I suppose I expected there would be some uniformity, some basic type characterizing the fellows. Not that Barbara, or Ace, or Hiro Agati resembled a stereotype at any point, any more than I did myself, but then I was not one of the elect nor likely to be. Even after I had met more than half of them the notion persisted that there must be some stamp on them proclaiming what they were.
Yet as I wandered about the Haven, alone or with Ace, the people I met were quite diverse, more so by far than in the everyday world. There were the ebullient and the glum, the talkative and the laconic, the bustling and the slow moving. Some were part of a family, others lived ascetically, withdrawn from the pleasures of the flesh.
In the end I realized there was, if not a similarity, a strong bond. The fellows, conventional or eccentric, passionate or reserved, were all earnest, purposeful, and, despite individual variations, tenacious. They were, though I hesitate to use so emotional a word, dedicated. The cruel struggle and suspicion, the frantic endeavor to improve one's own financial, social, or political standing by maiming or destroying someone else intent on the same endeavor was either unknown or so subdued as to be imperceptible at the Haven. Disagreements and jealousies existed, but they were different in kind rather than in degree from those to which I had been accustomed all my life. The pervasive fears which fostered the latter, the same fears which made lotteries and indenture frantic gambles to escape the wretchedness of life, could not circulate in the security of the Haven.
After the scene at my arrival, I didn't see Barbara again for some ten days. Even then it was but a glimpse, caught as she hurried in one direction and I sauntered in another. She threw me a single frigid glance and went on. Later, I was talking with Mr. Haggerwells, who had proved to be not quite an amateur of history but more than a dabbler, when, without knocking, she burst into the room.
“Father, I—” Then she caught sight of me. “Sorry. I didn't know you were entertaining.”
His tone was that of one found in a guilty act. “Come in, come in, Barbara. Backmaker is after all something of a protg of yours. Urania, you know—if one may stretch the ascription a bit—encouraging Clio.”
“Really, Father!” She was regal. Wounded, scornful, but majestic. “I'm sure I don't know enough about selftaught pundits to sponsor them. It seems too bad they have to waste your time—”
He flushed. “Please, Barbara. You must, you really must control…”
Her disapproval became open anger. “Must I? Must I? And stand by while every pretentious swindler usurps your attention? Oh, I don't ask for any special favors as your daughter; I know too well I have none coming. But I should think at least the consideration due a fellow of the Haven would prompt ordinary courtesy even where no natural affection exists!”
“Barbara, please… Oh, my dear girl, how can you… ?”
But she was gone, leaving him distressed and me puzzled. Not at her lack of restraint but at her accusation that he lacked a father's love for her. Nothing was clearer than his pride in her or his protective, baffled tenderness. It did not seem possible so willful a misunderstanding could be maintained.
“You can't judge Barbara by ordinary standards,” insisted Ace uncomfortably, when I told him what had happened.
“I'm not judging her by any standards or at all,” I said; “I just don't see how anyone could get things so wrong.”
“She… Her nature needs sympathy. Lots of it. She's never had the understanding and encouragement she ought to have.”
“It looks the other way around to me.”
“That's because you don't know the background. She's always been lonely. From childhood. Her mother was impatient of children and never found time for her.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Why… she told me, of course.”
“And you believed her. Without corroborative evidence. Is that what's called the scientific attitude?”
He stopped stock-still. “Look here, Backmaker"—a moment before I had been Hodge to him—"Look here, Backmaker, I'm damned tired of all the things people say about Barbara; the jeers and sneers and gossip by people who just aren't good enough to breathe the same air with her, much less have the faintest notion of her mind and spirit—”
“Come off it, Ace,” I interrupted. “I haven't got anything against Barbara. The shoe is on the other foot. Tell her I'm all right, will you? Don't waste time trying to convince me; I'm just trying to get along.”
It was clear, not only from the slips which evaded Ace's guard, but from less restrained remarks by other fellows, that Barbara's tortured jealousy was a fixture of her character. She had created feuds, slandered and reviled fellows who had been guilty of nothing except trying to interest her father in some project in which she herself was not concerned. I learned much more also, much Ace had no desire to convey. But he was a poor hand at concealing anything, and it was clear he was helplessly subject to her, but without the usual kindly anesthetic of illusion. I guessed he had enjoyed her favors, but she evidently didn't bother to hide the fact that the privilege was not exclusive; perhaps indeed she insisted on his knowing. I gathered she was a fiercely moral polyandrist, demanding absolute fidelity without offering the slightest hope of reciprocal single-mindedness.
XII. MORE OF HAGGERSHAVEN
Among the fellows was an Oliver Midbin, a student of what he chose to call the new and revolutionary science of emotional pathology. Tall and thin, with an incongruous little potbelly like an enlarged and far-slipped Adam's apple, he pounced on me as a ready-made and captive audience for his theories.
“Now this case of pseudo-aphonia—”
“He means the dumb girl,” explained Ace, aside.
“Nonsense. Dumbness is not even the statement of a symptom, but a very imperfect description. Pseudoaphonia. 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, Gottingen. 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 they're looking for. If your disposition is sour they'll 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 didn't 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 wouldn't 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.”