MYSELF: Mother was weak.

DR VON HALLER: Mother was your father’s Anima-figure, whom he had been so unfortunate, or so unwise, as to marry. No wonder she seemed weak, poor woman, with such a load to carry for such a man. And no wonder he turned against her, as you would probably have turned against poor Judy if she had been so unfortunate as to fall into the clutch of such a clever thinker and such a primitive feeler as you are. Oh, men revenge themselves very thoroughly on women they think have enchanted them, when really these poor devils of women are merely destined to be pretty or sing nicely or laugh at the right time.

MYSELF: Don’t you think there is any element of enchantment in love, then?

DR VON HALLER: I know perfectly well that there is, but has anybody ever said that enchantment was a basis for marriage? It will be there at the beginning, probably, but the table must be laid with more solid fare than that if starvation is to be kept at bay for sixty years.

MYSELF: You are unusually dogmatic today.

DR VON HALLER: You have told me you like dogma…. But let us get back to an unanswered question: why did you believe your mother capable of adultery but not your father?

MYSELF: Well—adultery in a woman may be a slip, a peccadillo, but in a man, you see—you see, it’s an offence against property. I know it doesn’t sound very pretty, but the law makes it plain and public opinion makes it plainer. A deceived husband is merely a cuckold, a figure of fun, whereas a deceived wife is someone who has sustained an injury. Don’t ask me why; I simply state the fact as society and the courts see it.

DR VON HALLER: But this Mrs Martindale, if I understood you, had left her husband, or he had left her. So what injury could there be?

MYSELF: I am thinking of my mother: Father knew her long before Mother’s death. He may have drifted away from Mother, but I can’t believe he would do anything that would injure her—that might have played some part in her death. I mean, a swordsman is one thing—a sort of chivalrous concept, which may be romantic but is certainly not squalid. But an adulterer—I’ve seen a lot of them in court, and none of them was anything but squalid.

DR VON HALLER: And you could not associate your father with anything you considered squalid? So: you emerged from this illness without your beloved, and without your priest, but with your father still firmly in the saddle?

MYSELF: Not even that. I still adored him, but my adoration was flawed with doubts. That was why I determined not to try to be like him, not to permit myself any thought of rivalling him but to try to find some realm where I could show that I was worthy of him.

DR VON HALLER: My God, what a fanatic!