How Chopin came to Remsen/Chapter 6

", madam, the symptoms, in so far as I can gather them, are insufficient for an accurate diagnosis. You have stated the case clearly and in minute detail, but my experience in the new school of medicine—if such it can be called—convinces me that you have inadvertently omitted some significant factor in the premises, without which I can vouchsafe to you nothing more valuable than sweeping generalities. In other words, you have given me an opportunity to lay before you a theory, but no chance to suggest to you a practical line of action."

I looked helplessly at Mrs. Van Corlear and saw that she was scanning Dr. Emerson Woodruff's strong, thoughtful face attentively. Presently she glanced at me, as if asking my permission to speak, and I nodded to her in acquiescence.

"We have told you, doctor," began Mrs. Jack, "that this—ah—friend of ours plays nothing but Chopin. That's important, of course?"

"Exceedingly," remarked Dr. Woodruff, impressively, his hands folded across his chest and his head bent forward. Even at that critical moment I found myself wondering if all practitioners of the anti-materialistic school were large, dignified, magnetic men, with majestic brows and bright, searching eyes.

"But he's not always a soloist," went on Mrs. Jack, in a low but vibrant tone; "he has shown an inclination of late to travel in double harness—piano and violin, you know."

An enigmatical smile came into Dr. Woodruff's face for an instant. The man's intuition was so quick and keen that I had begun to fear I should find it difficult to maintain my incognita.

"You say," he asked, presently, turning toward me, "that his general health remains good? He has no tendency toward melancholia; doesn't grow flighty at times in his talk?"

"I have never seen him look so well as he does at present," I answered, wearily. I had come to Dr. Woodruff against my will, succumbing weakly to Mrs. Jack's insistence. And now the whole affair appeared ridiculous and the doctor's questions irrelevant and futile. My interest in the séance—if that is the word for it—was reawakened, however, by the physician's next question.

"Who plays the violin for him?" he asked, curtly.

Mrs. Jack answered him at once. "Signorina Molatti. You know her by reputation?"

"Yes," he answered; "I have heard her play. She has a touch of genius. They must make great music together—Molatti and your friend."

A lump came into my throat and I clutched the arms of my chair awkwardly. That Dr. Woodruff had noticed my emotion I felt sure.

"Well, what is your explanation of all this, doctor?" I asked, impatiently. I was thoroughly out of harmony with myself, Mrs. Jack and the physician, and my pride revolted at the false position in which I had been placed. A skeptic who goes to a clergyman for guidance sacrifices both his logic and his dignity. Here I sat in Dr. Emerson Woodruff's office, under an assumed name, telling a stranger weird tales about a supposititious acquaintance who was in reality my own husband. Had I not been unfair to Tom, Dr. Woodruff and myself? Surely the road to truth is not through a zigzag lane of lies!

"My dear madam," began the doctor, in his most pompous manner, "the case as you have stated it is unique in the annals of what I take the liberty to call the new science—new, that is, to the Western world. To the brooding East, the introspective, sapient, miracle-working Orient, there would be nothing strange or inexplicable in what your—er—friend calls his 'seizure.' I have seen in India phenomena that, should I describe them to you, would wholly destroy what little confidence you have in my veracity and common sense. May I ask why you have come to me, madam? You have no faith in the school to which I am devoted."

His voice had grown suddenly stern, and I avoided his gaze in confusion. The ease with which he had read my thoughts offended and frightened me.

"It's my fault. Dr. Woodruff," cried Mrs. Jack, loyally; "I persuaded her to come. I have been over the jumps before, and I rather like the course. But it's pretty stiff going at first, you must acknowledge."

To my surprise. Dr. Woodruff laughed aloud. His merriment restored my equilibrium, and I hastened to explain.

"Won't you believe me, doctor, when I say that I have not come to you in an antagonistic mood? I am intensely interested in the problem we have laid before you—and I feel sure you can help us to read the riddle. We have a friend who has no music in his soul. Suddenly he begins to play Chopin like a master. Then he develops a fondness for duets. We fear the future. Presently he will begin to neglect his business and his—and"

"And his wife," added the doctor, glancing at me, quizzically. Then he turned sharply toward Mrs. Jack. "Is this man fond of horses? Does he ride?"

"Before he became so completely absorbed in his profession he was a marvel over timber," she answered, with enthusiasm. "I remember—" she began, reminiscently.

"Never mind ancient history," I cried, rather rudely. "I really can't see, Dr. Woodruff, what his cross-country skill has to do with his Chopin seizure."

"As I understand it, madam," explained the physician, evidently hurt by my petulance, "as I understand it, you are desirous of turning your—ah—friend's mind from music. You tell me that his professional duties have had no effect in this connection. To use an expression that is not often employed by psychologists, a counter-irritant is what I had in mind. It is not strictly scientific to prescribe a remedy before the diagnosis is completed, but, as I gather from your words, you are anxious to attempt something in the nature of a cure at once."

I am sure there flashed a gleam of suspicion, not unmingled with contempt, from my eyes as I scanned the doctor's face. Surely it was absurd to suppose that if Tom was really the victim of some supernatural manifestation he could be restored to a normal condition by a resumption of his equestrian enthusiasm. Furthermore, what was I to gain by the line of treatment that this psychological poseur seemed to have in mind? Was it not just as well for my peace of mind to have Tom playing duets with Signorina Molatti as chasing an aniseseed bag across fields and ditches in company with Mrs. Jack Van Corlear or some other horsey woman?

"Do you think he has been hypnotized by Signorina Molatti?" I asked, bluntly, anxious to pin the physician down to some explanation of Tom's eccentricities that should not offend against probability.

"Admitting the possibility of hypnotism in this instance," answered Dr. Woodruff, gravely, "it would seem to be much more likely that your friend had hypnotized Signorina Molatti. Do you not agree with me?"

Taking all the circumstances into consideration, I was forced to admit to myself that his argument was sound. But I could not imagine Tom in the rôle of a Svengali. Whichever way I turned I was at the horn of a dilemma.

"The fact is, madam," began Dr. Woodruff, very seriously, "the fact is that your reticence has placed me in a somewhat awkward position. While you have apparently made a clean breast of the whole affair, there are several gaps in your story that I must fill up before I can be of any great service to you. There are various explanations of your friend's remarkable outbreak that naturally suggest themselves. Most people would assert at once that he had deliberately concealed his musical ability for years, planning to make a sensational début when occasion served. You have rejected this explanation as inconsistent with your knowledge of the man's character. I accept your view of the matter, and lay aside as untenable the seemingly most reasonable solution of the problem. Practically but two lines of conjecture remain open to us. Your friend may have been hypnotized, may have become the plaything of a harmless medium who possesses a sense of humor and enjoys a practical joke. But, I must admit, this explanation appears far-fetched and involves several very improbable hypotheses."

The doctor paused for a time and eyed us musingly. I felt better disposed toward him than heretofore, recognizing the fact that I had been listening to the words of a well-balanced, logical man who might tread lofty heights, but who always stepped with care. If Dr. Emerson Woodruff was a mystic and a dreamer, there was nothing in his outward seeming or his mental methods to indicate it.

"How many hurdles on the other track?" asked Mrs. Jack, abruptly.

"Pardon me," said the physician, gently; "I didn't catch your meaning."

"There were two lines of conjecture open to us," explained Mrs. Jack, "after we had agreed that—what shall I call him?—the man with Chopinitis is not a liar. You don't accept the hypnotic theory, Dr. Woodruff. What's the other?"

"Would you be shocked," asked the psychologist, suavely, "if I should suggest that your friend may be possibly under the direct influence of the spirit of the late Frederic François Chopin?"

"That's what Tom thinks!" I cried, excitedly, and then bit my tongue regretfully. Dr. Woodruff's penetrating eyes were fixed on me.

"I said that there were gaps in your narrative," he remarked, reproachfully. "Your friend—I take it that his name is Tom—believes, then, that he is under the control of Chopin?"

"I think he does," I answered, not very graciously; "he has spent much time of late reading the details of Chopin's life."

"H'm!" exclaimed the doctor, like one who comes gladly on a new symptom in a puzzling case; "would it not be possible, madam, for me to see this man, unobserved myself? If I could hear him play it would be throwing a flood of light on the case. As it is, I am groping in the dark."

"And—and—in case, sir, that your worst fears are realized," I faltered, "can you do anything for him? Can he be cured?"

"You see, doctor, she didn't marry Chopin. Naturally"

The look that I gave Mrs. Jack quieted her restless tongue. But the fat was in the fire.

"Yes, the murder's out, Dr. Woodruff," I confessed, wearily. "We've been talking about my husband. We were very happy together before his seizure. And—and—now"

"And now his wife isn't one, two, three," cried Mrs. Jack, excitedly; "and it's a burning shame. Can you do something for him, doctor? Surely you don't think it's chronic, do you?"

The suspicion of a smile crossed the physician's face, and I felt the blood come into my cheeks. I had no intention of laying my marital misery before the keen eyes of this strangely powerful man, but somehow I felt a sense of relief now that he had come into possession of all the facts.

"If you think it advisable, doctor, for you to hear my husband play," I said, presently, "I'm sure it can be arranged. He has agreed to give a recital at the rooms of the Chopin Society to-morrow evening. He has asked us to go with him. Could you not obtain a card? He would not know, of course, why you were there."

"I have many friends among the Chopin idolaters; it is easily arranged," remarked Dr. Woodruff, as he rose and ushered us toward the exit from his inner office. "Meanwhile, madam, I shall make a close study of the case from the data already at hand. I am very grateful to you for coming to me, and I think I can safely promise to be of service to you. Au revoir. To-morrow evening at eight."

As we seated ourselves in the carriage I turned angrily to Mrs. Jack.

"Why did you betray me?" I cried. "It was cruel, cruel!"

Mrs. Jack smiled affectionately and seized my hand. "Don't be annoyed at me, my dear. I was merely doing justice to Dr. Woodruff. It's absurd to try to put a thoroughbred over the water jump with blinders. It's unfair to the horse, to say the least."