“Everybody with any sense,” was the answer. “Fear is the beginning of knowledge.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
“I!” Heron Baynet’s quiet eyes held Peter’s for a full second. “I’m afraid of not knowing enough.”
. . . “Afraid of not knowing enough!” The phrase lingered in Peter’s mind—as Heron Baynet had intended it should linger: and with it, came back a scrap of Greek wisdom, γνωθι σεαυτον [Greek: gnôthi seauton] (“Know thyself”). For the first time in his life, Peter began to think.
Hitherto, he had lived automatically; actions had contented him. Now, he started in to reason about his actions. Why had he done thus? Why had he done so? What was the driving-force behind his actions? Why had that driving-force suddenly run down?
The process—study of “cause” as opposed to study of “effect”—fascinated a mind hitherto devoid of introspection; so that by the time he went up to town for his second “lesson,” the following question formulated itself:
“What,” asked Peter Jameson, “is the real cause of this neurasthenia? Is it a mental trouble or a physical one? I’ve had the devil’s own time since I saw you last. I’m as nervy as fourteen cats. My hands wobble all over the place. I don’t seem able to control my memory. I’ve had three nightmares in four nights; and woken up screaming my guts out. What’s wrong—my mind or my body?”
“Can you separate ’em?” said Heron Baynet. “You’re not God. Nor am I. I’m only a doctor: but I don’t know more about both your body and your mind than you do. Now listen. . . .”
So, twice weekly, the educative process went on. And gradually, with the coming of knowledge, fear abated.