Human Traces (38 page)

her mind; then she was gone and the door to the suite had closed. He went down to the library, where the stained-glass windows, inscribed with quotations from poems about the sea, threw a strange purple light across the dozing readers. He pulled out a volume with its title embossed in gold lettering -Quentin Durward by Walter Scott and sat down to tackle it. For two more days the ocean heaved, and to find himself air, Jacques explored the ship. On the third evening, when the wind had dropped, there was a knock at his door and a steward held out a salver with a folded note on the ship's paper. "We should be delighted if you would take dinner in our apartments. S. Valade.7 p.m. Do not dress." Do not dress, he thought, as he took out a clean shirt from his bag and struggled with the collar; although the wind had dropped, the occasional swell lifted the ship at the moment he was about to secure the stud. Do not dress... As though he had worn a white tie every night on the train in the backwoods of Wyoming. He brushed his hair carefully in the mirror, deciding it would be dishonest to try to conceal where it had receded from the temples: as well cover the grey above the ears with boot polish... His skin was clean and smooth from the razor, and, except for the odd white hair that Sonia assured him added dignity, the moustache at least had remained for the most part bravely black. The steward knocked at the door with brandy and water at six-thirty, and soon afterwards he took the electric chamber up to the main deck. Madame Valade s suite of rooms was like the apartment of a wealthy widow in one of the stuffier blocks near the Place des Vosges. From its cluttered sitting room, full of velvet cushions and fixed occasional tables, a door opened into a separate bedroom where Jacques could see the outline of a large brass bed anchored to the floor. "Awful people in the saloon for dinner," said Madame Valade. "Groups of shrieking young women calling themselves "Kansas Belles" or some such thing. I have seldom seen anything less "belle" in my life. They are serving our dinner up here." "You are absurd, Mama," said Nadine. "It is very lively in there, is it not, Roya?" Roya smiled. "Very lively." "All those handsome young men from Yale going over to some rowing match. What was it called?" "The name was not familiar to me," said Roya. "Henley, I think," said Nadine. "Does that mean anything to you, Doctor?" Jacques shook his head. "The English and their games. It is a mystery to the rest of us. Though I did enjoy playing lawn-tennis once." "What is that?" said Roya. "Not something you will play in the Elburz Mountains, I think." "You do not know what happens in the Elburz Mountains, Doctor." Dinner was brought by a perspiring steward and accompanied, to Jacques's delight, by French wines, which Madame Valade invited him to pour. As her guest, he felt obliged to absorb the greater part of her talk with an appearance of understanding or of interest, but she was low-spirited by comparison with the night in the Alpine Tavern and he was able to talk also to Roya and Nadine. The wine made them all nostalgic for France; they talked of Paris, Burgundy, the Auvergne; Nadine insisted that Jacques ring the bell to order more. Afterwards, they played whist, while Nadine poured brandy and water until her mother told her to stop. Nadine seemed incapable of following suit even at the beginning of a hand and talked loudly throughout the game. Roya looked distracted, Jacques thought, as though her mind was on St. Petersburg or Persia; her movements, normally so swift and contained, had become slow. Her fingertips brushed his hand when she picked up her cards, and beneath the table he could feel the light pressure of her relaxed leg against his own. He presumed that both girls had drunk more wine than they were used to. When Madame Valade began to yawn, he stood up, rocked for a moment in what he took to be the swell of the Atlantic and thanked his hostess for a delightful evening. "I shall come as well," said Roya. "I thought you..." Jacques could not conceal his surprise. "No, it is just Mama and I who share this little apartment," said Nadine. "Good night, Doctor. Thank you for letting me win at cards." "Goodnight, Mademoiselle. Madame." He held the door open for Roya and bowed, partly to avoid hitting his head on the door frame, and stepped out into the gangway. "I am going to walk round the deck once," she said. "It is such a beautiful night." "May I?" "Of course." It was late, and there was no one else on the first-class deck. They leaned over the rail and watched the black sea far below them. It was very strange, thought Jacques. He felt like a child, as though nothing had ever really happened to him before in his life. This, he thought, must mean he was happy. Roya turned round, so that her back was against the rail. Her eyes had narrowed and her lips had taken on a sharper outline, as if slightly stiffened or swollen. Without speaking, she placed her hands on Jacques's shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. He put his hands on her waist and held her, but was too surprised to do more. "That is what you wanted, isn't it?" said Roya. Jacques said nothing for a long time. "I suppose it must have been," he said at last. She smiled. "Good. I am tired. I am going to bed." "I thought you were with... Where are your quarters?" By the time he had framed the question, she had already slipped from view.

Sixteen

In October, Daniel had his first birthday. When the day's work was over, a dozen adults gathered in the waiting room, where the circular table held a cake that Sonia had made for the occasion. She carried Daniel from the nursery in his best short trousers and woollen jacket; he was a compact armful, solid but not heavy, resting comfortably on her braced forearm, while her other hand gripped beneath his armpit to secure him to the front of her dress. When he was being carried by either parent, he had a habit of patting them lightly on the shoulder, as though in consolation. Sonia leant down and inhaled the smell of his washed hair and the aroma of his skin beneath: it was like warm biscuits and honey, and the loose curls brushed her cheek, fleeting, like his life's breath. She set him down on the floor at the entrance to the waiting room, squeezing his ribcage one last time, reluctant to let him go. "Cake," he said, and set off across the room, shuttling from side to side in sudden spurts, then stopping, swaying like a sailor as he searched for balance, then plunging off again diagonally. Eventually, he made it to the table, where Jacques lifted him into his highchair and pushed it up close so that he could admire the cake as they sang to him. He held both small arms straight up above his head in amazement as his father cut the first deep slice, then settled down to eat, with his ankles crossed, as was his habit, on the footrest of the highchair. Sonia looked on from the doorway, happy to be apart and to observe the way in which her child was starting to acquire characteristics of his own: the crossed ankles, the precocious drunken walk, the head held to one side, the eyes wide in wonder as some everyday object was pointed out to him; the voice like a treble bell that sounded out each new word with tentative clarity as though his was the first human mouth in which it had found utterance. Children from the village came to the schloss to play with Daniel, and sometimes Sonia would take him back to their houses. She talked for hours with these young mothers about their children and their husbands and their lives; they were not conversations she felt she could relay to Jacques and they were not women she thought might otherwise have been her friends, but the intensity of what they shared was such that it dwarfed all differences. It was such a common human experience, thought Sonia by definition, perhaps, the commonest of all; yet to each of them, she could see, it was a private rapture so intoxicating that they were forced sometimes to play at being blase, to complain about the work, the sleepless nights, the loss of time alone, when she could see that all they really felt was incredulity that something so mechanically natural was in truth so sublime. They were changed for ever, these women changed by the everyday transcendence they had lived through. She saw them stealing glances at their children on the grass or in the hall, rationing their gaze, hoping not to wear away the miracle by too much looking; but she did not mind that her own exultation was not unique; it reassured her to think that anyone might feel as she did because if the commonplace was miraculous, then it was possible, after all, to take an optimistic view of human life. In return for Jacques's sabbatical leave in California, it had meanwhile been agreed that Thomas should also be permitted to travel or explore outside the schloss. Much though he loved it there the geraniums in the window boxes, the playful water in the fountain, the secret passage that took him back to Kitty he accepted the point that Jacques made on his return, that he needed to develop his own theoretical interests. While Jacques himself was in a position of retrenchment from which to leap forward better, at least he had leapt. Thomas was pushing forward slowly on two fronts, but there was no breakthrough. With Franz Bernthaler's help, he had become a keen-eyed pathologist; he was adept at the post-mortem table and had, with Franz, noted abnormalities in the brains of those who had suffered from general paralysis of the insane and, less marked but still significant, in those who had had dementia praecox, or what they had formerly called Olivier's disease. Even in their most optimistic moments, however, they could not present their findings as anything more than work in progress a promising start on a road that would take many years to travel and one which really needed better instruments. The second advance was on what he called to himself the Rothenburg Front, after the town in whose church he had first been struck by the idea that hearing voices must once have been a common experience. If his work with Franz was stains and slides, biochemistry, notes and observation, the Rothenburg Front was ostensibly the opposite: speculation verging on the metaphysical. He was not alone in sensing that he had come to a temporary halt. Much of what he felt by intuition and he had to confess that it was little more than that depended on the theories of what Mr. Darwin called 'descent with modification' (he did not seem to use the word 'evolution' until The Descent of Man) being more fully explained. Until someone could fill in the details of how heredity worked, then it seemed to him that there was little chance that they could understand, let alone cure, the forms of madness that had an hereditary taint. His own thinking had been influenced by what Faverill called his 'mad-doctor's hunch', something he had mentioned to Sonia: the idea that if humans were the only creatures to be mad, then perhaps it was the very thing that differentiated them from the apes that predisposed them to mental illness. Thomas believed it was possible that the illness had indeed entered into mankind at the moment he evolved into Homo sapiens; it might have been the very price he paid for the acquisition of higher consciousness. But Faverill had never dreamed of trying to prove his theory; it remained for both of them a 'hunch'; and what good were hunches in the world of factual science? He took the train to Vienna one freezing Thursday in December to attend the meeting of a learned society. The gathering was in a lecture hall attached to the university medical school, and because it was open only to members of the society and their guests it was not fully attended. There were few women and no students; it was quite unlike the circus atmosphere of Charcot's lectures at the Salpetriere'Thomas thought, but presumably that was the idea. These distinguished medical men did not want members of the public or students reeking of last night's debauch; they wanted like-minded colleagues who would listen in respectful silence. An air of self-congratulation hung over the audience as the speaker, a man of about Thomas's age, with a black curly beard that reached up almost to his eyes, climbed onto the stage. Dr Wilhelm Flless, an ear, nose and throat specialist with psychological ambitions, outlined some theories concerning the relations between the nose and the female sexual organs. He had published a monograph three years earlier on the 'nasal reflex neurosis', in which he cited the case of 130 patients whose various physical pains had been cured by application of cocaine to the inside of the nose. Since the treatment had been especially effective in the treatment of menstrual pains, Flless maintained that there were 'genital spots' inside the nose that were associated with some neuroses and which influenced the menstrual cycle. He was almost ready, he said, to publish a new book: The Relations between the Nose and the Female Sexual Organs from the Biological Aspect. The periodicity of the menstrual cycle suggested that two numbers, 23 and 28, might unlock all mysteries of human biology, including unknown dates of birth, onset of illness and death. Furthermore, Flless maintained, his numerical pattern underlay the workings of the entire cosmos: all natural laws were obedient to these two numbers, their sum, their difference and, probably, their square and their cube. Thomas listened in some disbelief, and was surprised that the audience was not hostile. The Viennese world clearly believed itself to be so close to discovering a universal key that it must listen carefully to every offering: no one wished to risk having laughed at the new Galileo. Afterwards, the audience repaired to a sitting room where coffee and wine were served in a dense atmosphere of cigar and pipe smoke. Thomas, who knew none of the others, introduced himself to a friendly-seeming man who stood nearby. "Did you enjoy the talk?" "Not at all. I know nothing of medicine." "Why are you here?" "I am the guest of one of the committee." "And what is your area of interest?" "I am a cartographer. My name is Hannes Regensburger." He held out his hand and Thomas introduced himself. "Where do you make your maps?" "My next venture is to Africa. Although maps are my profession, I am an amateur of palaeontology and in Africa I hope to be able to combine the two interests." They talked for half an hour about the descent of man and the few fossil clues he had left behind; it was a relief to Thomas to speak of things other than the sufferings of contemporary lunatics, and he warmed to Regensburger's dry style of conversation, which did little to conceal his enthusiasm for the subject. He asked if, since it was still early, he would care to join him for dinner afterwards, and Regensburger agreed; they fetched their coats and thanked the secretary of the society. "Did you enjoy the paper?" said the secretary. "Yes," said Thomas. "Though Dr. Flless might benefit from knowing something of the nervous system. The cocaine clearly enters the patients' bloodstream, thence the brain, where it has an anaesthetic effect. It makes no difference where it gets in. If I make a patient calm by giving him morphia by mouth, I do not look for areas of neurosis on his gums." But the secretary had turned to speak to another member, and Thomas was obliged to finish the explanation to Regensburger, who said, "I have no idea about such things, but I do remember elementary mathematics from the gymnasium. If you take two positive integers with no common factors you can combine them to make any other number that you wish. Particularly if you also throw in the difference, the sum and the square!" He laughed as they walked down the frosty street together. In the distance, Thomas could see the two braziers burning outside the front door of the hotel where he had spent his honeymoon night. He shivered in recollection, in cold, in anticipation of fatherhood: he felt irrationally happy as Regensburger pushed open the door of a restaurant and stood aside for him to go in. Regensburger told Thomas of his planned visit to German East Africa. "I expect you have heard of Oscar Baumann," he said. "He has made two expeditions to the area for the German Anti-Slavery Committee, and a map of his journey was published in Berlin three years ago. It is a beautiful piece of work in its way, but it lacks detail. He was unable to survey the land that was not on his route, and in any event cartography was not his principal purpose." The waiter brought their food and drew the cork on a bottle of red wine. "Do you have a particular interest in the area?" said Thomas. "There is commercial interest from numerous European concerns who hope to exploit the natural resources, to build further railways and so on. We shall solicit contributions to the expense of the expedition from such people. For myself, it is a journey I very much hope to make on account of something Baumann himself told me." Regensburger helped himself from the dishes on the table with the heedless appetite of the thin man. He had glasses rimmed in gold and hollow cheeks; the skin was tight over his forehead and scalp, where the hair was sparse. There was a slight swelling in the finger joints that made Thomas suspect arthritis; he wondered whether Regensburger's dry manner had developed partly as a result of dealing with pain. "The area close to the great Ngorongoro Crater," he said, 'is rich in fossil remains animals, plants, all sorts of things. Baumann told me of a particular place known to the Masai, though I believe they have little interest in it themselves. They do not understand the significance of such things." "What is particular about this place?" Regensburger carved himself a slice of calf's brain roulade, a speciality of the restaurant, in which the offal was baked in a Swiss roll of sieved potato and flour. "There are footprints preserved in ash," said Regensburger. "They appear to be human, I am told by Baumann, yet the layer in which they are fossilised seems to belong to a period before any human record we have." Thomas found his interest quickening. "Did he take photographs?" "No," said Regensburger. "Sumptuous roulade, is it not? Such a mild taste, and the parsley adds just a little freshness. Baumann has Christian beliefs of an old-fashioned variety. He is a very good man, but he is not happy with new theories about the descent of mankind." "Why might these prints alarm him?" said Thomas. "Unless someone was proposing that they belonged to Adam and Eve themselves and that the Garden of Eden was in German East Africa." "I am not sure," said Regensburger. "To a believer in the literal truth of the Bible, many natural phenomena pose awkward questions. To live in an age of such scientific progress makes them unhappy. It is not every generation which is alive at a time when we are on the brink of explaining creation. Do you have difficulties, Doctor? Or are you one of us?" Thomas felt as though he was being tested for entrance to a Masonic lodge. "I believe that all species originated in a process of descent with modification, as Mr. Darwin calls it, and that natural selection was the agency of change. I believe that man is no exception." It sounded as though he was reciting a creed. He coughed. "But there is still mystery of course. Maybe Alfred Russell Wallace is right and human evolution needed the presence of God at certain moments. It would be vain, in all senses, to suppose that I know the exact truth of our history." "I see," said Regensburger. "But to suppose that we shared a common ancestor with the apes that does not disturb you." "I accept that it has been scientifically established." "Good." Regensburger seemed satisfied, though Thomas was not sure whether it was the roulade or his own answers that had so pleased him. "We hope to leave in the spring of '99. I shall be gone for two years. I shall see the new century dawn somewhere to the west of Mount Kilimanjaro." He wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed away his plate. "Perhaps you would care to join me. We shall need a medical officer." Thomas laughed. "It is an intriguing idea, but I could not possibly be away for that length of time. We have discovered that my wife is
expecting twins next year and I have a very busy sanatorium to run in Carinthia." "As you wish," said Regensburger. "When we part company, I shall leave you my card. Then you may write to me if you change your mind. I suppose it would be possible for you to come only for a part of the expedition. There is a railway proposed from the interior which could take you back to the coast. Otherwise, with sufficient guides, you could retrace your steps on horseback, the way we came. In a man's life, such opportunities are few." Jacques could not settle to his work when he returned to Carinthia. He felt as though he had joined the roll of ordinary doctors, the pessimists content to manage rather than cure the carpenters and plumbers of the human who did repairs only; he felt he had been forced to sign his name to the doctors' universal declaration of impotence, which said: We Do Not Know. We can cure neither your cancer nor your cold. We do not know what causes dementia praecox or how to alleviate its horror. We wait for better instruments. We hope for a change in the weather. Meanwhile, here is a box of small red pills. He developed a kind of therapy by which he listened intently to the stories of unhappy people and made modest suggestions about how they might improve their outlook. He continued to examine how trauma and high emotion, when denied expression, might subsequently affect the wellbeing of the person, but gave up seeking to apply a universal formula, or trying to derive from it a psychology that might apply to all. In Vienna, a form of therapy that bore a close kinship to his own theory of psycho physical resolution had made an impact in scientific circles. Although many people scoffed at psychoanalysis and called it an expensively protracted cure for Jewish girls nervous about sex, Jacques had no doubt that therapies based on the interpretation of dreams and the function of the unconscious were more than the fashion of the day; they seemed to offer the best hope of therapeutic advance in all manner of conditions, ranging from psychosis to everyday symptoms of a mildly psychosomatic nature. Such treatments, in addition, represented the first real advance in the treatment of the mentally afflicted in his lifetime. Yet Jacques felt what the lawyers would have called 'estopped'; because of a clinical error that in the end had turned out to have no serious ill effects, he was barred from publicly pursuing the line of enquiry that he felt was most congenial to him and most likely to be medically fruitful. He was limited to reading about psychoanalytic activity at a distance, the country cousin in Carinthia to the metropolis of Viennese discovery. The irony of the case of Katharina von A was acute for him. While his own hope of glory had been dashed, the fame of the Schloss Seeblick began to spread, and Katharina was herself a dynamic proselytiser, spreading word of the sanatorium among her old friends in Vienna. To deal with the increase in outpatients and short-term residents they were forced to open rooms in the small Lamp Court and, in the new year, to find a permanent place on the staff for Peter Andritsch, the doctor who had covered Jacques's absence. There was hardly ever a spare room, and in January Sonia was able to present accounts to Herr Leopold at the bank that showed a steady profit. What worried Jacques was that it was earned by conventional means; they were becoming like numerous other well-run hydros and sanatoriums in the Alps. It was true that they still took and cared for public cases from the asylums, but few of these improved or were willing to leave, so the number of new patients from such places was small. The arrival of Peter Andritsch did allow him some freedom, however. Together with Franz Bernthaler, Andritsch could take the majority of the nervous cases, and Jacques was able to spend more time with the psychotics. Here, like Thomas, he found that his work was largely one of observation and note-taking of scrutiny over a long period. There remained the hope, a little forlorn at times, that some insight might be gained by merely looking. To prevent himself from becoming downcast, Jacques also took charge of the question of where the sanatorium should be re-housed when its lease on the schloss expired on the first day of the twentieth century. He had convinced Thomas by his enthusiasm for the Mount Lowe solution and together they set off once more to see Herr Leopold at the bank. "Gentlemen," said Leopold, 'you have reserves and a facility to borrow. You do not need my permission to spend your own money. Clearly the first thing that you need to know is whether the land on top of Wilhelmskogel is for sale and how much rebuilding you would need to do." "We have already established that," said Jacques. "It belongs to a widow in Salzburg. She has no interest in the land, but she is short of funds and is ready to accept a reasonable offer. I have obtained an estimate from a builder in town for the cost of repairing the main house and for building further accommodation for the patients. Although it is considerable, you can see that it is still cheaper than buying an existing sanatorium or hotel of that size." Herr Leopold agreed to look at Jacques's preliminary figures, while Jacques and Thomas examined the possibility of taking a spur from the existing valley branch line into the foothills of the mountains -a ride of a few minutes only before a cable-car would take traffic to the summit. After some enquiries, they were recommended an engineer in Salzburg called Tobias Geissler, who had wide experience of Austrian railways, both passenger lines and narrow gauge in mining, but had long wanted a project of his own. He was currently engaged in advising on the works at the lead mines near Villach, but it was said that his heart was not in it, and the alacrity with which he agreed to meet them was encouraging. Thomas and Jacques went to Villach on the last Sunday in January, with Sonia and Daniel, leaving Franz Bernthaler in charge of the sanatorium for the first time. Kitty had been advised by the obstetrician at the hospital to spend the last month of her pregnancy resting in bed. Twins, he told her, should not be taken lightly, particularly when the mother had not always enjoyed good health. Herr Geissler was waiting for them at the hotel, a newspaper spread across his knees and a clay pipe in his mouth. He sprang up when he saw them. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance." The skin on his bald head was tanned a smooth, woody brown; he reminded Thomas a little of McLeish, though his attitude could hardly have been more different: for every problem they raised, he had a number of urgent solutions. "First of all, we will need an excellent surveyor. I have just the man. We worked together on several projects and he owes me a favour. A completed survey will give us an idea of cost. But I am more or less certain that unless there is much more money in mad-doctoring than I have been led to believe you will need to form a company in which you sell stocks. That is how these projects are normally financed. It is quite straightforward." Jacques told him about the design of the Echo Mountain cable-car. "Excellent," said Geissler. He had a ringing bass voice and thick, powerful hands that continually opened and closed, as though itching for a jack or spanner to hold. "But do not contemplate, even for a moment, importing the wheel or the wire from San Francisco. I know of several railway engineering works where such things can be made to my design for a fraction of the cost. We also need to see how the descent of one car might power the ascent of the other. We could make it almost self-sufficient. On second thoughts, why do we need two cars? The traffic will be much lighter than on your Mount Lowe. We can have one line with just two rails no double track, no run-out. And we can store the energy of the descent in a battery to power the next lift!" As the waiter brought the food, Sonia said, "But will it not all be terribly expensive?" "It should not be beyond the reach of a modestly sized company. The rail itself is not expensive, nor is the timber. As for the labour, I have found the best men are Slovenes, and they, poor fellows, will work all day for a bed and a hot meal at night. Which of you is to be my point of reference?" There was a brief consultation between the three of them. They had not expected Geissler to move so quickly. "We can discuss my fee later," he said, laughing deeply. "In case that is why you are hesitating." It was finally agreed that Jacques would be in charge. Sonia would have control over the finances while Thomas for the time being would continue to devote his energies only to medicine. Kitty might help Jacques with the paperwork at a later stage, if she had time to spare after the birth of the twins, though there would be nothing for anyone to do until a thorough survey was completed, which could take until April. Thomas could see the light coming back into Jacques's eyes as they discussed the schedule; he thought it was a good way for his partner to rekindle his passion. It amused him to think that Jacques might eventually spend time with Kitty once again, and wondered how he would square the real woman he came to know with the Katharina von A of his imagination. He hoped, or so he muttered disloyally to himself, that the clerical work would not make her arms hurt. Kitty was restless, stuck in her bedroom, feeling once more like a neurasthenic patient. Mary came to talk to her and massage her back and legs in the morning, not because Kitty really needed it, but because she enjoyed the company. "Tell me the news from the other girls," said Kitty. "Well," said Mary. "I shouldn't tell you, Miss, but I know as you are very dependable." "You can count on me, Mary," said Kitty, who was leaning over the bed while Mary worked the lower spine with her strong thumbs. "That's lovely." "I think that Hans is a little sweet on Daisy," said Mary. "Hans? Josef's little helper? But isn't he too young?" "A little bit, Miss. But Daisy, she's coming on thirty-seven though she doesn't know exactly, and... You know. If she wants to have children and that." "My goodness. I do see, Mary. And how old are you?" "I'm a year younger than Daisy, Miss. But no one's going to marry me." "But you're a lovely ' "No, Miss. I don't want to get married. Honest. I'm very happy as I am. Just so long as you and Dr. Thomas is happy with me. I'm already happier than I ever thought I might be." "Of course we are happy. You are an important part of the schloss. We need you. I am going to lie on my back so you can do my legs. But tell me, is Hans a good prospect for Daisy?" "I know she's thinking about it. Josef will retire one day, then Hans can be in charge of all the buildings. And he already does a lot of work in the labs, looking after things for Dr. Bernthaler." "He looks like a naughty boy, Mary, that's the thing. He has a face like a little monkey' "Daisy says he's clever, Miss. Maybe he doesn't look it. But he can write and read and he's good with figures." "Perhaps we should give him something to do with the new buildings on the Wilhelmskogel, see what he can manage. I shall speak to my sister-in-law about it." "Thank you, Miss. Shall I stop now?" "Yes, Mary. Thank you. But will you come tomorrow?" Kitty's bedroom looked on to the lawn of the South Court, beneath whose chestnut tree she had often sat to read her book when she was a patient. Her old seat was these days frequently occupied by one of those referred from the asylum, a powerful-looking red-haired man who talked earnestly to himself, or to someone unseen. '"Under the spreading chestnut tree", remarked Thomas one afternoon, standing at the window and looking down, The village madman stands. The voices in his fevered head. Are loud as marching bands. We don't know if he's made that way. Or has infected glands." Longfellow." "Thank you, my darling. That was enlightening." "I have been working on it. Now listen, Kitty. I have a little thought that you might want to turn around in your head as you have your rest this afternoon." "Very well, Thomas." "You have read Mr. Darwin's book, have you not?" "Which one?" ' The Origin of Species! "Yes. I hurried through some of it, but I did finish it." "Good. Well, let us suppose that humans have developed with modification in the same way as other species." "Very well. This is what Mr. Darwin calls "transmutation"." "It is indeed. It was another English writer, called Herbert Spencer, who was I think the first to use the word "evolution" in this context. He also gave us the phrase "survival of the fittest"." "It sounds unpleasant. Do I need to read Mr. Spencer too?" "He is influential, but for the moment you merely need to understand those words." "Not very difficult." "Not at all. But suppose that the gentleman beneath the chestnut tree, who has Olivier's disease, or what we are now obliged to call "dementia praecox" suppose that people like him have been around for millions of years. And suppose that the incidence of this illness was roughly the same in all populations, despite differences in climate, conditions of life, diet and so on." "The very things that influence the outcome of Mr. Darwin's "natural selection"." "Precisely. Suppose this illness had remained at a stable level in all populations, even though it appears to have no natural advantages. Quite the opposite in fact. What does that suggest to you, Kitty?" "How do you know that it has stayed stable?" "We can come back to that. But just suppose we could demonstrate it. What would that suggest to you?" "Well," said Kitty slowly. "It suggests that this characteristic has not been lost, but has somehow been passed on... Despite its disadvantages." "Indeed. Now consider the extent of those disadvantages. People with dementia praecox are irrational. They die young. They frequently kill themselves. Sexual selection works against them because they are an unattractive mating proposition. They have fewer children than ordinary people. Yet, relatively speaking, they have flourished." "But that seems to contradict the theory. I thought only characteristics useful in the battle for life are naturally "selected"." Thomas smiled. "Exactly. So just take the reasoning one step further." "I suppose that, if Mr. Darwin is right, then there must be advantages in this condition. But we cannot see them." "You are a remarkable woman, Katharina. That is exactly what it tells us. But we can go further. We can refine the basic logic a little and still be strictly and simply Darwinian." "Which we want to be?" ' "I think we do. He may be out of fashion, but I feel sure the theory of natural selection is correct in its fundamentals." "So?" "Well, I think we must say that dementia praecox itself confers no advantage, but its survival against all its apparent disadvantages suggests