came into your life."
The
bishop nodded.
"You were uprooted. You moved from house to house, and failed
to get that curled up safe feeling one has in a real home in any
of them."
"If you saw the fireplaces and the general
decoration of the
new palace!" admitted the
bishop. "I had practically no control."
"That confirms me," said Dr. Dale. "Insomnia followed, and
increased the feeling of
physical strangeness by increasing the
bodilydisturbance. I
suspect an
intellectualdisturbance."
He paused.
"There was," said the
bishop.
"You were no longer at home
anywhere. You were no longer at
home in your diocese, in your palace, in your body, in your
convictions. And then came the war. Quite apart from everything
else the mind of the whole world is
sufferingprofoundly from the
shock of this war--much more than is generally admitted. One
thing you did that you probably did not observe yourself doing,
you drank rather more at your meals, you smoked a lot more. That
was your natural and proper
response to the shock."
"Ah!" said the
bishop, and brightened up.
"It was remarked by Tolstoy, I think, that few
intellectual men
would really
tolerate the world as it is if it were not for
smoking and drinking. Even novelists have their moments of
lucidity. Certainly these things
soothe the restlessness in men's
minds, deaden their sceptical sensibilities. And just at the time
when you were getting most dislodged--you gave them up."
"And the sooner I go back to them the better," said the
bishopbrightly. "I quite see that."
"I wouldn't say that," said Dr. Dale....
(3)
"That," said Dr. Dale, "is just where my
treatment of this case
differs from the
treatment of "--he spoke the name
reluctantlyas if he disliked the mere sound of it--"Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey."
"Hitherto, of course," said the
bishop, "I've been in his
hands."
"He," said Dr. Dale, "would certainly set about
trying to
restore your old
sphere of
illusion, your old familiar sensations
and ideas and confidences. He would in fact turn you back. He
would
restore all your habits. He would order you a rest. He
would send you off to some
holidayresort, fresh in fact but
familiar in
character, the High lands, North Italy, or
Switzerland for example. He would
forbid you newspapers and order
you to botanize and
prescribe tranquillizing
reading; Trollope's
novels, the Life of Gladstone, the works of Mr. A. C. Benson,
memoirs and so on. You'd go somewhere where there was a good
Anglican
chaplain, and you'd take some of the services yourself.
And we'd wash out the effects of the Princhester water with
Contrexeville, and afterwards put you on Salutaris or Perrier. I
don't know whether I shouldn't have inclined to some such
treatment before the war began. Only--"
He paused.
"You think--?"
Dr. Dale's face betrayed a sudden sombre
passion. "It won't do
now," he said in a voice of quiet
intensity. "It won't do now."
He remained
darkly silent for so long that at last the
bishopspoke. "Then what," he asked, "do you suggest?
"Suppose we don't try to go back," said Dr. Dale. "Suppose we
go on and go through."
"Where?"
"To
reality.
"I know it's
doubtful, I know it's dangerous," he went on, "but
I am convinced that now we can no longer keep men's minds and
souls in these
feathered nests, these
spheres of
illusion. Behind
these veils there is either God or the Darkness.... Why should we
not go on?"
The
bishop was
profoundly perplexed. He heard himself speaking.
"It would be
unworthy of my cloth," he was saying.
Dr. Dale completed the
sentence: "to go back."
"Let me explain a little more," he said, "what I mean by 'going
on.' I think that this loosening of the ties of association that
bind a man to his
everyday life and his
everyday self is in nine
cases out of ten a loosening of the ties that bind him to