a tasty crumpet, only to have Geronte ask why she needs to be irrigated if nothing has blocked her.
“And your fräulein considered this appropriate reading for a young girl? What were you, fifteen or so?” the doctor asks, sounding really rather prudish. Could he actually be a prudish man under all this exterior of frank talk and spilled secrets?
“Well, I thought you said we should call a
chat un chat
,” she cannot help responding, feeling rather pleased with herself and spreading her pretty organdy skirt with the fine embroidery across his couch, playing with her glossy ringlets. Perhaps this will be more entertaining than she thought. Perhaps he is not all that brilliant, after all, if he needs to have things both ways.
“Doctors have done me more harm than good,” she tells him rather smugly, folding her arms and turning up her toes in her soft, shiny leather boots, which fit her like gloves, adding that they seem to be mostly a band of quacks. Finally, she refused to see any more of them.
“But in my case your father insisted?” the doctor asks.
“Yes, because you had helped him when he was so ill.”
The doctor gives a sort of little snort which might be either a chuckle or a sound of disapproval; she’s not sure. Perhaps he agrees with her about the other doctors, or perhaps he, too, has used electricity or who knows what drastic methods himself.
She fears that if she talks about her cough, it will start up again, and she will not be able to breathe, or perhaps she will lose her voice completely. So she simply changes the subject.
V
----
HER FATHER’S ILLNESS
T HE DOCTOR TOLD HER ON the first visit that she could talk about anything she wanted to, and that he wished to hear her side of the story, so this time she decides to speak of her father rather than her intellectual prowess, which does not seem to have impressed him particularly. She wants the doctor to know what an exceptionally good, loving daughter she has been, until it became impossible to continue.
She says that she had always loved her father. “Unlike the way I felt about Mother, the way I felt about Father seemed as natural, as much a part of me as the beating of my heart,” she says, crossing her hands and laying them flat against her chest. She is not quite sure where her heart is. She was so afraid he might die.
“We had to move to Meran in the South Tyrol. It was such a long way from Vienna—more than two hundred miles,” she tells the doctor, though he probably knows. “Everyone told me how lucky I was to go there, how beautiful it was with the blue mountains and the rushing river and the flowers. You must know the place—it’s so well known. Perhaps you have visited it with your family?” she asks.
The doctor says nothing in response, but her father will tell her later that both the doctor’s wife and his sister-in-law have visited the spas in the town, and much later, of course, more than seven years later, she will hear that the doctor has sent his own eldest daughter, Mathilde, there. Now he only tells her to go on with her account.
“I wish we had never gone there.”
“And why is that?”
“If we had never had to move there then nothing bad would have happened. We would never have met the Z.’s, Father and Mother’s friends, such bad people whom I
hate
!
Hate!
”
“The Z.’s? Bad people? And why do you hate these people?” he asks.
“I don’t want to talk about them,” she says and goes on about leaving her home.
“It was all so awful from the start: the move from our big house in Vienna was so sad. I remember standing alone in the empty nursery with its pale-green walls and only the three beds for me, my brother, and the nursemaid, and the three bedside tables with the china chamber pots beneath them still remaining. I was looking around for my lost doll.”
“A doll?” the doctor asks.
“I still have her—a lucky rag doll with a black face, you know, one my great-uncle brought back
“And your fräulein considered this appropriate reading for a young girl? What were you, fifteen or so?” the doctor asks, sounding really rather prudish. Could he actually be a prudish man under all this exterior of frank talk and spilled secrets?
“Well, I thought you said we should call a
chat un chat
,” she cannot help responding, feeling rather pleased with herself and spreading her pretty organdy skirt with the fine embroidery across his couch, playing with her glossy ringlets. Perhaps this will be more entertaining than she thought. Perhaps he is not all that brilliant, after all, if he needs to have things both ways.
“Doctors have done me more harm than good,” she tells him rather smugly, folding her arms and turning up her toes in her soft, shiny leather boots, which fit her like gloves, adding that they seem to be mostly a band of quacks. Finally, she refused to see any more of them.
“But in my case your father insisted?” the doctor asks.
“Yes, because you had helped him when he was so ill.”
The doctor gives a sort of little snort which might be either a chuckle or a sound of disapproval; she’s not sure. Perhaps he agrees with her about the other doctors, or perhaps he, too, has used electricity or who knows what drastic methods himself.
She fears that if she talks about her cough, it will start up again, and she will not be able to breathe, or perhaps she will lose her voice completely. So she simply changes the subject.
V
----
HER FATHER’S ILLNESS
T HE DOCTOR TOLD HER ON the first visit that she could talk about anything she wanted to, and that he wished to hear her side of the story, so this time she decides to speak of her father rather than her intellectual prowess, which does not seem to have impressed him particularly. She wants the doctor to know what an exceptionally good, loving daughter she has been, until it became impossible to continue.
She says that she had always loved her father. “Unlike the way I felt about Mother, the way I felt about Father seemed as natural, as much a part of me as the beating of my heart,” she says, crossing her hands and laying them flat against her chest. She is not quite sure where her heart is. She was so afraid he might die.
“We had to move to Meran in the South Tyrol. It was such a long way from Vienna—more than two hundred miles,” she tells the doctor, though he probably knows. “Everyone told me how lucky I was to go there, how beautiful it was with the blue mountains and the rushing river and the flowers. You must know the place—it’s so well known. Perhaps you have visited it with your family?” she asks.
The doctor says nothing in response, but her father will tell her later that both the doctor’s wife and his sister-in-law have visited the spas in the town, and much later, of course, more than seven years later, she will hear that the doctor has sent his own eldest daughter, Mathilde, there. Now he only tells her to go on with her account.
“I wish we had never gone there.”
“And why is that?”
“If we had never had to move there then nothing bad would have happened. We would never have met the Z.’s, Father and Mother’s friends, such bad people whom I
hate
!
Hate!
”
“The Z.’s? Bad people? And why do you hate these people?” he asks.
“I don’t want to talk about them,” she says and goes on about leaving her home.
“It was all so awful from the start: the move from our big house in Vienna was so sad. I remember standing alone in the empty nursery with its pale-green walls and only the three beds for me, my brother, and the nursemaid, and the three bedside tables with the china chamber pots beneath them still remaining. I was looking around for my lost doll.”
“A doll?” the doctor asks.
“I still have her—a lucky rag doll with a black face, you know, one my great-uncle brought back
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