher, Carver,
Sawyer, Fillgrave and so on, and the generic nickname "sawbones", are
about as grim as they are comic. The anti-surgery tradition is perhaps
best expressed in Tennyson's poem, The Children's Hospital, which is
essentially a pre-chloroform document though it seems to have been
written as late as 1880. Moreover, the outlook which Tennyson records in
this poem had a lot to be said for it. When you consider what an
operation without anaesthetics must have been like, what it notoriously
WAS like, it is difficult not to suspect the motives of people who would
undertake such things. For these bloody horrors which the students so
eagerly looked forward to ("A magnificent sight if Slasher does it!")
were admittedly more or less useless: the patient who did not die of
shock usually died of gangrene, a result which was taken for granted.
Even now doctors can be found whose motives are questionable. Anyone who
has had much illness, or who has listened to medical students talking,
will know what I mean. But anaesthetics were a turning point, and
disinfectants were another. Nowhere in the world, probably would you now
see the kind of scene described by Axel Munthe in THE STORY OF SAN
MICHELE, when the sinister surgeon in top hat and frock coat, his
starched shirtfront spattered with blood and pus, carves up patient after
patient with the same knife and flings the severed limbs into a pile
beside the table. Moreover, the national health insurance has partly done
away with the idea that a working-class patient is a pauper who deserves
little consideration. Well into this century it was usual for "free"
patients at the big hospitals to have their teeth extracted with no
anaesthetic. They didn't pay, so why should they have an anaesthetic--
that was the attitude. That too has changed.
And yet every institution will always bear upon it some lingering memory
of its past. A barrack-room is still haunted by the ghost of Kipling, and
it is difficult to enter a workhouse without being reminded of OLIVER
TWIST. Hospitals began as a kind of casual ward for lepers and the like
to die in, and they continued as places where medical students learned
their art on the bodies of the poor. You can still catch a faint
suggestion of their history in their characteristically gloomy
architecture. I would be far from complaining about the treatment I have
received in any English hospital, but I do know that it is a sound
instinct that warns people to keep out of hospitals if possible, and
especially out of the public wards. Whatever the legal position may be,
it is unquestionable that you have far less control over your own
treatment, far less certainty that frivolous experiments will not be
tried on you, when it is a case of "accept the discipline or get out".
And it is a great thing to die in your own bed, though it is better still
to die in your boots. However great the kindness and the efficiency, in
every hospital death there will be some cruel, squalid detail, something
perhaps too small to be told but leaving terribly painful memories
behind, arising out of the haste, the crowding, the impersonality of a
place where every day people are dying among strangers.
The dread of hospitals probably still survives among the very poor, and
in all of us it has only recently disappeared. It is a dark patch not far
beneath the surface of our minds. I have said earlier that when I entered
the ward at the Hôpital X I was conscious of a strange feeling of
familiarity. What the scene reminded me of, of course, was the reeking,
pain-filled hospitals of the nineteenth century, which I had never seen
but of which I had a traditional knowledge. And something, perhaps the
black-clad doctor with his frowsy black bag, or perhaps only the sickly
smell, played the queer trick of unearthing from my memory that poem of
Tennyson's, The Children's Hospital, which I had not thought of for
twenty years. It happened that as a child I had had it read aloud to me
by a sick-nurse whose own working life might have stretched back to the
time when Tennyson wrote the poem. The horrors and sufferings of the
old-style hospitals were a vivid memory to her. We had shuddered over the
poem together, and then seemingly I had forgotten it. Even its name would
probably have recalled nothing to me. But the first glimpse of the
ill-lit murmurous room, with the beds so close together, suddenly roused
the train of thought to which it belonged, and in the night that followed
I found myself remembering the whole story and atmosphere of the poem,
with many of its lines complete.
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