Chapter LXXIII: Section 7: However, he was gone, and Thyrsis turned to Corydon, who lay

moaning feebly. It was like a knife cutting her, she said; she could not bear to lie down, and when she tried to sit up she could not endure the weight of her own body. She found it helped her for Thyrsis to support her, and so he sat beside her, holding her tightly, while she wrestled with her task. The nurse fanned her brow, on which the sweat stood in drops.

Thyrsis’ position strained every muscle in his body; it made each minute seem an hour. But he clung there, till his head reeled. Anything to help her--anything, if only he could have helped her!

But there was no help; she was gone alone into the silent chamber of pain, where there comes no company, no friend, no love. His spirit cried out to her, but she heard him not--she was alone, alone! Is there any solitude that the desert or the ocean knows, that is like the solitude of suffering?

It would come over her in spasms, and Thyrsis could feel her body quiver; it would be all he could do to hold her. And minute after minute, hour after hour, it was the same, without a moment’s respite--until she broke into sobbing, crying that she could not bear it, that she could not bear it! She clutched wildly at Thyrsis’ hand, and her arms shook like a leaf.

He ran in fright for the elder nurse, who had left the room. She came and questioned Corydon, and shook her head. “There is nothing to be done,” she said.

“But something is wrong!” Thyrsis cried. He had been reading a book, and his mind was full of images of all sorts of accidents and horrors, of monstrosities and “false presentations.” “You must send for the doctor,” he repeated, “I know there _must_ be something wrong!”

“I will send for the doctor if you wish,” was the reply. “But you must order it. The birth has not yet begun, you know--when it does the character of the pains will change altogether, and she will know. Meantime there is nothing whatever for the doctor to do.”

“He might give her an opiate!” Thyrsis exclaimed.

“If he did,” said the woman, “that would stop the birth. And it must come.”

So they turned once more to the task. Thyrsis bore it until it seemed to him that his body was on fire; then he asked the nurse to take his place. He reeled as he tried to walk to the sofa; he flung himself down and lay panting. Outside he could still hear the busy sounds of the street--the world was going on its way, unknowing, unheeding. There came a chorus of merry laughter to him--his soul was black with revolt.

He went back to his post, biting his lips together.

She was only a child--she was too tender; it was monstrous, he cried. Why, she was being torn to pieces! She writhed and quivered, until he thought she was in convulsions. And then, little by little, all this faded from his thoughts; he had his own pain to bear. He must hold her just so, with the grip of a wrestler; his arms ached, and his temples throbbed, and he fought with himself and whispered to himself--he would stay there until he dropped.

Would the doctor never come? It was preposterous for him to leave her like this. The time passed on; he was wild with impatience, and suddenly Corydon sank back and burst into tears. He could stand it no more, and sent for the nurse again.

“You must send for the doctor!” he cried.

“He has just come in,” the woman answered; “I heard him close the door.”

The doctor entered the room, softly. He was perfectly groomed, clad in evening-dress, and with his gloves and his silk hat in his hand. Thyrsis hated him at that moment--hated him with the fury of some tortured beast. He was only an assistant; and were not assistants notoriously careless? Why had the great surgeon himself not come to see to it?

“How does she bear it?” he said, to the nurse; and he took off his overcoat and coat, and rolled up his sleeves, while she reported progress. Then he felt Corydon’s pulse, and after washing his hands, made another examination. Thyrsis watched him with his heart in his mouth.

He rose without saying anything.

“Has it presented?” the nurse asked.

“Not yet,” he said, and turned to look at the temperature of the room.

It was so, then--there was nothing to be done! Thyrsis was dazed--he could hardly believe it. He had never dreamed it could be anything like this.

“How long is this to last, doctor?” he cried. “She is suffering so horribly!”

“I fear it will be until morning,” he said--“it is a question of the rigidity of certain muscles. But you need not be alarmed, she is doing very well.”

He spoke a few words to the patient, and then turned towards the door. “I shall sleep in the next room,” he said to his assistant; “you may call me at any time.”