The Defeat in Force

The first two lines of this story completely threw me off. I suppose I was trying to read too fast, because I read “They were all new patients to me with the same name, Olson.” Then the fact that the narrative does not include any quotation marks to differentiate between the doctor and the family speaking just set the stage for a schizophrenic story. I had to reread the first two paragraphs several times to understand my error. Upon completing the entire story, I was confused again.

Diphtheria is a disease of the past. With today’s vaccinations, people rarely come across it—and even so, it is usually easily treatable. I know that diphtheria was a prevalent cause of death in children in the 1920s—in fact, it was nicknamed the “strangling angel of children” due to the toxins released from the bacteria in the throat. But that’s aside from the point. Treatments for diphtheria began to arise in the late 1920s, as well as vaccines (though they may not have been very effective). So if that is the case, why is diphtheria such a huge deal with Carlos? The story is published in 1938! Again, it’s another digression.

I finally came to the conclusion that it was not diphtheria that was the point of the story. It was the dilemma faced by the protagonist. Is the use of force justified when treating a patient? Or anyone, for that matter, if the cause is for their own good? (Is it sad that it took me forever to connect the title of the story to the main idea?)

The central protagonist is an unnamed doctor (do I sense a common theme against health care here? None of the doctors are very likeable in these stories). I think it’s pretty interesting point that the child is the only character with a full name—Mathilda Olson. Under normal circumstances, this would lead me to believe that she is the only “real” human character in the story. By naming her, she becomes more than just words on a page. It’s like naming a stray animal—you become attached when you realize its identity. However, her initial description is anything but heartwarming. Mathilda is as stony as marble, with “cold, steady eyes, and no expression to her face” (1298). She does not move, save for her rapid breathing… and her gaze never seems to falter from the doctor’s face.

Suddenly, she lashes out at the narrator, clawing “instinctively for [his] eyes” (1299) like a wild animal. At this point in the story, I began to feel the same emotions Williams describes. The doctor’s annoyance with the family and girl struck a chord I don’t often strum. He grows furious at the child’s refusal to open her mouth and have the doctor look at her throat. At the same time, the doctor mirrors Mathilda’s stubbornness by declining to wait another hour. He claims that he should “get a diagnosis” at that very moment because two children had already been found “dead in bed of neglect” (1300), but even he realizes that he has gone beyond just reason. He could have easily “torn the child apart in [his] own fury” (1300).

I initially believed that the doctor was absolutely abhorrent. Who could tear apart a child who is clearly sick and in need of medical attention? Doctors are scary people. At the same time, doctors are human. Surely the emotional stress of having patients die can cause the best men (and women) to break down and lash out.

So what happened when he finally got his diagnosis? The spoon was covered with the mucus that accompanied diphtheria. The only emotions described from there on out were Mathilda’s. How did he feel as he watched the poor girl lash out, crying tears of defeat? Was he thinking of possible treatments? Was he resigned to let her die in possible isolation? After all, others had to “be protected against her.” Williams’ word choice was interesting. His last sentence did not have a subject. It begins with “Tried to get off her father’s lap…” and goes on to finish the description of Mathilda. I suppose I imagined him as sitting slumped in his chair, too tired by all the energy he expended in shoving the spoon down her throat. It really adds to the overall downcast feel of the story.

Also, it wasn’t until the end that I began to really see Mathilda as more than an animalistic child. Did she know she was going to die? Or was she just upset that she didn’t get her way and not let the doctor see her throat? Was it both? It couldn’t have possibly been just the splinters in her mouth. Was there really no hope at that point for the girl to recover?

I think I’m ready for a happy story now.

(On a side note to any Death Cab for Cutie fans: was it ironic that the song “What Sarah Said” came on as I finished this blog? Just wondering.)

L'Hôte

“The Guest” by Albert Camus was nothing like I expected. First of all, the description of Daru calls to mind an image of a young bachelor beginning his life as a schoolteacher. The plain living of the “whitewashed walls, [Daru’s] narrow couch, his unpainted shelves, his well” and other meek provisions are all typical of young men. He must also be hardy to withstand the tough living conditions, and though his upbringing may have made him accustomed to the weather, even the old policeman Balducci find the cold painful. Furthermore, he reinforces the image of Daru’s youth by repeatedly calling him “son.” However, as the story progresses, the wisdom and calm that Daru brings forth is that of an experienced man. A common trait of youth is the want to be accepted and to be surrounded by people—to experience new things. Daru, on the other hand, enjoys his self-isolation, living in the small schoolhouse with his stock of wheat that he regularly distributes instead of hoarding.

Daru’s extension of hospitality (even in his isolation) shows maturity than let on by his initial exterior. When the unnamed Arab is brought to his home restrained by ropes and dragged behind Balducci, Daru immediately asks that the Arab be untied. The Arab is described as having a “restless and rebellious look,” that strikes Daru when he “look[s] him straight in the eyes.” Even so, Daru treats him as any other guest in his home. Balducci is the one who forces the Arab into submission, making him sit at his feet.

Daru, on the other hand, offers him tea. He allows him to sleep on his cot for guests. He does not even keep the revolver that Balducci left him by the bed. The coffee and cake they share is not common for a master and prisoner. Daru even gives the Arab food and money in the event that he does not go to Tinguit—the prison—and decides instead travels to the nomad’s land to begin his life anew.

Upon further investigation, the original name, “L'Hôte,” is translated into both “the Host” and “the Guest” from French. The ambiguous name cannot centralize the main character. It refers to both Daru and the Arab and their tenuous bond. They are certainly not friends, but they share a mutual respect for one another. Daru’s allowing the Arab to make his own decision—to go on to the prison or seek help elsewhere—is another acknowledgement that the Arab is not just a slave. He is a man who can make his own choices.

It is never clear whether or not the Arab truly killed his cousin—after all, he says that his cousin just “ran away…[and he] ran after him.” This may be a confession of guilt, but the ambiguity of the statement forces me to believe in the good of the Arab. Even though Daru believes that the Arab really committed the crime, his hesitation in handing him over to the authorities plants a seed of disbelief in my mind.

So what guilt lays on the Arab’s mind when he chooses his path? I present two choices: he was either truly guilty, or maybe Daru was on his mind. Not going to the prison would give Balducci reason to believe Daru is not on the side of the government. Maybe it’s a long reach, but the story is left so openly that I cannot help but think “what if?”

The “clumsily chalked-up words” left on the blackboard could also mean his family didn’t believe he killed his own cousin. Or maybe the really just did not like their extended family. Who knows?