Pilgrim by Timothy Findley

preposterous—but Lady Quartermaine had made it with such simplicity that Jung was moved by her belief in it. It had been confided, he imagined, in the same tone and manner as Saints confide their visions to their confessors—when to walk with God is one thing, but to say one does is another.
    The spell was broken when Jung gave a cough and was forced to reach for his water glass.
    “Is everyone mad, do you think?” Sybil asked, recovering her poise. “One way or another, do you think it could be so?”
    Jung gave one of his shrugs and said: “there are degrees of madness, of course. I have found some traces of it in myself, I do confess.” He waved his hand. “But madness is a crafty beast and cannot be caught with theories. Over time, I have learned not only to be distrusting of theories, but to actively oppose them. Facts are what matter. And the facts regarding each individual’s madness are all we have. General theories regarding madness merely get in the way of discovering its true nature in each patient, one by one by one. My own madness is quantified by parentheses—just as all madness is. And because of that, I have learned notonly to deal with it, but to live with it. And most importantly, as any person must, to function in its presence. It is mine—my own and only mine. What has happened, in Mister Pilgrim’s case, is that he can no longer function—and whether this is because he is mad or for some other reason is still to be revealed.”
    “I am frightened for him.”
    “That is perfectly understandable.”
    “I don’t want him harmed.”
    “He will not be harmed.” Jung laughed. “How could he be?
    “There is harm and there is harm, Doctor Jung. You know that. I will tell you—and I tell you with regret—that I do not like Doctor Furtwängler. I do not trust his judgement, and to be frank, I did not appreciate his manner.”
    Jung gave another wave of his hand. There was nothing he could say that would not sound treacherous.
    “I did not like the feeling I had from him that he did not believe what I told him.”
    “There, I think you are wrong, Lady Quartermaine. Doctor Furtwängler does believe what you have told him.”
    “Be that as it may, I do not trust him. I do not trust his judgement. He was given the highest possible recommendation—but still, I do not trust him. He smiles too much. He smiles at the wrong moments. He smiles without pleasure. He smiles without feeling. He smiles without consideration. I hate ingratiation. It unnerves me and I lose all sense of trust. And not totrust one’s doctor—or the doctor in charge of your dearest friend—is intolerable.”
    Sybil set down her knife and fork and sat back in her chair.
    “I am tired,” she said. “Tired and not a little lost in most of this. Psychiatry, Doctor Jung, is a complete mystery to me. But if it holds the answer to Mister Pilgrim’s survival, then I must abide with it until he is safely delivered.”
    A silence fell between them which Jung dared not break.
    Then Sybil spoke again.
    “I realize it would not be proper to have Doctor Furtwängler removed from this case. Perhaps I have overreacted to his manner. Too much smiling—if you get my drift—becomes almost villainous.”
    Jung was forced to repress his own smile. He knew Josef Furtwängler’s curried charms only too well.
    “But I must ask—I am determined to ask—would you agree to take Mister Pilgrim on as your patient, Doctor Jung? I like what you have said, though some of it does not beguile me. Nonetheless, I sense a creative attitude in your response to Mister Pilgrim, and in my opinion, that is what he requires above all else. Someone who will take him as he is without assigning a label and pushing him into a corner.”
    Jung looked down at his plate. He had not finished its contents, but wanted no more. He laid his utensils aside and pressed his napkin to his lips, spreading it afterwards in his lap. Then he said: “I would like toaccept