must we…at least until we have learned to talk their language and hear their voices.”
“Oh, yes.” Furtwängler sighed again. “I know all that. But you take it too far. When Pilgrim spoke, what did he say to you? Kill me. He would not have said that to me. Or to Menken. Or to Bleuler. He would not have said that to any other physician in this institution. Not to one of us—only to you. And only to you because you always pretend to be an ally—a coconspirator with the patient.”
“I am the patient’s ally. That’s why I’m here. It’s why we’re all here, Josef.”
“No. Not to be allies. Not to be co-conspirators. Friends, yes. And with sympathy—yes. But not with connivance—not accepting that only they can set the rules. We set the rules. Reality sets the rules. Not them. Not madmen…crazy people…”
“I thought we had agreed never to use those words,” said Jung. “We never say mad and we never say crazy. It was agreed.”
“Well, I say mad and I say crazy when mad and crazy pertain. And right now, I think you are mad.” Furtwängler stood up. “Good God,” he said. “We have him here only two days and he tries to kill himself again.”
“It’s in the nature of his nature,” said Jung. “Apparently.”
“There you go again! Apparently! ’ What does apparently mean in Pilgrim’s case. You’ve barely met him.”
“I take what I’m given,” said Jung. “I take what they have to offer. He offered slit wrists. So?”
“So leave him alone and leave him to me.”
“Then why did you ask me here? And Archie Menken. Why did you ask us here?”
Furtwängler wanted to kick himself and say: because I’m stupid —but instead, he said: “I don’t know. I suppose for the old-fashioned reason that another physician’s opinion might be useful. I should have known better. Especially given my experience over time with you.”
“I wish you didn’t feel that way.”
“I have to, don’t I. You’ve given me no choice, Carl Gustav.”
“And so?”
“And so I shall have to ask you not to have contact with Mister Pilgrim until further notice.”
Having said this, Furtwängler turned away and went to the door between the two rooms, where he lingered briefly and then said over his shoulder: “good morning to you,” after which he left.
“Good morning,” Jung replied—but only in a whisper. When he heard the outer doors shut, he turned back towards the windows. Then he sat down and looked at his hands. I have the hands of a peasant, he thought. A peasant’s hands—and a peasant’s blundering ways.
Less than a minute later, Kessler returned and toldhim that Mister Pilgrim would be kept in the infirmary for the rest of the day.
“Any serious damage done?” Jung asked.
“Not of any permanent nature, though it seems he cut fairly deep for a man with nothing but a spoon. It’s mostly they want to keep an eye on him. I met Doctor Furtwängler in the hall just now and he said he was going to check on him.”
“Yes.”
“If you’ll excuse me, then,” said Kessler, “I’ll do a bit of cleaning up in the bathroom.”
“Of course.”
Jung remained in Pilgrim’s bedroom, wandering with apparent aimlessness from bed to bureau to desk—inspecting the surfaces with a careless finger, as if checking for the presence or absence of dust. At the bureau, he paused long enough to open and close the drawers one by one, leafing through the handkerchiefs, the shirts, the underclothes, the neatly folded cravats and foulards.
Clearly, Pilgrim was a man of wealth. He also had discerning standards—quality making up for quantity. As with most who are born to a world where grace and wealth go hand in hand, the concept of having more than one needed was vulgar—if not indecent. Laid out beneath Jung’s inquiring fingers were shirts that would last for ten or fifteen years, so long as the owner’s girth did not increase. Their collars would be a different story, and
“Oh, yes.” Furtwängler sighed again. “I know all that. But you take it too far. When Pilgrim spoke, what did he say to you? Kill me. He would not have said that to me. Or to Menken. Or to Bleuler. He would not have said that to any other physician in this institution. Not to one of us—only to you. And only to you because you always pretend to be an ally—a coconspirator with the patient.”
“I am the patient’s ally. That’s why I’m here. It’s why we’re all here, Josef.”
“No. Not to be allies. Not to be co-conspirators. Friends, yes. And with sympathy—yes. But not with connivance—not accepting that only they can set the rules. We set the rules. Reality sets the rules. Not them. Not madmen…crazy people…”
“I thought we had agreed never to use those words,” said Jung. “We never say mad and we never say crazy. It was agreed.”
“Well, I say mad and I say crazy when mad and crazy pertain. And right now, I think you are mad.” Furtwängler stood up. “Good God,” he said. “We have him here only two days and he tries to kill himself again.”
“It’s in the nature of his nature,” said Jung. “Apparently.”
“There you go again! Apparently! ’ What does apparently mean in Pilgrim’s case. You’ve barely met him.”
“I take what I’m given,” said Jung. “I take what they have to offer. He offered slit wrists. So?”
“So leave him alone and leave him to me.”
“Then why did you ask me here? And Archie Menken. Why did you ask us here?”
Furtwängler wanted to kick himself and say: because I’m stupid —but instead, he said: “I don’t know. I suppose for the old-fashioned reason that another physician’s opinion might be useful. I should have known better. Especially given my experience over time with you.”
“I wish you didn’t feel that way.”
“I have to, don’t I. You’ve given me no choice, Carl Gustav.”
“And so?”
“And so I shall have to ask you not to have contact with Mister Pilgrim until further notice.”
Having said this, Furtwängler turned away and went to the door between the two rooms, where he lingered briefly and then said over his shoulder: “good morning to you,” after which he left.
“Good morning,” Jung replied—but only in a whisper. When he heard the outer doors shut, he turned back towards the windows. Then he sat down and looked at his hands. I have the hands of a peasant, he thought. A peasant’s hands—and a peasant’s blundering ways.
Less than a minute later, Kessler returned and toldhim that Mister Pilgrim would be kept in the infirmary for the rest of the day.
“Any serious damage done?” Jung asked.
“Not of any permanent nature, though it seems he cut fairly deep for a man with nothing but a spoon. It’s mostly they want to keep an eye on him. I met Doctor Furtwängler in the hall just now and he said he was going to check on him.”
“Yes.”
“If you’ll excuse me, then,” said Kessler, “I’ll do a bit of cleaning up in the bathroom.”
“Of course.”
Jung remained in Pilgrim’s bedroom, wandering with apparent aimlessness from bed to bureau to desk—inspecting the surfaces with a careless finger, as if checking for the presence or absence of dust. At the bureau, he paused long enough to open and close the drawers one by one, leafing through the handkerchiefs, the shirts, the underclothes, the neatly folded cravats and foulards.
Clearly, Pilgrim was a man of wealth. He also had discerning standards—quality making up for quantity. As with most who are born to a world where grace and wealth go hand in hand, the concept of having more than one needed was vulgar—if not indecent. Laid out beneath Jung’s inquiring fingers were shirts that would last for ten or fifteen years, so long as the owner’s girth did not increase. Their collars would be a different story, and
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