by Theo Rion
Strolling down the lane, Kurt noticed an aged man. He was sitting on a bench, leaning on his cane, and looking thoughtfully at the pond in front of him, where a few grey ducks were swimming.
Kurt walked up and recognized him as professor McGlow, an outstanding gentleman and author of more than a dozen monographs. But Mr. McGlow wasn’t paying any attention to Kurt; rather, he seemed lost in his thoughts. Kurt was about to pass by, but thought that it would be rude not to say hello to him.
“Good day, Mr. McGlow,” Kurt said, tilting his head and waiting until the old man looked at him. His eyes were surrounded with fine wrinkles, which gave him the appearance of an amiable and cheerful person. As if to confirm Kurt’s guess, Mr. McGlow smiled.
“Mr. Rhein! Good day indeed! Please sit down,” he said, suddenly livening up. Kurt sat on the bench. “The weather is perfect today, don’t you think? For this time of year this is amazingly good weather!”
Kurt smiled and threw a glance at the old man’s face again. Something was bothering Kurt. It was too fast for the man to have turned from a pensive state to vivacious. It seemed unnatural, even facetious. Kurt’s assuredness was increased by his observation that the corners of McGlow’s lips turned down and every few seconds he managed to pull them up, faking a smile. Kurt felt sorry that he had distracted the old man from his thoughts and condemned him to the torment of having to fake his emotions.
“I just saw you and thought that it would be impolite if I didn’t say hello. But I think you don’t want company now, so excuse me that I intruded,” Kurt said, in an effort to avoid any hard feelings. The struggle was over; the corners of his lips fell down, and Mr. McGlow smiled sadly.
“It’s like you never stop working, Mr. Rhein. Although I have to tell you, I wouldn’t mind a little company, just not the kind where I need to fake a smile.” Having said this, he turned and looked at the pond again.
“Believe me, I don’t want to embarrass you, but I couldn’t help noticing that smiling is the last thing you want to do now, so I didn’t want to disturb you,” Kurt said as he stood up.
“You’ve got a talent, young man. You deserve those flattering remarks I have heard about you.” McGlow looked at him. “If you’re interested, I can tell you what’s on my mind. I just don’t want to embarrass you, either.”
Kurt again sat on the bench.
“My wife died two weeks ago,” said McGlow. His voice sounded as if he had repeated it many times to himself, trying to make himself believe it was true. “Just imagine, Mr. Rhein, I devoted my whole life to psychology, I studied so many works and wrote a few, and I thought I knew everything about our soul—Psyche. And now it’s aching, and I know absolutely nothing about how to help it. Knowing didn’t make me happy when I was left alone.”
Kurt respectfully kept silence, listening to the old man.
“You’re so young and successful. Don’t take it as audacity, but I give you a piece of advice. As psychologist to psychologist,” he said and smiled sadly again. “Don’t forget to live the emotions you dissect with the precision and equanimity of a surgeon. If you always look at everything from the side, then you’ll never really know anything. In the end, the only soul that we can truly explore and feel is our own.” McGlow looked at him. “I don’t want to perplex you more, young man. Go for a walk,” and he smiled kindly. Kurt stood up, bowed slightly and went down the lane.
He was thinking about McGlow’s words, and with every second he ascertained he didn’t quite understand him. It seemed to Kurt that McGlow’s words were swirling in his mind, but he couldn’t feel them through. And Kurt was wondering if this was what McGlow had meant.
Kurt decided to have dinner in a restaurant in the center. At the next table, a few gentlemen were sitting. Kurt easily recognized some famous psychologists among them; they met regularly at different conferences. But now Kurt didn’t feel like being in the company of others, so he took the next table and ordered a meal. He wasn’t going to eavesdrop; however, he caught the name McGlow during their conversation, and unwillingly started to capture the essence of the conversation, which was rather surprising.
“I understand, he loved his wife, he couldn’t help her, but no one cares about this, because you’re responsible for your words even if it’s sheer obscurantism,” said one man.
“The most I’m sorry for is the editor of this magazine where he published all this nonsense,” responded another man. “Such a respectable magazine…”
“It’s the editor’s fault. Sure, he relied on McGlow’s reputation, and now indignation has arisen! So, now any crackpot can publish an article there!” a third man said in a resentful tone.
“Gentlemen, where is your mercy? Mr. McGlow is suffering through two great losses—the death of his beloved wife and the decline of his once brilliant career. I hope his fate won’t fall upon us.”
Kurt became curious about the article they’d been talking about. And he decided to read it. After dinner he took a walk and, when he returned to the hotel, he asked the porter to find the magazine with McGlow’s article. After that he returned to his room and fell asleep.
Chapter 6
In the morning, the porter brought the magazine, and while having breakfast, Kurt read the ridiculed article by McGlow. The essence of the article was that McGlow considered every ailment, including mental disease and psychological problems, as beings with some form of intelligence. Infiltrating inside a human, they formed certain structures that could be seen when the patient and doctor were immersed in a certain kind of hypnosis. In this state the doctor could even “fight” with the disease, and physically destroy it. That had all been concluded from the work that McGlow had done with his terminally ill wife. However, he wrote, he hadn’t succeeded because of his age or lack of other abilities. Also, McGlow warned, while staying in hypnosis, the doctor could take on the patient’s disease and make the patient healthy or both of them could become ill.
“No wonder he was ridiculed,” thought Kurt. “But on the other hand, what made a recognized psychologist with a lot of monographs write such a work, which destroyed his career? Has he gone mad with grief?”
But Kurt remembered his meeting in the park before; McGlow was depressed but didn’t seem demented at all.
“McGlow has never been a graphomaniac,” he spoke aloud to himself. “He always conducted his research carefully and deserved respect in academic areas. Besides, he’s known as an outstanding hypnotist, and I have no reason to doubt that he could invent a new technique, in which patient and doctor are immersed in a special kind of hypnosis. Moreover, it’s very curious. I should ask him about that.”
Kurt had prepared for his speech very thoroughly, and his preparations were worth it. Kurt managed to rivet attention on his speech, accept the ovations, and once again earn the respect of his colleagues.
The next speaker was professor McGlow. When he went up to the stage, Kurt heard whispers. Somehow, it was unpleasant for Kurt. He felt pity for such a venerable gentleman. No, he didn’t feel pity. It was sincere sympathy.
Clearing his throat, McGlow started to read his report. Those who were familiar with his article looked at him with irony, and some of them openly snorted, while the rest of the audience listened with a share of bewilderment on their faces. And Kurt for some reason wanted to sink into the floor. He looked the audience around, hoping that McGlow had at least one comrade-in-arms among the group. But no, he didn’t.
McGlow’s report didn’t differ from the article Kurt had read before—it presented the same thesis, and it was clear the old professor had no strength to defend himself. When the audience was allowed to ask questions, Kurt understood there was no sympathy for McGlow. He could not fend off the enquiries, and the questions became more and more tricky.
“And what do you say about feeling, then?” one of the listeners said suddenly. “If every emotion, or feeling, or thought turns into a sentient being, maybe we, as individuals, aren’t existing at all? I’m not me, and it’s a
thought to blame. It’s an excuse for criminals! All were insane, with disparate personalities in the time they committed a crime. And now they are all repentant, so how can we judge them now?”
“I didn’t say we lose our identity, though it’s possible, too,” McGlow spoke in a faint voice. “I was talking about diseases, not about feelings.”
“Welcome to the Middle Ages, is that what you were trying to say? Maybe we should call every ailment a possession by a demon?” sounded another voice. McGlow was ready to give up, and Kurt could not stand it anymore. He stood up and turned to the audience.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, for interrupting your heated argument, but I would like to speak, too. I personally don’t understand your intentions here. First of all, Mr. McGlow made it clear that his research had been focused on diseases and not on feelings or emotions. And secondly, I would like to remind you, gentlemen, that now is the age of science and enlightenment, not of obscurantism, and we should not behave like proponents of orthodoxy. Revolutionary ideas are always treated with hostility! And yet, how often has something that seemed improbable suddenly turned into the everyday truth that we never noticed? I ask you not to forget that Mr. McGlow has had solid research experience, both theoretical and practical, and I have no reason to call his statements unfounded. Revolutionary—yes, but not unfounded. Besides, Mr. McGlow’s great contribution to the development of various techniques of hypnosis, which he actively uses in working with his patients, doesn’t allow me to stand by and accept such harsh criticism.” Kurt paused, and looked around the hushed audience. “We all know that every disease develops according to its certain laws. Thanks to these laws, doctors can diagnose diseases, to distinguish one from the other and assign adequate treatment.
But in some cases, treatment turns out to be ineffective; the diseases vary in their aim to destroy the human body. And what about those cases where, in spite of the diagnoses and disappointing forecasts by doctors, the patient recovered? You, pundits, don’t call it a miracle of the Lord, do you? We all know how our mind is multidimensional, and we can only guess how many reserves and forces are hidden in it. Over the past several years, we have only slightly lifted the veil of secrecy. So, what prevents us from wondering if the physical symptoms of diseases are merely a consequence of its introduction into the very soul of a human? If the structure of the disease takes control over the body, causing the organism to poison itself? Isn’t this the way many diseases work? There’s no outside influence, no poisoning or injury, but the person still dies. Doesn’t a mental illness also work like this when a person can’t control his thoughts and feelings, as if someone else owns his body? And if that is so, then why can’t we find the structure of the disease and destroy it, thereby freeing the man from the disease?” He paused again.
“It is unwise to discard ideas that seem incomprehensible to us. Perhaps they just outrun our time. Thank you for your attention.” Kurt sat down in silence. Leaving the stage, McGlow looked at Kurt, and Kurt saw gratitude in his eyes. It was the first time in Kurt’s memory that he had stood up for someone with such fervor. He wasn’t indifferent.
By the evening, Kurt found an aching feeling in his chest. For the first time, he realized that he was yearning. Quickly saying goodbye to everyone, he hurried to his room, but on the way, he changed his mind and went to the park. There he sat on the bench, where the day before he had talked to McGlow, and looked at the reflecting surface of the pond.
It was dark, and timid moonlight reflected from the surface of the water. Kurt sighed. Alone, he only felt a sense of longing more strongly. He never missed his home. He had never seen a difference between possible places he might live. He could easily settle in Manchester or in Liverpool. He preferred London only because his teacher at one time lived there and taught him. Kurt stayed in London after the teacher left, but he never thought he had gotten used to the place. He went to a conference in the past year, and the year before that, but he had never felt this longing before.
“What has changed? Has meeting with John had such an influence on me?” Kurt thought.
He remembered McGlow’s words. No, not from his presentation, but what he had told him about his wife. He said only that she had died. Kurt felt his pain and anguish at that moment, but this was something more than pain and anguish. Kurt could not explain it. Here he was forced to admit his full ignorance. Kurt had never loved anyone.
This thought caused unpleasant feelings in his heart. Sitting in the dark and deserted park, Kurt could not recall any romantic interest in his life, even fleeting, not to mention more. Often, he was the subject of adoration, but it didn’t flatter him at all, and he remained indifferent to all romantic impulses.
During his studies at Cambridge, one girl strenuously sought his attention and favor. She was good-looking, well-educated and brought up, but these were all Kurt saw in her and nothing more. Yes, and her feelings for him, too. They were burning in her open eyes, blazing on her rosy cheeks. He knew what he saw. But did he truly understand what she felt? Eventually, Kurt graduated and went to London, and she stayed there and, maybe, got married soon. Kurt didn’t know for sure. They no longer met, and the details of people’s personal lives didn’t particularly interest Kurt if it wasn’t about his patients.
But he had never burned with love. And it hadn’t bothered or burdened him particularly until now. But why hadn’t he burned? Was it not in his nature? Had he not yet found a worthy object for his love?
Kurt felt a new surge of excitement, and he threw back his head and sighed deeply. “And now I’m homesick. And the only thing that has changed since last year—I met John Fenririr.”
Kurt returned to his room after midnight but could not sleep. In the morning, he went back to London.
* * * *
London met Kurt with rain.
“Eliza!” Kurt called her once he came into the house and shut the door. Water was streaming off him; he hadn’t bothered to take an umbrella.
“Sir, you’re back!” Eliza ran out into the corridor. “You got wet!”
“Yes, please kindle the fireplace in the living room and serve hot tea.” Kurt took off his coat, left the bag at the door, and went to his room.
Ten minutes later, dressed in home clothes, he went into the living room, where logs crackled in the fireplace, and on the table beside the armchair was a cup of tea. Kurt settled comfortably in his armchair and took a sip from the cup. Eliza entered the room; she was carrying a fairly big, flat, rectangular box.
“Mr. Rhein, here are the letters that came while you were away,” she said and gave him a few envelopes. “And this parcel is from Mrs. Danee.” It seemed that Eliza faltered. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Looking at the package, Kurt realized what was inside.
“Are you sure that is from Mrs. Danee and not from Mr. Danee?” he asked.
“Yes.” Eliza nodded. “The messenger delivered it this morning and left a card from Mrs. Danee,” Eliza said and pointed to a note in the corner.
“Okay, thank you. You’re free to go, Eliza.”
After a pause, she went away. Kurt slowly opened the package. A portrait of Eliza appeared before his eyes. She wasn’t wearing her usual apron and strict black dress. The girl in the portrait was a rich and noble lady in a beautiful dress, trimmed with rich lace. Kurt could not help admiring with what care and attention the finest lace were painted. It took a lot of time and work for sure! But what was more interesting to Kurt was why Catherine, and not Philip, had sent the portrait?
Kurt wrapped the portrait, so Eliza wouldn’t see it. He remembered how she had felt when she found out about Philip’s engagement. And maybe another time, Kurt would not care for the romantic feelings of a poor girl, but now he felt differently. Therefore, he hid the portrait.
For a while, Kurt sat contemplating, looking at the blazing fire in the fireplace, and then he picked up the letters. There was nothing particular in them. Therefore, until the end of the evening, Kurt
was on his own, but he didn’t feel like doing anything. And after a sleepless night and the tiring road travel, he dozed off in his armchair.
* * * *
The next day at lunch, Kurt went to Ellington’s restaurant. In the morning, he had sent a messenger with a note that he wanted to meet with Philip, if he was free. The official reason was a fee for the portrait, but in fact Kurt wanted to know something else. It must be said, from the beginning of this story, when Kurt noticed Eliza’s embarrassment and Philip’s similar embarrassment, the news of his engagement was a surprise for Kurt too. But it wasn’t the fact of the engagement that surprised Kurt. It was clear a young man in his position should have followed the existing rules. His behavior and indifference to Eliza’s suffering were more surprising. First Kurt thought that Philip’s feelings had just faded away, and maybe the thing was attributable to the young man’s windy nature or his youth…although Kurt was very doubtful about this. Because whenever he spoke to Philip, the young man showed generosity, sincerity and kindness.
He could not have become a callous roué in one day! And I could not have erred so much!
Kurt sat down, and as soon as he got his order, Philip entered the restaurant. He looked around, noticed Kurt and moved toward him.
“Good day!” Kurt greeted him, carefully examining the other man.
“Good day!” Philip answered and sat down opposite.
“Are you hungry? Today they serve a wonderful chop.”
“No, no, thank you,” Philip said and shook his head. “But I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I think I’ll order a cup of coffee.”
“Fine.” Kurt smiled. He noticed Philip looked tense. He impatiently tapped his fingers on the table, waiting for his cup of coffee. When he finally got it, he switched to it. His thin fingers slid along the curved handle; he twisted the cup in his hands and still didn’t dare to take a sip.