The Black Cat (magazine)/Volume 1/Number 7/A Surgical Love-Cure

by James Buckham

A Surgical Love-Cure.

by James Buckham.

ONE dull, gray afternoon in November I was sitting in my office in Raymond Square, deeply absorbed in an article in my Medical Journal, the description of an experiment conducted by a famous French surgeon for the purpose of determining whether sight could be restored to a blind person by engrafting the live nerve of a dog's eye upon the shriveled and atrophied nerve of the patient's eye. So engrossed was I in the fascinating details of the experiment that I did not hear the door of my office open, nor was I aware of the presence of a second person until a peculiarly deep-toned, rich, and musical voice broke upon my ear.

"Have I the honor of addressing Doctor Marston?"

I looked up, and saw before me a tall and graceful young man, smooth-shaven, and dressed in the characteristic clerical garb of the Church of England. His face was singularly handsome, of the clear-cut Grecian type, and was lighted by a pair of large, thoughtful brown eyes. With the exception of the mouth, the whole face was both intellectual and spiritual; but there was a certain fulness and sensuous curve of the lips which suggested a strongly emotive and possibly passionate nature under this calm and priestly exterior.

"Yes, I am Doctor Marston," I said, replying to the young clergyman's question. "Can I be of any service to you?"

"On one condition—possibly," replied the young man, taking the seat which I indicated, and fixing his thoughtful brown eyes searchingly upon mine. For a moment we sat gazing intently at each other, and then I said, somewhat abruptly:—

"I beg to know the condition, sir."

"It is this," he replied; "that if I entrust my case to you, you will promise to keep it entirely secret, scientitically or otherwise, until after my death, should that occur before your own. And, in any case, you must agree never to reveal my name in connection with the affair."

For some moments I sat turning over this peculiar proposition in my mind, conscious all the while that the brown eyes were fixed patiently, but anxiously, upon my face. At length I replied:—

"I have never as yet been called upon to undertake a case guarded by such secrecy as you seem desirous to throw about your own, and, to be frank, I dislike to commit myself to any transaction of the sort,—at least, until I know something of the nature of the trouble and the reasons for suppressing any mention of it. This much, however, I will agree to do. If you will describe the nature of your disease, I will then decide whether I ought to accept the case on the conditions imposed. Whether I accept or refuse it, I will agree to keep the matter a total secret, except so far as your own proposition gives me liberty to speak."

A slight smile flitted over the young clergyman's face. "Very well," he said; "I accept your word of honor, as a gentleman should, and will proceed at once to describe the malady which has, perhaps justly, awakened your suspicions. To come at once to the point, then, know that, impelled by your well-deserved reputation as an anatomist, I have applied to you to perform a surgical operation for the cure of love-sickness!"

I started, the suspicion that flitted through my mind mirroring itself unconsciously in my dilated eyes.

"Ah, no!" exclaimed my companion seriously, reading the tell-tale revelation of my face. "I am not insane. My mind is as clear and logical at this moment as it ever was in my life, and the request which I make, a little reflection will prove to you, is not only reasonable, but scientific.

"First, however, let me state to you the circumstances which make me desirous to rid myself of the passion which I have confessed, thereby anticipating the question which is sure to rise to your lips. You are aware, of course, that the High Church movement in this country, as well as in England, has resulted in the formation of certain brotherhoorls of the clergy, bound together by vows more or less approaching in strictness those which govern the clergy of the Church of Rome?"

"I was not aware of the fact," I replied , as the young clergyman paused for an answer.

"It is indeed so," he continued. "You will not be surprised, then, to know that by the vows of the Brotherhood of St. Michael, to which I consecrated myself soon after the days of my novitiate, celibacy is as strictly enjoined as upon the priesthood of the Church of Rome."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed, carried away by some sudden feeling, which I cannot even now defend. "The more fools—"

But here I stopped, the great brown eyes with something like a flash of Olympic lightning piercing and enchaining mine. In another instant the deep, rich voice proceeded:—

"For ten years I have kept every vow of the brotherhood referring to woman, without a single spiritual struggle—wearing these restraints as Samson wore his chains. But something less than six months ago I met a woman—"

The young clergyman paused, throwing his head back against the green baize of the easy-chair in which he sat. For a moment I thought he had fainted, and sprang for a cordial; but, without taking his slowly opening eyes from the ceiling, he motioned me back, and continued, while an indescribably sweet and almost transfiguring smile lit his pale face:

"A woman, said I? An angel! A vision of transcendent loveliness! She came into my life as a new star comes across the disk of an astronomer's telescope, shedding its undiscovered light from eternity for him alone. O my Ethel! My angel! My lips yearn toward yours, iny arms grope out to clasp you!—My God! What am I saying?"

The young priest sprang from his chair and stood trembling before me. His face was livid with the exercise of some tremendous mental effort, and I could see that the white nails of his clenched hands were driven deep into the flesh. For a full minute he stood thus, and then his strong frame relaxed, and he sank back into his chair, white as the paper on which I write, and weak as a babe. This time I pressed the cordial to his lips, and he did not refuse it. Presently he looked up with a faint smile, and said, "Now, sir, you see what my malady is. I have no need to describe it any farther."

I stepped to the window and gazed up into the gray sky, as if looking for a solution of my perplexity. But my mind remained as blank as the dull expanse above the city roofs. Was this man insane, or was he really, as he said, in his right mind? Could the force of a mere amorous passion for a beautiful woman so carry away one of his character unless the man's mental integrity was impaired? I turned suddenly, in response to the young clergyman's voice. He had risen, and was advancing towards me.

"Do you believe in phrenology, Doctor Marston?"

"Most assuredly I do not."

"Will you perform an experiment upon me to test the reasonableness of your doubt?"

"Do you mean by that, will I assume your case surgically?"

"Exactly."

I turned to the window again. Here was certainly an opportunity to contribute something to the discussion of a vexed scientific question. Are the functions of the brain localized in its structure? So say Gall, and Spurzheim, and not a few other eminent anatomists. Well, every practical experiment looking towards the solution of this question has its value. Here was a strong, vigorous man, evidently possessed by the amative mania. It would be an operation of little difficulty and no great degree of danger to uncover the occipital protuberance at the base of the brain, where phrenologists claim that the organ of love is situated, and then—

"Well, will you take the case?"

The clergyman's hand was on my shoulder. I turned and looked him squarely in the face. "Is it understood that you assume all the risk, and that you do not hold me responsible for the psychological result of an experiment which, so far as I am concerned, is purely physical in its character?"

"Certainly. We will have it so understood."

"Then you may call at my office to-morrow morning at eleven. Eat a light breakfast, and, as far as possible, avoid excitement of every kind."

It seemed strange instruction to be giving a clergyman; but the young man understood and nodiled approval. In a few minutes he took his departure, and I returned to my Medical Journal—but not to read.

Precisely at eleven o'clock the next morning my singular patient walked into the office. I at once remarked upon his changed appearance. His face looked haggard, and there were heavy, dark rings under his eyes, appearing almost black at the inner corners of the lids.

"I have seen her," he explained heavily. "She was at All Saints Chapel this morning. It was impossible for me to retire, or I should have done so. I had to fight my desire to look at her, to speak to her. I had to figlit like a wild lion, and it has told on me, as you can see. But, thank God, it is over now!"

"I hardly think you are in a fit condition to endure a surgical operation," I objected.

"For God's sake, do not put it off any longer, doctor!" exclaimed the young clergyman, clutching my hand. "I would rather die than endure another day of such moral agony."

"Very well," I said; "I do not consider the experiment a dangerous one in any case—only exhausting."

Five minutes later my patient, divested of coat, vest, and collar, lay stretched on the operating table. In five minutes more he was under the influence of ether.

My first procedure was to shave the dark, soft, silken hair from the lower part of the young man's head. I then made two V-shaped incisions with a lancet at the base of the skull, where phrenologists locate the organ of amativeness, and raised the flap of skin from the skull. The next thing was to get at the brain itself, and this I accomplished by boring two fine holes through the skull with the smallest trephine known in surgery. The portion of the brain thus exposed, I was amazed to find, was in a highly inflamed condition. Instead of attempting to relieve the surcharged brain with any instrument, I now placed a leech at each orifice, and allowed a considerable amount of blood to be thus withdrawn. I then dressed the wound antiseptically, and closed it with sutures.

My patient soon came out from under the influence of the anesthetic, but appeared very weak. I lifted him in my arms and carried him to the couch in my private room. Enjoining strict quiet, and, if possible, sleep, I left him alone for a couple of hours. At the end of that time, considering it safe to permit him to talk, I reentered the room with considerable curiosity, not to say agitation, and asked him how he was feeling. To my astonishment, he grasped my hand warmly, exclaiming that he would consider me his greatest benefactor as long as lie lived. "For," he cried , "you have saved my soul from its otherwise certain ruin. Thank God! I feel now no more emotion at the thought of that woman than of any other of her sex."

I brought my patient some refreshment, and at three o'clock he left my office in high spirits, promising to return again the next day to report upon his condition.

For three weeks the Rev. Alexander Maeck—as I will call my clerical patient—haunted my office every day, and we became fast friends. During all this time he was entirely free from disturbing sentiments. The flames of love, he declared, were quenched, and he was supremely happy.

So favorably, I must confess, did this experiment dispose me towards the neglected science of phrenology that I at once began to direct my studies in that direction, and soon accumulated a large number of expensive books on the subject. I also began to write up the details of my experiment, so as to get the matter into permanent shape while it was still fresh in my mind.

About six weeks after the occurrences above related, and just after I had posted an order for several hundred dollars' worth of phrenological works, the letter-carrier came into my office and presented me with a large, square, cream -colored envelope. I tore it open carelessly, removed the enclosure from the inner envelope, and bent over two beautifully engraved cards which fell upon the table. They bore the names of Rev. Alexander Maeck and Miss Ethel Plympton.

The wedding was a strictly private affair; and perhaps the most remarkable thing connected with it was the fact that the would-be annihilator of Cupid was permitted to kiss the bride.