13

He quite liked Gayfere. Gayfere was, at least, someone to talk to; he was not as cold as an ice lolly. One had, at first, to overcome one’s disgust of him . . . Pellerin was thinking of his bloated appearance.

Herbert went to bed early.

There was television in the library, and Anna Kingsford waited for him in his room.

As for Mrs Shakeshaft, he was at a loss to know what to say to her: she had become a superior kind of being, whose conversation about fox-­hunting was almost beyond his understanding.

Gayfere had spoken about illness, mental illness.

“I see what you mean,” said Pellerin politely. He wondered what mental disorder Gayfere was thinking of. It was obvious from his tone of voice that he was thinking of a particular complaint, perhaps of a particular case of it.

“The poor sufferer behaves in a way which seems strange, bizarre even,” said Gayfere.

Pellerin cast a light, inquiring glance at him, and found Gayfere staring at him boldly. Pellerin, a little embarrassed, dropped his eyes.

Gayfere helped himself to another whisky and soda. Returning to his place in front of the drawing-­room fire, he said, “Did you know that Dr Johnson was afraid of going mad?”

“I didn’t.”

“Boswell doesn’t mention it as far as I can remember; he only describes a few eccentric­ities of the great man. There are a lot of mad people about today.” He paused and then added casually, “Mrs Shakeshaft’s sister is mad, you know, and locked up in an asylum.”

“Oh? I’m sorry. I hope she’ll recover.”

“There’s not much chance of that, I’m afraid. They’ve tried everything except leucotomy—psychoanalysis, drugs, shock treatment. But Alice won’t let them cut her brains out, so the leucotomy operation hasn’t been performed. She says she has far too few brains as it is.”

“Really?”

There was a silence for a while. Gayfere thoughtfully sipped his whisky. He was think­ing of something that made him nervous, or so Pellerin thought from the expression of his eyes and his heightened complexion.

“Do you know,” Gayfere said, looking beyond Pellerin and speaking with subdued agitation, “that Mrs Thrale would whip Dr Johnson whenever he felt he needed whipping.” He paused, looked directly at Pellerin, and then con­tinued slowly and emphatically. “That is to say that when­ever he felt, at full moon or new noon, the rising tide of his madness, he would beg her to whip him—as an antidote, of course. This was the approved treatment of those days, a kind of 18th-­century electrical shock treatment.”

Pellerin made no comment. He had had the curious feeling that Gayfere was speaking to himself, and had almost lost sight of the fact that he was in the room.