Semper Idem

by Jack London

　　

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Doctor Bicknell was in a remarkably gracious mood. Through a minoraccident, a slight bit of carelessness, that was all, a man who might havepulled through had died the preceding night. Though it had been only asailorman, one of the innumerable unwashed, the steward of the receivinghospital had been on the anxious seat all the morning. It was not that theman had died that gave him discomfort, he knew the Doctor too well forthat, but his distress lay in the fact that the operation had been done sowell. One of the most delicate in surgery, it had been as successful as itwas clever and audacious. All had then depended upon the treatment, thenurses, the steward. And the man had died. Nothing much, a bit ofcarelessness, yet enough to bring the professional wrath of Doctor Bicknellabout his ears and to perturb the working of the staff and nurses fortwenty-four hours to come.But, as already stated, the Doctor was in a remarkably gracious mood. Wheninformed by the steward, in fear and trembling, of the man's unexpectedtake-off, his lips did not so much as form one syllable of censure; nay,they were so pursed that snatches of rag-time floated softly from them, tobe broken only by a pleasant query after the health of the other's eldest-born. The steward, deeming it impossible that he could have caught thegist of the case, repeated it."Yes, yes," Doctor Bicknell said impatiently; "I understand. But how aboutSemper Idem? Is he ready to leave?""Yes. They're helping him dress now," the steward answered, passing on tothe round of his duties, content that peace still reigned within theiodine-saturated walls.It was Semper Idem's recovery which had so fully compensated DoctorBicknell for the loss of the sailorman. Lives were to him as nothing, theunpleasant but inevitable incidents of the profession, but cases, ah, caseswere everything. People who knew him were prone to brand him a butcher,but his colleagues were at one in the belief that a bolder and yet a morecapable man never stood over the table. He was not an imaginative man. Hedid not possess, and hence had no tolerance for, emotion. His nature wasaccurate, precise, scientific. Men were to him no more than pawns, withoutindividuality or personal value. But as cases it was different. The morebroken a man was, the more precarious his grip on life, the greater hissignificance in the eyes of Doctor Bicknell. He would as readily forsake apoet laureate suffering from a common accident for a nameless, mangledvagrant who defied every law of life by refusing to die, as would a childforsake a Punch and Judy for a circus.So it had been in the case of Semper Idem. The mystery of the man had notappealed to him, nor had his silence and the veiled romance which theyellow reporters had so sensationally and so fruitlessly exploited indivers Sunday editions. But Semper Idem's throat had been cut. That wasthe point. That was where his interest had centred. Cut from ear to ear,and not one surgeon in a thousand to give a snap of the fingers for hischance of recovery. But, thanks to the swift municipal ambulance serviceand to Doctor Bicknell, he had been dragged back into the world he hadsought to leave. The Doctor's co-workers had shaken their heads when thecase was brought in. Impossible, they said. Throat, windpipe, jugular,all but actually severed, and the loss of blood frightful. As it was sucha foregone conclusion, Doctor Bicknell had employed methods and done thingswhich made them, even in their professional capacities, shudder. And lo!the man had recovered.So, on this morning that Semper Idem was to leave the hospital, hale andhearty, Doctor Bicknell's geniality was in nowise disturbed by thesteward's report, and he proceeded cheerfully to bring order out of thechaos of a child's body which had been ground and crunched beneath thewheels of an electric car.As many will remember, the case of Semper Idem aroused a vast deal ofunseemly yet highly natural curiosity. He had been found in a slumlodging, with throat cut as aforementioned, and blood dripping down uponthe inmates of the room below and disturbing their festivities. He hadevidently done the deed standing, with head bowed forward that he mightgaze his last upon a photograph which stood on the table propped against acandlestick. It was this attitude which had made it possible for DoctorBicknell to save him. So terrific had been the sweep of the razor that hadhe had his head thrown back, as he should have done to have accomplishedthe act properly, with his neck stretched and the elastic vascular wallsdistended, he would have of a certainty well-nigh decapitated himself.At the hospital, during all the time he travelled the repugnant road backto life, not a word had left his lips. Nor could anything be learned ofhim by the sleuths detailed by the chief of police. Nobody knew him, norhad ever seen or heard of him before. He was strictly, uniquely, of thepresent. His clothes and surroundings were those of the lowest labourer,his hands the hands of a gentleman. But not a shred of writing wasdiscovered, nothing, save in one particular, which would serve to indicatehis past or his position in life.And that one particular was the photograph. If it were at all a likeness,the woman who gazed frankly out upon the onlooker from the card-mount musthave been a striking creature indeed. It was an amateur production, forthe detectives were baffled in that no professional photographer'ssignature or studio was appended. Across a corner of the mount, indelicate feminine tracery, was written: "Semper idem; semper fidelis."And she looked it. As many recollect, it was a face one could neverforget. Clever half-tones, remarkably like, were published in all theleading papers at the time; but such procedure gave rise to nothing but theuncontrollable public curiosity and interminable copy to the space-writers.For want of a better name, the rescued suicide was known to the hospitalattendants, and to the world, as Semper Idem. And Semper Idem he remained.Reporters, detectives, and nurses gave him up in despair. Not one wordcould he be persuaded to utter; yet the flitting conscious light of hiseyes showed that his ears heard and his brain grasped every question put tohim.But this mystery and romance played no part in Doctor Bicknell's interestwhen he paused in the office to have a parting word with his patient. He,the Doctor, had performed a prodigy in the matter of this man, done whatwas virtually unprecedented in the annals of surgery. He did not care whoor what the man was, and it was highly improbable that he should ever seehim again; but, like the artist gazing upon a finished creation, he wishedto look for the last time upon the work of his hand and brain.Semper Idem still remained mute. He seemed anxious to be gone. Not a wordcould the Doctor extract from him, and little the Doctor cared. Heexamined the throat of the convalescent carefully, idling over the hideousscar with the lingering, half-caressing fondness of a parent. It was not aparticularly pleasing sight. An angry line circled the throat--for all theworld as though the man had just escaped the hangman's noose--and,disappearing below the ear on either side, had the appearance of completingthe fiery periphery at the nape of the neck.Maintaining his dogged silence, yielding to the other's examination in muchthe manner of a leashed lion, Semper Idem betrayed only his desire to dropfrom out of the public eye."Well, I'll not keep you," Doctor Bicknell finally said, laying a hand onthe man's shoulder and stealing a last glance at his own handiwork. "Butlet me give you a bit of advice. Next time you try it on, hold your chinup, so. Don't snuggle it down and butcher yourself like a cow. Neatnessand despatch, you know. Neatness and despatch."Semper Idem's eyes flashed in token that he heard, and a moment later thehospital door swung to on his heel.It was a busy day for Doctor Bicknell, and the afternoon was well alongwhen he lighted a cigar preparatory to leaving the table upon which itseemed the sufferers almost clamoured to be laid. But the last one, an oldrag-picker with a broken shoulder-blade, had been disposed of, and thefirst fragrant smoke wreaths had begun to curl about his head, when thegong of a hurrying ambulance came through the open window from the street,followed by the inevitable entry of the stretcher with its ghastly freight."Lay it on the table," the Doctor directed, turning for a moment to placehis cigar in safety. "What is it?""Suicide--throat cut," responded one of the stretcher bearers. "Down onMorgan Alley. Little hope, I think, sir. He's 'most gone.""Eh? Well, I'll give him a look, anyway." He leaned over the man at themoment when the quick made its last faint flutter and succumbed."It's Semper Idem come back again," the steward said."Ay," replied Doctor Bicknell, "and gone again. No bungling this time.Properly done, upon my life, sir, properly done. Took my advice to theletter. I'm not required here. Take it along to the morgue."Doctor Bicknell secured his cigar and relighted it. "That," he saidbetween the puffs, looking at the steward, "that evens up for the one youlost last night. We're quits now."

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