Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1930-02-02


- -& time. I've had my appendix
cut out!'
''Yes?" said, bit guardedly Out OF an
unbounded admiration for my craft and
touching wistfulness to help, he is ever COM
ing to me with subjects for my pen. "Oh, I've
got story for you" he'll say. "You know the
Grand Central Station? Lots of people Swirling
around-Some arriving, some departing-trains
footing. Why don't you write story about
that?" No, he is not quite that bad. But
almost.
Come to lunch with me- he said heartily.
at have an hour. I'll tell you all about it. All
about my appendix and the hospital and every
thing"
So we sat at a small table in a quiet cor
ner of the clubs dining room, and he began
to tell me about his appendix and the hoSpi-
tai and everything. And after a while I found
myself waking to the fact that he was really
giving me something this time. A bit in spite
of himself, as it were. Giving me more than
he knew. Because, as he talked, Weighing
every detail in his painstaking desire to be
of service to me, I was seeing what he did
not see: was seeing his wife, his terrible wife.
He never sees her, of course (not as she Isl;
but we, his friends, ever do. And we call her
terrible" using the word not in the classical
sense, but rather in the colloquial-which holds
less meaning-and yet so much more. His ter
rible wife.
She rides poor Sam; she sits upon his head;
she weighs upon him, a mountain of unrelent-
ing purpose. She it Is who is responsible for
all these rows and rows of ugly houses with
which aSsiduously he warts the plains. while
plaintive somewhere within him still dwells
the ghost of the dream of the House Beauu-
full. She 1t Is who holds him to an undeviat-
ing pursuit Of the dollar, in a welter Of affairs
in a deafening boiler factory of ignoble COM
plications, while he, poor man, now and then
still wistfully thinks that, with the children
almost grown, the pressure relaxing he might
gradually reduce his business a little, and
have leisure once in a while to read q book
Che had wistful respect for books), or once
more to play the flute Che played it very well
before marriage, and would like to play 1t
@gain).
OF course, we all know he will never, never
play the flute again; that he is in for Life.
That Is what was seeing all the while as
he conscientiously told me all about the cut
ting-out Of his appendix; and that is what
he was not seeing at all.
ON the morning preceding the day set by
- his surgeon for the operation he had
slipped over to the hospital all alone, with
out soul knowing Of it." His family, his wife,
were at the seaside for the Summer; he did
not wish to worry them. Once in his room In
the hospital, however, he had felt very lonely.
Every one seemed so far away" he said. He
had almost revolted, walked out. But by this
time he was no longer owning himself. He
was in q huge machine, things were being
done to him as though he did not own him
self. At regular intervals he was made to
swallow an unexplained pill. Lunch was
brought and he was commanded to eat He
was ordered to bed A barber came and shaved
him. A steward scrubbed him with antisep-
tics He was caught in a machine, in a funnel,
sliding down toward the thing awaiting him
in the morning.
He felt far, far from everybody, far, far
from the mild sunshine Of what had been his
life, but he made no move; it did not even
occur to him it was possible to get out of the
funnel
Then in the morning they had placed him
In a little low chair with casters and had
swiftly rolled him along long halls to the white
operating room. The feeling of being In the
funnel had increased; he was now in the last
little narrow part of the funnel. His loneli-
ness had become a desolation; he felt like
raising a shout, anything, toward the outside.
Instead, he had carefully adopted an atti-
tude OF brisk jollity. Inside the operating
room eveSy one was sheeted in white, with
white turbans, and looked like fantastic giants.
He was lifted to the table, the mask was
placed over his face.