PINEL

On June 28th, Pinel wrote to say he was staying at The George and Blue Boar in Holborn and would arrive two days hence, at ten o’clock. Not knowing his route, I posted a keeper at Moorgate and Jenny at my London Wall door. When she ran in all flushed, I sent Rodbird to signal Bulteel to open the gates. I then took up my position outside the penny entrance, turning the latest version of my mouth-key in my pocket.

I was flanked by Mr. Poynder, to help me with the French language, and by my father. In order to make the first impression, I had told Monro a later hour. The plan was, he—late for everything, and always amazed things had started without him—would arrive, find things had started without him, be amazed, and suspect nothing. With luck he’d arrive so late Pinel would never see him. My father was with us because at dinner on Easter Sunday (which he’s joined us for since the struggle to keep a house and home together on what his grandiose schemes provided drove my mother to an early grave), Sarah happened to mention Pinel’s visit. He practically begged to be invited along, swearing how much as a physician (as he long ago took to calling himself, though he lacks all credentials) he’s always wanted to meet him. Closer to the day he asked me who he was. When it comes to greatness my father has never scrupled. No man learns from rabble, he bitterly pronounces, meaning his patients, but I’ve never seen him bow and scrape without inspecting for flaws.

The carriage that swung through the gate was a coach-and-six. For a man of the people, Pinel travels in style. He disembarked with a secretary, a cool, sleek individual resembling a bewigged ferret; a translator, who might have been the secretary’s sallower brother; and a ravishing consort: a specimen of the female sex so resplendent that with her coal-black hair and long narrow face she towered amongst us like a thoroughbred detained by a herd of Shetlands. The name of this tremendous beauty was Sylvie Jouval, a former lunatic, though I noticed the word Pinel used was guérie, meaning healed.

“Ah, the perquisite of cure!” I cried like an idiot, kissing her hand, which to my surprise was thick and coarse as a scullion’s. The translator neglecting to translate, I could have kissed him too.

As for Pinel—has a more charming rascal ever journeyed out of France? As soon as you met him you understood how a man could speed from rustic obscurity to director of the Salpêtrière Hospital. The Revolution had thrown into prominence all sorts of Frenchmen of a sweetness otherwise wasted on the desert air, but surely few with the wit and intelligence of this one. By his coarse complexion, sunk cheeks, and careless dress, he was evidently of low, rural birth, yet who better equipped than a cunning peasant to negotiate the Terror?

Introductions completed, my father’s prostrations bemusedly received, Pinel announced the first thing he must do was kiss the hand of Peg Nicholson, the would-be assassin of the King. The second was shake that of our resident friend to the Revolution, James Tilly Matthews.

Shall we talk on the way?

Delighted, monsieur.

We stopped only to pick up Alavoine, whom I’d instructed to wait for us in his quarters on the pretense he is always so available. With obsequious ceremony, the old devil went ahead unlocking doors while Pinel, his eyes darting everywhere, flowed with compliments and questions concerning this portrait, that coat of arms, that cornice. Our visitor acted enchanted by everything he saw, yet how could eyes so attentive miss the flaws and decay? How could he not wonder what it meant that our physician should be detained on business and might not appear at all? (As for our surgeon, that for the day was me, Crowther being the epitome of unpresentable.) How could Pinel not ask himself if we always scattered the chloride of lime with so heavy a hand, or was it only on visitor days, so strangers might imagine we no longer subscribe to the necessary conjunction of madness and stinking? How could he not hear the groans and cries and constant jingling of chains? Of course he heard them, but however close you watched him, you’d never know. A better indicator of the effect the place was having on our visitors was the eyes of Mlle. Jouval. The look in those glorious peepers was unmitigated dread.

For fear the anticipation would excite her to extreme behaviour, I’d not forewarned Peg Nicholson a great man sought an introduction. A good thing, for the woman we came upon was a paragon of domestic contentment, sitting on her bed genteelly sipping tea, with a little plate of gingerbread by her. I couldn’t have arranged the tableau better myself—though I did have a hand in it. Not wanting her seen eating nothing, I’d given her a packet of gingerbread in light of her aversion, ever since she learned the King prefers brown bread, to the brown bread we serve. Her conviction seemed to be that she should not affirm his preference in bread as long as he persisted in refusing her the Crown.

As soon as he knew who it was, Pinel rushed in and fell to one knee. This being homage befitting the queen she is in her mind, Peg extended her hand. But the timing proved unfortunate, for with the fingers Pinel feverishly pressed devoted lips against, she had just taken up a sizeable pinch of snuff, which he in his impetuosity accidentally inhaling, sent him into violent gales of sneezing. Needing both hands to contain the flying snot, he let go hers. This afforded her an opportunity to finish taking her tobacco and to sit snuffling softly as he, still down on one knee, mopped at himself with a handkerchief slipped him by his secretary. No sooner was he dried off than she once more extended the hand, which he eyed the way a hemophiliac might a rabid weasel. But this time the kiss went off without incident. Peeling away his lips and speaking through his translator, he informed her what a formidable heroine of the French people she is and will live forever in their hearts as a fearless fighter against tyranny. Her imprisonment, he added, is a call to action for those dedicated to the overthrow of oppression in all its disguises.

As the translator spoke, Peg smiled upon him with sanguine hauteur, liking what she heard. When he finished, she said simply, addressing him, “I am Queen of England, and you and your raving, grippish friend—” nodding toward Pinel—“are my faithful subjects.”

This statement put Pinel at a loss what to say.

Still addressing the translator, Peg spoke into the silence. “You and your friend must now explain who I am to your fellow subjects, so they might understand, as so far they have failed to. And while you have their attention, prithee ask what’s holding up my crown.”

“Holding up…your crown, madam?” Pinel himself asked, in a daze.

“You heard me well enough,” she replied composedly. “Be sure to tell ‘em that if her Majesty don’t have it by sunset Friday, it’s off with the heads of every member of the male sex inside ten leagues—What is the matter with you? Are you French?”

Pinel confessed that he was.

“Then perhaps you can tell me. When Mrs. Carter, the English songbird, says she’s determined if she ever keeps a lap-dog or monkey, it shall be a fish, what d’you think she means?”

Now Pinel turned to me with brimming tears and murmured, “Prendue foue par son emprisonnement. Ah, quelle dommage, monsieur. Quelle dommage tragique.”

“Indeed, monsieur,” I confirmed. “Mad as a March hare.”

On our way along the east gallery toward the incurable wing, our next stop being James Tilly Matthews, Pinel’s eyes continued drinking everything in, though there wasn’t much more to see than occasional sets of eyes looking back at him through the peepholes of cell doors. This was because when I instructed Alavoine to lock up any he considered likely to cause a nuisance, he took this to mean everybody. So we walked along unannoyed by lunatics except for groans, bellows, and curses from behind cell doors—none of which was acknowledged by any of us except Mlle. Jouval, who was a perfect Aeolian harp, vibrating sympathetic to every anguished cry.

Meanwhile, as I struggled against that silliest of expressions that comes over a man’s face while he is being praised, Pinel addressed himself to what he approved so much in my work. Principally, my reluctance to theorize. The way I eschewed empty abstractions in favour of direct engagement with the patient. As he correctly reminded me, my book was the very first on the subject of mental alienation to benefit from extensive observation and experience. Where other British practioners—Arnold, Harper, Crichton, and more egregiously negligible dunderheads (my words)—were mere scholastics, metaphysic maze-spinners, stealing from the Germans what they hadn’t pillaged from the Ancients (his words), I was active at the front, eyes and ears open, wits about me, discharging my duties with integrity, dignity, and humanity. In the personal treatment of patients, he insisted, I am far superior to the mad-doctors Cox, Perfect, and Pargeter together. Also, in a profession where most, like “King-healer” Willis, jealous of their incomes, kept their methods secret, I freely unburdened my mind on the page, unafraid to tell the world what I knew and didn’t, either way contributing to the steady advance of medical science. In a nutshell, Pinel declared me the foremost English mad-doctor, and he intended to say as much in his next book.

Ah, the wonderful power of words, to whisk the soul to a froth of giddy embarrassment, and more wonderful still when you consider that this unutterably moving estimation of your worth is based entirely on your own written account of yourself.

After his eulogy to my talents, Pinel moved with unseemly haste to his own unfortunate pretensions to cure. Surely few experiences are more depressing than to be praised to the skies by one who the next moment reveals he’s only seen in you what he imagines to be his own strong suit. But this is putting it too mildly. A severer critic would pronounce the man a fraud and the bulk of his philosophy, what he calls his traitement morale, unashamed humbug. Why “moral,” or why more so than any other treatment in vogue nowadays, I can’t say, unless it’s the fact that, like me (as the philosophy of John Locke has taught all thinking doctors to do), he pays attention to the particulars of each case. And while he agrees with me madness is neither a profession for clerics nor a disease of the mind—whatever that means—but incorrect associations of ideas the result of morbid tissue, he takes this so far as to contradict himself, believing anything that shows up in imagination must be curable there, even if it’s by doctors’ playing elaborate games of sympathy and deception. In sum, the man’s a regular Continental Tuke, going too far, preaching the curative effects of soothing words, segregating lunatics by imagined types, inviting them to dine at his own table, and staging dramatic “cures” like an impresario. Now that I’d met him, I would say this last custom was not madness at all but a bold stroke of self-publicity not unlike striding through a madhouse in the wake of a revolution striking off chains.

Fortunately, we arrived at our destination before he could make his famous claim to pacify raving lunatics by the power of his eye, because if he did, I was ready to ask him if he’d like to try it with one of our patients with a history of vicious homicide. Then we’d see how many body-guards Pinel liked to have along while he did his ocular pacifying.

Alavoine swung open Matthews’ door and in we all crowded, to find our lunatic hard at work at the little table I’d given him, engraving a copper-plate. No chains, and gripping a potential deadly weapon. Notch two for England.

“James,” I said, “it’s M. Pinel, all the way from Paris to make your acquaintance.”

“Ah, M. Mat’hew!” Pinel cried, pushing past me. “It is such pleasure! May I beg, sir, the honour to shake your han’?”

When Matthews gave no sign he heard, I said, to smooth the awkwardness, “Do you see what he’s doing there, M. Pinel?”

“Yes, yes, bien sûr, I see,” Pinel replied impatiently. “La gravure. What do you represent, M. Mat’hew?”

“No, what do you represent, M. Pinel?” Matthews shot back, without looking up.

Pinel, once he understood the quibble, laughed so heartily and long you’d think this the most magnificent piece of wit he ever heard. Sobering, he assumed an attitude of pompous ceremony. “I represent, M. Mat’hew, the French people. They t’ank you from their heart’ for your valiant effort for peace between our nation’.”

“Queer thanks,” Matthews retorted, “to be made an object of their intrigue.”

“You were imprison, I know dat—” Pinel acknowledged with a woebegone look. “A dark episode in dark time.”

“Not so dark,” Matthews replied, “as the fact you’re a criminal impostor in league with magnetic agents in positions close by Parliament, the Admiralty, the Treasury, and this hospital. While you distract us here, your parliamentary confederates are at work animating Pitt, whose sozzled brain has long been a deft unwitting tool of their magnetic fluid. But hear me when I say it: Britons never shall be puppets!”

This speech was followed by a short pause. My father coughed.

“Why are you in here?” Pinel abruptly asked, too amazed perhaps by Matthews’ manner to notice that his raving had already answered the question.

“Same reason you are,” Matthews replied coldly. “As a victim of the gang.”

“Actually,” I broke in, “none of us, monsieur, is quite sure why M. Matthews is with us. The Government has been very close as to—”

Here I stopped. Pinel was looking at me significantly, tapping his finger against his nose, which Matthews saw, his head having whipped round the instant I broke off, to know why.

“And how do you like it?” Pinel quickly asked, making a deflective show of glancing about appraisingly. “This seems to be a pleasant enough—”

“I’m here to be destroyed,” Matthews stated. He’d returned to his work.

“He’s mad but harmless,” I informed Pinel sotto voce. “Normally we let the ones—”

“And who is destroying you?” Pinel asked, in English, ignoring me.

“Him-”

By a jerk of his head, Matthews had indicated me. I emitted a little bark of a laugh, then cleared my throat and said again, “Normally after a year, Monsieur Pinel, the harmless ones we—”

This time Pinel put a hand on my arm and indicated for me to look.

Matthews had just noticed Mlle. Jouval. In a hushed, amazed, grateful voice he said, “You’re not a fluid-worker—”

The translator, suspecting I think an indecency, glanced at Pinel—who nodded—before he Frenched it, as travailleur du fluide.

Mlle. Jouval could not have known what Matthews meant, but operating along her own private channel of sympathy, she immediately replied something I couldn’t catch. Her French was unlike any I ever heard. I looked to the translator, but to my amazement Matthews was already answering in his own rapid French. His too I found impenetrable. Learned in prison, I suppose. He was telling her his mother was Huguenot, “une tisserande Huguenote avec un fluide magnétique, mais enchainée par son métier à tisser—” a Huguenot weaver with magnetic power, but chained to her loom, as Poynder later translated it for me. To this, Mlle. Jouval replied that for all his faults, Louis XVI had been a good friend to the Huguenots who still remained in France.

“Trop tard pour maman!” Matthews sang out in a bright, flat voice.

“Mon papa était Huguenot, et aussi un tisserand,” Mlle. Jouval now volunteered, dropping her eyes and colouring all the way to her magnificent cheekbones.

“Formidable! Et aussi un ami du Roi?” Matthews asked, grinning like a cat.

“Pas du tout, monsieur,” replied the charming creature, yet more abashed.

“Tant pis!” Matthews trilled, adding in a sudden ferocious growl, “Ma maman était une tisserande et une ennemie terrible de la Reine!” Now he pretended to be cast down all pitiable. “Mais plus terrible de mon papa! Pour ma maman, papa était le fil incorrect, et tout le tissu de sa vie était gâté.” In Matthews’ father (as Poynder translated for me the next day) his mother had taken hold of the wrong thread and so ruined the fabric of her life.

Their French continuing opaque to me, I fell to thinking. I should have been prepared for Matthews’ ingratitude. Misbehaviour of inmates during visits is common enough and in general not a bad thing: The lunatic appreciates the opportunity to break the rules and the bigwig to witness how tolerant we are. But when Matthews betrayed me before Pinel, I caught a glimpse of his disease and knew that from him all my kindness and consideration—those precious watchwords of the Tukes and the Pinels—would only ever elicit the bitterest ingratitude. And it wasn’t only myself I was thinking of—at least I didn’t think so. It was the bigger question of what Matthews was capable of if he was ever let out. And it seemed to me then that all my hopes of him, all my confidence in his goodness, was only ever my own pride in thinking I knew madness better than I did. How could I predict what Matthews would or would not do? Who was I to go against those in a superior position to know the facts? What but sheer arrogance would have me seeking ways to countermand so unambiguous a direction from above?

These sweaty, guilty, anxious reflections were broke off by a nightmarish-familiar voice booming from the doorway. “What ho, Mr. Haslam! Our incontinental visitors could not restrain themselves, what?”