The Quickening Maze - Adam Foulds [8]
‘The Grand Agent?’
‘Perhaps, perhaps. Well, certainly actually. I mean to say, if we’re right about this at all, then what else would it be?’
Dr Allen did not say ‘a mental phenomenon’. For a moment they simply smiled at each other. How remarkable and exhilarating to have found their deepest speculations reflected in the other, about the universe, about existence.
‘It would be nice,’ Allen said, ‘if we were able to talk some more. Are you now intending to stay?’
‘Oh, yes. I agreed to take the house yesterday.’
‘Oh, marvellous. Splendid. Well, no doubt you’ll be a great addition to Epping society, such as it is. And of course you’ll be near Septimus and that will be a great benefit to him.’
Tennyson inclined his head at the mention of his suffering brother. The blush of enthusiasm left him, dwindling down painfully to a small heat of embarrassment. That often came after too intense a disclosure of self with somebody; now it was made the more intense by the thought of Septimus. The wide line of his mouth hardened. Allen saw and sought to reassure him.
‘I’ve no doubt that Septimus has very fine prospects of recovery. Melancholy, you know, the English malady, what you will, is really quite tractable, I’ve found. Brightness of company, exercise, a familial atmosphere, an unbosoming of anxieties . . .’
‘Unbosoming?’
‘Yes, the disclosure of personal fears and unhappinesses. Often I find encouraging patients through a conversational, what shall we call it, memoir is terribly useful.’
Tennyson huffed out a big mouthful of uninhaled smoke. ‘So you’ll be hearing all about my family.’
‘Probably. But I make no certain inferences from the testimony of unhappy individuals. That really isn’t the point. At any rate, families, well . . .’ He smiled. ‘Nowhere more productive of mental difficulty. I attach no shame to coming from one. It is not a matter in which we generally have a choice.’
‘You’ll see. You’ll be mired in it. The black blood of the Tennysons.’
‘So there is a predisposition - to melancholy, or other disturbances? Very often . . .’
‘There are quieter barnyards. Somehow we don’t take life easily.’
‘Ah.’ Matthew Allen tilted his head and stood still, waiting to allow Tennyson to go on with what he was saying.
‘I accompanied my brother, you see, because I thought I might be entering your establishment myself. And now I’ve decided to stay in this area, this different atmosphere.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes.Away.Although these woods are rather gloomy.’
‘Oh, time of year. They blossom, you know, they put out green leaves.’
Tennyson, who had already filled the room with thickly drifting smoke, again relit his pipe.
‘There is no shame in encountering these difficulties. In some sense, quite the reverse. They argue a great mental power that is prone to exhaust itself, in creation, in your case, I would imagine. You know of other cases, I imagine, among poets.’
‘Of course. So. The price to be paid.’
‘But it needn’t be exorbitant.’ Allen smiled.‘I’m very pleased you’ve come to visit me here and have had a glimpse of my interests. I ought to spend more time on them. I suspect I’ve made the breakthroughs I will make in therapy for the insane. After that is the long work of practice, which tires after a while.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Oh, I’m committed to it, of course. But I feel the need for a new something, to research and create again. And of course, money is never not a concern, with a family, property.’
‘Oh, yes? I’ve no doubt you have the brain to find something.’
‘And to return to what we were saying earlier, I think it is unhelpful to specialise too strictly. One must have a broad range of intellectual activities if one is seeking unifying ideas. Bacon’s the man.’
‘Indeed? I have a Cambridge friend who is editing him. Perhaps I could arrange for you to meet.’
‘Well, that would be wonderful. Thank you,’ Allen said and rather fervently