# An Unfair Exchange

Extracted from The Black Cat magazine, June 1900, pp. 21–34.
An Unfair Exchange.
BY ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD.
I CAN'T say I was frightened, but I felt chill, and my heart thumped when I saw the table, with its rubber sheet—the basins, in which I caught the gleam of steel—and the neat array of linen and knives. The room was long and bare, flooded with a blue-white light, and smelled faintly—a sickening, sweetish smell that permeated everything.
1 had elected to come to the table, rather than to be brought unconscious. I wanted to cling to my ego as long as possible—to be a man to the last—for I realized that with an operation for appendicitis there comes always the great question of life and death. My twin brother, Fred, was waiting in the outer room. He alone of all the family knew my condition and the step I was about to take. Why worry the rest, and give them the anxiety of waiting for the news? I was in good hands. Dr. Jerrold was my classmate and devoted to me. I thought of all this dimly, as I lay myself out with the help of my old chum and his assistant. A black-eyed nurse flitted in and out, bringing things. The light blazed into my eyes, and the pain in my right groin was hot and torturing. I saw Dr. Jerrold raise a muzzle-like apparatus, and pour something into it—the smell of ether filled the room. I shivered a little. Another doctor entered and was greeted cheerfully.
“All ready?” he asked.
The muzzle descended gently over my face. I gagged and gasped. A cold wave swept over me.
“Breathe in,” said the voice of the assistant, immeasurably above me.
Instantly a small, powerful voice at my ear repeated rapidly: “Breathe in—breathe in—breathe in—breathe in!”
There came an explosion of light above my eyes. I gasped again, while the big voice boomed, far, far distant: “Breathe in!” And the little one at my ear took it up once more: “Breathe in—breathe in—breathe in—breathe in—n—n—!”
I began to move with excessive velocity through an atmosphere of no resistance, supported by the voice. I was a flaming meteor! I flew through space without end—masses of white star-dust wheeling beside me. The air was cold and buoyant—that other ether that dwells between the worlds. On and on we were hurled furiously! The roar of comets in their course, and the whirr of planets in their orbits becoming confused with the insistent voice that bade me breathe. I knew that if I did not obey I should fall—fall for ever; so I filled my lungs to bursting, and, as I inhaled, was impelled onward with new force.
We approached a mass of light that grew steadily. The sun! I thought. We should be attracted into it, of course, and perish! The light was too cold for the burning sun; it was white—chill white. Then I heard distantly the sound of voices—and the centre of the glare became a gigantic question mark that stretched across the heavens.
I began to slow up and to swing from side to side, like a ship at sea. The voice was gone. A deadly illness grew upon me—and the question mark became the back of a white enamelled chair. Then there was a period of pain and nausea, but a cool hand soothed my brow. I was held firmly but gently, or I should have rolled about in spite of my weakness. I began to think again—I remembered that I had been operated upon.
“Is it over?” I asked, amazed; for it seemed but a moment ago that I saw the last of the bare, white room.
“Yes,” said the nurse. “Don't talk!”
I saw she had blue eyes. A strange man came in, spoke to her and looked at me. “Getting on nicely,” he said. Then some remarks were exchanged about temperature and pulse.
I was slowly assorting the fragments of my consciousness. I had a pain in the old place, but of a new kind. I felt bandages and dressings. My poor racked body seemed to be trying to tell me the terrible ordeal it had been through—“when you were away”—it spoke through every miserable nerve and relaxed muscle, as if saying: “Yes, we were always conscious—we knew. It was terrible—where did you go?” and my ego, in turn, tried to explain. I looked at my hand on the counterpane. It was changed; so small and thin. I glanced at the room. Evidently they had decided it would be best not to put me in the one I had chosen. This was probably the retreat of the doctor's wife—it was filled with womanly trifles, though all superfluous furniture had been removed. The nurse sat by me, bathing my head from time to time, and, as the sickening taste in my mouth increased, she gave me a bit of ice to cool my tongue—only a bit, but such a relief.
A twinge of agony bit at my side. “Hell!” I ejaculated. The nurse looked startled. She held my hand a moment, then took my temperature with a tiny glass thermometer she put under my tongue—nodded her head, and moved away.
The strange man came in again a little later, walked up to me and held my hand.
“How goes it, little one?” he said.
I looked surprised. “The nausea is better,” I said; “but—”
“You must be very quiet, my dear; appendicitis is no joke, and though your case was a simple one—the inflammation had not extended—still you must be obedient and very still—it's hard, of course, and you'll suffer a great deal, but you are courageous.”
I only half-listened. “Where,” I asked, “is Dr. Jerrold?”
It was his turn to lie surprised. “He is—with a case—why?”
“Oh!” I answered. “I thought he wouldn't have gone—he was so anxious about me.”
“Was he?” said the man. “Well, be quiet now—like a good girl.”
“Good—what?” I gasped suddenly.
He leaned over me and looked me in the face; he felt my pulse. “The ether is still on,” he said, and slipped out of the room.
I put my hand to my head—vaguely—and felt a heavy braid of hair. I believe I screamed. The nurse ran to me. I waved at her frantically. “Bring me a mirror!” I commanded.
“Lie still,” she said gently.
“Bring me a mirror!” I said, “or I'll get up and get it!”
She pinned me to the bed with one strong hand and rang a bell.
“Violent?” asked the man, returning.
She nodded.
He came toward me and between them they held me fast and spoke soothingly. Then, to my amazement and rage, I burst into tears.
“A mirror!” I sobbed. “Bring me a mirror!” I was almost insane.
The man gave a nod of consent, the nurse left me and brought a hand-glass from the bureau.
I looked! The face I saw was that of a young girl—her black eyes flaming with excitement—her face drawn by suffering, and white, but for two scarlet spots on the cheeks. About my head—for it was mine—was a great coil of brown hair! I fainted.
When I regained consciousness, the man and the nurse were bending over me. Then followed a confused period. I was half mad, and every time I grew conscious the same horrible question—who and what was I—faced me, and threw me off my balance again. My temperature would not go down—my pulse beat wildly. The doctor finally administered opiates.
The days that followed were terrible beyond description. I could not grasp the awful thing that had happened. I doubted my sanity. But as conviction grew that I was not a victim of a delusion, but of some amazing change, I fought that theory with all the will in me. I felt trapped and cruelly abused. I could confide nothing of my trouble or I risked the insane asylum. So I fought the fearful battle out alone, and the horror of it came near unsettling my reason. Often I had recourse to touching something to make sure I was not mistaken—the coverlid, the medicine bottles, the spoons; each served as a focus for my poor wits. But the accuracy of my vision and touch, with the logical sequence of my life, convinced me finally that, whatever had happened to my soul—this body, at least, Was in normal surroundings.
At last, after days of misery, I became sufficiently master of myself to begin to make an effort to discover my new personality. But the instant I asked questions my doctor and nurse became alarmed. So I took the part of silence, and they thought me better.
A week or more after my operation, a strange, handsome, middle-aged lady was admitted.
“Who is that?” I asked the nurse, unwarily.
She heard me, and, though evidently prepared for my affliction, it struck home.
“Don't you know me?” she begged. “Oh, Polly! Polly, dear—don't you know your mother!”
The nurse put up a warning hand, but the poor woman's distress had touched me. Since this strange and terrible thing had happened, I might as well make the best of it.
“Of course, mother,” I said; “how stupid of me.”
She almost cried for joy this time. The doctor came in.
“Don't excite my patient,” he said, looking over her head the while at the nurse, who smiled. His face cleared.
“How—how are they all?” I asked at a venture; for the doctor and nurse were watching me like hawks.
“Marjie is well,” said the lady. “Tom is staying with us. Your father is very tired, dear, for we've all been so anxious about you. But now that you're getting well again, he is better too. We shall all be so glad to have our dear, laughing Polly back again. Your father is looking about for a horse for you, so when you're up you can have one all to yourself.”
“Thank you,” I said vaguely. “Remember me—give my love to—all of them.” I judged Tom and Marjie to be my brother and sister, so I thought it safe to say: “Tell Tom he's a poor sort of a brother if he doesn't write me all the news. I can have a letter, can't I, Doc?”
There was a miserable silence.
My new mother said gently: “Tom is not your brother, Polly. Don't you remember?”
She picked up my left hand and held it up before me. On the third finger was a heavy, old-fashioned ring, set with a solitaire. “Good Lord!” I thought. “I'm engaged, am I—engaged to a man named Tom!” They must have seen the terror on my face. My mother's lip quivered.
“You had better go,” the doctor said. “She mustn't be tired.”
They left me, all but the nurse. I lay thinking. Then I determined to take the bull by the horns.
“Nurse,” I said, “what is the rest of my name; Polly—what? I can't remember.”
“Polly Delano,” she answered.
“And how many brothers and sisters have I?”
“One sister, Marjorie.”
“And I'm engaged to Tom who?—do you happen to know?”
“Yes, Tom Tregenna.”
“Tom Tregenna,” I exclaimed excitedly. “You don't mean it? Why, I know him well!”
I saw my mistake. “I mean I remember all about him—and I had forgotten so many things.”
During the days that followed I was introduced to the member's of my new family, one by one, and gradually learned to navigate fairly safely through the narrows and shallows of conversation. I was so taken up mentally that my physical condition bothered me little—though I suffered from lying still so long, and the usual dressing was far from pleasant. In three weeks I was allowed to move from my bed. I was wofully weak. I, who had been the centre rush of my college team, and had kept my condition perfect since I graduated, could not move unaided, and, in the frail body I ha«l come to occupy in some strange way, could not even lift a book. I began to see a few friends, though always carefully prepared for any condition of mind. I caught them watching me curiously. The most trying ordeal was when Tom came. He was tremulous with eagerness, yet I could see he feared the meeting—and God knows I feared it, too—but I was so glad to stand on firm ground once more that I greeted him rapturously. Then I forgot, and began in my own character:
“Tom, I'm that glad to see you—my lord, man!—but this has been a siege! Nobody can ever know what I've been through—never I—and, say, old chap. I'm rusty; what's all the news? How's Will Featherly? and what became of little Ponsonby and that Taunton girl? The club was talking of nothing else when I was taken sick.”
Tom looked amazed, but answered my questions. “When did you meet Ponsonby? I did not know you knew him.”
“Know him!” said I. “Why, Ponsonby and I spent a month together in Quimberley's camp in Maine.”
“You did? When?”
“Two years ago—we had splendid sport.”
“Who chaperoned?”
“Nobody; there weren't any ladies—”
“No ladies!”
“No. There was some talk of Mrs. Q. coming up; but we rather preferred keeping bachelors' hall.”
Then Tom began humoring me. “Of course, Polly, dear”—
“Say,” I went on, “I want awfully to see Dr. Jerrold; can't you manage it? Ask what-his-name, the Medico, to get him to come.”
“Of course,” said Tom, with a jealous look in his eyes.
I laughed aloud. “You're not going to be jealous of him, I hope.” I roared in unladylike mirth.
“Well, why are you asking for him? Dr. Benson says you asked for him almost as soon as you came out from the ether.”
“Because,” I answered, “I have an idea that Jerrold will be able to help me more than any one else. Get Benson to talk me over with him.”
Tom promised, and kissed me good-bye. I shall never forget it—it gave me the horrors for a week!
The next day when Benson came I pretended to sleep, for I did not want to be bothered with him; and I had discovered in my new brain a depth of innocent deceit that amazed me. The doctor and the nurse discussed me in low voices.
“The strange thing is,” said Benson, “that Dr. Jerrold has an appendicitis case followed by loss of identity with a hallucination of change of sex—a combination utterly unknown before. And he tells me he operated on the same day, almost at the same hour, that we did. It's most extraordinary—and Miss Delano's insisting that Jerrold is the only man who could understand her case. It's very odd. He's coming here to-day to consult; she insists on it.”
“How's his case coming on?” asked the nurse interestedly.
“Not well. They've had all sorts of trouble. The case to begin with was worse than ours, and when the complication arose they had all sorts of trouble. Patient was hysterical—took everything hard—begged for an imaginary family of sisters and brothers and fiancés and things—refused to have anything to do with his own family—wouldn't listen to reason, and now he's fretting himself so, the recovery is very doubtful.”
Hy this time I was so interested that I forgot my sham sleep and was staring, open-eyed, at the speaker.
“Did—did—Jerrold operate that case at his private sanitarium?” I demanded.
“Yes,” said the doctor, surprised.
“Was it—he—was his name Lloyd Callandar?”
“I believe it was.”
“O Lord!—O Lord!” I groaned, “What in thunder can I do?—and he may not recover, you say—Good heavens, man—don't say that!”—and I sat up, for I was stronger now.
“Come, come,” said Benson cheerily. “Don't feel that way. Because one case of appendicitis turns out badly it doesn't mean yours will too. You're almost well now—don't work yourself up, my dear.”
“But he mustn't die!”—and here again I cried bitterly, and felt better for it. I thought in despair of what to do. I had evidently located my lost body—but the occupant was killing it—this girl soul, who had usurped my place—or, I hers. How was it? Anyway she had no right to murder me. I had done the best I could for her body; I hadn't lost her reason for her—confound her—and there she was fretting my poor sick hulk to death. I hated her!
An immeasurable pity and affection for my lost carcass invaded me, and I cried some more. Then I reasoned that I must reach her some way—must give her a star to steer her benighted and tempest-tossed course by. She must know that I had her body in charge, and would be only too glad to give it back to her—but how! There I was stumped; but then, that could be attended to later. The thing was to stop her before she killed me. Heavens! then her released ego would come and oust me, or insist on inhabiting this single shell together—and then what could we do!
I saw madness staring me in the face! but I gripped myself and waited for Dr. Jerrold. He came. He was mightily interested. I begged to see him alone. He sat beside me as I talked.
“I hear,” I said, “that you have a similar case to mine that you are treating. A loss of identity, accompanied by hallucination of change of sex.”
“You put it well, Miss Delano.”
“May I ask you what you have been able to do for your patient?”
“Not much,” he answered. “I'm sorry to say we have a very stubborn case.”
“You know this Mr. Callandar well—he is a friend of yours, is he not?”
“Yes; that makes it more distressing.”
“Would you recognize any of his peculiarities if you met them elsewhere? For instance, he has a knack for drawing—give me a pencil, please.”
He handed me one.
I tried to sketch with my former facility, but the hand I now owned would not obey. I shook my head.
“I know his style well,” said Jerrold; “but what has that to do with the question?”
I was baffled. “You will be surprised,” I said, “when I tell you that Callandar and I are old friends, unknown to any one. For instance, you remember the incidents of the night you spent together at Tunicliff, with young Trainor, and the confession he made when he died?” (Jerrold was startled this time.) “You think that is known to none save you and Callandar; but you see I know too.”
“But you are engaged to some one else?” I saw a suspicion dawn in his eyes, but I did not stop to care.
“You see,” I continued, “I know him well. Now, will you take a note from me to him—and not read it? It is for him alone—it may help.”
Jerrold bowed in silence.
I took up the pencil and a sheet of note paper and began:
    Miss Delano:—Don't trouble; I am in charge of your body. Believe me, it will all come right. Don't fret; try to accommodate yourself to your new home until we can meet and talk it over. You must get get well. Remember I hold you accountable for my body—I have done my best for yours—and you owe it to me to save mine.
    From the soul in your body to the soul in mine.
Lloyd Callandar.
I folded this extraordinary letter and directed it to myself. “There may be an answer,” I added; “will you bring it to me to-morrow? And say nothing to any one, please.”
He went away, and in a fever of anxiety I awaited the reply I knew would come.
Jerrold called the next day about noon.
“Your note seemed to quiet my patient wonderfully,” he told me. “Here is your answer.”
I tore it open; it ran:
    Thank God! I thought I was mad! Then it's true—all true. I will get well, Mr. Callandar, indeed I will. I won't fret any more. I shall do all in my power to make your body sound and whole for you—and then we must find some way to exchange our egos. I could laugh, I am so happy to know I'm not insane. Write me again, and tell me how all my people are.
    From the soul in your body to the soul in mine.
I wrote in answer a description of all the family and what they did and said. I dwelt upon Tom's jealousy of the doctor, and Jerrold's mystification. I told her of her new horse, of her mother's delight in my—her—rapid recovery. I told all my difficulties in assuming her position and name.
In exchange, she told me how my mother was tending her; and how Fred brought her, every day, the most extraordinary bits of gossip from my various clubs. How she was coming to have a very different idea of men in general and certain of her acquaintances in particular. I shuddered at the thought of my innocent brother and his yarns. However, she was beginning to see the humor of the situation, particularly of my troubles with Tom—that seemed to delight her immensely. She mended daily. Jerrold was almost ill himself of curiosity as to what our letters contained. That he had a notion of some intrigue—a secret marriage, perhaps—was evident. He even threw out hints that I was not treating Tom fairly.
As for Tom himself, I must own that with returning strength, a spirit of mischief possessed me to make his life a burden to him—he certainly made mine a trial. I badgered him mercilessly. I showed him by my inferences that I knew of many little trifles in his past of which his Polly might well be in ignorance. He spent a very miserable month, I fear. He often said to me sadly: “Polly, you are greatly changed,” and every time I laughed.
The letters from the real Polly were a delight to me, and I grew to watch for them with more than anxiety. But, most of all, I wanted to see her. At this time I would sit for hours before the looking glass admiring the curve of my—her—lips, I mean, and the beauty of her hair. I took great care of that hair for her sake; I knew she would wish to find it well groomed and fine. Her eyes were lovely. I caught myself gazing at my reflection with lover-like intenseness till I blushed violently—which was very pretty to watch. I was charming in a white cashmere wrapper, and my hands were beautiful, though too thin and transparent now.
I got on splendidly with the family; there were occasional relapses, of course; but on the whole I did very well indeed, Polly coaching me by letter.
The day came at last when I was taken for my first drive since my illness. Polly had informed me the day before that she expected to be taken home—my home—on that day, and I manage«l to be driven in that direction, in hopes of seeing myself and Polly.
We met! I was in her new landau, well wrapped up in her furs. She was with Fred in a hansom. I started when I saw my old self. I was so white and thin. But lo! and behold! up came my long arm and my paw of a hand, and threw a dainty kiss at me. It was Polly, rejoicing to see her old self again. I had to laugh. I threw back my head and ha-ha'd! I made a dive at my hat to wave it—and found it fastened to my back hair with a lot of long pins. Polly almost fell over the apron of the hansom, she laughed so heartily, and Fred drew her back and looked hopelessly puzzled and anxious.
As for Tom, who was driving with me, he was hot. “I did not know that you knew Callandar, Polly; but even if you do, it's mighty bad form for both of you, let me say, to carry on like that. I wish you would remember that you are not only engaged, but engaged to be married to me!”
I awoke suddenly to realization and turned on him raging. He going to marry me!—Polly, I mean!—not if I could help it! He wasn't worthy of her, that I knew; and, well—I would not have it. Polly and I were bound by too close a tie to allow that cad of a Tom Tregenna to come between us. I pulled off my glove in trembling haste. I dragged at the old-fashioned solitaire.
“Take it back,” I said hoarsely. “The engagement is broken!”
“I won't believe it, Polly,” he said, with a look in his eyes that made me feel like a brute. He took the ring and gazed at it, heart-brokenly. “It was my mother's!” he choked.
It broke me all up, but I stood my ground.
“Polly! Polly!” he urged. “You're not well—wait, think it over. You're not your true self now.”
I shook my head. “I know,” I answered. “Hut everything is changed since I was ill, everything—please don't make it hard for me.”
We drove on in silence. He helped me up the steps when we reached home, and left me in charge of “Mother!”
“Was it a pleasant drive, dear?” she asked.
I nodded. “I've broken my engagement,” I said bluntly, “and don't want any one to speak to me about it”—and fled.
When I reached my room—full of feminine fripperies—I gasped with relief. Polly shouldn't marry Tom anyway—but—but—what a base advantage I had taken of my tenure of her will! I hated myself while I rejoiced. I spent a restless night.
The next day came a note, this time by post, from Polly, saying:
    I'm now installed in your rooms. They smell horribly of tobacco smoke and I have had to get a barber to shave you, as I didn't know how. You had a full beard, as you—I mean I—may have noticed when we met. All this by way of saying that I'll be allowed to go about soon, and if you will name a day next week, I might call and see you—think of that! We have a very great deal to say to each other now. You don't know how fond of you I've grown. I look at myself all day. You must have a fine figure when you're well. I haven't learned to allow for your big shoulders or long legs yet. Indeed, I don't know that I want to swap back to my old self. I'm having a beautiful time with your friends; there are packs of them up to see me all the time. You're awfully popular, you know. They are teaching me poker; it's one of the things I forgot during my illness. Well, so-long, old man—(You see how adaptable I am)—I'll look you up as soon as the mater lets me out.
Your affectionate Tenant.
This letter worried me—not little. Suppose, as was more than possible, she should insist on—on retaining my body. How could I evict her? And I was not at all pleased in my new shape, now that health and strength were returning. I found a whole volume of rules and regulations—things I must and mustn't do. I was nagged continually on a thousand small matters: My language, my manners—everything. I couldn't move unattended. I couldn't move freely. In short, I foresaw that when I finally resumed my health, life would hardly be worth living. My books were all selected for me, and I missed sorely some steady occupation. Charities and embroidery did not interest me, though my fingers seemed willing to tackle the latter.
Now, suppose through the refusal of Miss Delano to come to her own again, I should be condemned! Oh, heavens, no! I wrote and appointed the earliest possible date. I informed all the family that I insisted on seeing Mr. Callandar alone, or I'd make a scene. Tears I found at my disposal and an excellent argument.
At last—Oh, what a weary week it was!—the day, the hour came. I had dressed myself very carefully in Polly's prettiest tea-gown. I listened eagerly for the door-bell for hours—at last it tinkled. I saw my familiar bulk in the doorway. I ran down the stairs—ran against the startled maid coming up with my card—and bounded into the parlor, regardless of the fact that the doctor had forbidden violent exercise.
Polly was standing by the fireplace, shyly, looking very big. She sat down, caught my feet in the rug, and bumped my shoulders on the sofa back, after first hitting my head on the chandelier. “Oh! Oh!” said Polly ruefully. “That's always the way! How well I do look, Mr. Callandar!”
Then she looked at me. It was my face, but it was Polly, my Polly I had grown to love by letter, that looked at me from my eyes. My heart swelled to bursting beneath the pink tea-gown, and I came across and kissed myself right on the moustache that she hadn't shaved off after all.
A moment of utter bliss!—and then!—I found myself sitting in the chair, and Polly—Polly's soul in Polly's body this time—standing beside me—with her face very close to mine. We had exchanged again!
“Oh! Oh!” cried she. “What have I—what have you—what have we done?”
“It's all right. O Polly, Polly, dear! we're all so—mixed up—do let's get married, and—I love you—sweetheart!”
I stood up and kissed her again. This time we did not swap souls, though it felt very much as if we might.
Then suddenly, “Oh, gracious!” she exclaimed. “I'm engaged—to Tom Tregenna—what shall I do?”
“Oh, no, you're not. I broke it off for you!”
“What made you take such liberties,” she inquired hotly. “I'd like to know how you knew I'd allow it—that's just like you men!”
“What do you know about it?” I spoke rashly on the old lines of defence—and then we looked at each other and laughed.
So we were very happy, but Dr. Jerrold continues to think Polly the worst coquette on record, and so, I fear, does Tom Tregenna.
Copyright, 1900, by The Shortstory Publishing Company. All rights reserved.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1940, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 83 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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