Dr. Tillmann's Consultant: A Scientific Romance

by Cherry Wilder

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Mrs. Lane lingered until the summer, passed away in her sleep at the end of May; Rosalind went about in the dark house setting everything in order. She had cheated, sold the family silver, so that she was able to pay off the remaining maidservant and keep a nest-egg for herself. The house went, lock, stock, and barrel, to her nephew, Richard. She waited for the expected summons and set out in June, traveling across Europe to meet the Ostrov family party at St. Verena's hospital on the Altalm, the old alpine meadow, near Mariensee. She arrived at four o'clock when all the guests who were able to enjoyed pastries and English tea . . . as opposed to the Russian tea, which was swilled all day long . . . on the terraces. Rosalind hesitated in the shadowy entrancehall, putting off the first encounter with the Ostrov family, who would besure to weep, even if she did not. She had her luggage sent up to the suite and strolled through to the terrace unbuttoning her gloves. A sweet English voice spoke her name as she stepped out into the sunshine: "Miss Lane?" It was a stranger, or at least someone half-known, a young blonde woman with her hair in a pompadour. She took Rosalind's hand and gazed into her face, smiling. "I have a message from the Countess Ostrova." The family were out driving, would not return until later. The young woman still did not say her name but they sat down together at her table. "I have to thank you," she said, with that very steady gaze. "I remember how you helped me once." Rosalind was on the verge of recognition but she simply could not believe what she saw. "My name is Maud Courtney," said the young woman. Rosalind felt her first astonishment turning at once to relief and pleasure. "But you are . . ." "Yes! I have recovered. It is a miracle. . . ." She spoke quietly, with a glance at the surrounding tables where English was not being spoken. "A new treatment from Dr. Tilmann," said Maud. It was all she said; they moved on to ordinary conversation, which was pleasant for Rosalind after her long journey. She did not have to explain her black clothes: the Ostrovs had already mentioned her bereavement to Miss Courtney, who offered her sympathy. Another sign of her normality: one shielded patients from harsh reality, from death, sickness, financial disasters. "My brother, Edward," said Maud," was killed two years ago in India." Rosalind expressed sympathy in her turn. The Ostrov family had taken a new suite of rooms in the west wing of the sanitarium. There was only one new Russian servant, a mere boy, with silky whiskers, playing cards with the little French nurse, Sister Clotilde, the friend of Marie-Louise. It was all so different from the musky headachy atmosphere of other years that she wondered if there had been some change in the family fortunes. Had terrible old Great-Uncle Paul given up the palace in Moscow at last? Had the Countess, at last, taken a lover? There was plenty of time before the family returned, young Vasily informed her, dealing another hand, so she went out of doors again. She found herself climbing up through the pines to her precious clearing and admitted, with a smile, that she was eager to meet Lucas Tilmann, hear from his own lips the news of his miracle cure. It was a perfect summer evening; the highest peaks of the mountains were caught in bright rays of sunlight, not yet tinged with pink or red. The whisper and fragrance of the friendly pines sank into her soul; she was free from care, freed from the bonds of her dark English house at last. She sank on to the rustic bench. Across the glade in a patch of sunlight was a circus wagon, brightly painted in green and gold. A stocky yellowish horse, with fringed hooves like a lydesdale, grazed nearby and a cauldron simmered over a fire. As she watched, a bearded man in a fur hat came out to smoke his pipe on the steps of the wagon. Gypsies of course, Russian or Russianized gypsies of the kind who turned up in the stable yard at the feast of the Epiphany with a hurdy-gurdy and a dancing bear. Rosalind did not rest long, but set out again up a pathway to the Annex. She looked back and saw that the Gypsy now stood by the campfire facing up the hill, one hand raised above his head. A feeling of exquisite well-being grew upon her as she came up to the large chalet. . .the air of the mountains, the spring bubbling beneath the ferns, the flowers that cascaded from the window boxes, oh, these were all miraculous. If the doctor had appeared at that moment she might have flung herself into his arms. An older nurse, Sister Luise, came bustling out on to the porch and Rosalind could see that she was somehow — transformed. She looked like a nun who had seen a vision. . . . She was sharing the extraordinary euphoria that Rosalind felt growing upon her as she came up the path. "Oh Fraulein!" said Sister Luise. "Oh you have come back! The doctor will be so pleased!" "Is he . . . ?" "No, he is not here!" said Sister Luise quickly. She turned her head and looked back into the dark doorway of the Annex. Rosalind had the absurd notion that this euphoria came from the chalet; it was streaming out like a golden mist from someone — from a presence inhabiting the simple, spotless rooms. She felt a deep twang of anxiety. "He is coming up the hill!" said Sister Luise. "If you take the path by the larch trees . . ." She pointed, smiling; Rosalind smiled, too, and went obediently down that path. It seemed that at a certain point, under the first of the larches, she escaped some happy influence and was completely herself again. She stood still and presently Lucas Tilmann came hurrying up toward her. At the sight of him she was overwhelmed by a tumult of feelings: pleasure, anxiety, irritation, loving care. She went forward and grasped his hands and could only say: "What is it? What is it?" "Oh Rosalind!" he said, ignoring her question. "Oh my dear girl! I have missed you so much!" She allowed him to kiss her and then kissed him back with more enthusiasm than she had expected in herself. They held each other close under the larch trees and she found herself wondering if the needles clung to fabric when one lay down. Lucas drew back, smiling, and led her on down the path back to the clearing; they sat on another bench and she patted her hair. The Russian gypsy had disappeared into his caravan. The tops of the mountains had turned to gold. "Lucas," she said, "there is something . . ." There was something about Lucas himself; he was full of contained excitement. "You spoke to Maud Courtney!" he brought out. "Yes, it is remarkable," she said. "It is a miracle. What is the new treatment?" "I can't tell you just yet," he said. "It is a completely new technique for dealing with certain cases. It is still in the experimental stage and must be kept absolutely secret." She was already trying to rationalize her feelings of euphoria up at the chalet: the rare mountain air, love, the aftermath of her long journey. But some core of strangeness remained. "Lucas," she asked. "Is there a patient up in the Annex?" "Yes," he said. "And I cannot say another word. I rely on your absolute discretion." "Of course." "Rosalind," he said, "I want you to help me." "Anything . . ." "I want you to observe Leonid Ostrov, tonight when they come back from Bad Reichenhall." "They took him for an outing?" "To a concert in the park. A program of operatic airs." "Leonid must be doing very well!" At last she put two and two together. "Does this mean that he has been given the new treatment?" The doctor put his finger to his lips and looked round warily at the twilit glade. "There has been a dramatic improvement," he said in a low voice, "but I am wary of a relapse, of unexpected side effects. In particular I wonder how much he remembers or purports to remember of the treatment sessions at the Annex." "Should I ask him?" she said. "No," said Lucas. "I know that he regards you as a trusted member of his family entourage. See what he comes out with." Hospital routine reclaimed the doctor; he looked at his silver watch. "I shall be late, like the White Rabbit," he said. "Come . . ." They walked hand in hand down a shady path and kissed under several chosen trees. They arranged to meet in the grove after luncheon next day and parted in a back corridor of the main building that smelled of carbolic. Rosalind set out for the west wing again and found it ringing with music and song. A clear tenor voice was singing together with a rich contralto, the Countess herself: the Anvil Chorus from Il Trovatore. Besides the piano accompaniment the sounds of balalaika and mandolin could be distinguished. When she entered the salon she received a rapturous welcome from the Ostrov family: the Countess embraced her, weeping and laughing; Marie-Louise sprang up from the piano bench. They led her up to Leonid, who was changed, as remarkably as Maud Courtney: he was clear-skinned, vigorous, with a direct gaze. He had been singing with his mother. Now Rosalind was pressed to join in and sing of the happy life of the roving gypsy with Marie-Louise thumping the keys, the Countess playing her mandolin, and young Vasily the balalaika. Even the coachman had been pressed into service, striking the fender with the poker for the clang of the anvils. She registered, dispassionately, that the Ostrovs were the nicest, most lovable human beings that she was ever likely to meet; if she could never completely approve of them the fault lay in her own prejudices, her own upbringing. Dinner was sent up and afterward they played cards. Rosalind gave everyone the presents she had brought and began to persuade Marie-Louise to think about bedtime. Leonid called her out on to the balcony to watch the stars; she found him staring raptly at the sky above the mountains. "Look!" he said. "There is the Great Bear!" He turned to her eagerly and came to the point. "You can see I'm better," he said. "A new treatment . . ." "I'm so happy for you, Leonid, and for your mother!" "I'm so much better we thought of sending for Irina Fedorona," he brought out. "But the news from Serbia is unsettling." Leonid had been betrothed for five years to a beautiful cousin; they had almost given up hope. Rosalind had heard of the assassination in Sarajevo but rumors of war were mixed up in her mind with riot and civil strife in Odessa, with embarrassing defeats in the Sea of Japan. She could not think of a war that interfered with Irina Fedorona's travel plans. "I was right about one thing!" exclaimed Leonid. "The doctor does love you, chere Rosaline." She felt herself blushing but could not put him off. "Perhaps he does." "Has he spoken of the new treatment at all?" "Only to say it must be kept secret," she said. "I am sure only the patients concerned and their immediate families . . ." "Did Dr. Tilmann say that a new and special kind of hypnosis is used?" "No," said Rosalind. "Really we have not discussed — " He still could not let her finish; he was carried away. "One side effect of the treatment can be vivid dreams and visions that — that purport to explain the patient's situation." "But surely the dream theory comes from Vienna," she said. "Lucas — the doctor has already made some use of it." "I was healed by a Holy Man, a starets, or even a shaman," said Leonid Ostrov, bluntly. "He came from the woods and forests of my native land." "But you know it is a dream," she said. "A metaphor . . ." "The Holy Man bore the features of a bear," said Leonid, raising his head again to the constellations overhead in the clear night sky. "He spoke to me in the language of bears. He entered my mind, filled my whole being, filled me with pure joy, pure love." Rosalind was momentarily filled with unreason: she felt again the sensation of euphoria that had seized her as she approached the chalet; she thought of the secret "patient" who lived there and of Sister Luise's shining look. One of her best qualifications for work as a governess or companion was an ability to keep a straight face. "That is a beautiful healing dream," she said to Leonid. "Why, you could write a poem or folktale — like your cousin, Prince Azlov." Leonid burst out laughing at the very idea. "Poor old Kyril Mihailovitch is using his folklore to keep himself from revolutionary thoughts over there in Irkutsk or wherever he is." They were called to join in the game of whist: nothing indicated more clearly that Leonid was healed than his ability to play cards again. The Countess herself was no match for her son. The doors on to the balcony were still open and the scent of the woods and the summer fields drifted in upon them. The scene imprinted itself upon Rosalind's memory, a palimpsest of this last innocent summer. [next]