Perdita

by Hilary Scharper

  “Marged.”

  There was a voice calling my name from somewhere deep below the snow and ice—and yet I knew that I must not step upon its surface, though my heart yearned to follow the voice. I stayed suspended there for a few moments, and then the clouds extinguished the moon and I knew that I was back in the dining room. Ivan’s hand was limp in mine, and he was slumped back in his chair, sleeping peacefully, or so it seemed to me. I gently released his hand, but as I did so, he sat bolt upright and whispered, “You are the one who fetched her—not I!”

  I opened my eyes immediately—for all that I had imagined thus far had occurred with my eyes closed. I heard Madame Gzowski softly admonishing us to keep our eyes closed no matter what might happen. My own traveled unhurriedly across the features of the Claremonts, Caroline’s furrowed forehead, and then Allan’s strained visage. Madame Gzowski’s voice intoned strange words, and I felt my limbs grow terribly heavy—so heavy that I could barely cling to George’s hand, nor could I turn my head toward him. With great effort, I cast a glance toward Dr. McTavish, and without any warning, he opened his eyes and stared straight into mine.

  It was then that I saw her behind him—oh, I am afraid to recount it! She rose up behind him: a young woman in a light-colored gown that seemed to be in constant movement around her. Against my will, I felt myself float up from the table and drift toward her. As I came closer, and to my horror, I perceived that her dress was a sheet of living spiders—scurrying madly across her body with long, shimmering filaments trailing from their bodies. The woman wore an expression of extreme anguish upon her face, and she carried a pair of silver scissors. These she brought to her forehead in great distress, and she seemed bewildered as to what she should do. She looked at me—and beyond me—and my heart was filled with a great and overwhelming anxiety for her. I strained to take the scissors from her hands, but my own limbs were so heavy that I could not make them heed my commands. And then, casting a look of utter despair at me, the woman took a deep breath and, holding the scissors, she began to rend her dress, tearing at the fabric indiscriminately and sending the spiders flying in all directions. Some of them scattered upon the table, and I wished to call out a warning, but my voice was locked in my chest, just as the woman seemed to hold her own breath captive.

  In a matter of seconds, her dress was in shreds and the remaining spiders had collected at her bosom. With one last frenzied movement, she clutched the scissors to her breast and tore at the front of her gown. At this, the spiders fled in earnest, and I saw them leap back away from her and into the air. And then I seemed to feel them fall upon my face and in my hair, and I screamed!

  George was standing beside me, calling my name, and I was gripping his hand so tightly that my nails must have pierced his flesh.

  And then Dr. Reid was there on the other side of me, his strong arms drawing me away from the table and then lowering me into another chair. Dr. McTavish was pressing a glass of water to my lips. I sat down in a daze.

  “What did you see? Tell us what you saw!” It was Caroline’s feverish voice, and I could see her eyes glittering at me with a strange intensity. Madame Gzowski was equally intent upon drawing from me what I had witnessed, and she urged me in her deep voice to tell all while my impressions were still fresh.

  We moved back into the drawing room, Dr. Reid taking my arm and leading me to the sofa. I was shaking uncontrollably, but I felt somewhat reassured by the room’s cheery fire. Dr. McTavish called for Mrs. Evans and asked her to take me up to my room, and I heard George’s worried voice affirm the wisdom of this arrangement.

  It was Dr. Reid, however, who said that it would be better for me to relieve myself of my impressions before I retired for the evening, lest they become more monstrous under the workings of my imagination. Then in a gentle voice, he asked me to describe what had startled me.

  I took a deep breath, and, as well as I could, I told them of the woman and her frantic efforts to destroy her dress, and then the confusion of the spiders and their bewildered dispersal. I did not tell them about my visit to the Bay and the voice that I had heard. I do not know why, but I did not tell them.

  Then I heard Dr. Reid ask me quietly if I could describe the woman. I recounted her features and dress as best I could. To my astonishment, Ivan chimed in, adding his own details to my description—yet how had he seen her?

  Dr. Reid drew a short, sharp breath when I had finished. “What is it, Dr. Reid?” I heard George ask.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Only that Miss Brice—and Ivan—have described with a strange accuracy the woman whom I told you about the other evening, the one who was under my care for melancholia regarding the death of her child.” He paused. “I am sorry to report that she—she took her own life this very afternoon. She did so with a pair of scissors that one of the nurses carelessly left in her room.”

  And then the room began to swim before me—oh, I must stop else I find myself in a swoon again.

  I will pray for her. I will kneel by my bedside and say a prayer for her—for this poor woman. For what else is there for me to do? I do not believe that God could be so cruel as to prolong her separation from her child. Her husband, poor man, did not understand the nature of her connection. Nor could he fathom that what she sought in her garden was consolation and knowledge that her dear child was safe and cared for—and that it was her trees who provided this communication!

  February 17

  George came to see me today, but I could not see him. I shall be myself in a day or two, but I just could not bring myself to see him.

  February 18

  I have had another restless night, and Dr. McTavish has grown worried about the dark shadows beneath my eyes, as well as my loss of appetite. He thoroughly regrets the events of the other evening and is most anxious that I feel settled again. I have tried to assure him that this state of nervous agitation is passing and that I shall be my own self again before long. I made an extra effort to eat at breakfast, and then I indicated that I might like to go to the studio. I think I am most at peace when I am in this small, dear room just off his library—most content when Dr. McT. is in his library working on his papers and I, just a stone’s throw away, intent upon my own tasks. He seemed pleased at this suggestion, and though I did not mention it, I thought that I might go out in the afternoon, as I was anxious to visit Mother. Aunt Louise was most indignant upon hearing about the séance, but Grandpere—who I am gathering is quite a philosophe—dismissed it as nonsense.

  February 21

  George visited me unexpectedly this morning while I was still in the studio. Dr. McTavish was nowhere to be found, and so I was quite surprised to look up and find George standing over my shoulder and looking down upon my work.

  He smiled and bent closer to see my handiwork. I was a little abashed, for I had had no time to prepare for this inspection!

  “Oh, George,” I blurted out with some exasperation. “Why do you come to visit me just when I am so wretched-looking?”

  “Marged,” he replied, “you must never wear any masks for me. I depend upon you not to.”

  I turned away—to be honest, so exhausted did I feel that had I looked like one of the Graiae, I should not have been able to lift a finger to improve my appearance.

  “Besides, you are as lovely as ever,” he said, and I turned to eye him rather severely for his compliment, for I am no coquette and do not care for empty flattery.

  George, however, was not to be deterred by my severity.

  “Is it so displeasing to you,” he said, “to have a man pay you a compliment?”

  “You must not tease me today,” I said, “for I am still all at sixes and sevens with myself.”

  “Are you still disturbed by the other evening?” he asked, bringing a chair up to sit by my side. Then I told him about the first part of my experience: of going to the Bay and seeing Tad and Auntie and Uncle Gil at the tabl
e. And then of the voice and how real it had all seemed. George listened and was silent while I talked, but I felt no ill judgment directed at me, and his demeanor was one of sympathy.

  I asked him if he thought she were real—the woman whom I had seen—or if he felt that my imagination, suffering under the impressions created in me by Ivan and his mother, had merely generated her. Such had been Dr. Reid’s conclusion—though he had no answer as to why I described his patient, whom I had never met, with what he had admitted was a disturbing accuracy. George shook his head and said that there were always things that we could not explain and that trying to do so sometimes created greater strain upon ourselves and that it might be best if I just set the experience aside.

  We both stood up, and I felt quite grateful to him, for his words gave me much needed assurance, and I resolved to follow his advice. I placed my hand on his arm, wishing to communicate my thanks for his solicitousness.

  I must have looked very forlorn indeed, for George suddenly turned to me and unexpectedly took me in his arms, pressing me closely to his chest. I was startled at first—a sea of emotions washing over me—my head reaching to just beneath his chin, so that our faces were hidden from each other.

  I am not sure how long he held me; it must have been a few seconds at most, for Dr. McTavish was again in the library, and George released me.

  And now my thoughts are all in a tumult again! What does his behavior mean? Perhaps his affections toward me are only brotherly, and I should feel so foolish if he discerned that mine were of a different order. I have heard nothing further about his relations with Caroline, but neither have I heard anything to contradict what I have already surmised. Am I to give him some sign? And why do I so savor the sensation of his arms around me? I am almost ashamed to admit how wonderful it was. If only I knew what course to take—for I am without buoys in these open waters!

  February 25

  I think I must write of tonight’s inspiring experience—though it is very late, just a little after midnight I believe—for my mind is far too stimulated by the evening’s events to seek immediate repose. Yet I am so tired, almost too weary to undress! I think my fatigue is owing to my lifting all the babies, and then I had to carry a good number of the toddlers, too, coaxing them to stop their crying so that their mothers might hear Dr. Stone’s instructions.

  Yet I am so glad that I attended the Baby Clinic, for such is it called. It has been just the right thing to stir me out of a strange lethargy, and I am determined to go again since it is held every Wednesday evening. I do believe there must have been thirty or more women there tonight, all with their babies and numerous other small children. Dr. Stone had two nurses with her—women of my age—and everything seemed a jumble of caps and mittens! One could not turn around without coming upon a child crawling across the floor, and I had to be so careful in my movements lest I inadvertently step upon small fingers or toes. I was given the task of placing the babies upon the scale and making sure they did not fall off; there was only one such instrument, and we had to weigh each baby while one of the nurses recorded its weight in a book. Oh my—how they all cried! There was only one among them all who was silent: a little boy with soft dark eyes. He looked so surprised at finding himself quite naked and placed upon a chilly metal basin; he kept staring up at me in such wide-eyed astonishment throughout the whole procedure that finally we all had to laugh.

  Many of the women did not speak English—or only in bits and pieces—and Dr. Stone repeated her instructions regarding pasteurization in at least three different languages. I discerned German, as well as a strange dialect of it—I later learned it was Yiddish—though it is all a blur given that I had to be attentive to the wailing children, and one little fellow, barely able to stand, somehow got himself out of the window and halfway out onto the ledge before I stopped him!

  I so admired the intelligence and animation of the women who attended the clinic. They were of all ages, and they seemed so eager to learn. On the way back to Dr. McTavish’s house, Dr. Stone explained that she holds these clinics in the evenings because most of the women work long hours at factories during the day, the majority of them in garment industries. She complained of the deplorable working conditions and castigated the factory owners with great vehemence for not providing more suitable and sanitary working conditions.

  Once I heard Dr. McTavish ask Dr. Reid about Dr. Stone’s politics, and it seemed to me that he evaded giving an answer. For my part, I am drawn to her direct manner of speaking, and clearly the women respect her, for she is very knowledgeable and even a bit stern with them. I don’t know quite why, but I am inclined to admire Dr. Stone; perhaps it is her firmness of purpose and the seeming freedom of her thoughts and movements. As I watched her tonight, I was reminded of myself back at home, picking my way along the shoreline without a thought as to how others might regard me—in my own element, so to speak, and unafraid of censure. Such is Dr. Stone in her clinic.

  I am burning with curiosity, however, to know if Dr. Reid has some romantic connection with her. He is almost reverential when he speaks of her and grows quite prickly if Dr. McT. suggests, even in the mildest way, some criticism. And yet he seems somehow not entirely pleased with her.

  This evening when Dr. Stone and I returned, he was with Dr. McTavish in the library and they seemed to be engaged in quite an animated conversation when we came upon them. I was quite surprised when Dr. McT. offered Dr. Stone a glass of his prized brandy, and even more so when she requested whiskey instead—I have ever regarded this as a man’s libation. Dr. Reid seemed quite displeased at this, but Dr. Stone, for her part, appeared to sip from her glass defiantly despite his obvious disapproval. I cannot say that I felt strongly one way or the other about her behavior. Auntie A.’s unyielding censure of all spirits has perhaps engendered an opposite tolerance in me. I think I took it much more in stride and minded not at all to see her drinking such a potent liquor. Perhaps it was witnessing firsthand Dr. Stone’s extraordinary competence at the clinic. Surely she is a woman who knows what she is about.

  Oh, but Dr. McTavish was in one of his horribly mischievous moods! He offered me some of the drink, too!—knowing full well that I could only refuse, for I have no inclination for the stuff, and indeed, I do not think Tad would give his approval for such a thing. But what was I to do? I knew very well that Dr. McT. did so to reveal some kind of contrast between Dr. Stone and me, but I was quite on Dr. Stone’s side. I think I must have looked quite severely at Dr. McT., for he seemed to relent, and he asked Peter to bring me a glass of sherry—which I took as a gesture of peacemaking on his part.

  Dr. Stone was soon engrossed in a heated discussion with Dr. McTavish, and Dr. Reid turned his attentions to me. He inquired about my impressions of the clinic, and soon we were both laughing at my description of all the children and the wailing mayhem that prevailed all evening. I was free and animated in expressing my admiration for Dr. Stone, and Dr. Reid grew so quiet and thoughtful looking at me that soon I relapsed into silence, knowing full well that he was in one of his studying moods and I the object of his meditations. Finally I looked at him quite boldly, meeting his gaze unabashedly with my own, and then he uttered the most incongruous thing.

  “Miss Brice,” he murmured, “your eyes are quite the most extraordinary blue I have ever seen.”

  I was speechless, and then I became aware of a silence at the other end of the room and grew a little flustered, for I was not sure if Dr. Reid’s strange comment had been heard by them.

  Dr. Stone rose and asked if Dr. Reid would see her home—and he of course assented immediately.

  We saw them to the door, and as she departed, Dr. Stone inquired if I might like to accompany her on one of her weekly visits to the factory homes, and I indicated that I would be most eager to join her. We settled on next Thursday; I shall have to curtail an afternoon with Mother, but I will attend to her earlier in the morning.

 
; I am so eager to tell Mother of my adventures this evening! But I must stop as my eyes are barely able to stay open, and I will fall asleep at my table if I do not hasten to bed.

  February 26

  In a few days, Grandpere and Aunt Louise will return to Montreal—but only briefly. They have asked me to accompany them. Of course I refused—oh, I do hope that Aunt Louise is not offended!—but I said that I could not leave Mother, and in this I spoke the truth. Aunt Louise promises that they will return shortly, for I do believe she saw me growing teary at the prospect of her departure. I have grown so fond of her.

  Yesterday Mother sat up in her chair for over an hour, and then, at teatime, Dr. Reid carried her downstairs and she sat briefly in the solarium. I am certain that the warmth and sunshine did her much good, for she seemed content and peaceful. Dr. Reid is very solicitous—and his attentions are never condescending, but so gentle and mildly teasing at the same time. Such suits Mother well; though she cannot speak, her quick, roving eyes indicate that she understands all that is said around her, and Dr. Reid’s manner assumes that she does so.

  I am deeply grateful to him, for Mother is improving tremendously under his care. He told me yesterday that he is doubtful that her speech will ever return. He was very gentle about it, but nevertheless direct. I feel as if I can trust him, for he is honest with me and yet there is an unaccountable tenderness in him—or so it seems to me. Perhaps it is my imagination, or perhaps it is his skill as a doctor, but I find myself depending upon his advice and he—he seems so adept and manly about taking charge of his patients that I cannot but admire him for it.

  Allan visited while I was out at the hospital, and I was disappointed to miss him. Indeed I seem to see so little of him despite our proximity. Dr. McTavish told me that he is full of George’s art show that is to be held in a few weeks; this is not the grand affair that Caroline has planned for him in New York, but a smaller one to be held at a distinguished gallery near us (whose name I now forget). Nevertheless, there are to be art critics in attendance, and the show will be an important event for George.