Perdita

by Hilary Scharper

  At length, Aunt Louise came to a pause, and I could not prevent myself from asking her about herself. Was she not educated? Did not Grandpere have great aspirations for her?

  “Mais non,” she exclaimed. “Je suis très bête!” And then she added, “Comme ma mère.”

  I was a little shocked to hear her describe herself as stupid—and also my grandmother, for that matter. But surely my grandfather loved his wife; Aunt Louise describes them as quite a devoted couple, and Grandpere was heartbroken at her death when Aunt Louise was still a little girl.

  And so today I have learned something of my mother’s early life—but remain quite in the dark as to her feelings for her father and the tensions that seem to have so divided them.

  January 29

  Allan came today and we spent the whole morning together. I am newly shocked each time I see him; truly he is a boy no longer! It seems as if overnight he has grown six inches and everything about him—his hands and arms, his neck and the span of his shoulders—are now a man’s. And yet his spirits are still those of a boy—I am sure! He still teases incessantly, and he has found a new devotee in Aunt Louise.

  Dr. McTavish is quite fond of Allan, too. I am coming to appreciate how extraordinarily perceptive a man he is. I wonder if it is his experience with birds, for he approaches people sometimes almost as if they were birds. I mean by this that he sees them as creatures with their own, unique characteristics. Not immoral qualities or inclinations necessarily, but just ways about them that are part of who they are. I am astounded by how many of his friends simply talk to him about themselves. To be sure, he takes copious mental notes, and I am often the beneficiary of his cogitations about all his strange acquaintances, but they do come to him, almost as birds to an outstretched hand.

  Once he said to me that a truly wild bird will never come to a human. I asked him why and he grew thoughtful. I remember that we were sitting by the fire at his lodge, both of us staring idly into its glowing embers.

  “I do not fully know,” he said at last. “But that is how I can tell that a bird is truly wild. The ones who will not come; they are the wild ones. You may stand quietly near them, if they permit you—but even in such proximity, there is no illusion about who is the stranger and who is not. Perhaps that is why I come to this cabin year after year…to be in the company of wild things.”

  He said it in such a way that I marked his words, and then I remember noting the distance between our chairs, and I began to ponder our own proximity to each other in that cozy room, the wind howling outside—me with my shawl across my shoulders and ready to depart into the growing darkness with Claude at my heels. I wondered if I were like a domesticated bird partaking of his gentle kindness—or were I the wild bird grown accustomed to his presence in my own environs?

  He did not look up at me, and the moment passed.

  January 31

  There is a steep hill at the far boundary of Dr. McTavish’s property and a precipitous footpath that winds its way down to the road below. A little farther, there is a terminus for the streetcar where often a fresh horse is exchanged for the poor creature that has just pulled its heavy load up the street. This footpath is used, I believe, mostly by tradesmen and the day servants who come to these houses early every morning and then depart often long past the dinner hour. I have watched them sometimes, disappearing down this pathway, heading farther south, and then descending into worlds that are unknown to me.

  Dr. McTavish has told me that this hill marks the old edge of the Great Lake, and that long ago, as the massive slabs of ice melted, the waters withdrew and left behind the long stretch of flat land that so appealed to the city’s first settlers. I do not know why, but I am very drawn to this ledge. I will ever take this route on my walk to the hospital, for there is a copse I like to visit—where I like to pause and look down at the city and think of the waters that once covered it and the waves that once must have crashed and played where my feet now stand. The place is somehow both an edge and a dividing line; here I feel caught between the city and the open country that sits atop the large estates behind me. I must admit I possess a peculiar affinity to this place and its echoes of the Great Lake that stretches out like a gray ribbon near the horizon. Although my own Bay is many miles away, this Lake seems even more remote—almost lost, as if wounded, or imprisoned perhaps. I do not know! But I am troubled by its elusive presence. It is an odd thought, but I think that it is at this threshold, this edge between the old and the current Lake, that one might truly hear its movements—neither closer, nor farther away, but here at this juncture of land and spectral waters.

  Earlier this afternoon, I was in my usual place, stopping for a moment to watch the trees as they gently divested themselves of snow and straining my ears to catch sounds of the ancient Lake. I must have been so intent upon this that I did not at first notice a man walking up the pathway near me; as he drew nearer, I assumed it was a tradesman or one of the groundskeepers. It was George, however, wearing a dark, heavy coat and a thick scarf tucked in at his throat. He did not see me, as he was careful to observe his footing on the treacherous path, and it crossed my mind to let him pass by me unobserved, for he has been so strangely distant—as if uneasy around me, and it pains me so to see him thus. I had once thought that we might be—better friends—or so it seemed given his attentions to me during my illness. I wonder if he has forgotten giving me his painting? I would, of course, return it if he requested it, but I think my heart might break. I have taken to avoiding George because I sense somehow that it displeases him to see me. Perhaps I am too proud, but sometimes I find myself even a little displeased with him. What kind of a man is he really? I am so drawn to his paintings, and yet does their beauty truly belong to the man who makes them?

  I watched him reach the top of the hill, and I thought him so changed: his face so haggard and drawn that it frightened me to see him so wretched. I called out his name as he passed by the copse—my voice now ever tentative and shy around him, but this time I felt fear in it. He did not hear me—his hat was pulled close about his ears and he passed not five paces in front of me. I caught a closer glimpse of his face as he trudged forward—so hard and unhappy, oblivious to the crest of the hill and the movement of the trees as they dropped clumps of snow onto his hat. Oblivious to me. I hesitated and thought to call out his name again, but he was soon too far away. I walked to the hospital saddened and troubled—thinking of the Lake that no one seems to take heed of and feeling my own inconsequence.

  ***

  This evening, Dr. Reid accompanied me home after my visit to the hospital and stayed to dine with us. We had a pleasant walk together, for Dr. Reid was in high spirits and full of amusing conversation, and he was scrupulously attentive to me as we traversed icy patches of road, taking my arm firmly to guide me, and I was quite content in those moments to receive these solicitous attentions. I entered the house warm with animation and eager to take off my coat, for I felt flushed by our conversation and the brisk pace that our trek through the snow had taken.

  I was surprised to find George with Dr. McT. in the vestibule, and more so because for the first time in weeks he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. He greeted me warmly, and I think my heart was in a flutter as he shook my hand. I withdrew it rather quickly—and then I was annoyed with myself, for Dr. Reid was observing me closely and I knew that those sharp eyes of his miss little. Indeed, I caught him looking at me several times throughout the evening, and though I do not find his gaze unpleasant or ominous in the least, I feel somewhat transparent under his inspection. He knows too much of human nature, and I feel that I might betray myself too easily to him!

  I took extra care in my dress for dinner—and with my hair, too—and I held swift and pointed counsel with Edgar, who looked on all my careful ministrations with his usual reserve. It is true that he is but a common raven, but I have cleaned him up and elevated him to the status of “keeper of th
e pearls”—which pleases him immensely—and he has become my confidant. No doubt Mrs. Ross would disapprove of this usage of him, and he is still rather shabby on one side, but I have grown quite fond of him. I justified my preening to him with dispatch and then flew down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to collect my wits.

  I was a little aggravated with myself for seeming to be so pleased with George’s sudden friendliness, and so I stilled my features and tried to look composed—but I will admit my heart was beating so loudly that I was afraid that Dr. Reid might notice.

  We had a lovely dinner in the round room, and though I am still unused to having dinner served in such a formal manner, I felt more at my ease than ever before. Dr. Reid told George and Dr. McTavish about accosting me at the fountain and of his determination to replace the statue of the three Fates with something “much more medical and less pagan,” lest his patients think his methods to be some form of quackery. Dr. McT. teased me, accusing me of producing unsettling effects on modern science, and I pretended to be nettled—but it was all in good fun and no one seemed to mind Aunt Louise’s breathless and bewildering sentences in English. I do believe that at times she reminds me of Flora in Little Dorrit, and Dr. McTavish positively tortures me with his little grin and seems to dare me to laugh out loud at her labyrinthine expressions. I pray that the angels prevent me, for I would be mortified to hurt her feelings and cause her even the slightest embarrassment!

  When she and I joined the men afterward in the front drawing room, they were well into a discussion of a Dr. Stone. She—for Dr. Stone is a woman—is a colleague of Dr. Reid’s. She strikes me as a formidably accomplished person. She is among the first women to practice medicine here and is a great advocate for women in all the professions. Dr. McTavish expressed some reservations about her: apparently he was once the object of her wrath for speaking publicly against admitting women to the university, and although he has since modified his views, she has never quite forgiven him. This, it seems, is much to Dr. McT.’s amusement, and he continues to invite her to the various literary colloquies he convenes in his home, but she has yet to attend one. I was most surprised to learn that she is a neighbor of sorts and that she resides near the Spadina Crescent.

  Dr. Reid defended her warmly, praising her skills as a physician as well as her courage in a profession deeply prejudiced against women. I wondered if there might be romantic sentiments hidden beneath his admiration—yet I sensed a certain hesitancy in him as he spoke of her, and perhaps a touch of overexertion in his praises. Dr. McTavish then turned to me and asked me playfully if I thought women should vote in elections. “Of course,” I responded stoutly, but I was alert to his next volley and refused to be trapped into defending the merits of my entire sex. I knew too well to fall for such a snare—and besides, I had watched him tease his friend Mrs. Ross on exactly the same subject and knew precisely his technique of feint and thrust.

  I don’t know how we quite came upon the topic, but Dr. Reid then began to tell us about his interest in diseases of the mind, and especially the ill effects of melancholia and its destructive course if left unchecked. He described the sufferings of some of his patients, and to be sure there were terrible cases among them: a man who was forced to have his hands tied at his sides to prevent himself from savagely biting his own fingers. Oh, and even more dreadful, a woman who tore out her hair a fistful at a time, seemingly unaware that she had done it, and though it left her bleeding and in great pain, she was unable to resist the urge to do so again.

  But then he told a story of a woman whose little girl had died of a sudden illness and that this had left her heartbroken. Her husband tried for many months to turn her thoughts away from the tragic event, but with little success, and he began to grow very worried as his wife’s melancholy deepened. It seems that each day she would rise, dress, and then walk to a distant corner of their garden where the child had played, and stand for hours in silence in that location, seemingly lost in thought and with a vacant, sorrowful expression on her face. There was naught that could deter her from this daily activity, not even inclement weather, and eventually the husband was forced to place her in a sanatorium where Dr. Reid now attends her.

  I grew very silent as he told this tale. I don’t know why, but I could almost see the woman in my mind’s eye and her silent and solitary form…and then I recalled my own self standing at the crest of the hill, brooding and straining to hear—something! Some voice perhaps. I know that it is there, but I cannot hear it, or rather I cannot discern it, though I feel so intimately connected to it. It is a feeling quite unlike any I experience elsewhere—different even than my response to Mother’s strange efforts at speech, for those sounds I know to be semblances of words. This other voice I seek out is something quite unlike regular human speech. I thought perhaps this grieving woman felt something of the same.

  “Marged, why are you so silent?” George asked quietly from his place by the fire, and I looked up at him. I realized that he had been studying me closely for several minutes and that I had been aware of it—though I was too preoccupied to become self-conscious.

  I shook myself a little, feeling as if I had drifted out of the room and back to the edge of the hill. Dr. Reid was now studying George silently. I rose and moved closer to Dr. McTavish, and then I asked Dr. Reid if he had ever been to the place in the garden where the grieving woman had stood and was astonished when he grew abrupt and even impatient with me. He said no, that he never had been there and would not be inclined to go there for that matter. What could he possibly expect to find there? It was as if he seemed intent upon finding fault with me, and I grew a little distressed.

  I don’t know why, but then I asked him somewhat timidly if there were trees in the garden, perhaps? Tall and old pines like the kind near the hill—but I regretted the words as soon as I had uttered them.

  “Trees?” he exclaimed. And then more mockingly, “I suppose there might be trees in a garden. Trees are usually to be found in gardens. But what could they have to do with this poor woman’s affliction?” He seemed annoyed with me, but somehow also fretful.

  Then we were all silent. I felt horribly awkward. I did not answer him, and I placed my hand on Dr. McT.’s shoulder, I think seeking a steadying presence in what I felt had become a sea of strangely shifting currents. He wore a thoughtful expression upon his face and patted my hand reassuringly, for I feared that I had somehow offended Dr. Reid. George leaned forward as if to say something, but Dr. McTavish motioned him to be silent. Dr. Reid frowned, looked directly at George, and then got up, abruptly announcing his departure. This of course broke up our colloquy.

  But perhaps Dr. Reid was not really affronted—for before he left, he managed to take my hand and mutter that he hoped that he had not spoken in a way to discomfort me. I tried to withdraw my hand, but he would not let me, and so I assured him that he had not. He explained that he was more accustomed to argumentation with Dr. Stone and sometimes forgot himself in the presence of other kinds of ladies. I cannot imagine what Dr. Reid means by this—except perhaps he sees me as being made of weaker stuff and hence more susceptible to bruising!

  Then I was aggravated, for George and Dr. McTavish had moved into the library, and though I wished to bid him good night, I dared not disturb them.

  And now it is quite late and I am so tired. No doubt I have made no sense at all. I shall ask Edgar to give me a good, sensible scolding in the morning—a request to which he will acquiesce, I am sure, with great pleasure.

  February 4

  At last I have met the celebrated Dr. Stone. But perhaps more to the point, I found myself admiring her almost immediately. It was quite by accident, and I am so glad that she has decided to forgive Dr. McTavish and will come to the theatrical he has planned for next month.

  I quite esteem her, and I feel that we have a kindred curiosity about each other. She is a strongly built woman, and her face, though pleasantly feminine, is q
uite square, and her expression kind but unyieldingly practical. She must be at least ten years my senior and has soft brown eyes and almost masculine lips, but her expression is frank and direct, and there is a kind of firm gentleness about her that I am drawn to. She is like looking into a clear pool of water, and though it is not deep, one is unaccountably reassured to see the bottom.

  I learned that Dr. Stone has dedicated herself to administering medicine to working women—for such is how she refers to them—and by this I understand she means principally poor women who are employed in the factories not far from where she lives. She lately had a great triumph at one such place. Until quite recently, the women had no separate washing areas and were forced to share facilities with men, but she succeeded in getting the women their own washroom. She also trains nurses to visit the homes and teach the women about sanitation and other such matters. I quite admire her, but I could not help thinking of Auntie and of how she might respond to a visit from Dr. Stone and her nurses. In fact, as I think of it, I should be rather worried for Dr. Stone!

  February 7

  My grandfather arrived today—he is two days early! My heart is still pounding as I think of our rather frosty meeting in the library. He, too, insists on speaking English, and I am so grateful to Dr. McT. for being there and helping me through that awful encounter. After a brief greeting, he watched me silently for a full minute, and I would not lower my eyes from his piercing stare. Finally he muttered that I was quite like my mother, and I, a little defiant, thanked him for the compliment.