The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [61]
Miss Howard’s face took on a resigned sort of look. “That is the common perception, I’m afraid.”
The Doctor kept ranting. “Yes, but listen to what he goes on to say: ‘Thus, at least, it is in all unspoiled, naturally bred mothers, who, alas!, seem to be growing rarer.’ But does he go on to discuss the mental composition of those increasingly numerous ‘un-naturally bred’ mothers? He does not!” The Doctor set the book aside.
The wheels in Miss Howard’s head had started to spin during this tirade: her brow wrinkled with an idea. “Doctor—” she started.
But he wasn’t finished. Picking up another book, he bellowed, “And listen to James himself: ‘Parental love is an instinct stronger in woman than in man—the passionate devotion of a mother to a sick or dying child is perhaps the most simply beautiful moral spectacle that human life affords.’ And there ends the discussion! How would such men react, I should like to know, were I to show them the dozens of case studies I have compiled over the years of women beating their children, starving them, throwing them into lit ovens, or simply killing them outright? It’s unbelievable!”
“Yes, Doctor,” Miss Howard tried again, “but I wonder—is there some usefulness in all this prejudicial thinking?”
“Only by inference, Sara,” the Doctor scoffed, tossing the book he was holding onto a pile of others and then picking up the first volume again. “Just one brief comment of Schneider’s offers anything like illumination: ‘She’—meaning the mother—‘has, in one word, transferred her entire egotism to the child.’”
“Yes, that’s it—exactly,” Miss Howard said. “Suppose you were one of those unnaturally bred mothers, one who’d lost her own children and couldn’t have any more—wouldn’t you feel the desire to somehow acquire another, if only to prove that you could adequately perform what is perceived by society to be the basic feminine function?”
The Doctor’s face went blank, his hands fell to his side, and then he tossed the Schneider book onto the pile with the James. “And given the correct individual context,” he said, nodding, “that urge could grow to destroy normal inhibitory power …. Well—where have you been for the last two days, my oracle of the feminine psyche?” He walked over and put his hands on Sara’s shoulders. “It’s taken me God knows how many hours and pages of fruitless reading to reach that very conclusion!” The Doctor walked to the door and called out into the hall, “Cyrus! Draw me a bath, if you don’t mind, and lay out fresh clothes!” He turned to Miss Howard again. “The last time we worked together, Sara, we studied the known laws of psychology. This time, the biases of our society will force us to write some new ones, I suspect. You must keep careful notes and be always on hand, for yours is the perspective we most need. The rest of us cannot—”
The Doctor was interrupted by the sound of light snoring coming from the sofa; we all turned to see Mr. Moore dozing. “Well,” the Doctor sighed, “let’s just say that certain other points of view will be far less crucial. However, let him rest, for the time being—because with any luck, we send him out onto the streets tomorrow.”
Once the Doctor’d gotten himself cleaned up and dressed, we found that the only way to rouse Mr. Moore was to offer him a late lunch at Delmonico’s restaurant on Madison Square. Dr. Kreizler had been spending less time than usual at that establishment, because Mr. Charlie Delmonico, keeping pace with the steady uptown movement of fashion and money, had recently opened an additional restaurant on Forty-fourth Street; and though he swore to the Doctor that he had no plans to close the Madison Square branch, the Doctor believed that it was only a matter of time before that fate