Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  The professor marched forward as he gave his lecture on unsoundness of brain, and I strode by his side, silent and listening. What he said seemed very natural, and yet I had never heard it before. Was Madame Patoff such a monster as he described? It was more likely that her son might be, seeing that he in some points answered precisely to the description of a man with the intellect of one race and the temperament of another; and yet any one would scoff at the idea that Paul Patoff could go mad. He was so correct, so staid, so absolutely master of what he said, and probably of what he felt, that one could not imagine him a pray to insanity.

  “What you say is very interesting,” I remarked, at last, “but how does it apply to Madame Patoff?”

  “It does not apply to her,” returned Professor Cutter. “She belongs to the class of people in whom the mind has been injured by extraneous circumstances.”

  “I suppose it is possible. I suppose a perfectly sound mind may be completely destroyed by an accident, even by the moral shock from a sorrow or disappointment.”

  “Yes,” said the professor. “It is even possible to produce artificial insanity, — perfectly genuine while it lasts; but it is not possible for any one to pretend to be insane.”

  “Really? I should have thought it quite possible,” said I.

  “No. It is impossible. I was once called to give my opinion in such a case. The man betrayed himself in half an hour, and yet he was a very clever fellow. He was a servant; murdered his master to rob him; was caught, but succeeded in restoring the valuables to their places, and pretended to be crazy. It was very well managed and he played the fool splendidly, but I caught him.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Simply by bullying. I treated him roughly, and never stopped talking to him, — just the worst treatment for a person really insane. In less than an hour I had wearied him out, his feigned madness became so fatiguing to him that there was finally only a spasmodic attempt, and when I had done with him the sane man was perfectly apparent. He grew too much frightened and too tired to act a part. He was hanged, to the satisfaction of all concerned, and he made a complete confession.”

  “But how about the artificial insanity you spoke of? How can it be produced?”

  “By any poison, from coffee to alcohol, from tobacco to belladonna. A man who is drunk is insane.”

  “I wonder whether, if a madman got drunk, he would be sane?” I said.

  “Sometimes. A man who has delirium tremens can be brought to his right mind for a time by alcohol, unless he is too far gone. The habitual drunkard is not in his right mind until he has had a certain amount of liquor. All habitual poisons act in that way, even tea. How often do you hear a woman or a student say, ‘I do not feel like myself to-day, — I have not had my tea’! When a man does not feel like himself, he means that he feels like some one else, and he is mildly crazy. Generally speaking, any sudden change in our habits of eating and drinking will produce a temporary unsoundness of the mind. Every one knows that thirst sometimes brings on a dangerous madness, and hunger produces hallucinations and visions which take a very real character.”

  “I know, — I have seen that. In the East it is thought that insanity can be caused by mesmerism, or something like it.”

  “It is not impossible,” answered the scientist. “We do not deny that some very extraordinary circumstances can be induced by sympathy and antipathy.”

  “I suppose you do not believe in actual mesmerism, do you?”

  “I neither affirm nor deny, — I wait; and until I have been convinced I do not consider my opinion worth giving.”

  “That is the only rational position for a man of science. I fancy that nothing but experience satisfies you, — why should it?”

  “The trouble is that experiments, according to the old maxim, are generally made, and should be made, upon worthless bodies, and that they are necessarily very far from being conclusive in regard to the human body. There is no doubt that dogs are subject to grief, joy, hope, and disappointment; but it is not possible to conclude from the conduct of a dog who is deprived of a particularly interesting bone he is gnawing, for instance, how a man will act who is robbed of his possessions. Similarity of misfortune does not imply analogy in the consequences.”

  “Certainly not. Otherwise everybody would act in the same way, if put in the same case.”

  The professor’s conversation was interesting if only on account of the extreme simplicity with which he spoke of such a complicated subject. I was impressed with the belief that he belonged to a class of scientists whose interest in what they hope to learn surpasses their enthusiasm for what they have already learned, — a class of scientists unfortunately very rare in our day. For we talk more nonsense about science than would fill many volumes, because we devote so much time to the pursuit of knowledge; nevertheless, the amount of knowledge actually acquired, beyond all possibility of contradiction, is ludicrously small as compared with the energy expended in the pursuit of it and the noise made over its attainment. Science lays many eggs, but few are hatched. Science boasts much, but accomplishes little; is vainglorious, puffed up, and uncharitable; desires to be considered as the root of all civilization and the seed of all good, whereas it is the heart that civilizes, never the head.

  I walked by the professor’s side in deep thought, and he, too, became silent, so that we talked little more until we were coming home and had almost reached the house.

  “Why has Patoff never been in England before?” I asked, suddenly.

  “I believe he has,” answered Cutter.

  “He says he has not.”

  “Never mind. I believe he was in London during nearly eighteen months, about four or five years ago, as secretary in the Russian embassy. He never went near his relations.”

  “Why should he say now that he never was in the country?”

  “Because they would not like it, if they knew he had been so near them without ever visiting them.”

  “Was his mother with him? Did she never write to her people?”

  “No,” said Cutter, with a short laugh, “she never wrote to them.”

  “How very odd!” I exclaimed, as we entered the hall-door.

  “It was odd,” answered my companion, and went up-stairs. There was something very unsatisfactory about him, I thought; and then I cursed my own curiosity. What business was it all of mine? If Paul Patoff chose to tell a diplomatic falsehood, it certainly did not concern me. It was possible that his mother might have quarreled with her family, — indeed, in former years I had sometimes thought as much from their never mentioning her; and in that case it would be natural that her son might not have cared to visit his relations when he was in England before. He need not have made such a show of never having visited the country, but people often do that sort of thing. And now it was probable that since Madame Patoff had been insane there might have been a reconciliation and a smoothing over of the family difficulties. I had no idea where Madame Patoff might be. I could not ask any one such a delicate question, for I supposed she was confined in an asylum, and no one volunteered the information. Probably Cutter’s visit to Carvel Place was connected with her sad state; perhaps Patoff’s coming might be the result of it, also. It was impossible to say. But of this I was certain: that John Carvel and his wife had both grown older and sadder in the past two years, and that there was an air of concealment about the house which made me very uncomfortable. I have been connected with more than one odd story in my time, and I confess that I no longer care for excitement as I once did. If people are going to get into trouble, I would rather not be there to see it, and I have a strong dislike to being suddenly called upon to play an unexpected part in sensational events. Above all, I hate mystery; I hate the mournful air of superior sorrow that hangs about people who have a disagreeable secret, and the constant depression of long-protracted anxiety in those about me. It spoiled my pleasure in the quiet country life to see John’s face grow every day more grave and Mary Carvel’s eyes turn s
adder. Pain of any sort is unpleasant to witness, but there is nothing so depressing as to watch the progress of melancholy in one’s friends; to feel that from some cause which they will not confide they are losing peace and health and happiness. Even if one knew the cause one might not be able to do anything to remove it, for it is no bodily ill, that can be doctored and studied and experimented upon, a subject for dissertation and barbarous, semi-classic nomenclature; quacks do not pretend to cure it with patent medicines, and great physicians do not write nebulous articles about it in the reviews. There is little room for speculation in the matter of grief, for most people know well enough what it is, and need no Latin words with Greek terminations to express it. It is the breaking of the sea of life over the harbor bar where science ends and humanity begins.

  Poor John! It needed something strong indeed to sadden his cheerfulness and leaden his energy. That evening I talked with Hermione in the drawing room. She looked more lovely than ever dressed all in white, with a single row of pearls around her throat. Her delicate features were pale and luminous, and her brown eyes brighter than usual, — a mere girl, scarcely yet gone into the world, but such a woman! It was no wonder that Paul glanced from time to time in admiration at his cousin.

  We were seated in Chrysophrasia’s corner, Hermione and I. There was nothing odd in that; the young girl likes me and enjoys talking to me, and I am no longer young. You know, dear friend, that I am forty-six years old this summer, and it is a long time since any one thought of flirting with me. I am not dangerous, — nature has taken care of that, — and I am thought very safe company for the young.

  “Tell me one of your stories, Mr. Griggs. I am so tired this evening,” said Hermione.

  “I do not know what to tell you,” I answered. “I was hoping that you would tell me one of yours, all about the fairies and the elves in the park, as you used to when you were a little girl.”

  “I do not believe in fairies any more,” said Hermione, with a little sigh. “I believed in them once, — it was so nice. I want stories of real life now, — sad ones, that end happily.”

  “A great many happy stories end sadly,” I replied, “but few sad ones end happily. Why do you want a sad story? You ought to be gay.”

  “Ought I? I am not, I am sure. I cannot take everything with a laugh, as some people can; and I cannot be always resigned and religious, as mamma is.”

  “The pleasantest people are the ones who are always good, but not always alike,” I remarked. “It is variety that makes life charming, and goodness that makes it worth living.”

  Hermione laughed a little.

  “That sounds very good, — a little goody, as we used to say when we were small. I wonder whether it is true. I suppose I have not enough variety, or not enough goodness, just at present.”

  “Why?” I asked. “I should think you had both.”

  “I do not see the great variety,” she answered.

  “Have you not found a new relation to-day? An interesting cousin who has seen the whole world ought to go far towards making a variety in life.”

  “What should you think of a man, Mr. Griggs, whose brother has not been dead eighteen months, and whose mother is dangerously ill, perhaps dying, and who shows no more feeling than a stone?”

  The question came sharply and distinctly; Hermione’s short lip curled in scorn, and the words were spoken through her closed teeth. Of course she was speaking of Paul Patoff. She turned to me for an answer, and there was an angry light in her eyes.

  “Is your cousin’s mother very ill?” I asked.

  “She is not really dying, but she can never get well. Oh, Mr. Griggs,” she cried, clasping her hands together on her knees, and leaning back in her seat, “I wish I could tell you all about it! I am sure you might do some good, but they would be very angry if I told you. I wonder whether he is really so hard-hearted as he looks!”

  “Oh, no,” I answered. “Men who have lived so much in the world learn to conceal their feelings.”

  “It is not thought good manners to have any feeling, is it?”

  “Most people try to hide what they feel. What is good of showing every one that you are hurt, when nobody can do anything to help you? It is undignified to make an exhibition of sorrow for the benefit of one’s neighbors.”

  “Perhaps. But I almost think aunt Chrysophrasia is right: the world was a nicer place, and life was more interesting, when everybody showed what they felt, and fought for what they wanted, and ran away with people they loved, and killed people they hated.”

  “I think you would get very tired of it,” I said, laughing. “It is uncomfortable to live in constant danger of one’s life. You used not to talk so, Miss Carvel; what has happened to you?”

  “Oh, I do not know; everything is happening that ought not. I should think you might see that we are all very anxious. But I do not half understand it myself. Will you not tell me a story, and help me to forget all about it? Here comes papa with Professor Cutter, looking graver than ever; they have been to see — I mean they have been talking about it again.”

  “Once upon a time there was a” —— I stopped. John Carvel came straight across the room to where we were sitting.

  “Griggs,” he said, in a low voice, “will you come with me for a moment?” I sprang to my feet. John laid his hand upon my arm; he was very pale. “Don’t look as though anything were the matter,” he added.

  Accordingly I sauntered across the room, and made a show of stopping a moment before the fire to warm my hands and listen to the general conversation that was going on there. Presently I walked away, and John followed me. As I passed, I looked at the professor, who seemed already absorbed in listening to one of Chrysophrasia’s speeches. He did not return my glance, and I left the room with my friend. A moment later we were in his study. A student’s lamp with a green shade burned steadily upon the table, and there was a bright fire on the hearth. A huge writing-table filled the centre of the room, covered with papers and pamphlets. John did not sit down, but stood leaning back against a heavy bookcase, with one hand behind him.

  “Griggs,” he said, and his voice trembled with excitement, “I am going to ask you a favor, and in order to ask it I am obliged to take you into my confidence.”

  “I am ready,” said I. “You can trust me.”

  “Since you were here last, very painful things have occurred. In consequence of the death of her eldest son, and of certain circumstances attending it which I need not, cannot, detail, my wife’s sister, Madame Patoff, became insane about eighteen months ago. Professor Cutter chanced to be with her at the time, and informed me at once. Her husband, as you know, died twenty years ago, and Paul was away, so that Cutter was so good as to take care of her. He said her only chance of recovery lay in being removed to her native country and carefully nursed. Thank God, I am rich. I received her here, and she has been here ever since. Do not look surprised. For the sake of all I have taken every precaution to keep her absolutely removed from us, though we visit her from time to time. Cutter told me that dreadful story of her trying to kill herself in Suabia. He has just informed me that it was you who saved both her life and his with your rope, — not knowing either of them. I need not tell you my gratitude.”

  John paused, and grasped my hand; his own was cold and moist.

  “It was nothing,” I said. “I did not even incur any danger; it was Cutter who risked his life.”

  “No matter,” continued Carvel. “It was you who saved them both. From that time she has recognized no one. Cutter brought her here, and the north wing of the house was fitted up for her. He has come from time to time to see her, and she has proper attendants. You never see them nor her, for she has a walled garden, — the one against which the hot-houses and the tennis-court are built. Of course the servants know, — everybody in the house knows all about it; but this is a huge old place, and there is plenty of room. It is not thought safe to take her out, and there appears to be something so peculiar about her insa
nity that Cutter discourages the idea of the ordinary treatment of placing the patient in the company of other insane, giving them all manner of amusement, and so on. He seems to think that if she is left alone, and is well cared for, seeing only, from time to time, the faces of persons she has known before, she may recover.”

  “I trust so, indeed,” I said earnestly.

  “We all pray that she may, poor thing!” rejoined Carvel, very sadly.

  “Now listen. Her son. Paul Patoff, arrived this morning, and insisted upon seeing her this afternoon. Cutter said it could do no harm, as she probably would not recognize him. To our astonishment and delight she knew him at once for her son, though she treated him with a coldness almost amounting to horror. She stepped back from him, and folded her arms, only saying, over and over again, ‘Paul, why did you come here, — why did you come?’ We could get nothing more from her than that, and at the end of ten minutes we left her. She seemed very much exhausted, excited, too, and the nurse who was with her advised us to go.”