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Updated: June 5, 2025
Do you know that for the last few days I've been able neither to sing nor play?" "Val, you're joking," exclaimed Julian. "I am certainly not," he answered, and quite gravely. "I am simply stating a fact." Doctor Levillier seemed unable to appreciate that he was speaking seriously. "I have come all this way to hear you sing," he said. "I have never asked you in vain yet."
Despite her fear of him, something drove her to fight Valentine; only she did not know how to fight him. It was in a mood of doubt that she had wandered into Harley Street and bent to read the name on the door of Dr. Levillier. Julian's description of the doctor had appealed to her.
It doesn't seem possible to me, but I'm told, and I read, that my mind diseased may be an effect, and that the cause may lie in my body. That's why I come to you. Doctor Levillier, root out the disease if you can." She ended speaking almost with passion, her lips trembling all the time and her eyes never leaving his face.
Such tragedies are no more unfamiliar to us than are the tragedies of Shakespeare. And such a tragedy not complete yet, but at a third-act point, perhaps now faced Doctor Levillier in Julian. The wall that had been so straight and trim, so finely built and carefully preserved, was crumbling fast to decay.
Valentine smiled at this wavering approach of indecision. But Doctor Levillier said, decisively: "I wish to sit. It interests me. Send me to sleep, too, if you can, Cresswell." "I will," Valentine answered, lightly. "Come."
"I cannot believe that Cresswell would deliberately commit an outrage upon me," he said. "And it would be an outrage to sing like that to a tired man. Weeks of work would not fatigue me as I am fatigued by Cresswell's music." Julian was silent and looked uneasy. Valentine repeated again: "I couldn't help it. I am sorry." Doctor Levillier ignored the remark.
"Well, my answer is, No; not wholly, unless through the approach of old age, or the development of madness." "I'm neither old nor mad." Levillier and Julian both looked at Valentine with some amazement. "Are you talking about yourself?" the doctor asked. "Certainly." "Why? What talent is dead in you?" "My talent for music.
There was a nakedness about the manners of both tired woman and shattered man that was disquieting and unusual. Valentine did not seem to notice it or to be moved about it. If anything, it might be supposed to add to his pleasure an unnatural revelry in being hated. Doctor Levillier, glancing from him to Julian, found him self-involved in remembrances of Rip and Valentine.
But Julian answered: "I feel absolutely convinced that at the time I knew him he was one of the greatest rips, one of the most merciless men in London. I never felt about any man as I did about him! And he impressed others in the same way." "I wish I had seen him," Doctor Levillier said. An idea, suggested by Julian's last remark, suddenly struck him.
So with faiths, with longings, with fine aspirations, with sordid grovellings. There is ever the hook seeking the appropriate eye. The body has a hook, the soul an eye. They meet at birth and part only at death. Dr. Levillier was constantly, and ignorantly, entreated to adjust the one comfortably in the other. It is a delicate business, this adjustment, sometimes an impossible business.
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