Perdita

by Hilary Scharper

  I pretended not to hear, but we were pressed by the crowd and he came even closer—so close that I thought I felt his lips against my ear.

  “Marged,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You must tell me.”

  I nodded, leaning back against him ever so slightly, and I felt him take my hand and hold it, hidden in the folds of my black velvet gown—there in the midst of all those people, and yet the gesture was invisible to all of them! Then, as the crowd dispersed and I moved to go forward, he released my hand, and I felt dizzy, as if I had been placed in water and a brisk current had taken me up. I turned, wishing to ask him why he had titled the painting Eidos—but a man approached him and drew his attention elsewhere. And then I was gone, taken into the swirl of the room, coming to rest, at last, upon Dr. McTavish’s arm, and there I remained for the rest of the evening.

  March 30

  Aunt Louise and Grandpere will leave in a week—and then only another will pass before Dr. McT., Mother, and I depart.

  Grandpere has given me a considerable sum of money, given under the trust of Dr. McTavish until I am twenty-eight years of age. I have asked Dr. McT. not to mention this to anyone, not even Tad, for I fear it will nettle him, and in truth I do not think we quite feel the sting of poverty that Grandpere attributes to us. Indeed, we have always had Mother’s money, though Auntie says that it is a modest amount; still we have never suffered for want of funds, and those terrible weeks of deprivation last year were owing to the ice and not to penury. I tried to explain all this to my Grandpere, and he smiled sadly and asked me if I were determined to dissuade him. He asked this of me in such an unusual manner, and I did not wish to appear ungrateful. Then he explained, his back to me and facing the fire, that there were many things that he might have liked to do for me, his only granddaughter, but that a foolish perversity had prevented him—and now there were but few things that he might do and this was one.

  “Beware of perversity, Marged,” he said, turning back to me, and his eyes were full of sorrow. “It is something that your great grandmother had, though she was a great woman and of a gifted intellect. You have a touch of it, I think. I have seen it on occasion in your flashing eyes.”

  Though he spoke a little sternly, as is his habit, I sensed affection in his words, and on impulse I embraced him. He stroked my hair so tenderly that I was glad I had hidden my anger from him, for never have I spoken disrespectfully to him, though at times my heart has held bitter feelings toward him on account of his treatment of Tad.

  Aunt Louise wishes me to visit her in Montreal, and I have promised that I will do so—though when I could not say with any certainty. I am so glad to have met her and to think of my connection to her across so many miles. I feel as if I now have family that I might visit, for though Tad says I have many cousins on his side, they live an ocean’s crossing away from us.

  Dr. Reid seemed anxious today; though he forbears to express it in my presence, I know that it unsettles him to hear us talk of our departure.

  I think I must close this. I am so tired from the day’s events and desire only a deep and peaceful night’s rest. I will think more on this, but nevertheless I must tell Tad of it in my own time.

  ***

  [Moisture damage for half a page.]

  We sat by the fire in a small parlor—there was a desk at one end, piled high with a confusion of papers and books, and more of these were stacked in a corner behind it. The room struck me as untidy in a mannish sort of way, for I was reminded of Dr. McTavish’s library, and though it is dusted faithfully by Ethel, still it refuses a housekeeper’s touch.

  Dr. Stone drew down a bottle from a cabinet as Mary poured our tea, and she alone drank from it, for none of us—neither Mary nor myself nor the other nurse, Miss Graves—were offered any of its contents, though I knew it to be some form of liquor, for I recognized its amber color and then its odor: whiskey.

  At first I was not alarmed, for Dr. Stone is not like other women and certainly I sometimes think of her as a man, though she is pleasing in form and I find her features quite beautiful. She sat in a leather armchair placed close to the fire while we, her guests, perched on cane chairs opposite her, and she began to discourse upon the disease of the baby that we had seen. Dr. Stone said it was a very rare disease—and told us its name, though I do not remember it—but it lies partially dormant in the bones and gradually corrupts the body as the child grows. Then she began to describe it, quite without emotion, detailing its characteristics and the progression of its deforming effects quite calmly. I felt myself flinching under the stinging precision of her explication, for it was a horror to think of what the child would grow to become and of its sufferings; and ever did I have the image of its mother’s eyes before me, so luminous and pleading, that it almost broke my heart to think of it—but I kept silent, listening quietly, as did Mary and the other nurse.

  At length she poured herself a third glass, drank it down quickly, and then poured a fourth, spilling some of the whiskey on the table as she did so. A heavy silence came upon us; I could hear only the soft roar of the coals burning in the fire, and then it struck me that I had no way of getting home and that I had expected that Dr. Stone would oversee my return passage, for such has been the arrangement during my previous visits to the clinic.

  Dr. Stone brooded for some moments in silence, and as we three grew increasingly restless to depart, she began to provoke her nurses—for both of them are missionaries of some sort and pious women—Mary in particular. Dr. Stone began by mocking them—for what kind of God would create such a disease, she asked. An affliction that grew infinitesimally worse each day, just as the creature infinitesimally gained consciousness of the effects of the malady. And the parents, too; they would begin with a seemingly perfect babe—beloved and cherished—only to watch the disease transform their angel into a horror. They would be spared nothing, she said, the disease would linger, the child’s suffering returning each day as a Promethean agony—death many months, even years, away.

  It was dreadful to hear her speak so! A devil, she said—only a devil could devise such a disease and then inflict it upon the perfect form of a child! A devil or a vengeful god, Dr. Stone muttered, and then she eyed me most strangely. During all of this, Mary and Miss Graves slowly collected their wraps and then departed, almost as if they were accustomed to this kind of denouement to the evening’s activities—leaving me, however, alone with Dr. Stone and the bottle of whiskey, now half gone, upon the table.

  It is true that I was a little afraid, but it felt not unlike a time when I was twelve and Tad and I came suddenly upon a bear, and he motioned for me to stand still and be silent. I knew that I must not move, though all my senses urged me to run, for the bear was large and it gave off a fearful smell.

  Dr. Stone drank in a leisurely way from her glass, looking at me with what seemed to be an undisguised hostility. Gone was the doctor and her impenetrable visage—gone were the pale gray eyes that took in much but gave little indication of what thoughts or emotions beset its keeper. She poured herself another glass, and it appeared to me that the bottle was almost empty—and then, drinking it down quickly, she turned to me, and I felt the full weight of her livid, malevolent stare.

  “You are stealing Andrew from me,” she said. And then she laughed in a hideous fashion. “I do not care for thieves,” she added. “And yet you are such a pretty thief! Such a young and pretty thief. Like that little baby, you seem such an angel. Yet it is I who suffer and not you!” She smote her hand against her breast in a dramatic fashion and then paused, seeming to fight something in herself. Then she drew her hand across her forehead and then to her mouth, as if to silence what lay there, as yet unspoken.

  Yet she could not contain her words, and the whiskey by now had the upper hand. “Each day—how I suffer!” she continued. “Each day you steal just a little more of him from me. And I hate him for it! I retire at night filled with hat
red for him, and then rise each morning full of love for him again!”

  I stayed perfectly still, focusing all my efforts on doing so, remembering—no, almost hearing!—Tad beside me whispering, “Steady, Marged. Do not move, daughter. Our lives may depend upon it.”

  She tried to rise but could not—and she fell back into her chair, frustrated and furious at her own impotence to reach me. Her face contracted, and I saw sheer hatred contort her features. I knew that had the means been at her disposal, she would have killed me without remorse. I knew her to be dangerous—but also drunk and like a wild thing.

  Dr. Stone then began to call me terrible names, but I knew by then that the bear was retreating and my danger was lessening, for to be truthful, she was by this time too inebriated to stand, and the alcohol that had liberated her tongue had turned traitor and robbed her of locomotion. I thought of how I might find my way back to Dr. McTavish’s house. I heard the bell from the streetcar outside the window and thought that this might be my best means of transport, for I had little money with me and had no sense of how I might procure a cab at such a late hour.

  Dr. Stone began accusing me of practicing vile artifices toward Dr. Reid. They were of such a debased nature that I could hardly believe she was capable of forming such thoughts! She cast in my face the inferiority of my position and implied all manner of immoral conduct from my upbringing—yet I sat, as if made of stone, under her torrent of insults. All of a sudden, I felt myself before Miss Crabbage once again, and I was recalled to that other horrible scene and her poisonous insinuations about my regard for Professor Latham.

  I do not know how I endured it!

  Dr. Stone pursued this course for some minutes and then sank back into her chair as if she had exhausted some foul reserve of venom. She motioned for me to come closer to her as if she might like to touch me or even embrace me. I kept my distance and would not approach her, and this seemed only to frustrate her and rekindle her anger.

  Then, just as I had resolved to leave, the door opened and Dr. Reid entered.

  She did not at first see him and continued her vicious attack against me. I saw his expression change into one of disgust and then revulsion.

  “Emily!” he cried. “Stop it!”

  She ceased instantly and began to weep, her glass falling from her hand and its contents spilling onto the carpet. She cried out to him in the most beseeching manner—it still chills my heart to think of it! “Andrew, you do not love me! You do not love your wife!”

  I was astounded, but I was careful to betray no emotion on my face, and quietly I got up to collect my things.

  Dr. Reid turned to me, his expression grim and unfathomable, and asked me if I would wait for him in the vestibule, and though I did not assent to this, I was glad to leave them. Indeed, I thought that I might walk alone, out into the night air, and escape that fulsome scene and the perturbing turn that the evening’s activities had taken. Without waiting for him, I began to walk up toward the hill, moving swiftly and silently. I knew that I should not do so, for I have been told that the streets are full of dangers for women walking alone, and no doubt this is true, but I stayed in the shadows, once passing two men who stared hard at me, but I paid them no attention and moved on.

  I was glad that it was terribly cold, for the streets were empty of people, and though my face soon became numb, I continued apace. At length I heard Dr. Reid calling my name behind me, but I did not slow my steps, for I was quite close to the edge of the hill by now, and I knew my way even in the darkness. He caught up to me, but I would not stop walking though he took my arm and tried to still me.

  “Marged,” he said, “listen to me! She spoke under the influence of drink. It is not as she claims. Good God, she is not my wife!”

  “Dr. Reid,” I rejoined, as quietly as I could and stepping away. “I only wish to be—home. This evening has taken a most unpleasant turn, and I am a little shaken by it.”

  In this I was at least honest, for I was by now too cold to know the nature of my own thoughts or to converse with him about the scene that had taken place and the words that Dr. Stone had uttered. In truth, all I wished was to be in my own room and alone. He seemed to collect himself and then asked if he might take my arm, and I did not refuse him. We mounted the hill in silence, and my senses were strangely alive to the nighttime; I could hear each of our footsteps with extraordinary precision and the quiet of the trees and the sheer and utter silence of the city. It was very dark, and yet I felt sure of my footing, though the pathway was icy and at points became quite treacherous.

  As we reached the crest of the hill and my copse of trees, I shook his arm off, feeling—oh, what was it? Was it some perversity in me? Or anger at him perhaps?

  I felt as if I were truly at home, stepping sure-footed along the shore. I thought of Tad, and of when I wrested him from the Bay—or perhaps it was the Bay that gave him back to me and I caught him! I saw myself not as some feeble ward to be walked along pathways and directed safely into doorways, but as a woman who had seen the suddenness of death and the ineffable resilience of life.

  Who was I to sit demurely and receive a lashing from one who was so basely intoxicated and be forced to bear the sting of her lascivious imagination? Who was Dr. Stone to rant to me about disease and the world’s capricious cruelty? Who was Dr. Reid to bring me safely home?

  I felt myself changed in that moment. I do not know if I can describe it. Somehow this night, at the crest of the hill, I felt myself changed.

  “Marged,” he murmured, “have I lost you? Tell me that it is not so.”

  I left him, running on ahead. Peter let me in, expecting me and no doubt thinking that I had come home in a cab.

  April 2

  Dr. Reid came early today and asked if he might speak with me alone. Dr. McTavish was silent, leaving me to give my own answer, and though I was still agitated by what had occurred at Dr. Stone’s home, I assented. We were closeted alone together for some minutes in the studio. I spoke little, but I am glad that he came as he did, and thus did not leave me to brood over Dr. Stone’s words and develop a suspicion of some unseemly behavior on his part.

  He began by expressing his regret that I had witnessed Dr. Stone in such a state—and then he explained, choosing his words carefully, that she had developed a proclivity for alcohol as a medical student and that it had become worse in subsequent years. He said that Dr. Stone might go for weeks without any apparent craving for liquor, but inevitably an episode would occur. These, he said, were always wretched and ugly scenes—and they had eventually forced him to break off his engagement with her. He told me that this had happened ten years ago and that in spite of this rupture, they had remained colleagues with mutual regard for the other.

  He paused, and I think I must have drawn in my breath, for it struck me unpleasantly to think of them as once betrothed—though as I consider it now, I did suspect some romantic entanglement from the beginning. But still, it did not please me to hear of it, and I felt my heart grow cold toward him.

  “Marged,” he said, “Miss Brice…I hope that you will allow me to tell you of this…period of my life, though it pains me very much to recollect it.”

  I said that I was confused, for she had referred to herself as his wife.

  He interrupted me.

  “We were never married! It is essential that you understand this—that I have no previous marriage, though it is true that we were at one time engaged.”

  He was very grave as he said this, and I remained silent, for though I dearly wished to hear more of his engagement, I did not feel that it was my right to press him and open what was for him an old and awful wound.

  He looked terribly uncomfortable, as if old sufferings were washing over him anew, and at length I could hardly bear to see him thus, and so I said, “Dr. Reid, please do not speak of this if it is too painful. I do not expect it!”

  T
here was a long silence. “Are you sending me away, then?” He asked it of me so bitterly that I felt my heart fill with pity for him.

  “No!” I cried, and I ran to him. I placed my hand on his arm and tried to see his face, for he had turned it away from me.

  “She has never really accepted that I will never marry her,” he muttered. “And though I have a great respect for her as a physician, the tender regard that I once held for her is over—forever.” He said this almost harshly, as if spitting out words that were still dreadfully distasteful to him.

  Still he did not look at me.

  “No doubt you will think me a shallow and heartless man. She certainly accuses me of such when alcohol has loosened her tongue!”

  “Dr. Reid,” I exclaimed, “I could never think anything of the sort about you.”

  He turned abruptly and moved his arms as if he wished to embrace me, but I stepped quickly away, clasping my hands in front of me, for truly I was not certain of my own feelings—and if I am honest, I must admit that in my mind I thought of the time that George had embraced me, almost in the spot where I was now standing, and it was his arms and not Dr. Reid’s that I suddenly wished were about me.

  Our interview ended awkwardly, for Dr. McTavish appeared in the doorway. I discerned considerable curiosity in his countenance and wondered if he had overheard my conversation with Dr. Reid, though we had discoursed in low tones. I knew that further discussion with him about what had transpired between Dr. Reid and myself was inevitable, and indeed I was correct in this—for after lunch we had a long and private talk about it, and Dr. McT. told me a few of the details regarding Dr. Reid’s engagement. His perspective on the matter is that Dr. Reid admired the doctor in Dr. Stone, but not the woman—and that this, perhaps, at least in part, may have been what drove her to drink.