The Mad Women's Ball

by Victoria Mas

  Nobody appreciates a consulting room more than a doctor. For those whose minds are steeped in science, it is here that diseases are diagnosed, that medicine progresses. They relish wielding instruments that terrify those on whom they are used. For the patients, who are forced to undress, the consulting room is a place of fear and uncertainty. Those who meet here are not equals: the doctor announces the fate of the patient; the patient takes him at his word. For the doctor, what is at stake is his career; for the patient, it is life itself. This rift is all the more pronounced when a woman enters a consulting room. When she offers up her body to be examined, a body simultaneously desired and misunderstood by the man conducting the examination. A doctor invariably believes he knows better than a patient, and a man invariably believes he knows better than a woman: it is the prospect of this scrutiny that makes the young women nervous as they wait to be examined.

  The nurse who brought Eugénie tells her to join the group. The wooden floor creaks under her boots. The girls all look to be about the same age. Not knowing what to do, they wring their hands or keep them clasped behind their backs, the wait interminable.

  Their audience is entirely male. Three assistants wearing dark suits and ties are sitting behind a desk, talking in low voices, oblivious to the anxious patients. Behind them stand five medical students in white coats who smile as they brazenly leer at the women waiting to be examined. Their eyes linger on breasts, on lips, on hips. They discreetly elbow each other, whispering crude remarks to each other. As she watches them, Eugénie thinks that they must have little experience of women for them to take such pleasure in ogling defenceless patients.

  She feels tired. Tired of being shuffled from room to room like a pawn. Tired of being addressed in the imperative. Tired of not knowing where she will sleep each night. She longs to be able to drink a glass of water, to wash herself, to change her dress. The pomposity, the absurdity of the situation has her on edge. Seeing one of the doctors surreptitiously staring at her, she shoots him a look of such fury that the young man bursts into laughter beneath his thick moustache and nudges his companions, nodding to the wild beast. ‘Did you see the look she gave me!’ Eugénie would have hurled herself at him but for the fact that, at that moment, the double doors suddenly swing open, making the patients flinch.

  A doctor enters the room. His short, wavy hair is slicked back with brilliantine and parted at one side. His drooping eyelids give him a worried and thoughtful air, one underscored by the elegant moustache that adorns his upper lip. He greets the assembled assistants and students, and takes a seat behind the desk. Geneviève sets the patients’ notes in front of him, then steps aside and remains in the background.

  The young women whisper amongst themselves:

  ‘Is that Charcot?’

  ‘No, that’s Babinski.’

  ‘So, where’s Charcot?’

  ‘If Charcot’s not here, I don’t want them touching me.’ Babinski quickly skims through the notes, hands them to Gilles de la Tourette who is sitting next to him, then gets to his feet.

  ‘Very well. Let us begin. Lucette Badoin? Step forward.’

  A scrawny blonde girl in a dress that is too big for her timidly steps forward. Her hair is plaited into a lank braid that falls down her back. She looks worriedly at the man standing opposite her.

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur, but . . . is Monsieur Charcot not here?’

  ‘My name is Joseph Babinski, I will be standing in for him today.’

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur . . . but I don’t want anyone touching me.’

  ‘In that case I cannot examine you.’

  ‘I’ll let Monsieur Charcot examine me . . . no one else.’

  The poor girl is trembling. She rubs her arms and stares down at the floor. Unperturbed, Babinski continues:

  ‘Very well, you will have to come back another day. Show her out. Who is next?’

  ‘Eugénie Cléry.’

  ‘Step forward, mademoiselle.’

  Eugénie takes two steps forward. Sitting behind the desk, La Tourette reads her patient notes aloud.

  ‘Patient is nineteen. Parents in good health, elder brother also in good health. No previous history, no clinical symptoms. Claims to be able to talk to the dead. Her father had her committed for spiritualism.’

  ‘So, that’s you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please unbutton the collar of your dress.’

  Eugénie steals a look at Geneviève; the nurse avoids her gaze. She has no active role in these examinations. It is for the doctors, their assistants and sometimes the students to speak. Her role is to remain silent, and she does so.

  Clenching her teeth, Eugénie unbuttons her dress. With a cold, clinical eye, Babinski examines her pupils, her tongue, her palate, her throat; he listens as she breathes, coughs; he takes her pulse, checks her reflexes. There is a sound of quill feathers scratching on paper as he makes his comments.

  Finally, Babinski looks at Eugénie, intrigued.

  ‘Everything seems normal.’

  ‘So, I can go home then.’

  ‘It is not as simple as that. Your father had you committed for a reason. Is it true that you talk to Spirits?’

  Absolute silence falls over the room. Everyone holds their breath, waiting for a satisfactory answer, because, deep down, everyone shares the same curiosity. It is even more noticeable among the students. These men who have devoted themselves to science love to hear such stories. No one is indifferent. Anything that concerns the hereafter stimulates thoughts, tantalizes the senses, confuses logic; everyone has a personal theory, something they are seeking to prove or disprove, yet no one has a definitive answer. They are torn between fear and the desire to believe, and fear leads to disbelief, because it is more comforting and less daunting to reject such ideas.

  Eugénie feels the intensity of the assembled company’s gaze.

  ‘If you are looking for some strange new creature to show off to curious Parisians, I should warn you, this is no such entertainment.’

  ‘We are here to understand and to heal, not to entertain.’

  ‘I agree, how disheartening it would be for the Salpêtrière to become a vulgar freakshow.’

  ‘If you are referring to Dr Charcot’s public lectures, let me tell you they are honourable and dignified.’

  ‘And what about this famous ball? I did not realize that hospitals were places where polite society gathered.’

  ‘The Lenten Ball offers patients some amusement and affords them some semblance of normality.’

  ‘It is the bourgeoisie that you are amusing.’

  ‘I would be grateful if you would simply answer my question, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Very well. To answer you precisely, no, I do not communicate with Spirits.’

  Sitting behind the desk, La Tourette taps the patient notes.

  ‘According to your notes, you told your grandmother—’

  ‘That my late grandfather had communicated a message, yes. I did not request it. It simply happened.’

  Babinski smiles.

  ‘Hearing the dead speak is not something that just “happens”, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Can you tell me exactly why I am here?’

  ‘Surely the answer must be obvious to you?’

  ‘People accept that a young girl saw the Virgin Mary at Lourdes.’

  ‘That is not the same thing.’

  ‘Why not? Why is it acceptable to believe in God and yet unacceptable to believe in the Spirits?’

  ‘Faith and piety are one thing. Seeing and hearing the dead, as you claim to do, is abnormal.’

  ‘You can see for yourself that I am not insane. I have never suffered a fit or a seizure. There is no reason for me to be confined here. None!’

  ‘We have reason to believe that you are probably suffering from a mental disorder.’

  ‘I am not suffering from anything. You merely fear what you do not understand. You claim to be healers. Have you seen the idiots in their white coats
standing behind you, eyeing us up as though we were meat? You are contemptible!’

  Geneviève feels the unease settle over the room. She sees Babinski gesture to two students, who immediately step forward and seize the madwoman’s arms. Geneviève suppresses the urge to intervene. She simply watches the young woman, until this moment so calm and reserved, scream, struggle and lose hope as she is dragged from the room.

  ‘You brutes! You’re hurting me! Let me go!’

  Her chignon has come undone and her hair falls over her face. As she is manoeuvred past Geneviève, the girl gives the matron a look she has not seen before. Her voice cracks as, exhausted, she whispers:

  ‘Madame Geneviève . . . help me . . . madame . . .’

  The double doors swing open, the waiting patients step aside, and Eugénie’s howls grow louder once more.

  Gradually, the screams fade; Geneviève feels a lump in her throat.

  The soft afternoon light shimmers on the lawns. It is a chill March day, but there has been so little sunshine in recent weeks that the patients come out to enjoy the brief sunny spell. They sit on benches, gazing at the sparrows and the pigeons; they lean against trees, stroking the bark; they stroll along the paths, their dresses brushing over the cobbles.

  A pale white figure moves slowly through the grounds. From a distance, the Old Lady is recognizable by her stature and her blonde chignon. On closer observation, there is something odd about her demeanour. Habitually rigid in her nurse’s uniform, her eagle eye scrutinizing the perimeter, this afternoon she appears distant, pensive, oblivious to what is going on around her. Head bowed, hands clasped behind her back, she moves across the lawn more slowly than usual. When she encounters a patient, she does not even glance in their direction. It is impossible to tell whether she is angry or melancholic – though it would be curious to think of the Old Lady as melancholic. To the patients, Geneviève has never been a comfort or a confidante. For the most part, she is intimidating; she can control the dormitory with a single glance. Despite this, she is the bedrock of the wing she manages – a stable, faithful presence every day of the year. The day depends on her frame of mind. If she is relaxed, the mood on the ward will be relaxed; if she seems tense, the atmosphere will be tense. Consequently, seeing her wander like a lost soul makes the patients doubt themselves so that they too feel lost.

  As she stares down at the paving stones, Geneviève is startled to hear a voice:

  ‘Hey, Geneviève . . . you’re looking pretty glum.’

  Sitting on a bench to her left, Thérèse is sunning herself, nibbling on a piece of bread and tossing crumbs to the sparrows and pigeons on the lawn. Her great belly rises and falls with each breath. Geneviève stops.

  ‘Not knitting today, Thérèse?’

  ‘I’m giving my fingers a little sunshine. You want to take a seat?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘It’s always nice when spring comes round again. The gardens starting to bloom. Puts the girls in a better mood.’

  ‘And they’re looking forward to the Lenten Ball. That always soothes them.’

  ‘They need summat to think about. What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Nothing in particular, Thérèse.’

  ‘Don’t look like that from where I’m sitting.’

  Geneviève turns away, reluctant to prove Thérèse’s point. She slips her hands into the pockets of her uniform and the two women gaze out at the gardens. In the distance, a carriage rattles under the arches, the horse trotting along the path. From this viewpoint, Paris seems quite distant, alien. Sheltered from the hustle and bustle, from the dangers and uncertainties of the city, one might almost think that life here is sweet. But, just as the walls block out the noise of the city, they also blot out the freedoms and opportunities, and those within are keenly aware of the limitations, the lack of promise.

  Thérèse continues to throw breadcrumbs to the birds that have flocked at her feet.

  ‘What d’you make of the new girl? The dark-haired thing with the posh voice.’

  ‘She is under observation for the moment.’

  ‘You do know that girl ain’t crazy, don’t you? I know a crazy woman when I see her, and so do you, Geneviève. That girl’s normal. I don’t know why her father had her locked up here, but she must have vexed him something awful.’

  ‘How do you know it was her father?’

  ‘She told me herself, yesterday.’

  ‘Did she say anything else?’

  ‘Nope. But I’ll bet she’s got a lot of things to say, that one.’

  Geneviève plunges her hands deeper into her pockets. She cannot get this morning’s incident, the expression on Eugénie’s face especially, out of her head. But what could she have done? It does not fall to her to decide whether a patient warrants being confined here or not. The women brought to the Salpêtrière are here for a reason. Her role is to manage her ward, to act as an intermediary between patient and doctor – not to offer a diagnosis or to plead the case for some madwoman. And when did she begin to think in these terms? Until now, her sole concern has been to feed the patients and care for them – or at least, try to care for them. This girl is sapping her energy. She needs to stop thinking about her.

  Kicking at a pigeon that has ventured too close, Geneviève briskly crosses the hospital grounds under the troubled eyes of the patients.

  Days pass. Having chosen their costumes, the patients set to work preparing the great hall where the Lenten Ball is due to take place. The great hall, with its elegant chandeliers, is decorated with plants and flowers, buffet tables are set up, velvet-lined banquettes are set beneath the windows, the curtains are dusted, the dais for the orchestra is swept, the windows cleaned. Joyfully, serenely, every patient joins in the efforts to prepare for the great event.

  Beyond the hospital walls, the cream of Parisian society are receiving their invitations: You are cordially invited to the Lenten Costume Ball, to be held at the Hôpital de la Salpêtrière on 18 March 1885. Doctors, bureaucrats, lawyers, writers, journalists, politicians and aristocrats – the beau monde of Paris is looking forward to the ball with the same rapturous excitement as the madwomen. In fashionable salons, it is all anyone is talking about. Memories of previous balls are evoked, the spectacle of three hundred madwomen, all in costume. Amusing anecdotes are shared – a madwoman who suffered a seizure that was assuaged by compression of her ovaries, the cataleptic fit suffered by fifteen patients following the crash of a cymbal, the nymphomaniac who spent the whole evening rubbing herself up against the men present. Guests recall recognizing a famous actress in some poor wretch with a vacant stare. Everyone seems to have a memory, an experience, a tale to tell. For these men from high society, mesmerized by the madwomen they see once a year, the Lenten Ball is worth all the visits to the theatre, all the society parties they endure. For one night only, the Salpêtrière brings together two worlds, two social classes, that would otherwise have no reason and no desire to meet.

  It is late morning. Geneviève is in her office organizing patient files when there is a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  The matron carries on filing documents; she does not look up to see the young man hesitantly enter and remove his top hat, revealing a shock of red curls.

  ‘Geneviève Gleizes?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘My name is Théophile Cléry. I am the brother of Eugénie Cléry. We had . . . that is, my father had her committed here last week.’

  Geneviève stops and looks up at Théophile. The young man is clasping his hat against his chest and looking at her shyly. Geneviève remembers the boy: hardly had he set foot in the hospital than he’d fled.

  She gestures for him to sit as she returns to her seat behind the desk. Théophile cannot bring himself to look her in the eye.

  ‘I am not sure where to begin . . . I wanted to see you because . . . I do not know whether su
ch things are allowed in the Salpêtrière . . . but I would like to see my sister. I would like to talk to my sister.’

  This is the first time Geneviève has ever received such a request. It is rare for family members to enquire about their patients by letter, still rarer that one should come in person to request a visit.

  Geneviève leans back in her chair and turns her face away. She has not seen Eugénie since the incident with Dr Babinski. That was five days ago. She knows that the girl has been placed in isolation. Whenever an orderly brings her a meal, Eugénie hurls the plate across the room. The nurses have had no choice but to avoid giving her cutlery or crockery. Now she is given only bread and butter, but she refuses to eat. Geneviève listens indifferently to the shocked stories of the nurses. Ever since she has avoided seeing Eugénie, she feels less unsettled, less vulnerable. She finds it reassuring to know that the girl remains in isolation, at arm’s length.

  ‘I am sorry, Monsieur Cléry, but your sister is not allowed any visitors.’

  ‘How is she? I realize that the question may sound foolish.’

  The young man blushes. With his forefinger, he gently loosens the silk scarf knotted around his throat.

  With his red curls falling over his pale forehead, Théophile reminds Geneviève of Blandine. That air of fragility, the delicate gestures, the freckles on his nose, his cheekbones. Geneviève tries to dispel the image of her sister; must everyone in the Cléry family remind her of Blandine?

  ‘Your sister has great strength of character. I am sure she will get through this.’

  The answer does not seem to satisfy Théophile, who gets up from his chair, takes a few steps and pauses in front of the window; he gazes out at the hospital buildings that line the pathways.

  ‘This place is vast.’

  Geneviève swivels and looks at the young man. He has the same profile as Eugénie: the same slim, straight nose, the same curl of the lips.

  ‘You see . . . my sister and I are not particularly close. In our family, our name is all that binds us. This is what we were raised to believe. And yet, I feel a terrible sense of injustice. I have not slept since last week. I cannot get her face out of my mind. We gave Eugénie no choice. I was weak; I took part in her incarceration and it is something I deeply regret. Please forgive me for confiding in you, it is most unseemly. But if I cannot see my sister, can I at least leave something for you to give to her?’