About a year and a half before, Doctor Dohmler had some vague correspondence with an American gentleman living in Lausanne, a Mr. Devereux Warren, of the Warren family of Chicago. A meeting was arranged and one day Mr. Warren arrived at the clinic with his daughter Nicole, a girl of sixteen. She was obviously not well and the nurse who was with her took her to walk about the grounds while Mr. Warren had his consultation.

Warren was a strikingly handsome man looking less than forty.He was a fine American type in every way, tall, broad, well-made—“un homme très chic,” as Doctor Dohmler described him to Franz. His large gray eyes were sun-veined from rowing on Lake Geneva, and he had that special air about him of having known the best of this world. The conversation was in German, for it developed that he had been educated at G?ttingen. He was nervous and obviously very moved by his errand.

“Doctor Dohmler, my daughter isn’t right in the head. I’ve had lots of specialists and nurses for her and she’s taken a couple of rest cures but the thing has grown too big for me and I’ve been strongly recommended to come to you.”

“Very well,” said Doctor Dohmler. “Suppose you start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

“There isn’t any beginning, at least there isn’t any insanity in the family that I know of, on either side. Nicole’s mother died when she was eleven and I’ve sort of been father and mother both to her, with the help of governesses—father and mother both to her.”

He was very moved as he said this. Doctor Dohmler saw that there were tears in the corners of his eyes and noticed for the first time that there was whiskey on his breath.

“As a child she was a darling thing—everybody was crazy about her, everybody that came in contact with her. She was smart as a whip and happy as the day is long. She liked to read or draw or dance or play the piano—anything. I used to hear my wife say she was the only one of our children who never cried at night. I’ve got an older girl, too, and there was a boy that died, but Nicole was—Nicole was—Nicole—”

He broke off and Doctor Dohmler helped him.

“She was a perfectly normal, bright, happy child.”

“Perfectly.”

Doctor Dohmler waited. Mr. Warren shook his head, blew a long sigh, glanced quickly at Doctor Dohmler and then at the floor again.

“About eight months ago, or maybe it was six months ago or maybe ten—I try to figure but I can’t remember exactly where we were when she began to do funny things—crazy things. Her sister was the first one to say anything to me about it—because Nicole was always the same to me,” he added rather hastily, as if some one had accused him of being to blame,“—the same loving little girl. The first thing was about a valet.”

“Oh, yes,” said Doctor Dohmler, nodding his venerable head, as if, like Sherlock Holmes, he had expected a valet and only a valet to be introduced at this point.

“I had a valet—been with me for years—Swiss, by the way.” He looked up for Doctor Dohmler’s patriotic approval. “And she got some crazy idea about him. She thought he was making up to her—of course, at the time I believed her and I let him go, but I know now it was all nonsense.”

“What did she claim he had done?”

“That was the first thing—the doctors couldn’t pin her down. She just looked at them as if they ought to know what he’d done. But she certainly meant he’d made some kind of indecent advances to her—she didn’t leave us in any doubt of that.”

“I see.”

“Of course, I’ve read about women getting lonesome and thinking there’s a man under the bed and all that, but why should Nicole get such an idea? She could have all the young men she wanted. We were in Lake Forest—that’s a summer place near Chicago where we have a place—and she was out all day playing golf or tennis with boys. And some of them pretty gone on her at that.”

All the time Warren was talking to the dried old package of Doctor Dohmler, one section of the latter’s mind kept thinking intermittently of Chicago. Once in his youth he could have gone to Chicago as fellow and docent at the university, and perhaps become rich there and owned his own clinic instead of being only a minor shareholder in a clinic. But when he had thought of what he considered his own thin knowledge spread over that whole area, over all those wheat fields, those endless prairies, he had decided against it. But he had read about Chicago in those days, about the great feudal families of Armour, Palmer, Field, Crane, Warren, Swift, and Mc Cormick and many others, and since that time not a few patients had come to him from that stratum of Chicago and New York.

“She got worse,” continued Warren. “She had a fit or something—the things she said got crazier and crazier. Her sister wrote some of them down—” He handed a much-folded piece of paper to the doctor. “Almost always about men going to attack her, men she knew or men on the street—anybody—”

He told of their alarm and distress, of the horrors families go through under such circumstances, of the ineffectual efforts they had made in America, finally of the faith in a change of scene that had made him run the submarine blockade and bring his daughter to Switzerland.

“—on a United States cruiser,” he specified with a touch of hauteur. “It was possible for me to arrange that, by a stroke of luck. And, may I add,” he smiled apologetically, “that as they say: money is no object.”

“Certainly not,” agreed Dohmler dryly.

He was wondering why and about what the man was lying to him. Or, if he was wrong about that, what was the falsity that pervaded the whole room, the handsome figure in tweeds sprawling in his chair with a sportsman’s ease? That was a tragedy out there, in the February day, the young bird with wings crushed somehow, and inside here it was all too thin, thin and wrong.

“I would like—to talk to her—a few minutes now,” said Doctor Dohmler, going into English as if it would bring him closer to Warren.

Afterward when Warren had left his daughter and returned to Lausanne, and several days had passed, the doctor and Franz entered upon Nicole’s card:

Diagnostic: Schizophrénie. Phase aigu? en décroissance. La peur des hommes est un sympt?me de la maladie, et n’est point constitutionnelle…Le pronostic doit rester réservé.

And then they waited with increasing interest as the days passed for Mr. Warren’s promised second visit.

It was slow in coming. After a fortnight Doctor Dohmler wrote. Confronted with further silence he committed what was for those days “une folie,” and telephoned to the Grand H?tel at Vevey. He learned from Mr.Warren’s valet that he was at the moment packing to sail for America. But reminded that the forty francs Swiss for the call would show up on the clinic books, the blood of the Tuileries Guard rose to Doctor Dohmler’s aid and Mr. Warren was got to the phone.

“It is—absolutely necessary—that you come. Your daughter’s health—all depends. I can take no responsibility.”

“But look here, Doctor, that’s just what you’re for. I have a hurry call to go home!”

Doctor Dohmler had never yet spoken to any one so far away but he dispatched his ultimatum so firmly into the phone that the agonized American at the other end yielded. Half an hour after this second arrival on the Zürichsee, Warren had broken down, his fine shoulders shaking with awful sobs inside his easy-fitting coat, his eyes redder than the very sun on Lake Geneva, and they had the awful story.

“It just happened,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know—I don’t know.”

“After her mother died when she was little she used to come into my bed every morning, sometimes she’d sleep in my bed. I was sorry for the little thing. Oh, after that, whenever we went places in an automobile or a train we used to hold hands. She used to sing to me. We used to say, ‘Now let’s not pay any attention to anybody else this afternoon—let’s just have each other—for this morning you’re mine.’ ” A broken sarcasm came into his voice. “People used to say what a wonderful father and daughter we were—they used to wipe their eyes. We were just like lovers—and then all at once we were lovers—and ten minutes after it happened I could have shot myself—except I guess I’m such a Goddamned degenerate I didn’t have the nerve to do it.”

“Then what?” said Doctor Dohmler, thinking again of Chicago and of a mild pale gentleman with a pince-nez who had looked him over in Zurich thirty years before. “Did this thing go on?”

“Oh, no! She almost—she seemed to freeze up right away. She’d just say, ‘Never mind, never mind, Daddy. It doesn’t matter. Never mind.’ ”

“There were no consequences?”

“No.” He gave one short convulsive sob and blew his nose several times. “Except now there’re plenty of consequences.”

As the story concluded Dohmler sat back in the focal armchair of the middle class and said to himself sharply, “Peasant!”—it was one of the few absolute worldly judgments that he had permitted himself for twenty years. Then he said:

“I would like for you to go to a hotel in Zurich and spend the night and come see me in the morning.”

“And then what?”

Doctor Dohmler spread his hands wide enough to carry a young pig.

“Chicago,” he suggested.

大约一年半之前，多姆勒医生曾和一个住在洛桑的美国绅士泛泛地通过几封信。此人就是芝加哥沃伦家族的德弗鲁·沃伦先生。他们商定见一次面。一天，沃伦先生带着他十六岁的女儿尼科尔来到了诊所。小姑娘显然有点不正常，陪同她一道来的护士带她到院子里散步，而沃伦先生则和医生进行交谈。

沃伦是个美男子，长得一表人才，看上去还不到四十岁。他举手投足都有着浓浓的美国味，高个子，宽肩膀，身材匀称——多姆勒医生对弗朗茨形容他是个“英俊潇洒的人”。由于常在日内瓦湖荡舟，在太阳下暴晒，沃伦那双灰色大眼睛的眼角生出了皱纹。他身上有一种独特的气质，似乎人情世故无不洞悉。他们用德语交谈——沃伦曾在哥廷根读过书。说话时，他看上去有些紧张，显然此次来访对他有不小的触动。

“多姆勒医生，我女儿的脑子不太正常。我给她请过许多专家和护士，她也接受过几次疗养，但问题越来越严重，叫我不知如何是好了。有人极力建议我来找你。”只听他说道。

“很好，”多姆勒医生说，“请你从头开始，把一切都告诉我吧。”

“真不知从何说起。至少，在我和她母亲两家是没有精神病人的。她十一岁的时候，她的母亲便去世了，所以我又当爹又当妈，幸好有家庭女教师助我一臂之力，才使得她没有缺失父爱和母爱。”

他说这些时，情绪很激动。多姆勒医生看到他眼角闪着泪光，也就是在这时闻到他呼出的气息中带着酒味。

“她小时候十分乖巧，所有的人都喜欢她，可以说是人见人爱。她聪明伶俐，整天快快乐乐的，不是看书、绘画，就是跳舞、弹琴，总是闲不住。我常听见我妻子说，在我们的孩子当中，只有她夜间从来不哭不闹。我还有一个大女儿，另外有过一个男孩，去世了，而尼科尔……尼科尔……尼科尔……”

说到这里，他再也说不下去了。多姆勒医生接住他的话头说：“那时她是个十分正常的孩子，无忧无虑，幸福快乐。”

“对极了。”

多姆勒医生等着他朝下说。沃伦先生摇摇头，长长地叹了口气，飞快朝多姆勒医生看了一眼，便又盯着地面说道：“大约八个月前（也许是六个月前或十个月前吧）——现在让我说，我也记不清是什么时候了，她开始有了一些怪异的行为，做出了一些疯狂的事。最初是她姐姐跟我说起的，因为我觉得尼科尔跟以往没什么两样。”他匆匆地解释道，仿佛有谁在责怪他，要他负责似的，“她还是那个可爱的小姑娘。最初发生的一件事和一个男仆有关。”

“哦，一定是这样的。”多姆勒医生说道，还庄重地点了点头，俨然就像料事如神的夏洛克·福尔摩斯，一到关键时刻就料定会有一个男仆出现——只会是男仆，不可能是其他人。

“我家有个男仆，跟我多年了……顺便说一下，他是瑞士人。”沃伦先生说完，抬头看了看多姆勒医生，觉得对方可能会对自己的同胞表示同情，“对于这个男仆，她产生了一种奇怪的想法，以为对方在勾引她……当然，那时我相信了她的话，叫那个男仆走了。现在我知道她的话都是瞎说。”

“她说过那男仆对她有什么举动吗？”

“这是第一个难点……医生们问她也问不明白。医生一问，她就用那种目光望着医生，就好像他们应该知道那个男仆的行径似的。她一口咬定男仆对她有不规矩的表现，对此她不允许任何人存疑。”

“是吗？”

“当然，我在书上也看到过这样的情节，说有的女子孤寂难耐，就老觉得床下藏着个男人什么的。可是，尼科尔怎么会有这样的念头呢？那么多小伙子，还不都任她挑选！我们曾在湖边森林区住过——那是一个靠近芝加哥的消夏地，我们在那儿有一幢别墅。那时，她每天都出去同男孩子打高尔夫球或者网球。有几个男孩对她动了心，爱得不行。”

沃伦说话时一直盯着多姆勒医生那苍老、皱得像树皮一样的脸，而后者却神游他方，时不时地回忆自己的青春岁月。风华正茂之时，他作为大学的研究员和讲师曾有机会去芝加哥发展，也许在那里可以发财致富，拥有自己的诊所，而不只是在一家诊所里当个小股东。可是，由于当时想到自己对那片广袤的地区，对那儿一望无际的麦田和大草原一无所知，便放弃了这种打算。不过，在那些日子里，他读了一些有关芝加哥的书籍，了解了阿穆尔、帕尔默、菲尔德、克兰、沃伦、斯威夫特、麦考密克及其他许多美国名门望族。打那以后，他没少接诊来自芝加哥和纽约上流社会的病人。

“后来，她的情况急转直下，”沃伦接着说，“她会没来由地发脾气，说出的话越来越离谱，疯疯癫癫的。她姐姐把有些话用笔记了下来……”他把一张叠了好几层的纸递给了医生，“这些话无非就是说有男人要骚扰她——一些男子是她认识的，一些则素昧平生，反正什么样的人都有……”

接下来，沃伦讲述了他们家的恐慌和忧虑，讲述了他们在这种状况下提心吊胆的心情，说他们在美国所做的努力全都宣告无效，最终才觉得换换环境也许会峰回路转。于是，他冲破潜艇的封锁，带着女儿到了瑞士。

“我们是搭乘一艘美国巡洋舰来的。”他有点得意地特地提了一句。“我们得以成行，靠的是运气。还可以补充一句，”他略带歉意地笑了笑说，“正如人们所言：有钱能使鬼推磨。”

“这是当然的。”多姆勒干巴巴地随声附和道。

他感到眼前的这个男人在撒谎，可是不知他为什么要撒谎以及撒的是什么谎。难道他的感觉是错误的？可是，这个身穿花呢外套的英俊男子像个运动员一样悠闲，懒散地坐在椅子上，为什么屋子里就弥漫着一股虚假的气息呢？阳春二月里，一只幼鸟不知怎的折断了翅膀，令人唏嘘！而这里却在演戏，内容过于虚假，叫人感到不对劲儿！

“我想跟她谈一谈，过一会儿再说吧。”多姆勒医生换上了英语，仿佛这么一来可以拉近他同沃伦先生的距离似的。

后来，沃伦把女儿丢下，自己回洛桑了。几天之后，多姆勒医生和弗朗茨开始研究尼科尔的病历：

诊断：精神分裂症。处于急性发作期。其症状是对男子有恐惧感，但这种恐惧并不是先天的……该诊断请予以保留。

沃伦先生答应过几天再来，可是左等右等也不见他露面，使得他们俩越来越焦急。

由于迟迟不见他来，两个星期后，多姆勒医生给他写了封信，然而却如石沉大海。无奈之下，他做了件在当时看来简直是“冒傻气”的事情——他给沃伦先生在沃韦小城暂住的格兰德旅馆挂了一个电话。他从沃伦先生的仆人那儿获悉，沃伦先生正在收拾行李，打算回美国。一想到打这次电话所花的四十瑞士法郎要记在诊所的账上，多姆勒医生心头涌起一股英雄血，非要沃伦先生来听电话不可。

他对沃伦说道：“你必须来一趟——这是绝对有必要的！你来或不来，这关系着你女儿的健康。我不能担这个责任。”

“可是请听我说，医生，你们医生的责任就是给病人治病呀。我有急事要回国去！”

多姆勒医生还从未隔着这么远跟人说过话，但他对着话筒发出了最后通牒，语气非常坚定，迫使电话那端的美国人即便再苦恼也只好让步了。沃伦再次来到了苏黎世湖区，仅仅半小时之后，精神就崩溃了。只见他身穿裁剪合体的外套，伤心地啜泣不止，漂亮的双肩一抖一抖的，眼圈比日内瓦湖上方的太阳还要红。他讲出了一段骇人听闻的往事……

“我不知道……真不知道怎么能出那样的事……”他声音嘶哑地说。

“她母亲去世后，她的年龄还很小。每天早晨她都钻到我的床上来，有时她就睡在我的床上。我心里很可怜这个没有母亲的孩子。后来，每当我们坐汽车或乘火车去旅行，我们总是手拉着手。她常常唱歌给我听。我们常常说这样的话：‘今天下午就咱们俩在一起好啦，不要管别人了……’‘今天上午，你属于我……’”说到这里，他哽咽的声音里出现了自我嘲讽的语气，“人们常说我们是一对多么好的父女啊，还为此感动得落泪。我们俩就像一对情侣，后来突然间竟做出了情侣间的那种事。事情发生后没十分钟，我悔恨交加，恨不得开枪打死我自己。可是，我他妈的是个大软蛋，没有勇气那么做！”

“后来呢？”多姆勒医生嘴上这么问着，心里却又想起了芝加哥，想起了一位脸色有些苍白、戴着夹鼻眼镜的先生——三十年前，那位先生在苏黎世曾盯着他上下打量，“这事又发生过吗？”

“哦，没有！她几乎……她当时像是都呆住了，只是不住地说：‘别担心，别担心，爸爸，这没关系。别担心。’”

“没有产生什么后果吗？”

“没有。”他一哆嗦，抽泣了一声，连着擤了几次鼻子，“可是，现在却出现了许多后遗症。”

听完对方的讲述，多姆勒医生坐在中产阶级家庭中常见的那种摆在屋子中间的扶手椅上，身子向后一靠，心里暗暗骂了一声：“畜生！”二十年来，他很少用这般粗俗的话说别人。末了，他对沃伦建议道：“你最好去苏黎世城里的一家旅馆住上一夜，明天上午再来见我。”

“往后怎么办？”

多姆勒医生把双手一摊，两条胳膊张开，足以抱住一只小猪，说道：“回芝加哥。”