Soul

The Colonel was seated beside his wife, and had not bothered to remove his Macfarlane overcoat, which still glistened with that afternoon’s rain. ‘I had no choice. She has developed hysteria, Dr Jefferies.’

‘Quite!’ An exclamation that left the Colonel wondering whether the good doctor approved of such medication or not.

The physician straightened and walked vigorously over to the window to pull the thick faded velvet drapes closed. The room immediately took on a covert atmosphere. With surprising gentleness, Dr Jefferies took Lavinia’s hand and stroked it paternally.

‘And now, my dear, could you please remove your bonnet and wig…behind the screen.’

After a nod from the Colonel, Lavinia stepped behind the bamboo screen. On the other side were a rococo mirror and a mannequin’s head—the kind you might find in a hat shop—on a small console. She untied the ribbons of her hat and slipped it off, followed by the wig, which she placed on the mannequin’s head. She glanced into the oval mirror. It was the first time she had looked at herself since James had cut her hair. The face that stared back from the glass appeared startlingly young. In a moment of bewilderment, Lavinia looked behind her, not recognising herself. Then she touched the glass.

What have I become, she wondered. Is this some creature who has lived under my skin all these years only to emerge now? Where is the young Irish girl who stood at the mirror in her father’s house all those months ago thrilling at the adventure before her? Where is my happiness? My spirit? All that had defined me?

Eyes gleaming, the phrenologist ran his fingers across the bumps and slight indentations that made up the landscape of Lavinia’s skull. Revolted by his touch, Lavinia clutched the arms of her chair to stop herself bolting from the surgery.

‘Fascinating.’ His breath was a noxious wind that forced Lavinia to hold her own.

Taking a pair of callipers that hung on a hook on the wall above the desk, he measured both the length and width of her skull as delicately as if he were handling an ostrich egg, then scribbled a few figures into a small notebook.

Reaching back to the desk, Dr Jefferies picked up a soft wax crayon, which he used to mark and divide areas on Lavinia’s skull as dispassionately as a surveyor might draw up a plan for a railway. It was a curious sensation. She felt like an anatomical display, a novelty.

She glanced over at James. His expression disturbed her; she had never seen him look at her so coldly.

‘As you know, the human brain is divided into twenty-seven organs, nineteen of which are shared by both beast and man.’ The phrenol

ogist pointed to a section at the top of the head. ‘One, the reproductive instinct; two, the love of one’s offspring; three, the ability to be affectionate, to have friends. Four, self-defence, courage and aggression. Five, the tendency to murder—in animals this would be the carnivorous instinct. Six, guile; seven, covetousness, the tendency to steal; eight, arrogance, a love of authority, pride. Nine, vainglory—’

‘Quite, quite, Dr Jefferies,’ the Colonel interjected. ‘But you forget that I myself have been a student of phrenology. With respect, we are here for a diagnosis not a lecture.’

‘In that case, I shall curb my loquaciousness, Colonel Huntington, and continue my examination.’

The crayon circled a bump on the left side of Lavinia’s head. Dr Jefferies tsked in disapproval, then sent his pen scratching even more vigorously across the notebook.

‘That protuberance is the result of an injury as a small child,’ Lavinia said. ‘I remember it vividly.’

‘There is no such thing as accident when it comes to the skull. Each indentation or bump is a clear indication, a clear pathway to an emotion. Therefore, I would appreciate it if the subject refrained from expressing an opinion during the examination.’

He continued his inspection, making a two-dimensional map of Lavinia’s cranium until a whole topography was spread out before him, with small labels and arrows describing each characteristic. Finally, he looked meaningfully at the Colonel, who, taking the hint, turned to his wife.

‘My dear, I think it more fitting if you now adjourned to the waiting room while we discuss the diagnosis.’

‘But it is my skull, therefore I believe it is my right to hear the diagnosis also.’

‘To the waiting room, please. There will be no argument.’

Reluctantly, Lavinia slipped on her wig and bonnet then left the room.

Dr Jefferies flicked up his coat tails ceremoniously before sitting. After placing his thick spectacles upon the pinched bridge of his nose, he indicated that the Colonel should join him.

The Colonel peered across the desk at the sketch of his wife’s skull. His practised eye immediately discerned areas of character development; observations he could not argue with.

‘As you can see for yourself, your wife’s skull is small, suggesting a limited intelligence. She has a definite leaning towards hysteria, seen here in the distinctive dent in the organ of moral sense or sensitivity.’

The Colonel winced, a facial tic Dr Jefferies noted immediately.

‘I assume, as one man of science to another, I can speak frankly?’

‘It has to be done. But I’m afraid I don’t subscribe to the notion that a small skull indicates limited intelligence. If anything, I suspect my wife suffers from a surfeit of intelligence, which sits uncomfortably with her gender. However, I have noticed that since the birth of our son, and particularly in the last few months, she has become increasingly distraught.’

‘Precisely. Any hormonal disturbance in the womb will contribute to this type of hysteria.’ Dr Jefferies pointed to another shaded area on the sketch. ‘Do you know anything about your wife’s mother, her history? Often these abnormalities run in families.’