BOOK TWO
I
In the spring of 1917, when Doctor Richard Diver first arrived in ZĂźrich, he was twenty-six years old, a fine age for a man, indeed the very acme of bachelorhood. Even in wartime days, it was a fine age for Dick, who was already too valuable, too much of a capital investment to be shot off in a gun. Years later it seemed to him that even in this sanctuary he did not escape lightly, but about that he never fully made up his mindâin 1917 he laughed at the idea, saying apologetically that the war didnât touch him at all. Instructions from his local board were that he was to complete his studies in ZĂźrich and take a degree as he had planned.
Switzerland was an island, washed on one side by the waves of thunder around Gorizia and on another by the cataracts along the Somme and the Aisne. For once there seemed more intriguing strangers than sick ones in the cantons, but that had to be guessed atâthe men who whispered in the little cafĂŠs of Berne and Geneva were as likely to be diamond salesmen or commercial travellers. However, no one had missed the long trains of blinded or one-legged men, or dying trunks, that crossed each other between the bright lakes of Constance and Neuchâtel. In the bier-halls and shop-windows were bright posters presenting the Swiss defending their frontiers in 1914âwith inspiring ferocity young men and old men glared down from the mountains at phantom French and Germans; the purpose was to assure the Swiss heart that it had shared the contagious glory of those days. As the massacre continued the posters withered away, and no country was more surprised than its sister republic when the United States bungled its way into the war.
Doctor Diver had seen around the edges of the war by that time: he was an Oxford Rhodes Scholar from Connecticut in 1914. He returned home for a final year at Johns Hopkins, and took his degree. In 1916 he managed to get to Vienna under the impression that, if he did not make haste, the great Freud would eventually succumb to an aeroplane bomb. Even then Vienna was old with death but Dick managed to get enough coal and oil to sit in his room in the Damenstiffgasse and write the pamphlets that he later destroyed, but that, rewritten, were the backbone of the book he published in ZĂźrich in 1920.
Most of us have a favorite, a heroic period, in our lives and that was Dick Diverâs. For one thing he had no idea that he was charming, that the affection he gave and inspired was anything unusual among healthy people. In his last year at New Haven someone referred to him as âLucky Dickââthe name lingered in his head.
âLucky Dick, you big stiff,â he would whisper to himself, walking around the last sticks of flame in his room. âYou hit it, my boy. Nobody knew it was there before you came along.â
At the beginning of 1917, when it was becoming difficult to find coal, Dick burned for fuel almost a hundred textbooks that he had accumulated; but only, as he laid each one on the fire, with an assurance chuckling inside him that he was himself a digest of what was within the book, that he could brief it five years from now, if it deserved to be briefed. This went on at any odd hour, if necessary, with a floor rug over his shoulders, with the fine quiet of the scholar which is nearest of all things to heavenly peaceâbut which, as will presently be told, had to end.
For its temporary continuance he thanked his body that had done the flying rings at New Haven, and now swam in the winter Danube. With Elkins, second secretary at the Embassy, he shared an apartment, and there were two nice girl visitorsâwhich was that and not too much of it, nor too much of the Embassy either. His contact with Ed Elkins aroused in him a first faint doubt as to the quality of his mental processes; he could not feel that they were profoundly different from the thinking of ElkinsâElkins, who would name you all the quarterbacks in New Haven for thirty years.
ââAnd Lucky Dick canât be one of these clever men; he must be less intact, even faintly destroyed. If life wonât do it for him itâs not a substitute to get a disease, or a broken heart, or an inferiority complex, though itâd be nice to build out some broken side till it was better than the original structure.â
He mocked at his reasoning, calling it specious and âAmericanââhis criterion of uncerebral phrase-making was that it was American. He knew, though, that the price of his intactness was incompleteness.
âThe best I can wish you, my child,â so said the Fairy Blackstick in Thackerayâs The Rose and the Ring, âis a little misfortune.â
In some moods he griped at his own reasoning: Could I help it that Pete Livingstone sat in the locker-room Tap Day when everybody looked all over hell for him? And I got an election when otherwise I wouldnât have got Elihu, knowing so few men. He was good and right and I ought to have sat in the locker-room instead. Maybe I would, if Iâd thought I had a chance at an election. But Mercer kept coming to my room all those weeks. I guess I knew I had a chance all right, all right. But it would have served me right if Iâd swallowed my pin in the shower and set up a conflict.
After the lectures at the university he used to argue this point with a young Rumanian intellectual who reassured him: âThereâs no evidence that Goethe ever had a âconflictâ in the modern sense, or a man like Jung, for instance. Youâre not a romantic philosopherâyouâre a scientist. Memory, force, characterâespecially good sense. Thatâs going to be your troubleâjudgment about yourself. Once I knew a man who worked two years on the brain of an armadillo, with the idea that he would sooner or later know more about the brain of an armadillo than anyone. I kept arguing with him that he was not really pushing out the extension of the human rangeâit was too arbitrary. And sure enough, when he sent his work to the medical journal they refused itâthey had just accepted a thesis by another man on the same subject.â
Dick got up to ZĂźrich on fewer Achillesâ heels than would be required to equip a centipede, but with plentyâthe illusions of eternal strength and health, and of the essential goodness of peopleâillusions of a nation, the lies of generations of frontier mothers who had to croon, falsely, that there were no wolves outside the cabin door. After he took his degree, he received his orders to join a neurological unit forming in Bar-sur-Aube.
In France, to his disgust, the work was executive rather than practical. In compensation he found time to complete the short textbook and assemble the material for his next venture. He returned to ZĂźrich in the spring of 1919 discharged.
The foregoing has the ring of a biography, without the satisfaction of knowing that the hero, like Grant, lolling in his general store in Galena, is ready to be called to an intricate destiny. Moreover it is confusing to come across a youthful photograph of someone known in a rounded maturity and gaze with a shock upon a fiery, wiry, eagle-eyed stranger. Best to be reassuringâDick Diverâs moment now began.
II
It was a damp April day, with long diagonal clouds over the Albishorn and water inert in the low places. ZĂźrich is not unlike an American city. Missing something ever since his arrival two days before, Dick perceived that it was the sense he had had in finite French lanes that there was nothing more. In ZĂźrich there was a lot besides ZĂźrichâthe roofs upâled the eyes to tinkling cow pastures, which in turn modified hilltops farther upâso life was a perpendicular starting off to a postcard heaven. The Alpine lands, home of the toy and the funicular, the merry-go-round and the thin chime, were not a being here, as in France, with French vines growing over oneâs feet on the ground.
In Salzburg once, Dick had felt the superimposed quality of a bought and borrowed century of music; once in the laboratories of the university in ZĂźrich, delicately poking at the cortex of a brain, he had felt like a toy-maker rather than like the tornado who had hurried through the old red buildings of Hopkins, two years before, unstayed by the irony of the gigantic Christ in the entrance hall.
Yet he had decided to remain another two years in ZĂźrich, for he did not underestimate the value of toy-making, of infinite precision, of infinite patience.
Today he went out to see Franz Gregorovious at Dohmlerâs clinic on the ZĂźrichsee. Franz, resident pathologist at the clinic, a Vaudois by birth, a few years older than Dick, met him at the tram stop. He had a dark and magnificent aspect of Cagliostro about him, contrasted with holy eyes; he was the third of the Gregoroviousesâhis grandfather had instructed Kraepelin when psychiatry was just emerging from the darkness of all time. In personality he was proud, fiery, and sheeplikeâhe fancied himself as a hypnotist. If the original genius of the family had grown a little tired, Franz would without doubt become a fine clinician.
On the way to the clinic he said: âTell me of your experiences in the war. Are you changed like the rest? You have the same stupid and unaging American face, except I know youâre not stupid, Dick.â
âI didnât see any of the warâyou must have gathered that from my letters, Franz.â
âThat doesnât matterâwe have some shell-shocks who merely heard an air raid from a distance. We have a few who merely read newspapers.â
âIt sounds like nonsense to me.â
âMaybe it is, Dick. But, weâre a rich personâs clinicâwe donât use the word nonsense. Frankly, did you come down to see me or to see that girl?â
They looked sideways at each other; Franz smiled enigmatically.
âNaturally I saw all the first letters,â he said in his official basso. âWhen the change began, delicacy prevented me from opening any more. Really it had become your case.â
âThen sheâs well?â Dick demanded.
âPerfectly well, I have charge of her, in fact I have charge of the majority of the English and American patients. They call me Doctor Gregory.â
âLet me explain about that girl,â Dick said. âI only saw her one time, thatâs a fact. When I came out to say good-bye to you just before I went over to France. It was the first time I put on my uniform and I felt very bogus in itâwent around saluting privates and all that.â
âWhy didnât you wear it today?â
âHey! Iâve been discharged three weeks. Hereâs the way I happened to see that girl. When I left you I walked down toward that building of yours on the lake to get my bicycle.â
ââtoward the âCedarsâ?â
ââa wonderful night, you knowâmoon over that mountainââ
âThe Kreuzegg.â
ââI caught up with a nurse and a young girl. I didnât think the girl was a patient; I asked the nurse about tram times and we walked along. The girl was about the prettiest thing I ever saw.â
âShe still is.â
âSheâd never seen an American uniform and we talked, and I didnât think anything about it.â He broke off, recognizing a familiar perspective, and then resumed: ââexcept, Franz, Iâm not as hard-boiled as you are yet; when I see a beautiful shell like that I canât help feeling a regret about whatâs inside it. That was absolutely allâtill the letters began to come.â
âIt was the best thing that could have happened to her,â said Franz dramatically, âa transference of the most fortuitous kind. Thatâs why I came down to meet you on a very busy day. I want you to come into my office and talk a long time before you see her. In fact, I sent her into ZĂźrich to do errands.â His voice was tense with enthusiasm. âIn fact, I sent her without a nurse, with a less stable patient. Iâm intensely proud of this case, which I handled, with your accidental assistance.â
The car had followed the shore of the ZĂźrichsee into a fertile region of pasture farms and low hills, steepled with châlets. The sun swam out into a blue sea of sky and suddenly it was a Swiss valley at its bestâpleasant sounds and murmurs and a good fresh smell of health and cheer.
Professor Dohmlerâs plant consisted of three old buildings and a pair of new ones, between a slight eminence and the shore of the lake. At its founding, ten years before, it had been the first modern clinic for mental illness; at a casual glance no layman would recognize it as a refuge for the broken, the incomplete, the menacing of this world, though two buildings ...