& Mrs. Parsons: My husband... he’s a good man. A very hard worker. And huuu... There were... there is just... one thing... Sometimes at night... and it comes to me. I imagine myself... splitting his fat, bold head with a great large ax. It’s just a feeling that comes over me many... many times a day... a feeling of humm... expectation, aah... hungering.
& Mortimer Granville: Honestly... ugh... That oaf Richardson had this way with perform surgery in the sewer using rusty saws and it would be Beekman’s pills for everybody. No matter the ailment...
Richardson: Granville! I’m aware I specifically told the nurse not to change these bandages.
Mortimer: Soiled bandages are a heaven for germs.
Richardson: Germ’s theory is poppycock, Granville. Now stop speaking of it. You’re frightening the patients.
Mortimer: Poppycock? But Lister has proved it. All the latest journals...
Richardson: Tight, Granville. No, we won’t be needing those. Thanks very much. A study there of calm reassurance and regular bleeding. These are the keys to modern medicine.
& Dr. Dalrymple: Tell me doctor... what do you know of hysteria?
Mortimer: Huh... Nothing.
Dr. Dalrymple: Nothing? But it’s a plague of our time! I would venture to say, that half the women in London are affected. It stands from an overactive uterus. In its most severe forms, it demands drastic measures. Institutionalization, surgery even. But in it’s mildermanifestations: Nymphomania, frigidity, melancholia, anxiety... it’s eminently treatable.
& Dr. Dalrymple: Are you fit?
Mortimer: I have never shook from hard work in the pursuit of helping the most needy among us.
Dr. Dalrymple: Jolly good. Shall we say, umm... three pounds a week?
Mortimer: Three pounds?!
Dr. Dalrymple: Four. Plus food and lodging.
Mortimer: I accept.
& Mortimer: She’s his daughter. Emily Dalrymple. I’ve only met her briefly, but...
Edmund St. John-Smythe: But what?
Mortimer: Oh, Edmund. She is magnificent.
Edmund: The epitome of English virtue and... Womanliness.
Mortimer: I haven’t the hope.
Edmund: Huh. Handsome, young doctor. What more could a woman ask?
Mortimer: Huh, better income... Social equal...
Edmund: Overrated. A few laughs, stiff pricks. That’s all a woman wants.
Mortimer: And you know this because?..
Edmund: Oh, I’ve read it in a magazine.
& Edmund: A toast then. To the end of Dr. Mortimer Granville, once a brilliant student, most recently, a visionary doctor to the poor, and now, handmade to anxious middle-aged women.
Mortimer: Edmund St. John Smythe. Bachelor. Benefactor. Miserable student. Sometimes drunkard. Full time sexual deviant and supreme waster of time and money, especially if it has anything to do with the science of electricity.
Edmund: To the telephone.
Mortimer: To the Queen.
Edmund: To calling the Queen on the telephone.
& Dr. Dalrymple: Throughout history, the medical establishment just offered hysterical women a veritable small respond order of treatments. Warm baths, ice baths, water jets, mesmerisation, horseback riding even. But, I favour a more direct approach. Now, I like to begin with a drop of musk oil... followed by oil of lilies.
& Dr. Dalrymple: Good steady pressure. That’s the key.
& Dr. Dalrymple: Notice the effect, Doctor? Shortness of breath. Blushing of the skin. Fluttering of the eyelids, twitching... Vocalization... All perfectly normal... Merely, involuntary physiological reaction to the treatment.
& Mortimer: I apologize. Hysteria is a disabling condition suffered by half the women in this city.
Charlotte Dalrymple: Keeps you busy, I see.
Mortimer: Does wonders for disagreeable personalities.
Charlotte: You find me disagreeable?
Mortimer: I’ve only ever seen you shout at people and slam doors.
& Charlotte: Dr. Granville... Trolling for patients? Afraid you finding cases of hysteria here. Women are all too busy trying to find enough to eat.
& Mortimer: How do you feel, Molly?
Molly: Bloody marvelous, what do you think?
Mortimer: Would you say you had a paroxysm?
Molly: I’d say three from counting. It got a little muddled in the middle.
& Molly: What do you call that little thing?
Mortimer: I was calling it the feather duster.
Molly: Well I’d think of something quick, so that a girl knows what to ask for.
& Mortimer: Everything all right, Mrs. Castellari?
Mrs. Castellari: Bravo!
--
+ quotes on the Imdb.
& Mortimer Granville: Honestly... ugh... That oaf Richardson had this way with perform surgery in the sewer using rusty saws and it would be Beekman’s pills for everybody. No matter the ailment...
Richardson: Granville! I’m aware I specifically told the nurse not to change these bandages.
Mortimer: Soiled bandages are a heaven for germs.
Richardson: Germ’s theory is poppycock, Granville. Now stop speaking of it. You’re frightening the patients.
Mortimer: Poppycock? But Lister has proved it. All the latest journals...
Richardson: Tight, Granville. No, we won’t be needing those. Thanks very much. A study there of calm reassurance and regular bleeding. These are the keys to modern medicine.
& Dr. Dalrymple: Tell me doctor... what do you know of hysteria?
Mortimer: Huh... Nothing.
Dr. Dalrymple: Nothing? But it’s a plague of our time! I would venture to say, that half the women in London are affected. It stands from an overactive uterus. In its most severe forms, it demands drastic measures. Institutionalization, surgery even. But in it’s mildermanifestations: Nymphomania, frigidity, melancholia, anxiety... it’s eminently treatable.
& Dr. Dalrymple: Are you fit?
Mortimer: I have never shook from hard work in the pursuit of helping the most needy among us.
Dr. Dalrymple: Jolly good. Shall we say, umm... three pounds a week?
Mortimer: Three pounds?!
Dr. Dalrymple: Four. Plus food and lodging.
Mortimer: I accept.
& Mortimer: She’s his daughter. Emily Dalrymple. I’ve only met her briefly, but...
Edmund St. John-Smythe: But what?
Mortimer: Oh, Edmund. She is magnificent.
Edmund: The epitome of English virtue and... Womanliness.
Mortimer: I haven’t the hope.
Edmund: Huh. Handsome, young doctor. What more could a woman ask?
Mortimer: Huh, better income... Social equal...
Edmund: Overrated. A few laughs, stiff pricks. That’s all a woman wants.
Mortimer: And you know this because?..
Edmund: Oh, I’ve read it in a magazine.
& Edmund: A toast then. To the end of Dr. Mortimer Granville, once a brilliant student, most recently, a visionary doctor to the poor, and now, handmade to anxious middle-aged women.
Mortimer: Edmund St. John Smythe. Bachelor. Benefactor. Miserable student. Sometimes drunkard. Full time sexual deviant and supreme waster of time and money, especially if it has anything to do with the science of electricity.
Edmund: To the telephone.
Mortimer: To the Queen.
Edmund: To calling the Queen on the telephone.
& Dr. Dalrymple: Throughout history, the medical establishment just offered hysterical women a veritable small respond order of treatments. Warm baths, ice baths, water jets, mesmerisation, horseback riding even. But, I favour a more direct approach. Now, I like to begin with a drop of musk oil... followed by oil of lilies.
& Dr. Dalrymple: Good steady pressure. That’s the key.
& Dr. Dalrymple: Notice the effect, Doctor? Shortness of breath. Blushing of the skin. Fluttering of the eyelids, twitching... Vocalization... All perfectly normal... Merely, involuntary physiological reaction to the treatment.
& Mortimer: I apologize. Hysteria is a disabling condition suffered by half the women in this city.
Charlotte Dalrymple: Keeps you busy, I see.
Mortimer: Does wonders for disagreeable personalities.
Charlotte: You find me disagreeable?
Mortimer: I’ve only ever seen you shout at people and slam doors.
& Charlotte: Dr. Granville... Trolling for patients? Afraid you finding cases of hysteria here. Women are all too busy trying to find enough to eat.
& Mortimer: How do you feel, Molly?
Molly: Bloody marvelous, what do you think?
Mortimer: Would you say you had a paroxysm?
Molly: I’d say three from counting. It got a little muddled in the middle.
& Molly: What do you call that little thing?
Mortimer: I was calling it the feather duster.
Molly: Well I’d think of something quick, so that a girl knows what to ask for.
& Mortimer: Everything all right, Mrs. Castellari?
Mrs. Castellari: Bravo!
--
+ quotes on the Imdb.
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