The Accursed

by Joyce Carol Oates

  (Imagine my surprise when Mr. Clemens regaled the dinnertime company with a most hilarious story of three Georgia Negroes who journeyed by rail to New York City & saw their first snowfall, which they were convinced must be falling cotton!)

  As Mr. Clemens was turning away, to take his place at the billiards table another time, where, it was said, he had lost some five hundred dollars to Count von Gneist, he said to me, with a squeeze of his chill fingers, “When you climb to the pinnacle, Mr. Wilson, as I have no doubt you will do, as I have done—there is but one direction left for you: the sudden step out, into empty space.”

  5 p.m.

  Dear Ellen!—I am hesitant to chide my darling wife, & yet—it appears that you have misled me, & perhaps misguided me.

  I am loathe to make such accusations. Yet, I have read & reread the dozen letters you have written to me, since I left Princeton, & can find no evidence otherwise.

  Mrs. Peck says, I must not judge prematurely, or harshly.

  Mrs. Peck is most solicitous of my distress, & has arranged for her private physician to “check me out”—for which I am most grateful. Already Dr. Dodge has provided me with a six-ounce bottle of Oil of Castor & a new prescription medication derived from St. John’s wort, to be absorbed under the tongue at bedtime.

  Yet, my sweet Ellen, the issue here is a conversation between Count English von Gneist & your anxious husband, that transpired within the hour. “Mr. Wilson, may I speak frankly with you?”—so my confidant began, informing me that he had been hearing of “certain disturbing rumors” in Princeton, through correspondents there; one of them pertains to an “imminent bequest” from a Mr. Proctor—(this would be William Cooper Proctor ’66, an admirer of Andrew West); & he felt obliged to honor the friendship that had recently sprung up between us by informing me of this fact; & by adding that it was common knowledge back in Princeton that my opponents are busying themselves with a malicious letter-writing campaign to all the alumni, reiterating charges of “unprofessional behavior” at Charleston, & elsewhere; & agitating for my resignation; while I am idling away my time in Lotus-Land.

  “It seems to me very strange, Mr. Wilson,” Count von Gneist said, with an air of sincere regret, “that everyone in Princeton should be speaking of such developments while the president of the university is kept innocent—that’s to say, ignorant—of what is happening. Have you no loyal, trusted correspondent, at home, who might have been trusted to inform you.”

  To this, dear Ellen, I was utterly unable to reply. I simply could not reply.

  Stumbling away & much disturbed & only now, dear Ellen, sweet Ellen, able to express what is in my heart, my disappointment with you; for I have trusted my helpmate, to report such news to me; I cannot trust my aides, still less my office staff. I know you mean only to shield me, & to give me time, as you thought, to recover from the strain of constant overwork, & my ongoing symptoms of ill health; I know that you do not mean to deceive me, or to undermine my authority at the university. But all my passions are on such a terrible scale of power, Ellen, you must know that my fighting Campbell spirit cannot be suppressed without violence to my soul . . .

  I have made arrangements in town to take the 9 a.m. steamer back to the mainland, tomorrow; from there, I shall take a train, & return to Princeton as soon as possible—not so belatedly as Odysseus, yet with that great wronged warrior’s fighting sword, wielded against my enemies!

  It is true, I shall not try to conceal it—I am most upset & most aggrieved with you, dear Ellen; this has caused a serious strain in our marriage, which I would not wish to call an imminent breakage. Cybella Peck has counseled me, one must not act in haste at such times; she cautions me to remain calm; for the “marital bond” is both a delicate knot & a “strangle-hold” with which she has learned to negotiate, she has said, upon more than one “fraught” occasion. Yet Cybella points out to me that it is not too late, I have not mailed the “compromising” letters, that would have so undermined my authority; it is not too late for me simply to burn them, & erase from my memory the ignominy of their composition. Such a craven wish to be liked—by a Campbell of Argyll!

  I am beyond that now, I hope—as my enemies will soon discover.

  Now, dearest Ellen, I shall pack; & I must bid my adieux to the Governor, & Mr. Clemens, & Count von Gneist (whom we shall be seeing again soon in Princeton, & often, I hope); & express my condolences to poor Mrs. FitzRandolph (for it was Edgerstoune, I have only just learned, in addition to the son of a tourist, who was killed by a jellyfish—not lion’s mane evidently, but a species called “sea wasp”)—ah, we shall hear more of this in Princeton, I suppose!—for it is very sad, & very foolish, that a grown man might tramp along the Bermuda beach, sans shoes & socks, into a swarm of disgusting jellyfish.

  Forgive my acerbic tone, dearest wife. Truly I am not angry with you, but rather more with myself, for having trusted you, as my helpmate. It is but my nerves, my precious darling, & a sudden fierce gale-force wind rattling the shutters, as hurriedly I pack, to bid farewell to Sans Souci, where my life has been so vitally altered, & set back upon a triumphant track.

  Your loving husband,

  Woodrow

  “A NARROW FELLOW IN THE GRASS . . .”

  (From the secret journal of Mrs. Adelaide McLean Burr)

  _____ . One day, you shall see, they turn. Husbands turn, & there is no solace then but the grave.

  _____ . It has happened. I have imagined nothing. I am deceived. I have been deceived these many months. But I am deceived no longer. Ah Horace!—my love! How could you betray your loving Puss?

  _____ . It is early spring. The year 1906. I shall not see another, I fear. I have sent notes to Mandy, who has returned from Bermuda it is said. Begged her to drop by for tea & might she bring the Count with her for I have heard so much of that esteemed gentleman & now I am bedridden & shall not see him otherwise. My husband nightly deceives me with harlots beneath this very roof, I shall appeal to the Count as a gentleman, to protect me. My husband despises me now & wishes me dead & I am not safe any longer in my own bed.

  _____ . A smell of camphor, witch hazel, belladonna & mint. The acrid taste of St. John’s wort, that Dr. Boudinot promises will “lighten” melancholy. A faint smell of the water-closet, that needs scrubbing again. The new girl Griselda must get on hands & knees.

  _____ . The hairs on my head stand up, affrighted. I am like the cat’s tail—when she is terrified or enraged, the tail puffs to twice its size, & switches like a demented pendulum. & the sheathed claws emerge, & the sharp glistening teeth.

  _____ . He shall not smother me, as Othello smothered Desdemona.

  _____ . On my bed-table beneath Mrs. Fern’s insipid A Poesy of Verse are hidden Poems by Emily Dickinson—(though I cannot think that is the poetess’s name, such unpolished verse would be an embarrassment naked in the world)—& Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman—(certainly, this cannot be the poet’s name!—such poems of naked shame, perversion, inversion!)—& several volumes by Madame Blavatsky, that Horace has warned me against; & think that I have asked the girl to carry away.

  _____ . & yet, I find that I must read my Bible. As my mother before her, & hers before her. In these thin, yellowing pages are the splotches of women’s tears. O God protect me from the Fiend. How has it happened, my handsome upstanding curly-moustached husband Horace, praised by all of the West End as the most devoted & diligent of husbands, has turned? My lips chalky from Oil of Castor move in a whispered prayer Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death I shall fear no evil: for Thou art with me . . .

  _____ . A sleety sort of rain, very strange for this time of year. Hard & glinting like sand against the windows. Murmurous wind in the chimney. I am alone. I shall be murdered in my sleep. The household staff will press their hands to their ears like monkeys not-hearing as they are not-seeing the succession of harlots he has brought to this house. I know not, is it day or night?—for the sky is such, no sun will shine. I have devoured
all the tablets Dr. Boudinot left for me with a forefinger to his lips—This is our secret, Adelaide! I know not what the man meant, he is an idiot. It is said he injects morphine into his veins, & has made himself an imbecile. Yet, he is all that we have. We must trust Dr. Boudinot. Oh Horace! Why have you deceived me? Why have you turned from your devoted wife to the arms of others—to the arms of shameless sluts?

  _____ . “Why do you cry, ma’am,” the new girl Griselda inquires of me, staring pop-eyed at Puss hidden beneath covers; & scurries away downstairs to tell all in the kitchen of the mistress’s “strange mood”—“the way white-folks ladies is.” & gossip flies from kitchen to kitchen through the West End: from Maidstone to Pembroke to Arnheim to Wheatsheaf to Westland to Drumthwacket to Crosswicks to—(I know not what lies beyond Crosswicks unless it be Hell). & when the girl is gone I take up my mirror & gaze at the wraith therein. Ah, the once rosy cheeks now sallow & stained with bitter salt-tears!—& no one shall notice, & no one shall care. My hair all a-frizz: wild & smoky-hued & now the hideous mortal touch of gray has appeared; for I had to dismiss nasty little Hannah who did the henna rinse with such skill (for the Negra trollop was a common thief, stole from me my grandmother Burr’s ivory miniature brooch in the shape of a swan & she would not confess though I screamed at her & threatened to have her thrown in jail)—& I do not wish the new girl to touch me so closely. Nay be gone!—be gone & let me sleep. For my Horace has ceased to love me & naught but the grave awaits.

  _____ . When I love thee not, then is Chaos come again.

  _____ . Bored & restless & yet when Lenora Slade called downstairs, I sent word that I could not see her. Mrs. Wilson, later that day. Of all people—Ellen Wilson! The Wilsons have not even a motorcar but must be driven by their betters & many days, Dr. Wilson bicycles along the drives of the campus it is said, & the boys themselves hide their faces in laughter. & the next day, Frances Cleveland nosed by to see, doubtless, if Adelaide is quite so bad as all are saying.

  _____ . Cannot breathe easily. Cannot sleep despite the laudanum.

  Cannot eat save a bit of apple geranium jelly—(kindly dropped off here by Johanna van Dyck)–smeared on toast; & a cup of Earl Grey diluted with cream & honey; & a midday meal of bread pudding brushed with confectioner’s sugar—that is all my poor stomach can tolerate, no matter that the doctor scolds, & Horace as well. (But the bread pudding had so curious a taste, though it is an old recipe of Minnie’s, I wonder if poison was brushed onto it; the “powdered” sugar which is ARSENIC.)

  _____ . The thieving trollop goes about saying that her mistress dismissed her for her refusal to acquire ARSENIC at the pharmacy. & that is a libel & a slander, too outrageous to be confronted. In my dream the Count appeared before me. I begged him not to come near for I am a married woman utterly loyal to my husband. The smoldering power of his tawny eyes & his noble furrowed forehead & “leonine” hair & of a sudden he had vanished—like all the others.

  _____ . At last after weeks of my importuning Cousin Mandy comes to visit. Insincere apologies as her widow’s weeds are insincere & a harlot-smile The Count sends his deepest regrets, Adelaide, being much taken up by last-minute preparations for a trip to the West. I did not berate my cousin but smiled with disarming sweetness. It is wildly accused of her, she poisoned poor Edgerstoune in Bermuda, though others claim it was but a ridiculous accident—the fool, barefoot, stepped on a poisonous jellyfish! (As if, barefoot or no, one would wish to step on a jellyfish, poisonous or no.) & it is wildly accused of Amanda, her little Terence bears no resemblance to the late Edgerstoune but to the Count himself—(though cooler heads prevail, noting that Count von Gneist did not appear at Drumthwacket until after the baby had been born). Soon we laughed, & wept a bit; for Edgerstoune was the noblest of men; & had been the most devoted of husbands. My cousin is handsomely dressed, as always; as a widow, she is most fashionable; around her throat a Japanese silk shawl of Sebastapol blue, & new smartly heeled leather boots from the new Italian cobbler on Guyot St. of whom everyone is talking.

  _____ . He is in the City, as he calls it—The City! They have all left me for I have driven them away & I do not care. I am sickly & bored & murderous & cannot conceive what Mrs. Blavatsky means by the temporal penumbra, that is to be transcended. A wildness comes over me, I shall set the velvet draperies in this sick-room on fire, I shall tumble & smash my medicines onto the bed, I shall sink my teeth into one chocolate after another until the box is entirely emptied; yes & spit the creams, cherries, truffles, walnuts, caramels, or whatnot, onto the carpet. Pah! I despise you all. The Count sends his deepest regrets dear Adelaide he has found true passion elsewhere. Mrs. Biddle dares to send up her card! Mrs. Armour & Mrs. Pyne! I shall gaze upon your pleading white faces as the Anarchists open fire & I shall feel no pity saying I do not know you, not a one of you.

  The opening of the third eye is, it is claimed, the most exquisite pain—and the most exquisite pleasure.

  I shall be a devi perhaps. Ascending in my etheric body to the higher penumbra.

  _____ . This morning the bedchamber is too cold. A draft from an ill-fitting window. By midday, it has grown too warm. The girl bungles & fumbles & bites her lower lip as she sets up my fan, for she is a dolt, fearing electricity. I see that she is dark-skinned in the Red Indian way, & with lips not entirely Negroid lips, for her ancestry is mongrel of course. & her hair coarse & straight, like a Lenape Indian’s. She is frightened of switching on the fan but I insist she must do so whereupon the broad, smooth, sharp, gracefully curved blades begin to turn, slowly at first, then with a soothing effect upon my fevered face.

  _____ . Unable to sleep, for Horace is returned from The City; & I never know when he will say good night to me, & what his breath will smell of, & how staggering & uncertain his step. By candlelight reading Mrs. Corelli’s The Traitorous Bridegroom till my eyes ached. Cannot determine if the tale is a literary masterpiece but it is painfully true. & then my volume of Dickinson’s verse which I nightly peruse, & a few pages of Whitman, to stir the blood; then, my “forbidden” volume of medical lore which I must hide from Horace & Dr. Boudinot alike, Medical Inquiries & Observations on the Diseases of the Mind by Benjamin Rush, M.D. (One of the chapters titled “The Morbid State of the Sexual Appetites” is quite terrifying & in its obscenity, unspeakable. I had not known that a man could write such words, & that any publisher would print them. For in truth I had not known that there were such monstrous things in the civilized world.)

  _____ . Why did you not bring Baby Terence with you, I wished to ask my cousin Mandy. Why is it, so few of your neighbors & friends have seen Terence. & is it so, poor Edgerstoune was often in The City in the days & nights preceding your trip to Bermuda?

  _____ . “Is it too late for me to have a tiny baby of my own?”—so I quite shocked prune-faced Dr. Boudinot the other day, who stammered a reply so insulting to me, I conspired to overturn a tea tray, and send a pot of hot steaming water into the gentleman’s _____ .

  _____ . (How good it feels, to write out such an obscenity: _____ . In this diabolical code of mine, no one will ever decipher it; & surely not Horace who is clumsy at charades as a goat on stilts.)

  _____ . Johanna van Dyck dropped by saying that she very much wished to see me as she was leaving soon for Quatre Face, overlooking the Delaware Water Gap, for a much-needed rest; she & the baby & a small household staff; but not Pearce, who must remain at the university of course, & whose health does not allow him to travel. Though I wished to see Johanna, yet for some reason I screamed at Griselda to send her away; for I am devastated, poor Puss is deemed unworthy of having a baby, while Johanna who is years older has had her baby. It is unjust!

  & my Horace is always in The City; or hidden away in his bedchamber at the far end of the corridor where—(I have heard him, I think)—he weeps & gnashes his teeth.

  _____ . “Puss? Dear Puss! Do look at your anxious Horace, do.”

  Drawing a chair close beside the divan it is Horace looking mo
st anxious indeed, & my stern heart melts; for I have wronged my husband, I think; or, in the confusion of my laudanum dreams, Horace has wronged me. He complains of the airlessness of the room, & the “queer” odors, & the “heavy gloom” of the draperies, & my smoke-darkened lamp. His face is freshly shaven, it seems; his eyes burn with yearning; I cannot help but observe how he has so gnawed upon his left thumbnail, the very skin surrounding it is raw & bleeding. Do not touch me, do not come so close, I cannot bear to be touched—so I beg; Do not leave me, do not abandon me, I am your lawful wedded wife who loves you dearly—so I plead.

  _____ . (In Dr. Rush’s book, the unspeakable lusts of which the animal-in-man is capable have been recorded in unflinching detail. One by one these pages shall be fed into the little fire in my fireplace, which the boy Abraham shall set for me; one by one, such loathsome revelations put to the flame. Slyboots Puss will hold her tongue & hint not a word. For they would punish her horribly if they knew of her discovery—the Reverends & Bogeymen of Princeton.)

  _____ . Dear Aunt Prudence dropped by this afternoon; or was it yesterday. My heart leapt with hope at the sight of the woman’s sunny & unperturbed face, though softened with age, & lined with many creases, yet Aunt Pru smiles happily; for she has made the rounds of the houses from Wheatsheaf to Pembroke, from Drumthwacket to Mora, from Westland to Crosswicks, giving the females of the household, as she claims, a sampling of white witchcraft—(mouse-ear, hawkweed, periwinkle, Atropa belladonna, edelweiss, mandrake, cloudberry tea, dog-bane tea, & “live-forever”)—& never exhibits very much care of her own. Aunt Pru winks at me promising, “What is to be, is to be. We can hope to be but precipitators.”