Dark Victory Page #2

He's worried. He asked me

to hold you here by force if necessary.

You tell Dr. Parsons I waited

nine years to catch this train.

I'm not gonna miss it just because

some nitwit fell off her horse.

Listen to this:

"Miss Judith Traherne, daughter of the

late sportsman and wire manufacturer."

- Imagine putting that in a case history.

- You have Dr. Carter waiting for you.

Say, I'm awfully sorry, doctor. I believe

when I left, you were calling me an idiot.

The boys at the club

were talking about you.

- They won't believe it.

- What?

A man in your position

giving up a practice like this.

Joe, what do you know

about brain surgery?

Well, I think if I had

the surgical courage, I'd be in it.

To go inside a human's skull...

and tinker with the machinery

that makes the whole works go.

- That is romance, isn't it?

- Romance, huh?

There's your romance.

- Florist bill?

- Yes.

Flowers for my last patient.

He was a gifted young composer.

The night before the operation,

he started a new composition.

He didn't finish it.

- Maybe you read about it in the papers.

- Yes.

The operation was a brilliant success.

But the patient just happened to die.

- That's a pretty old joke, Fred.

- Is it?

Look at any brain surgeon's

mortality rate...

you'll find out just how unfunny it is.

Are you quitting because

you've lost your nerve?

What?

- What else can a man think?

- I'm going back to medicine.

- What do you mean, medicine?

- A little laboratory on a farm in Vermont.

Medical Research Bureau is backing me.

Fisher will do the pathology.

Incidentally, the best man

in the country.

How many men would give their eyeteeth

for a practice you're throwing away?

- What is this research, actually?

- Cells.

- Cells?

- Brain cells.

Why do healthy, normal cells go berserk,

grow wild? Do you know?

- No.

- Nobody knows!

But we call them cysts and gliomas

and tumors and cancers.

We hope to cure with the knife

when we don't even know the cause.

Our patients have faith in us

because we're doctors and...

Tell the boys they can split up

my practice. And welcome.

You and Pasteur.

Someday, somebody will discover

a serum that will be to these growths...

what insulin is to diabetes

and antitoxin is to diphtheria.

And maybe earn his title of

Doctor of Medicine.

- Yes?

- Dr. Parsons is here.

- He is?

- He insists.

Well, I suppose I should be polite.

- I must be going.

- Your train.

Yes, I know.

- So long, Fred, old boy. You'll be back.

- Don't hold your breath.

- Good luck, old man.

- Thanks.

- Fred, can't you put this thing off?

- Sorry, doctor, I've closed my office.

- Have you read the case history?

- Oh, you mean this gossip sheet?

- A wire manufacturer's daughter?

- Oh, please, never mind that.

This girl's desperately ill.

I've been watching her like a hawk,

and she's been losing ground each day.

Well, if two minutes

will do you any good, I'll talk.

- What's this about headaches?

- She's been having them persistently.

- Even before the accident, I suspect.

- Before?

She calls them hangovers.

Three weeks? And you wait until now?

You don't know that girl.

She's a very stubborn patient.

Only yesterday she went to a revival

of Cyrano in the afternoon...

and played bridge half the night.

She won't cooperate.

- She won't even tell me anything.

- Won't talk, huh?

Fred.

We're old friends, and I'm desperate.

I brought this little girl into the world.

Took care of her father until he died.

If she's such a great horsewoman,

why was she thrown?

That's it.

It was a queer sort of accident.

She crashed into

the right wing of a jump...

almost as if she'd held her horse

deliberately at it.

I was there. I saw it.

- You're sure it was the right side?

- Yes. Why?

In that case, your best bet

is to get in touch with Findlay.

- Findlay's in Europe.

- All right. Then get Park.

I don't want Park

or any of the rest of them.

Hang it all, they're no better

than I am. I want you.

If I start making exceptions,

I'll be stuck here another nine years.

Fred, you're always talking about

the obligation of doctors to humanity.

- Well, Fred, there is humanity.

- Sorry, doctor.

It can't be done.

- I told you I've closed my office.

- This is ridiculous.

- I'm late already.

- Judy, please.

This is Dr. Steele.

- How do you do? My name's Traherne.

- How do you do?

Judith Traherne, or don't names matter?

To that cold, scientific eye of yours,

we're just guinea pigs, aren't we?

- Glad to have met you. Come on, Ann.

- Where did you get those burns?

What burns?

Your right hand.

Here, between the first two fingers.

I never noticed them before.

I see. Will you come in here

a minute, please?

Come along, Judith.

- You wait.

- Let me have this, will you, doctor?

I'll see Miss Traherne.

- When it's time to go, warn me.

- Certainly, doctor.

Oh, just a moment, doctor.

I haven't much time.

Matter of fact,

I haven't much time myself.

Parsons tells me you're a great hunter.

You could hardly expect me to enter

your office leading a pack of hounds.

Please.

I understand you don't like

to talk about your health.

- That's right.

- Any particular reason why?

- It's just a boring subject, that's all.

- Oh, most people love it.

I make my living by listening.

- Then you're wasting your time.

- I'll send you a bill.

I'm 23 years old, an only child.

I weigh 110 pounds, stripped.

I've had measles, mumps

and whooping cough.

I believe I have

no congenital weaknesses.

- Shall I go on?

- Oh, yes, please.

My father drank himself to death.

My mother lives in Paris.

I take a great deal of exercise.

I'm accustomed to tobacco and alcohol.

I'm said to have a sense of humor.

Is that enough?

All the inconsequential facts.

Thank you.

What are the consequential ones?

- Does that light bother you?

- Not at all.

- Do you use your eyes a great deal?

- I generally keep them open, doctor.

What do you do on Long Island?

Horses, dogs, shooting, yachting,

travel, parties, gossip.

All the pleasures

of the station-wagon crowd.

- You don't think much of that, do you?

- No, not much.

Why not?

It just doesn't appeal to me.

You condemn everything

that doesn't appeal to you?

Oh, by no means.

You asked for my opinion, and I gave it.

Well, anyway, that's my racket.

- What's yours?

- Mine?

Brain surgery, large practice,

about 10 days off every summer.

Sounds awful.

- It is.

- Then why do you do it?

Like yourself,

I've been caught in a racket.

Oh, doctor, what a relief to know

that you're no better than I am.

Thanks.

But you see,

I'm clearing out of my racket.

I'm leaving for Vermont

in about 15 minutes.

You don't mean that narrow, pinched-up

state on the wrong side of Boston?

- That's the one.

- No kidding?

- No kidding.

- What will you do, between yawns?

- You wouldn't be interested.

- Oh, come now.

After leading me on like this...

- Scientific research on cell growth.

- In guinea pigs?

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