The Cunning Man

by Robertson Davies

  “I’d forgotten you were a bit of a metallurgist.”

  “Just a few things I picked up from my father.”

  “This caduceus—Hermes’ walking-stick with two snakes curling around it—Mervyn Rentoul had one of those things made when he played Faust, do you remember? The magician’s wand. Well, it’ll be a nice classical touch in your reception room.”

  “Not entirely classical. I’ve asked Emily to give it a genuine Canadian treatment. The snakes will be a pair of Massassauga rattlers.”

  “Good God! Why?”

  “They have a significance for me.”

  “Yes? Go on.”

  “Helpers and servers.”

  “You’re being wilfully obscure.”

  “Totem animals.”

  “Pagan stuff.”

  “No, stuff from the Great Time, which is also where the best of your St. Aidan’s stuff comes from. When Emily is finished I shall have on my wall a constant reminder of the Warring Serpents of Hermes—Knowledge and Wisdom, balanced in an eternal tension.”

  “Knowledge being science and all the accumulated lore you have pumped into you at medical school; science which keeps changing and shifting all through your lifetime, like a snake shedding its old skin—”

  “And Wisdom, with which you have to apply and temper the whole business, and fit it to the patient who sits before you, so that it too has a serpentine sinuosity and of course the wisdom which snakes are—quite mistakenly—supposed to possess.”

  “Very pretty. The snakes must be kept in balance. And is this thing you are getting Emily Raven-Hart to make supposed to explain that to your patients?”

  “Not really. But it’s supposed to keep me always mindful of it. It’s awfully easy to become mechanical in this profession. Patients encourage it. They’re so dull, most of them, poor creatures. They want something to deal with their symptoms, and they can’t grasp that the symptoms and the disease are different things.”

  “And the disease is?”

  “Burton, in his great book, calls it Melancholy—meaning a condition of the spirit, not just being down in the mouth. It shows itself in an extraordinary variety of forms. The asthmatic—is he puffed up with a sense of his own importance, or is he holding back something he dare not speak? The arthritic—is it fear of being drawn into life, or is it a grandiose rigidity of opinion? Skin ailments—are they to repel the onlooker and keep the world at bay, or are they a declaration of self-hatred and terrible humility? You have to find out. It’s a matter of the finest balances, and extraverted and introverted attitudes. That’s where you have to call on the Wisdom snake, and sometimes it’s damned slow to tell you what you want to know. One of the worst basic ills is anger, or resentment, or simple grievance; that one can assume shapes that would astound you. And they all speak through the body, not clearly or obviously, but with a determination that can shadow a life or end a life.”

  “Keeps you on your toes.”

  “Yes. You know when the Greeks were ill they went to the temple of Hermes to pray, and their prayer was, ‘To which god must I sacrifice in order to be healed?’ People don’t do that any more. But I must do it with every patient. I must pray, ‘To which god must I sacrifice in order to heal?’ Then I have to wait for an answer.”

  “Is that what I see you praying at St. Aidan’s?”

  “That, yes; one temple is as good as another to those of us whose faith is the Perennial Philosophy.”

  “But you need a temple?”

  “What’s a temple for? To put you in the mood to invoke the god.”

  “The god?”

  “The god who is present whether you call on him or not, and whom it is death to ignore. The people who ignore the god—the Undead Dead, as somebody has called them—are all about us. As thick in Toronto as anywhere else on earth.”

  “Are you one of those instant diagnosticians? I mean, you say it takes a long time to find out what really ails somebody, but can you spot the superficial symptoms as soon as they walk into your consulting-room?”

  “Have some more Scotch. Sometimes I can, but I don’t encourage myself in that trick. One mustn’t become slick. But just last week a fellow came to see me who wasn’t ill at all. I diagnosed him within thirty seconds as one of those Snoops you told me about.”

  “Really? Well, I’ll be damned! And who was snooping on you?”

  “The Canadian Medical Association, I suppose. You know they have a new president. A new broom, and wants to sweep clean. Chase out quacks. Put chiropractors in the pillory. Geld osteopaths. Brand a huge H on the cheek of the homeopath. The stupider members of my profession are full of glee, because they have what they call a live wire on the job. As soon as this little fellow came into the room I thought there was something fishy about him. And the invaluable Christofferson laid a note on my desk, on which she had typed, ‘N.B. the breast pocket.’ And sure enough, there was the metal clip that betrays the clinical thermometer, and isn’t like the clip of a pen or pencil. He was a medical man, not long graduated, I imagine, and perhaps some sort of understrapper in the Association office.”

  “So?”

  “So I decided I had better unmask him as soon as I could. I asked him what was troubling him. A touch of heart, he said.

  “I asked him to describe this ‘touch of heart,’ and he came up with as pretty and concise a textbook description of angina as you’d want to hear.

  “ ‘Don’t you think you are rather young for what you’ve been describing,’ I asked, smoother than the creamy curd, and he, poor eager lad, fell into it at once. No, no, said he. It was beginning to be understood now that quite young people could experience angina if they were under some sort of anxiety.

  “ ‘You show some signs of anxiety at this moment,’ I said. ‘What is making you anxious—Doctor?’

  “So there I had him. He turned quite red, and after a few more exchanges admitted that he was indeed a doctor, though a young one and inexperienced, he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me at once?’ I asked. Then he came out with a rigamarole about how anxious he was to study my methods of diagnosis, and he thought that perhaps if he didn’t declare himself I would also provide a lesson in how to deal with a patient. And so on. He was glib, but essentially a blockhead. And I treated him with gentle courtesy.”

  “Did he have the gumption to see through your gentle courtesy?” said Darcy.

  “Of course not. He was cheap stuff, and such people think courtesy is a sign of weakness. Did I want him to go on the table?” he asked. He obviously wanted me to get him to strip, and sniff him, and listen to his foolish little gut and do all the things I sometimes do when I want to find out what’s wrong with a patient. But there was nothing wrong with him, except that he needed a new heart and a new soul, which is a common enough state of affairs. So I said that no undressing would be needed.

  “ ‘I’d hoped to form some idea of your process of diagnosis,’ said he, playing the role of disappointed student. He had admitted to being a doctor but so far I knew he had no idea that I was on to him as a snoop. So I decided to give him something really interesting to take back to his boss.

  “ ‘I had the good fortune to grow up in a country district,’ I said. ‘Perhaps country is the wrong word. Let us say a forest district and there were a great many of our native people nearby. One of them was a remarkable healer, a Mrs. Smoke, and she taught me a diagnostic method which she summed up in a story. You know the Indians love stories and parables. So listen to the story.’ ”

  “Did Mrs. Smoke really teach you?” said Darcy. “You’ve mentioned her from time to time, but never as a teacher.”

  “Of course she didn’t. She was kind to me but I think she thought I was simple-minded. When I am pulling the wool over the eyes of a snoop, I am not speaking on oath. So I dragged in Mrs. Smoke as corroborative detail. This is what I told the snoop.

  “ ‘Long ago an Indian boy was wandering in the forest, wrapped in thought. He wanted to be a shaman, but all his
friends said he was a fool, so he thought poorly of his chances. A shaman must have special wisdom. As he wandered he thought he heard a little voice, crying piteously—“Let me out! Oh, let me out!”—and when he searched he found at the root of a giant hemlock something that seemed to be a tiny bottle, like the bottles the white woodcutters carry with them, with strong waters in them. He dug the bottle out of the dirt and forest debris, and inside it he saw a small figure, which he thought must be a frog; it was gesticulating wildly and crying in its tiny voice, “Let me out!”

  “ ‘So the boy bit his teeth into the cork, and with some difficulty he pulled it out and immediately the little figure rushed through the neck of the bottle and even as it rose it seemed to grow and swell until it was a dreadful creature nine feet tall, with fiery eyes, long yellow teeth, and claws like a bear.

  “ ‘The boy was terrified, and cried out in a choked voice, “Who are you?”

  “ ‘ “I am a Great Windigo,” said the monster, “and I am going to eat you up.”

  “ ‘ “No, no—wait,” cried the boy, who was no fool. “You do not look to me like a Great Windigo. They are much bigger and have longer teeth. I think you are telling me a foolish tale to make yourself seem more frightening than you are. Can you do magic?”

  “ ‘ “Of course. I can do magic,” said the monster. “Try me, if you have doubts.”

  “ ‘ “I will,” said the boy. “You were small and now you are big. If you can really do magic let me see you grow small again and slip back into this bottle. If you can do it, I will believe you are a Great Windigo.”

  “ ‘With that the monster laughed, and very quickly grew small and slipped back into the bottle. Then the boy, who was not a fool, pushed the cork into the neck of the bottle as far as it would go, and the monster was imprisoned.

  “ ‘ “Let me out. Let me out!” he cried, and beat piteously with his tiny claws, that were now like the quills of a hummingbird, on the glass walls.

  “ ‘ “Will you eat me, if I do?”

  “ ‘ “No, never; I shall reward you handsomely.”

  “ ‘ “Will you give me a great gift?”

  “ ‘ “What do you want?”

  “ ‘ “I want to be a shaman.”

  “ ‘ “I will make you a very great shaman.”

  “ ‘ “Do you swear by Ioaskeha?”

  “ ‘ “By Ioaskeha!”

  “ ‘ “And by Ataentsic?”

  “ ‘ “Even by Ataentsic!”

  “ ‘Whereupon the boy pulled the cork again with his teeth, and immediately the Windigo stood before him. In the claws of its right hand it held what looked like a dirty piece of parchment, or bark.

  “ ‘ “Take this,” said the Windigo, “and it will make you a great shaman.”

  “ ‘ “How?” said the boy.

  “ ‘ “Take it. Rub it on the blade of your axe.”

  “ ‘ “The boy did so, and instantly the blade of the axe was beautiful, softly gleaming silver.

  “ ‘ “But I want to be a shaman, not a silversmith,” said the boy.

  “ ‘ “Take it and be grateful,” said the Windigo “for it heals all wounds,” And with that it dashed over the treetops and was lost to sight.

  “ ‘And there you have my diagnostic method,” said I. ‘How do you like it?’

  “The poor noodle looked very much puzzled, and swallowed hard before speaking. ‘I don’t think I really understand it,’ he said.”

  “I don’t understand it either,” said Darcy. “But I suppose you wanted to confuse him. Well, you’ve confused me, too. Explain, Doctor, explain.”

  “What I told the noodle was this: the patient who presents himself and what ails him—what really ails him and not just his collection of symptoms—is the Windigo in the bottle. A Windigo, in case you have been too busy with plainchant to know, is a cannibal monster; like a disease, or a malady, to call it something vaguer but more accurate; it eats people up. So, by a combination of modern science, intimate and revealing conversation, and intuition, we let the Windigo out of the bottle and we know what it is. We then denigrate it a bit, just to show who’s boss. Put it in perspective, so to speak. And then, when it has been reduced in size and terror, we demand that it yield up a secret that will heal. And if we’re lucky it does, and if we aren’t lucky at least the patient has had the pleasure of several weeks of close, kindly attention—and that can also work wonders.”

  “And that’s what you told the snoop?”

  “At somewhat greater length, for he was slow of comprehension, but substantially that is what I told him. Hear the voice; open the closed place; confront the monster; reason with him; reach a compromise. It works, Darcy. It’s worked for me time and time again.”

  “The story is familiar.”

  “Should be. It’s from the Grimm collection!”

  “Not Indian?”

  “They probably have some version of it. It’s one of those universal tales that contains a great truth. I adapted it to my need.”

  “The Windigo seems to have been a bit stupid.”

  “Yes. And diseases are stupid. Powerful, frightening, but stupid.”

  “I wonder if the snoop understood you. Indeed, I wonder what the snoop reported to his principal.”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”

  “Jon, I wish you could apply your Windigo therapy to our friend Father Iredale. I think he’s getting a bit odd.”

  “I’ve been watching him—listening to his sermons. My diagnosis, not precisely in Windigo terms, is Inflation of the Ego.”

  “Swelled head?”

  “Oh, far, far more than that.”

  (14)

  Glebe House

  Cockcroft Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  Canada

  Dearest Barb:

  You wouldn’t believe the difference it has made to this house now that Dear One has a real commission—two, in fact, if you count the job for Dr. Hullah. So much so, in fact, that—this was her idea—we have given grateful thanks in St. Aidan, and, not just mouth-thanks but something solid. I have promised a chasuble—you know, one of those cloak affairs the priest wears over his alb when he is doing Mass? They have some but my dear, they are awful and if there is anything Em and I can do for St. Aidan’s it is to lift the level of taste and workmanship in the vestments. The nuns have made most of the outfits, and they do lovely needlework but my dear, the designs! Cor stone the crows! The worst kind of late-Victorian, feeble clapped-out trumpery. And you remember the work my Gran did years ago for the Royal School of Needlework, when she was an enthusiastic patron, not only supporting financially but actually plying the needle like billy-o. Any talent or eye I may have comes from Gran, no doubt about it. So I have designed something really stunning, to be achieved in appliqué (is that how you spell it?) work, and am hard at it. Got the material through the costume chap at the Players’ Guild, so it is virtually at cost price, being wholesale; a lot of it is really upholstery material, which gives the right weight, and on it I am applying terrific symbols which I am copying from a book of manuscripts, big enough to make a strong impact (which the nuns simply don’t understand, poor loves) and in corded silks of gorgeous colours. And some real gold thread for the visible stitchery; which costs the earth and is hard to work with and scuffs the fingers.1 I am hard at it every minute I can spare. Have laid etching aside until it is done but there’s lots of housework in a huge place like this, and baking for the Sundays.

  This has given enormous pleasure at the church, and Father Charlie is sure we are brands snatched from the burning. Father Hobbes is not so sure and makes noises about how all this rich material might have been sold for many pence and given to the poor. But Father Charlie says the poor will be enriched when they see their priest gorgeously arrayed to serve their God, and giving to the poor needn’t always mean putting ground beef patties into the gobs of the bums and layabouts Fr. Hobbes calls God’s People. So poor Fr. Hobbes has to shut up
and accept it, which he does with a saintly smile.

  Of course I’m on Charlie’s side. Beauty cannot forever be sacrificed to utility because utility—especially when it means the poor—has never had enough. There simply isn’t enough to deal with all their needs. We cannot live on hamburger patties alone. The soul must be fed as well as the belly, which our pal Hugh McWearie always calls Messer Gaster, which I suppose is out of Rabelais, whom he adores. Never read him, myself, but I agree that Messer Gaster must have his due, but not everything or civilization might as well pack it in. After all, what have the poor ever done for anybody except cadge? They are a burden we better-off ones have to bear, but they can’t have everything. Do I sound like a tough old Scrooge? You should see some of God’s People hanging around the rectory and you’d know why. They would eat Fr. Hobbes right down to the cob if Fr. Charlie would allow it.

  But about being a brand plucked from the burning. It’s true Dear One and I have become regular attendants at St. Aidan’s and even take Communion—though I simply will not go to Confession first. Tell Tommy Whimble what a bad girl I have been, guilty of uncharitable thoughts, etc.?2 Not bloody likely. It’s the beauty of the thing that draws us. Ever been to High Mass? I don’t mean a Romanist Mass which is now pretty much in ruins, but the genuine article at a High Church Anglican place? My dear, get right around to St. Mary the Virgin, in Bourne Street next time you are in London, and you’ll see what I mean.

  We go to the eleven o’clock solemn High Mass, with plainsong propers sung by the Ritual Choir (that’s Darcy Dwyer’s lot) and a missa brevis and motet sung by the Gallery Choir, which is like angels, if angels can sing, which I suppose they do. Starts off with the introit procession, with clergy, laymen, and altar servers carrying a Cross and candles and clouds of incense from a silver censer. The three priests are the deacon (usually Whimble) in a gold silk dalmatic over an alb which is a sort of chemise with lace edging. The celebrant (Fr. Hobbes as a general thing) wearing a gold silk chasuble over an alb. Then a third, now and then a layman but usually Charlie Iredale, wearing a gold silk tunicle over an alb. And all togged out in birettas—you know, those square caps with pompons on the top, which they pop on and off every time the Holy Name crops up in the service (which I don’t like—Daddy always said only counter-jumpers were always lifting their hats).3