“Nonsense. Dumbness is not even the statement of a symptom, but a very imperfect description. Pseudo-aphonia. Purely of an emotional nature. Of course if you take her to some medical quack he’ll convince himself and you and certainly her that there’s an impairment, or degeneration, or atrophy of the vocal cords—” “I’m not the girl’s guardian, Mr Midbin—” “Doctor. Philosophiae, Göttingen. Trivial matter.”
“Excuse me, Dr Midbin. Anyway, I’m not her guardian so I’m not taking her anywhere. But, just as a theoretical question, suppose examination did reveal physical damage?”
He appeared delighted, and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, it would. I assure you it would. These fellows always find what theyre looking for. If your disposition is sour theyll find warts on your duodenum. In a postmortem. In a postmortem. Whereas Emotional Pathology deals with the sour disposition and lets the warts, if any, take care of themselves. Matter is a function of the mind. People are dumb or blind or deaf for a purpose. Now what purpose can the girl have for muteness?”
“No conversation?” I suggested. I didnt doubt Midbin was an authority, but his manner made flippancy almost irresistible.
“I shall find out,” he said firmly. “This is bound to be a simpler maladjustment than Barbara’s—” “Aw, come on,” protested Ace.
“Nonsense, Dorn; obscurantic nonsense. Reticence is a necessary ingredient of those medical ethics by which the quacks conceal incompetence. Mumbo jumbo to keep the layman from asking annoying questions. Priestly, not scientific approach. Art and mystery of phlebotomy. Don’t hold back knowledge; publish it to the world.”
“I think Barbara wouldnt want her private thoughts published to the world. You have to draw the line somewhere.”
Midbin put his head on one side and looked at Ace as though he were difficult to see. “Now that’s interesting, Dorn,” he said; “I wonder what turns a seeker after knowledge into a censor.”
“Are you going to start exploring my emotional pathology now?”
“Not interesting enough; not nearly interesting enough. Diagnosis while you wait; treatment in a few easy instalments. Barbara now—there’s a really beautiful case. Beautiful case; years of treatment and little sign of improvement. Of course she wouldnt want her thoughts known. Why? Because she’s happy with her hatred for her dead mother. Shocking to Mrs Grundy; doubly ditto to Mister. Exaggerated possessiveness toward her father makes her miserable. Thoughts known, misery ventilated: shame, condemnation, fie, fie. Her fantasy—” “Midbin!”