CHAPTER X.
The next day he called at 79 ---- Street. There was a modest shinglebearing the name "Dr. Gustav Heidenhoff" fastened up on the side of thehouse, which was in the middle of a brick block. On announcing that hewanted to see the doctor, he was ushered into a waiting-room, whose wallswere hung with charts of the brain and nervous system, and presently atall, scholarly-looking man, with a clean-shaven face, frosty hair, andvery genial blue eyes, deep set beneath extremely bushy grey eyebrows,entered and announced himself as Dr. Heidenhoff. Henry, who could nothelp being very favourably impressed by his appearance, opened theconversation by saying that he wanted to make some inquiries about theThought-extirpation process in behalf of a friend who was thinking oftrying it. The doctor, who spoke English with idiomatic accuracy, thoughwith a slightly German accent, expressed his willingness to give him allpossible information, and answered all his questions with great apparentcandour, illustrating his explanations by references to the charts whichcovered the walls of the office. He took him into an inner office andshowed his batteries, and explained that the peculiarity of his processconsisted, not in any new general laws and facts of physiology which hehad discovered, but entirely in peculiarities in his manner of applyinghis galvanic current, talking much about apodes, cathodes,catelectrotonus and anelectrotonus, resistance and rheostat, reactions,fluctuations, and other terms of galvano-therapeutics. The doctor franklyadmitted that he was not in a way of making a great deal of money orreputation by his discovery. It promised too much, and peopleconsequently thought it must be quackery, and as sufficient proof of thishe mentioned that he had now been five years engaged in practising theThought-extirpation process without having attained any considerablecelebrity or attracting a great number of patients. But he had asufficient support in other branches of medical practice, he added, and,so long as he had patients enough for experimentation with the aim ofimproving the process, he was quite satisfied.
He listened with great interest to Henry's account of Madeline's case.The success of galvanism in obliterating the obnoxious train ofrecollections in her case would depend, he said, on whether it had beenindulged to an extent to bring about a morbid state of the brain fibresconcerned. What might be conventionally or morally morbid orobjectionable, was not, however, necessarily disease in the materialsense, and nothing but experiment could absolutely determine whether thetwo conditions coincided in any case. At any rate, he positively assuredHenry that no harm could ensue to the patient, whether the operationsucceeded or not.
"It is a pity, young man," he said, with a flash of enthusiasm, "that youdon't come to me twenty years later. Then I could guarantee your friendthe complete extirpation of any class of inconvenient recollections shemight desire removed, whether they were morbid or healthy; for since thegreat fact of the physical basis of the intellect has been established, Ideem it only a question of time when science shall have so accuratelylocated the various departments of thought and mastered the laws of theirprocesses, that, whether by galvanism or some better process, the mentalphysician will be able to extract a specific recollection from the memoryas readily as a dentist pulls a tooth, and as finally, so far as theprevention of any future twinges in that quarter are concerned. Macbeth'squestion, 'Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased; pluck from thememory a rooted sorrow; raze out the written troubles of the brain?' wasa puzzler to the sixteenth century doctor, but he of the twentieth, yes,perhaps of the nineteenth, will be able to answer it affirmatively."
"Is the process at all painful ?"
"In no degree, my dear sir. Patients have described to me theirsensations many times, and their testimony is quite in agreement. Whenthe circuit is closed there is a bubbling, murmurous sound in the ears, awarm sensation where the wires touch the cranium, and a feeling as of amotion through the brain, entering at one point and going out at another.There are also sparks of fire seen under the closed eyelids, anunpleasant taste in the mouth, and a sensation of smell; that is all."
"But the mental sensations ?" said Henry. "I should think they must bevery peculiar, the sense of forgetting in spite of one's self, for Isuppose the patient's mind is fixed on the very thoughts which the intentof the operation is to extirpate."
"Peculiar? Oh no, not at all peculiar," replied the doctor. "There areabundant analogies for it in our daily experience. From the accounts ofpatients I infer that it is not different from one's sensations infalling asleep while thinking of something. You know that we findourselves forgetting preceding links in the train of thought, and inturning back to recall what went before, what came after is meanwhileforgotten, the clue is lost, and we yield to a pleasing bewildermentwhich is presently itself forgotten in sleep. The next morning we may ormay not recall the matter. The only difference is that after the deepsleep which always follows the application of my process we never recallit, that is, if the operation has been successful. It seems to involve nomore interference with the continuity of the normal physical and mentalfunctions than does an afternoon's nap."
"But the after-effects!" persisted Henry. "Patients must surely feel thatthey have forgotten something, even if they do not know what it is. Theymust feel that there is something gone out of their minds. I should thinkthis sensation would leave them in a painfully bewildered state."
"There seems to be a feeling of slight confusion," said the doctor; "butit is not painful, not more pronounced, indeed, than that of persons whoare trying to bring back a dream which they remember having had withoutbeing able to recall the first thing about what it was. Of course, thepatient subsequently finds shreds and fragments of ideas, as well asfacts in his external relations, which, having been connected with theextirpated subject, are now unaccountable. About these the feeling is, Isuppose, like that of a man who, when he gets over a fit of drunkennessor somnambulism, finds himself unable to account for things which he hasunconsciously said or done. The immediate effect of the operation, as Iintimated before, is to leave the patient very drowsy, and the firstdesire is to sleep."
"Doctor," said Henry, "when you talk it all seems for the moment quitereasonable, but you will pardon me for saying that, as soon as you stop,the whole thing appears to be such an incredible piece of nonsense that Ihave to pinch myself to be sure I am not dreaming."
The doctor smiled.
"Well," said he, "I have been so long engaged in the practicalapplication of the process that I confess I can't realize any element ofthe strange or mysterious about it. To the eye of the philosopher nothingis wonderful, or else you may say all things are equally so. Thecommonest and so-called simplest fact in the entire order of nature isprecisely as marvellous and incomprehensible at bottom as the mostuncommon and startling. You will pardon me if I say that it is only tothe unscientific that it seems otherwise. But really, my dear sir, myprocess for the extirpation of thoughts was but the most obviousconsequence of the discovery that different classes of sensations andideas are localized in the brain, and are permanently identified withparticular groups of corpuscles of the grey matter. As soon as that wasknown, the extirpating of special clusters of thoughts became merely aquestion of mechanical difficulties to be overcome, merely a nice problemin surgery, and not more complex than many which my brethren have solvedin lithotomy and lithotrity, for instance."
"I suppose what makes the idea a little more startling," said Henry, "isthe odd intermingling of moral and physical conceptions in the idea ofcuring pangs of conscience by a surgical operation."
"I should think that intermingling ought not to be very bewildering,"replied the doctor, "since it is the usual rule. Why is it more curiousto cure remorse by a physical act than to cause remorse by a physicalact? And I believe such is the origin of most remorse."
"Yes," said Henry, still struggling to preserve his mental equilibriumagainst this general overturning of his prejudices. "Yes, but the mindconsents to the act which causes the remorse, and I suppose that is whatgives it a moral quality."
"Assuredly," replied the doctor; "and I take it
for granted that patientsdon't generally come to me unless they have experienced very genuine andprofound regret and sorrow for the act they wish to forget. They havealready repented it, and, according to every theory of moralaccountability, I believe it is held that repentance balances the moralaccounts. My process, you see then, only completes physically what isalready done morally. The ministers and moralists preach forgiveness andabsolution on repentance, but the perennial fountain of the penitent'stears testifies how empty and vain such assurances are. I fulfil whatthey promise. They tell the penitent he is forgiven. I free him from hissin. Remorse and shame and wan regret have wielded their cruel sceptresover human lives from the beginning until now. Seated within themysterious labyrinths of the brain, they have deemed their sway secure,but the lightning of science has reached them on their thrones and settheir bondmen free;" and with an impressive gesture the doctor touchedthe battery at his side.
Without giving further details of his conversation with this strangeMaster of Life, it is sufficient to say that Henry finally agreed upon anappointment for Madeline on the following day, feeling something as if hewere making an unholy compact with the devil. He could not possibly havesaid whether he really expected anything from it or not. His mind hadbeen in a state of bewilderment and constant fluctuation during theentire interview, at one moment carried away by the contagious confidenceof the doctor's tone, and impressed by his calm, clear, scientificexplanations and the exhibition of the electrical apparatus, and the nextmoment reacting into utter scepticism and contemptuous impatience withhimself for even listening to such a preposterous piece of imposition. Bythe time he had walked half a block, the sights and sounds of the busystreet, with their practical and prosaic suggestions, had quitedissipated the lingering influence of the necromantic atmosphere of Dr.Heidenhoff's office, and he was sure that he had been a fool.
He went to see Madeline that evening, with his mind made up to avoidtelling her, if possible, that he had made the appointment, and to makesuch a report as should induce her to dismiss the subject. But he foundit was quite impossible to maintain any such reticence toward one in herexcited and peremptory mood. He was forced to admit the fact of theappointment.
"Why didn't you make it in the forenoon?" she demanded.
"What for? It is only a difference of a few hours," he replied.
"And don't you think a few hours is anything to me?" she cried, burstinginto hysterical tears.
"You must not be so confident," he expostulated. "It scares me to see youso when you are so likely to be disappointed. Even the doctor said hecould not promise success. It would depend on many things."
"What is the use of telling me that ?" she said, suddenly becoming verycalm. "When I've just one chance for life, do you think it is kind toremind me that it may fail? Let me alone to-night."
The mental agitation of the past two days, supervening on so long aperiod of profound depression, had thrown her into a state of agitationbordering on hysteria. She was constantly changing her attitude, risingand seating herself, and walking excitedly about. She would talk rapidlyone moment, and then relapse into a sudden chilled silence in which sheseemed to hear nothing. Once or twice she laughed a hard, unnatural laughof pure nervousness.
Presently she said--
"After I've forgotten all about myself, and no longer remember any reasonwhy I shouldn't marry you, you will still remember what I've forgotten,and perhaps you won't want me."
"You know very well that I want you any way, and just the same whateverhappens or doesn't happen," he answered.
"I wonder whether it will be fair to let you marry me after I'veforgotten," she continued, thoughtfully. "I don't know, but I ought tomake you promise now that you won't ask me to be your wife, for, ofcourse, I shouldn't then know any reason for refusing you."
"I wouldn't promise that."
"Oh, but you wouldn't do so mean a thing as to take an unfair advantageof my ignorance," she replied. "Any way, I now release you from yourengagement to marry me, and leave you to do as you choose tomorrow afterI've forgotten. I would make you promise not to let me marry you then, ifI did not feel that utter forgetfulness of the past will leave me as pureand as good as if--as if--I were like other women;" and she burst intotears, and cried bitterly for a while.
The completeness with which she had given herself up to the belief thaton the morrow her memory was to be wiped clean of the sad past,alternately terrified him and momentarily seduced him to share the samefool's paradise of fancy. And it is needless to say that the thought ofreceiving his wife to his arms as fresh and virgin in heart and memory aswhen her girlish beauty first entranced him, was very sweet to hisimagination.
"I suppose I'll have mother with me then," she said, musingly. "Howstrange it will be! I've been thinking about it all day. I shall oftenfind her looking at me oddly, and ask her what she is thinking of, andshe will put me off. Why, Henry, I feel as dying persons do about havingpeople look at their faces after they are dead. I shouldn't like to haveany of my enemies who knew all about me see me after I've forgotten.You'll take care that they don't, won't you, Henry?"
"Why, dear, that is morbid. What is it to a dead person, whose soul is inheaven, who looks at his dead face? It will be so with you afterto-morrow if the process succeeds."
She thought a while, and then said, shaking her head--
"Well, anyhow, I'd rather none but my friends, of those who used to knowme, should see me. You'll see to it, Henry. You may look at me all youplease, and think of what you please as you look. I don't care to takeaway the memory of anything from you. I don't believe a woman evertrusted a man as I do you. I'm sure none ever had reason to. I should besorry if you didn't know all my faults. If there's a record to be kept ofthem anywhere in the universe, I'd rather it should be in your heart thananywhere else, unless, maybe, God has a heart like yours;" and she smiledat him through those sweetest tears that ever well up in human eyes, thetears of a limitless and perfect trust.
At one o'clock the next afternoon Madeline was sitting on the sofa in Dr.Heidenhoff's reception-room with compressed lips and pale cheeks, whileHenry was nervously striding to and fro across the room, and furtivelywatching her with anxious looks. Neither had had much to say thatmorning.
"All ready," said the doctor, putting his head in at the door of hisoffice and again disappearing. Madeline instantly rose. Henry put hishand on her arm, and said--
"Remember, dear, this was your idea, not mine, and if the experimentfails that makes no difference to me." She bowed her head withoutreplying, and they went into the office. Madeline, trembling and deadlypale, sat down in the operating chair, and her head was immovably securedby padded clamps. She closed her eyes and put her hand in Henry's.
"Now," said the doctor to her, "fix your attention on the class ofmemories which you wish destroyed; the electric current more readilyfollows the fibres which are being excited by the present passage ofnervous force. Touch my arm when you find your thoughts somewhatconcentrated."
In a few moments she pressed the doctor's arm, and instantly themurmurous, bubbling hum of the battery began. She, clasped Henry's hand alittle firmer, but made no other sign. The noise stopped. The doctor wasremoving the clamps. She opened her eyes and closed them again drowsily.
"Oh, I'm so sleepy."
"You shall lie down and take a nap," said the doctor.
There was a little retiring-room connected with the office where therewas a sofa. No sooner had she laid her head on the pillow than she fellasleep. The doctor and Henry remained in the operating office, the doorinto the retiring-room being just ajar, so that they could hear her whenshe awoke.
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