Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [48]
"I'm afraid he would not understand which 'part' you mean. He is not a man of much education." A pause. "How would you describe the 'part' to him. Miss F.?" Another moment went by. "Would you point, perhaps?"
She tried to gather her spit but her mouth was too diy.
"My dear girl, we really mustn't quarrel," said the doctor, sitting on the edge of her bed. "At this early stage of convalescence, such confusion, such delusions of having been harmed are not uncommon among my patients. But let me assure you that every note I have written down over the years, every piece of evidence I have gathered with the full force of scientific rigour, proves that my operation works." His voice was evangelical again; there were tiny beads of sweat along his hairline. "I swear to you, Miss F., I have seen women who were morally degraded, monsters of sensuality—until my operation transformed them. Women have come to this clinic in a state of desperation, complaining of pain in one organ or limb or another, or even in a state of rage, talking of divorces, and afterwards I send them home restored, to take up their rightful places by their husbands' sides. There are many countries in the Empire, Miss F., where a primitive form of my operation is done on every girl at the age of puberty, to ward off the disease of self-irritation before it has a chance to take hold! Why, some might say—"
This time she did manage to spit.
Mr. Baker Brown took out a white handkerchief and wiped his chin. "The day will come when you will get down on your knees to thank me," he said shakily.
She looked at this man, into whose hands she had entrusted herself, and knew all at once that he was not the beloved saviour she had been looking for, nor an omnipotent demon either—only a man. A middle-aged man.
A month is generally required for perfect healing of the wound, at the end of which time it is difficult for the uninformed, or non-medical, to discover any trace of an operation.
Three weeks after the surgery, Miss F. got out of bed. She stood straight, testing her balance, shouldering the old pain. Her back felt much the same but she was changed, in more than one way. She knew what she had to do.
"I understand from Matron that you feel quite well today?" Mr. Baker Brown asked, marching in.
"Yes, sir," she said levelly.
"Have you lost all your old symptoms?"
"I have."
"How are you sleeping?"
"Well."
"How is your appetite?"
"Good."
"How are your spirits?"
"Good."
He looked up from his notebook. "Your manner is still not a cheerful one."
"it never was."
He checked his notes again. "Can you defecate without the slightest uneasiness?"
"I can."
She waited till he had finished writing. She knew it was over. "And Doctor? Sir?" she added, stony-faced.
He glanced up, his eyes wary.
"I'm cured of all my delusions."
He stared back at her. He blinked once, twice. "Matron," he called, "bring in Miss F.'s street clothes."
Jan. 31. Discharged from the Home, cured.
Note
"Cured" is based on Isaac Baker Brown's brief notes on the case of "P.F." in bis On the Curability of Certain Forms of Insanity, Epilepsy, Catalepsy, and Hysteria in Females (1866), and all passages in italics are from that controversial bestseller. Famous as one of the most skillful surgeons in England, Baker Brown (1812—73) began performing clitoridectomies on women, and on girls as young as ten years old, in 1859. His enemies accused him of destroying women's reputations and leaving them frigid by performing a pointless operation without the full knowledge of patients or their families.
In 1867, as a result of publishing his book, Baker Brown was expelled from the Obstetrical Society and had to resign from his private clinic, the London Home for Surgical Diseases of Women. I have drawn on Ornella Mosucci's excellent essay, "Clitoridectomy, Circumcision, and the Politics of Sexual Pleasure in Mid-Victorian Britain," in Sexualities in Victorian Britain,