by John Paulits
De la Rue preceded Dickens, carrying a silver holder with three candles. When Dickens entered the room and the dim light fell on Augusta de la Rue, he felt as if he had been slammed in the chest again by the invisible pole across the road.
Madame de la Rue lay on the floor rolled into a tight ball, her knees drawn up to her stomach. Her head, which Dickens could not even identify from where he stood, hunched somewhere down on her chest, and her arms wrapped tightly around her body. Through Dickens' mind flitted the thought that somehow the woman had melted and congealed into the shapeless, hardened mass before him.
"She has been like this for nearly an hour," said de la Rue.
“No, no. Leave me be,” the woman muttered. A flow of indistinguishable moans followed. Then silence.
"Leave us, Emile. I will see what I can do."
Hesitantly, de la Rue left. When Dickens heard the click of the door, he approached the huddled woman. He placed the candles de la Rue had left on the side table and knelt next to Augusta.
Her long hair spread over her as if she were trying to hide under it. Dickens brushed it aside and followed it to its source to locate where Augusta had buried her head. The woman so contorted herself only her right cheek was visible.
"Augusta," he called softly. He stroked her cheek with the back of the second and third fingers of his right hand. "Augusta, it is Charles. I've come to help you."
Augusta moaned. "He's come back," the woman whispered and moaned again.
"I will rid you of him." Dickens knew he had to find some way to get Augusta to face him and open her eyes so his eyes could do their work. He continued to stroke her cheek and talk to her. "You had a very good day after I left, Augusta, and I will give you many more good days. Day after day you will grow stronger. Together we will fight the phantom who is attacking you."
A tremor passed through Augusta's body, and her head quivered.
"Do not fear the phantom, Augusta. I am here. I am with you." On and on he spoke, gently stroking Augusta's cheek. Ever so slowly Dickens felt the tension in her body abate.
"Can you stretch out your right arm, Augusta? Stretch out your arm for me."
Dickens repeated his demand slowly and firmly, all the while stroking the woman's cheek. For a moment the fingers on Augusta's right hand quivered and then her arm moved. Dickens could now see her face. He lay down on his stomach, his face only inches from the woman's face.
"Open your eyes, Augusta. I am here. You will see that I am here. It is Charles." If only he could get her eyes open, Dickens knew his visual ray would do its work.
He filled Augusta's mind with repetition after repetition of his demand.
"Open your eyes. Open your eyes. Open your eyes."
At last her eyelids fluttered and opened. Dickens talked on, ordering her to move her left arm. Her legs. Her head.
Finally, Dickens heard words indicating to him he had taken command of the woman's malady. She looked into his eyes and responded. "Oh, Charles. Thank God."
"Sit up, Augusta. Can you?"
With Dickens' help the woman sat up and leaned back against the bed.
Through the dancing shadows in the flickering candle-lit room, Augusta stared intently into Dickens' eyes as shadow and light played across his face.
"I am going to make you sleep, Augusta. The same safe and restful sleep I gave you this morning. I'm going to burden your eyes again with those same heavy weights I placed on them this morning. You will have no choice but to sleep. You will enter a private place where only you can go." With his index fingers Dickens gently stroked Augusta's temples and continued to talk to her.
"Rise, Augusta. You must return to your bed."
Dickens helped her to her feet and gently saw her into bed. He covered her with the counterpane and pulled a chair next to her. On and on he spoke, not touching her now but passing his hand back and forth rhythmically before her fluttering eyelids.
Where moments before he desperately needed Augusta’s eyes to open, he now desperately wanted to see them close; close into the same peaceful sleep he had induced in her that morning.
With a muttered, “Charles,” Augusta’s eyelids finally fell shut. Dickens stopped his gestures and let her sleep. After ten minutes he rose, took the candles, and left the room.
Emile de la Rue sprang from a sofa in the dark main sala.
"Sit, Emile. She is back in bed and resting."
"Thank you, Charles. I don't know what else to say to you."
"I will come back in the morning, with your permission."
"Of course you may come. You do not require any permission. You are needed here, Charles."
Dickens nodded his agreement.
"I believe she will rest through the night. I don't think anything else need be done for now."
De la Rue extended his hand. Dickens took it, understanding the inexpressible gratitude de la Rue offered him.
As they walked toward the apartment door, de la Rue said, more to himself than to his companion, "Why is this happening to her?"
The phantom, Dickens thought. The phantom - still Augusta’s secret, still unknown to her husband. Dickens knew he could not break Augusta's confidence.
"We will deal with it," he responded.
He left the Brignole Rosso and returned home.
Chapter Seven
Each morning for the next ten mornings Dickens visited the Brignole Rosso punctually at ten o'clock. (Dickens new daily schedule did not thrill his wife, who was particularly put out by a Christmas day visit.) Each morning he placed Augusta de la Rue, eager for his visits and his treatments, into a mesmeric trance to induce the rest she found impossible to get at night. Dreams came - dreams where Augusta's phantom prowled - but not dreams which had the fearsome consequences of the night that left her hunched up on the bedroom floor moaning.
Friday, January 3. Emile de la Rue had left for Turin, where his firm had an office. Before he left he petitioned Dickens to keep a close eye on his wife. Dickens readily complied, intent on learning more about Augusta’s phantom.
Dickens found Madame de la Rue in the sitting room dressed for the day when he arrived punctually at ten. She rose, smiled, and stretched out a hand to him.
"Charles."
"How are you feeling today, Augusta?"
"I rested well last night." Her left eye fluttered, and a moment later her left cheek quivered.
"Let's sit." Dickens scanned the room for servants and saw they were alone. "I told you that worse might precede better. Nights like the one before Christmas may recur."
"Yes, but that hasn't happened."
“It may. If it does, it will not be a setback. Augusta, if we want to permanently cure you of your affliction, we must deal with the phantom haunting your dreams."
Augusta deliberately moved her head erect.
"The dreams have weakened," she said softly, as if wishing to avoid what she knew Dickens had in mind.
Dickens shook his head. "No, we must deal with it."
Augusta lacked the power to argue with Dickens.
"How?" she whispered.
Dickens had given great thought to the information Augusta had shared with him. The questions he wanted answered were listed in his mind.
"Why haven't you told Emile of your dreams?"
Augusta could not face Dickens. She looked down at her lap. She quickly put her left hand to her cheek, which began to throb and shook her head.
"I don't know."
“Look at me, Augusta. Remember what I told you - about there being a state between waking and sleep - a state where more thoughts can fill your mind than can be remembered in weeks of dreaming?"
Augusta nodded.
"We will go there. I am going to attach those weights, those terribly heavy weights to your eyelids, August
a." It had become increasingly easy for Dickens to induce a trance in Augusta - something Dickens now depended on. He reached out, took the woman's left hand, and stroked the back of it.
"Look into my eyes and don't look away. I am going to take you to a safe place; a place where no harm can befall you; a place from which you will be able to speak to me with truth and in confidence. Look at me. Look at me. Don't turn away." On Dickens spoke as he stared into the woman's eyes with all the power he could muster and stroked her hand. At the first flutter of her eyelids, Dickens ceased stroking her hand, held it only, and with his other hand made gentle passes before Augusta's face as he talked about the safe place and about protecting her.
As he repeated his words, his mind wandered to his plan. Augusta refused to mention her dreams to her husband. Her condition had arisen shortly after their marriage. Quite possibly her new marriage and her new husband were the source of the phantom and the cause of her malady. He needed to eliminate this possibility before moving on to other theories.
"Augusta, how did you meet Emile?"
Dickens kept a hold on Augusta’s hand. Her eyes were closed and she breathed in the steady rhythm Dickens recognized from previous trances. She responded, "I love Emile. I love him. I was in Turin. With my father, a missionary. We were on our way here to Genoa, visiting sites. We met Emile at a gathering, a church gathering. Emile was about to leave for Egypt on banking business. We got on well but he had to leave on his trip."
Nothing more came. Dickens waited a brief time then asked, "Did you remain in Turin while Emile was away?"
"We moved on to Rome."
"Did anything happen in Rome? Anything you associate with Emile?"
"I met Rodney."
Dickens stared in astonishment as a tear formed in Augusta's right eye and trickled down her cheek.
"Can you tell me about Rodney?"
Augusta's left cheek began violent convulsions and her breathing quickened. Frightened, Dickens stroked her hand and reassured her again. When her cheek relaxed and her breathing settled, he gently woke her by repeating her name with a command to return to him.
When she opened her eyes, he dropped her hand and asked, "How do you feel?"
The woman drew in a deep breath. "I feel fine. What...did you...I can't recall anything."
“That is as it should be, Augusta.” Though Dickens managed to keep his tone of voice gentle, his mind raced. Rodney? Who the devil was Rodney? The name had never come up before. Should he chance interrogating Augusta openly about the name? Elliotson had cautioned him against confronting a patient with information newly learned under trance unless the patient herself raised the subject afterwards. Impatience to know burned inside of Dickens, but as impatient as he felt, his discipline held fast and he refrained from further questions.
"You will have a good day, Augusta. You should get out for a while," he urged, smiling.
"I certainly will try." She returned his smile. "I do feel good today."
Dickens rose. "I will be at home. You know you can summon me anytime. Don't hesitate. Promise me."
Augusta looked down. "You've proven that. I promise."
After a few moments of idle chatter, Dickens went home.
Throughout the day the name Rodney filled his mind. The lack of facts, though, to whirl around his mind and sort into some sensible explanation had Dickens yearning for his next morning's visit. He kept himself occupied with his children and the preparations for the Twelfth Night celebrations - magic shows, pantomimes, charades and small theatrical performances - still to come. After breakfast next day and a long walk through the city, he made his call on Augusta de la Rue.
Augusta was dressed and waiting for him.
Dickens greeted her and asked how she had slept.
She looked away then back at Dickens. "These dreams." She began to weep.
Augusta sat on the sofa and Dickens moved next to her. He reached for her hand. At his touch she threw her head back and breathed deeply.
"What is wrong with me?" With her free hand she rubbed at her eyes.
"Can you tell me what was in your dreams?"
"Only that...he...was in them."
"He?"
"That figure. Oh, Charles, it's all a mixed up fog of images."
"We made some progress yesterday, Augusta."
She turned quickly. "I don't remember..."
Dickens rose, pulled over a chair, and sat opposite her.
"Are you willing to continue?"
"Oh, yes, Charles. Yes."
"Then relax. Breathe deeply and relax." Dickens began to stroke her hand and leaned nearer. "Don't look away from my eyes." It had taken no more than three minutes to bring the woman into trance the day before. Today it took perhaps four.
"We are going to the same safe place we visited yesterday, Augusta," Dickens intoned.
Augusta lowered her head slightly.
"Who is Rodney?"
Dickens watched carefully as Augusta's breathing rate sped up. He stroked her hand, reassured her, calmed her. He repeated the question. Elliotson had told him repeating one question over and over would often take away the shock of having heard the question in the first place and could bring the patient into a relaxed state and invite a response.
Dickens asked again, "Who is Rodney?"
Suddenly, Augusta's eyes snapped open and startled Dickens. She clasped his hand tightly as fear etched her features. "Where is my brother?" she cried. "Where is Charles?"
Charles? First Rodney, now Charles?
"Who is Charles?" Dickens asked calmly.
"Where is my brother? Charles is gone."
"I am right here, Augusta."
"No, no. Charles. Where is my brother?"
Augusta's eyes closed and Dickens looked on, his stomach balled into a tense knot, as the woman's breathing settled into the rhythmic breathing of trance.
Dickens admitted to himself he had no idea where to go. Lamely, he repeated, "Who is Rodney?"
But Augusta de la Rue remained quiet. Dickens allowed her to rest in trance for another few minutes as he tried to come up with a new approach, another question, anything. He finally surrendered to the realization he needed more information. Who were these people she mentioned? Did they...had they...actually existed, or were they merely guises of the woman's phantom making an appearance for Dickens? Gently and slowly he woke her.
She dropped his hand and put her two hands to her temples.
"What is it?" Dickens asked.
"I felt a headache...but no. I’ll be fine."
Dickens hated to leave her but he rose nonetheless. Not knowing maddened him. "I will be back this afternoon, Augusta. With your consent, of course."
"Do you need to ask? But why?" Her face turned serious. Dickens' expression indicated it would not be a social call.
"We are making progress," Dickens explained with all the certitude he could muster and they parted.
Angus Fletcher lived on the edge of Genoa in inexpensive rooms atop a warehouse. The living conditions were Spartan, but a multitude of windows faced south. The situation proved conducive both to his pocketbook and his sculpting. Dickens set out for Fletcher’s directly after leaving Augusta.
Fletcher opened his door, tools of the trade in his hands. "Charles, what a surprise. Come in. Come in."
Dickens looked over the space. Fletcher lived in one large room crowded with statuary both complete and in progress. A light pale dust covered the floor. Various hammers and chisels were arrayed on a long table against the far wall. The view from the windows consisted of the few buildings further out on the edge of town than Fletcher's and a tiny corner of the harbor, a small splash of blue amid a tangle of grays and browns. Dickens spotted a bed in a corner. On a shelf over the bed he saw a small bust of himse
lf, one of Fletcher's practice busts.
Fletcher removed his apron and tossed it on the long table along with the tools he carried.
"I didn't know you would be working on a Saturday, Angus."
"I was about to stop for some wine and cheese. You'll join me, of course."
“Thank you, I will.” He removed his hat and coat and looked for a place - a clean place - to lay them. Finally, he tossed them onto a chair which had for the most part escaped the dusty ravages of Fletcher's workday.
Carrying a bottle of wine, some cheese, plates, and a knife, Fletcher led Dickens to a small round table and two chairs in a corner near a window. Fletcher set the food and wine on the table.
"I haven't seen you since your trip," said Fletcher, pouring the wine. Dickens, always happy to report on his reading of The Chimes, rushed through his travelogue to get to it. "Maclise sketched the scene. Carlyle was very impressed and I had Macready, the great actor, in tears," Dickens laughed. "I've already received a note from Forster telling me how well The Chimes is selling. He'll write again in mid-January, but the book seems quite the success."
"Congratulations," said Fletcher, wiping his fingers on his dusty black pants.
"Angus, I've come today for a special reason."
Fletcher refilled Dickens' glass. Dickens paused and watched the golden waterfall of wine from the bottle.
"How much do you know about Madame De la Rue?"
Fletcher sipped his wine before cutting a piece of cheese and popping it into his mouth. He shook his head dismissively as he chewed.
"What is it you want to know?"
"Do you know a Rodney or a Charles associated with her? Does she have a brother?"
Fletcher nodded knowingly and helped himself to more cheese.
"Was it she who told you about it or Emile?"
“No, Emile is away in Turin. I am asking you this in confidence, Angus. If you're not comfortable telling me anything entre nous then tell me nothing at all, but whatever you tell me must remain between us." Dickens knew he could not let Emile know of his prowling about in Augusta's mind. Since Augusta had kept her dreams of the phantom a secret from Emile, he would leave it to Augusta to decide what to disclose to him.