University of Virginia Library

3. III.

"How do you feel?" the doctor asked him the next day.

The sick man had just awakened. He was still resting under the bed cover.

"Very well," he answered, rising.

He slipped his feet into his slippers, and took his dressing gown.

"Perfectly well. Only one thing—here."

He touched the back of his neck.

"I can't move my neck without pain. But that is a trifle. Every thing is all right when one understands, and I understand."

"Do you know where you are?"

"I'm in a mad-house. But when you can reason about such things, you feel perfectly indifferent, perfectly indifferent!"

The doctor gave his eyes close attention. His handsome rosy face fringed with a carefully-kept beard, and its two gentle, blue eyes shining behind gold-rimmed spectacles, was absolutely calm. He examined his patient.

"Why do you look at me like that? You cannot read my soul," continued the sick man, "while I can read yours clearly. Why do you do evil? Why have you imprisoned these unfortunate creatures here, and refuse to give them their liberty! To what purpose are all these torments? A man possessed by a grand idea, an idea inspired by genius—ah, well! such a man is entirely indifferent to the surroundings in which he lives, and to what he experiences—even to the sensation of being and of not being. Is it not so?"

"It is possible," answered the physician, establishing himself on a chair in a corner in order better to observe the sick man, who was walking up and down the cell so fast

that his calfskin slippers, a size or two too large, flapped with a clatter on the pavement, and the skirts of his dressing gown with its red stripes and clusters of big flowers blew to right and left. The surgeon and the nurse, who accompanied the doctor, remained at the door immovable and as straight as ram-rods.

"My soul, my soul, has been possessed by an inspired idea too!" cried the patient. "And from the moment that I became aware of it, I have felt like one born anew. The sensitiveness of my nerves has become so acute, my brain works more than ever. Formerly I used to arrive at a knowledge of things by syllogisms and hypotheses; now, it is simply by intuition. And really, I have attained to that at which philosophy aims, that which it has striven after so long. I have come to comprehend this grand thought—that space and time are merely figments. I live in eternity. I live without space—everywhere and nowhere, which ever you please. Therefore it is indifferent to me whether you detain me here, or give me my liberty, whether I am free or imprisoned. But I am not alone in this house. Many people share my lot. For them, such a state of things is horrible. Why do you not give them their liberty? What good does this do any one?"

"You said," interrupted the physician, "that you lived outside of time and space. You will agree, however, that at the moment we are in this room, that it is—" here the doctor drew his watch—"that it is half-past ten and the 6th of May, 18—. What do you say to that?"

"Nothing. When or where I live is indifferent to me. That is to say, I am eternal and everywhere."

The doctor smiled.

"Droll logic," said he, rising. "Still, you are right. Good-bye. Would you like a cigar!"

"With pleasure, thanks."

He stopped, took the cigar, and bit off the end of it nervously.

"That requires reflection and much reflection," he said. This is the world, the microcosm. One extremity encloses the bases, and the other the acids. This is also the pivotal point of the universe where the most opposite principles neutralize each other. Good-bye, doctor."

The physician withdrew. The patients stood at the end of their beds and waited for him. No superior enjoys so high an esteem and respect as the psychologist in the presence of his patients.

As to our patient, he continued walking up and down his chamber. They brought him tea. He swallowed standing, at two draughts, the contents of a big cup, and a large piece of white bread in a few mouthfuls. Thereupon he left the cell, and for several hours without an instant's pause kept running through the entire house.

The day was rainy. The patients did not go into the garden. When the surgeon sought his patient he was pointed out to him at the end of the corridor. He was standing before the door leading to the garden, his face pressed against the glass, and he was looking fixedly at a patch of green. His attention was wholly concentrated on a flower of a strange burning red color, a kind of wild poppy.

"You are going to be weighed," said the surgeon.

The madman turned round. His questioner started violently, and recoiled with fear, so terrible were the madman's eyes with hatred, so sparkling with savage rage. But when he noticed the surgeon, his expression changed suddenly. He followed him quite docilely, without a word of revolt, and as though absorbed in a reverie.

They entered the doctor's cabinet, where the patient placed himself upon the platform. He was weighed, and the surgeon inscribed in the register, "one hundred and nine pounds." The next day his weight was one hundred and seven, the day after, one hundred and six.

"If this continues, he won't last long," said the doctor.

He prescribed for him the strongest kind of nourishment. But in spite of that, and although the sick man had an excellent appetite, he grew thinner every day. He did not sleep any more, and was morning and evening in a state of feverish delirium.