by Argyle, Ray
Three months! How could he bear to go so long without Kathleen? What would Molly think had happened to him? Or would she know, too? The questions filled his head but he had answers to none of them. He could only write letters to Kathleen. He did, but never got an answer. She’d likely never been allowed to read them, he thought.
The sweltering heat of a humid summer had settled over Toronto by the time Leonard got word that Dr. Clark had returned to the city. He tried to reach him by phone but was frustrated at every attempt. The ever-present Wainwright exercised control over the Superintendent’s public contacts. For almost a year after Dr. Clark’s return from Europe, Leonard’s calls and letters went unanswered. That was when the lonliness gripped him hardest, and he knew it was going to be bad. He’d lived through so many lost years after Rosannah had left his life. Now he was enduring another empty year, one filled with spurned appeals and days of desolation and nights of despair. Finally, a message was left for him at the Telegram giving the hour and day for which an appointment had been set.
A new guard stood at the main door of the Asylum when Leonard arrived. He made him wait ten minutes before being admitted. A white-cloaked attendant took him to Dr. Clark’s office.
“I trust you’ve been well, Mr. Babington,” Dr. Clark said. Bowing his head slightly, he indicated Leonard should take a seat. He neither stood nor offered to shake hands. Leonard wondered if the coolness of his reception was an ominous sign of what he should expect. He told Dr. Clark he was worried about Kathleen and he hoped he might see her.
“I can assure you, Sir, there will be nothing improper take place if I am permitted to visit Kathleen,” Leonard added.
“There are some matters to be cleared up before any visit can be considered,” Dr. Clark said. “We’ve been deeply troubled by your behaviour.”
“I don’t think anything I did has directly hurt Kathleen,” Leonard answered. “We are in love and we hope to be married.” Leonard was not prepared to admit any transgression; better that he leave unspoken what may have happened in the storeroom.
“The rules of this institution forbid sexual contact among the patients, between the patients and the staff, and particularly between patients and their visitors,” Dr. Clark answered. He recited other rules and regulations governing the treatment of patients and their relationships with people from the outside.
“Don’t you realize, man, we could have had you charged with rape?”
“There was no rape.”
“You may not think so, but in law, Kathleen was incapable of providing consent. Good God, Mr. Babington, people have been hanged for rape in this country.” The outburst staggered Leonard. He felt swept away, as if he had been tossed into the flotsam that surged over Eugenia Falls. He’d given no thought to Kathleen’s legal status. He wondered how to respond. He decided to challenge the Superintendent.
“I repeat there was no rape, Dr. Clark. Charge me if you wish. If Kathleen’s mental capability was ever to be put to the test in a court of law, I have no doubt of the outcome. She has a fine mind and is in full possession of her faculties. She should not be in this institution.”
Leonard feared he might have gone too far. Dr. Clark frowned, put his hands on his desk, clenched his fists, and stared directly at him.
“That may be your opinion, Sir. It has taken great care on my part to prevent this matter from becoming public knowledge. Had word leaked out, it would have destroyed your reputation and damaged the Telegram. A scandal of such magnitude would also have done great harm to this institution.” He paused before adding:
“I could only permit you to see Kathleen in the presence of an attendant. And only very briefly.”
Leonard’s stomach heaved. He was going to see Kathleen after all.
“And what of her release?” Leonard asked. He decided to press whatever advantage he may have gained. “I’d like to have an outside doctor examine Kathleen.”
“I would willingly consider any medical assessment that might be brought before me.”
Fine, Leonard thought, I’ll hold you to that promise. He pressed Dr. Clark on the details of bringing in an independent doctor.
“I’ll permit an examination by a qualified medical practitioner of your choice,” Dr. Clark said.
That afternoon, Leonard returned to the Asylum for his visit with Kathleen. He was taken to a nursing station where an attendant escorted him to a small ward on the second floor. There were four beds in the room. Three were occupied. Kathleen was sitting on the bed closest to the door. She glanced up at him, a look of shock on her face. Then she smiled and held out her arms. Leonard pulled her from the bed and embraced her. He let her go only when the attendant ordered them apart.
Kathleen seemed to Leonard a bit thinner, perhaps, but in other ways the same girl he had not seen for more than a year. Her eyes sparkled with the delight of their meeting. They discussed small things – how warm it was in the ward, what she’d had for dinner, how Leonard was getting on at the Evening Telegram.
“I’m sorry about what’s happened,” Leonard said. “It was my fault.”
“No, I wanted it to happen, I wanted us to be together,” Kathleen said.
“I want to marry you, if you’ll have me.”
“Of course I’ll marry you.”
“First, we’ve got to get you out of here.”
“They kept me alone in a tiny room for weeks. They shoved my food in through a crack in the door. I thought I’d actually go mad. Since I was moved back into the ward they’ve lectured. They said me my illness is the result of my poor morals.”
Leonard glanced at the attendant and decided he had to speak the truth.
“That’s all nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with you. Dr. Clark has agreed to have you examined by an outside doctor. Now it’s up to me to find someone who would be qualified to see you. And he might as well see Molly, too.”
It was time to go. Leonard hugged Kathleen and left the ward. He was thrilled with finding her again. Now he had to get to work on his scheme for Kathleen’s release. Where to start? He wanted to find the best doctor in Toronto. Among all the men he knew, he considered Goldwin Smith to be the best connected and the best informed. He decided to stop in at The Grange tomorrow.
Leonard found Goldwin Smith in his vegetable garden behind the great house. The sun shone warmly as he tended his tomato vines. A basket partly filled with fresh tomatoes lay at his feet.
“Look at this, Babington. Have you ever seen the like of it?”
Goldwin Smith held a large tomato in his hand. “A Big Rainbow,” he said. “Must weigh over two pounds. These and my Lemon Boys are the best I’ve ever raised. It’s been so hot they’re two weeks ahead this year.”
Leonard duly praised the fruits of Goldwin Smith’s labour. Then he brought up the matter of finding a doctor in possession of a keen understanding of mental diseases. His inquiry, he said, was on behalf of someone in the Asylum who Leonard thought should have the benefit of an independent assessment.
“There’s only one choice,” Goldwin Smith said. “That’s Dr. Creighton. Horace Creighton, I’ve known him for years. One of the outstanding alienists in North America.”
“Alienist?” Leonard muttered. He tried to recall the meaning of the word, which he remembered hearing in his days of covering the courts in Toronto.
“Yes, alienist, a doctor who’s been accepted by the courts as an expert in mental disease. One who understands how you can become alienated from your normal faculties. Deranged, in other words.”
Kathleen was hardly deranged, Leonard thought. Goldwin Smith took Leonard into the house and had him wait while he wrote a note for Dr. Creighton.
“Take this along and I’m sure he’ll see you.”
The next day, Leonard excused himself as soon as the eleven o’clock edition had been put to bed. He slipped out of the office without speaking to Black Jack Robinson. There was no need to make his departure obvious. He’d been out of the editorial room too oft
en lately.
Dr. Creighton had his office in a large house on Sherbourne Street. It was close to where John Ross Robertson lived and not far from the house once occupied by the Toronto School of Medicine. Leonard presented Goldwin Smith’s note to a young man who sat at a small desk in the foyer. He would have to wait. After half an hour, a buzzer sounded and the young man disappeared down a hallway. When he emerged he told Leonard the doctor would see him.
Dr. Creighton smiled benignly when Leonard entered his office. He was tall, with a neatly trimmed beard. A pince-nez rested on the bridge of his nose. Its presence made Leonard wonder whether the doctor suffered from fading eyesight, or if he had just taken on European airs. Perhaps the glasses were a way of putting himself in the company of the famous Dr. Freud.
“How is my old friend?” Dr. Creighton asked of Goldwin Smith. His voice boomed across the room. “You are seeking a consultation, according to Mr. Smith’s note.”
“Not for myself,” Leonard said quietly. The door had been left open and Leonard had seen a cleaning woman at work in the hallway. He did not wish anyone to hear what he had to say. “It’s for a young woman confined to the Toronto Insane Asylum. I have reason to believe she is entirely normal. If you would agree to assess her, your report could go to Dr. Clark. He’s willing to permit an independent assessment.”
Dr. Creighton looked at Goldwin Smith’s note and back at Leonard. His face became a mantle of suspicion. He would need to know more before he could agree to see the subject. What were the circumstances of the young lady’s confinement? Leonard spoke briefly of how Kathleen had been committed. He emphasized the mistreatment by her stepfather and the fact she had been falsely accused of immorality and degeneracy. Under questioning, Leonard admitted that he had become a close friend of the girl.
“My advice is to leave that girl well enough alone,” Dr. Creighton said. He spoke for several minutes about similar cases he had dealt with. He had been called upon to give testimony in both civil and criminal trials. The cases had ranged from murder to disputes over the mental soundness of persons who had bestowed great wealth on virtual strangers.
“From what you’ve told me, there’s no hope for this girl. Immorality will always out. It drives purity from the soul. I see no point in putting you to the inconvenience and cost of a consultation.” Dr. Creighton stood and offered his hand.
Leonard left discouraged by what he had been told. He would have to look elsewhere for someone to examine Kathleen. He stood on the wooden sidewalk outside Dr. Creighton’s house and thought about where he might seek help. He had gone only a few steps when he heard a voice call to him. It was the cleaning woman.
“I heard what the doctor said to you,” the woman said. She spoke in a thick European accent.
“I learned something of mental diseases when I worked in Vienna,” she added. “I have known Dr. Creighton to be in error. You need a good honest doctor for your girl. Go to Dr. Samuel Lavine on John Street. Tell him Devorah sends you.”
The woman’s abrupt approach flustered Leonard. He muttered a few words of thanks and strode away. Did the cleaning woman truly know of what she spoke? He had better get back to the office. But first he’d try to see Goldwin Smith.
Goldwin Smith was in his study when Leonard arrived at The Grange. He invited Leonard to sit down and asked if he’d seen Dr. Creighton.
“I did,” Leonard admitted. “Without result. He does not feel the case warrants his intervention. But I have been given a recommendation for another doctor. A Dr. Samuel Lavine. Do you know of him?”
Goldwin Smith closed the book he has been holding and gave Leonard a look of exasperation. He smiled and shook his head. “You’ve picked a horrible Jew,” Goldwin Smith said. “The only Jewish doctor in Toronto, thank God. But not a man you can put your trust in. These accursed Jews. Responsible for all the wars of the world. Plotting the downfall of Christianity. It’s not for nothing they’re known as Christ-killers. Their presence in Canada is a misfortune, dangerous parasites, all of them.”
Leonard tried to decipher the spiteful words that tumbled from Goldwin Smith’s mouth. He had become accustomed to the casual put-downs of Jews heard every day on the streets of Toronto. But this was an incoherent litany of hate, all but incomprehensible to one not immersed in the gibberish of anti-Semitism.
“I don’t see much sign of any damage they’ve done to Canada,” Leonard protested.
“Wherever they go, they’re a parasitic race,” Goldwin Smith thundered back at him. “Eating out the core of our British nationality.”
If he could not turn to Dr. Lavine, who was there? Leonard left The Grange with the chill of fear seeping into his veins – fear that he was about to fail the most important test of his life.
Chapter 34
THE DIAGNOSIS
November 18, 1899
After thinking for two days on Goldwin Smith’s lurid denunciation of the Jews, Leonard Babington decided he still wanted to talk to Dr. Lavine. He quickly discovered this was not easily accomplished. The telephone operator said she had no listing for him, nor could Leonard find a Dr. Lavine in the 1899 issue of Might’s City Directory. He remembered Devorah’s mention of John Street and decided to check out the street house by house. Walking up from Front Steet, Leonard wondered if he was not on a ridiculous mission. Surely there were many doctors in Toronto who would be able to examine Kathleen and Molly for signs of mental instability. But where could he find one that would be sympathic to their plight?
As Leonard reached Adelaide Street he caught sight of a cottage set well back from the roadside. He knew he had found Dr. Lavine when he saw his name on a small sign tacked to its porch. Paint peeled from the window frames and the cedar shingles on the roof were weatherworn. A bicycle lay sprawled on the porch floor. Pots of flowers showed wilted buds, evidence of a lack of watering. Leonard followed the gravel path to the front door. He did not intend to stay long. A short visit would tell him if he was wasting his time.
Leonard banged the brass knocker on the front door and waited. In a moment, a woman wearing a scarf invited him in. “Do you have an appointment with Dr. Lavine?” Leonard was surprised to recognize her. It was Devorah, the woman from Dr. Creighton’s office.
“I thought I would follow your advice,” Leonard told her.
“Sit, please sir,” the woman said, pointing to a chair. She disappeared into the back of the house.
When Dr. Lavine came into the room, Leonard was struck by his efficient air and neat appearance. He had a closely cropped beard and his head of dark hair was parted in the middle. He wore a black and white hound’s tooth suit, complete with vest and a neatly knotted grey tie. His brown eyes glittered in the shaft of sunshine that entered through the parlour window. He was young, Leonard thought, probably not more than thirty-five. They shook hands and he followed the doctor into a small office crowded with a desk, a couch and a single visitor’s chair.
“I won’t take much time,” Leonard said. “I was at Dr. Creighton’s office and when I was leaving Devorah suggested I see you.”
Dr. Lavine smiled. “Yes, she cleans for me also. I have time to see you. My patients will allow me a moment.” He arched his eyebrows, as if to acknowledge he was not overworked.
“I work for the Evening Telegram,” Leonard began. “I am interested in a young woman who has been confined to the Insane Asylum for the past three years. Dr. Clark, the superintendent, has agreed that I might have someone not connected with the Asylum examine her.”
Dr. Lavine frowned, pondering what Leonard had said.
“That may be difficult to arrange. What makes you think they would let a doctor new to Toronto assess one of their patients? I am sure I don’t need to say anything more. Besides, I have only a general practice.”
“But you’ve treated all sorts of patients.” Leonard hesitated to make any reference to mental illness.
Dr. Lavine explained he’d graduated from Trinity Medical School and had tried to set up a pra
ctice in Chicago where he believed a Jewish doctor would be welcome.
“I found Chicago quite unfriendly,” he said. “The Jewish doctors there resented my arrival. And of course I would never get any Gentile patients. I knew Toronto had a few thousand Jews but no Hebrew doctor, so I decided to set up my practice here. It’s been slow going. Did you see the bicycle on the porch? That’s how I get around. My patients see me ride up to their house. They call me ‘the bicycle doctor.’” As he talked, he spun a small top on his desk, grabbing it just before it toppled over. A nervous habit of a man who seemed a bit eccentric, Leonard thought.
It was time to steer the conversation back to treatment of the mentally ill. Leonard observed that a lot of people were confined to insane asylums. Had Dr. Lavine treated any insane patients? Did science hold out any promise of new methods of treatment? Was there hope for people who had been locked up as a danger to themselves and to others? Or morally degenerate? And most important, did Dr. Lavine think there might be people in the asylums who did not belong there?
“You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Babington,” Dr. Lavine said. “As do we all when we think about such things. I have studied mental sickness. It is more challenging to the intellect than splinting a broken arm. The real work is being done in Europe. Charcot has looked deeply into the causes of hysteria. Breuer has had success with his ‘talking cure.’ Freud sees the involuntary repression of ‘unconscious memories’ as a cause of hysteria and other problems. Especially when the memories relate to sexual experiences from a tender age. Dr. Creighton knows nothing of this work. He’s still warning of the dangers of masturbation. Canadian doctors have hardly begun to understand how to deal with matters of sex, or issues of the mind.”