It was a damp April day, with long diagonal clouds over the Albishorn and water inert¹ in the low places. Zurich is not unlike an American city. Missing something ever since his arrival two days before, Dick perceived that it was the sense he had had in finite French lanes that there was nothing more. In Zurich there was a lot besides Zurich — the roofs upled the eyes to tinkling² cow pastures, which in turn modified hilltops further up — so life was a perpendicular³ starting off to a postcard heaven. The Alpine⁴ lands, home of the toy and the funicular, the merry-go-round and the thin chime, were not a being HERE, as in France with French vines growing over one’s feet on the ground.

In Salzburg once Dick had felt the superimposed quality of a bought and borrowed century of music; once in the laboratories of the university in Zurich, delicately poking⁵ at the cervical of a brain, he had felt like a toy-maker rather than like the tornado⁶ who had hurried through the old red buildings of Hopkins, two years before, unstayed by the irony⁷ of the gigantic Christ in the entrance hall.

Yet he had decided⁸ to remain another two years in Zurich, for he did not underestimate the value of toy-making, in infinite precision, of infinite patience.

To-day he went out to see Franz Gregorovius at Dohmler’s clinic on the Zurichsee. Franz, resident pathologist at the clinic, a Vaudois by birth, a few years older than Dick, met him at the tram stop. He had a dark and magnificent aspect of Cagliostro about him, contrasted with holy eyes; he was the third of the Gregoroviuses — his grandfather had instructed Krapaelin when psychiatry⁹ was just emerging from the darkness of all time. In personality he was proud,

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