The Green Muse

by Jessie Prichard Hunter

  “Please,” I said. “Don’t kneel.” Her evident distress was difficult to witness. There was something about the delicacy of her countenance, now stained with tears, that made me, ignorant bumbling country girl that I am, want to be the one to comfort her, to help her, to rescue her.

  “V,” said M. Soulavie. “Please get up.” He lifted her gently, and she rose out of her cloud of petticoats (I noted that there were at least six, and that the lace with which they were trimmed was very fine indeed) like a naiad arising from a lake.

  She smiled and reached to touch my hand. “I beg your forgiveness for two reasons. One is that it was quite wrong of me to discompose you by appearing without sending a proper introductory letter first. Charles did try to make me see reason, and I apologize for not requesting permission to visit you. “The second reason I must ask your pardon is that I am quite distressed. I am afraid, actually, that you will assume I think you insane, being in this place. But nothing could be further from the truth. You are no more insane than my dear sister.” Again she broke down in tears, and again her husband touched her shoulder and shushed her with whispered tendernesses. But I had the oddest sense that he was somehow in awe of her at this moment, although I could not see why this should be.

  He turned to me. “She is overwrought. Her nerves. I could not dissuade her from coming here today. But V has never had a bad intention in her life, and certainly the effects of her intentions have never brought anyone anything but joy. She is a rare flower, my V.”

  And my fears dissipated. It was the sternness of his aspect that had unsettled me, that was all: the strength of his features, the obvious intelligence and fortitude of his character. It is in certain men’s natures to be fierce, almost to the extent of frightening womenfolk. Certainly my father ought to have shown me that!

  “Let us begin again,” said Mme. Soulavie, “because the truth is that I am delighted to have the opportunity to make your acquaintance.” She held out her little hand, and it was like holding the bones of a baby bird. I took the gentleman’s hand as well, and his grip was surprisingly gentle.

  I asked them both to sit, then realized I had only one chair. Mme. Soulavie put her hand on mine and asked if she might sit beside me on the bed. I suspected it would not be the last time I would see her smooth over even the slightest awkwardness with a kind word or gesture; her graciousness was both fluid and apparent in everything she did. I was, I confess, quite in awe of her from the moment we met.

  I had never before met a great lady. And that Mme. Soulavie was a great lady I did not doubt for a moment. She was exquisite in every movement she made, in every delicate, kind gesture, in her immediate girlish friendliness. From the instant I made her acquaintance I felt that it was she who needed me, she who needed protection, she who needed succor. And the way her husband fluttered around—­yes, fluttered, although he was an altogether manly personage—­both endeared him to me and showed just how sensitive and delicate Mme. Soulavie truly was.

  She plunged into conversation as though we had long been intimate, and her voice was honey. “I know I could never understand how horrible it must have been for you to go through the ordeal of having, well, not only to be onstage, but also to be under the scrutiny of such an imposing figure as Dr. Charcot. I confess, the man frightens me.”

  “He does?”

  “Oh, yes, terribly. I was so impressed with your composure in front of that man! I fear I would have been in tears immediately.”

  “It is not like that. I have no control over how he uses my body. Because that is what it is like—­it is like being a puppet.”

  I glanced over at M. Soulavie—­and I was frightened of what I saw. His face had on it a fixed look. I saw that as I spoke he was looking not at me but at his wife, with an intensity as strong as that of an entomologist studying a new specimen. For the briefest instant something shifted in his eyes. I was speaking of my body being completely under the control of the doctor, and I saw a spark of something—­I do not know—­something feral. Something almost inhuman, as though he wasn’t the kind, concerned grandmother in a fairy tale but the ravaging wolf lying in wait.

  It was only for a moment. I faltered in my speech, and he caught my eye, and all I saw there was gentleness. But somehow even that frightened me, because it seemed not so much the genuine feeling but a mask hastily slipped on.

  Mme. Soulavie’s gentle voice brought me back to my senses. “Charles,” she said. “I think your presence is upsetting the young lady. Am I not correct?”

  And I realized that it was simply the fact that I had almost forgotten her husband entirely. And when I became aware that I was speaking about my body in front of a strange gentleman! Well, it is no wonder I became overwrought.

  M. Soulavie was kind; he apologized first to his wife, and then to me, and said that he had wanted to walk again the long, tree-­lined avenue that led up to the hospital entrance, having found the road sinister in a beautiful way.

  Again I had a flash of discomfort, but Mme. Soulavie laughed after he had gone and said, “The things he says! He is a poet, you know, with a poet’s morbid sensibility. He has absolutely no idea the effect his words have on ­people who do not know him! Come now, let me brush your hair. I insist, Augustine.” And she took from her soft velvet clutch a brush with a silver back embossed with a profusion of roses entwined on a branch. I let her take down my hair, my flyaway farm-­girl hair, and was not ashamed.

  She brushed my hair with swift, sure strokes; she admired its thickness and color; she lamented that her own hair was not as abundant as mine. The brushing lulled me, the susurration of her voice lulled me, and I found myself almost under a spell.

  “Augustine,” she said, as I listened to the soothing sound of the brush though my hair. “Is there anything you need?”

  “To get out of here.”

  At this Mme. Soulavie laughed so heartily I was worried she might perhaps have a coughing fit although I had no idea if her health was as delicate as it seemed to be.

  “Well, that is something we might be able to see about, in time. Right now I would like to give you this brush for your beautiful hair.”

  “I—­I cannot.” I could hardly catch my breath. My own wooden brush was nothing compared to this. This was beyond anything I had thought I would ever own. And yet feminine vanity, ­coupled with the look in the lady’s luminous eyes, won out. I accepted her gift.

  As she made ready to leave, I said, “My world is so very different from yours in Paris, Madame Soulavie. And yet I would give almost anything to go beyond these walls and see that world for myself.”

  “And I am certain you shall. You were not made for this place. You are not mad, dear girl. I am so glad you accepted the brush. My husband provides me with anything I desire. Things mean nothing to me. If I can do anything to make your stay here less bleak, please let me.” She was so like a child wanting to please, and so like a child wanting to have her way, that I could not help but relent.

  I was bewitched, and knew it, but she was kind as Maman, with Maman’s sincerity and simplicity of manner. Only a pure heart can act thus. I have found an angel.

  What adventures I am having, and what fascinating ­people I am meeting here where I expected only solitude and misery. I have found friendship, and light, and life, at last, in the most unlikely and unexpected place.

  Ah, the dinner bell. And I am taken once again back to the mundane realities of life as a patient in La Salpêtrière.

  But I have met a fairy, and spent time in an enchanted realm.

  And I have made another friend.

  Chapter 40

  Edouard

  I WAS ALL trepidation as I walked up to the door of the address I had been given. I was wearing my best suit, but I knew it was inadequate to the occasion. I had borrowed a cravat, gloves, and hat from Richet; he would have given me more, but I would not accept a suit. I am, after
all, not Richet but Edouard, and I would have been even more uncomfortable wholly portraying myself as something I am not. I was wearing my own unfashionable suit. The hat, gloves, and cravat were absolute necessities, though, if I were to appear in polite society, and I accepted them gratefully.

  In spite of my reservations I found myself as excited as a schoolboy. I had never before been to a truly fashionable party. I tapped the lion’s-­head door knocker as though I had a right. I doffed my hat to the servant who answered the door; she was older than I had expected, and quite proper and prim, and it occurred to me that what I had expected was a debauch, and I was relieved to my core. My silly boy’s fantasies! Richet had introduced me to Mme. and M. Gaudet at the next Tuesday lecture, and there was nothing even remotely sordid about them; Mme. Gaudet in particular was of obvious good breeding, with her high forehead, clear eyes, and gentle manner of speech. And the first woman I met, who in fact rushed to greet me, was Mme. Gautier, was an elderly coquette encrusted with diamonds. She seemed not in the least put out at not having any notion who I was. She quite charmed me, as did her husband, who spent the entire time of our introduction feeling about in his pockets for his monocle. And then there was Mme. Soulavie, who came to me with her dainty hand outstretched; she was all in ivory, and stood out among the crowd like those bright clouds one sometimes sees in a gray sky, separated from the rest by a light that seems to come from within. She greeted me kindly and steered me gracefully toward Richet, taking the hat, coat, and gloves I had not managed to give to the maidservant from my awkward hands.

  “Ah, Edouard, there you are!” Richet exclaimed, taking me from Mme. Soulavie’s arm. She smiled and disappeared into the crowd. Society is an intimidating creature to those of us brought up outside its grip. Those to the manner born are also born to a language of which I knew only phrases. Were I to travel to Italy, I would know the names of the dishes I would like to order and the destinations I should like to visit, but I would be unable to say much more in Italian than “where” and “I would like,” and it is much the same in the ballrooms of the elite.

  I looked around, feeling the country bumpkin. Richet, after having greeted me, strolled the room with me at his side, perfectly at ease. As we spoke casually of work, I found myself embarrassed—­I should not need the protection of an escort! After he had introduced me to half a dozen attractive ­people whose names I instantly forgot, I decided it was time to fend for myself.

  “Excuse me,” I said to him and the particularly pretty young woman he was speaking with, “I believe I will go pay my respects to Mme. Gaudet now.”

  Bowing to his pretty companion, I made my way into the thick of the crowd.

  I had found myself, while in conversation with Richet, searching the room for Odette. The moment I left him I saw her. She was the center of attention; and yet I felt that the boredom she displayed was not fashionable ennui, not simply for show. She wore what looked to be an Oriental dress, although I had never actually seen one, black silk with a pattern of golden snakes and small, bright flames, with flat black satin slippers on her feet. Even so, she was at least as tall as most of the men around her, and taller than some.

  As I approached she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and the dress shifted, too, like rippling water, a shudder of movement that went from her shoulders to her ankles, a waterfall of movement designed to reveal and hide as it went: For an instant her breasts stood out in sharp relief, then her belly, then her hips and thighs and calves. I watched, mesmerized, and looked up to her face to find her regarding me with a bemused smile.

  I smiled in return, fully aware of how small I was, to stare at a woman’s body in such a brazen fashion. But her smile seemed genuine, and certainly her display was disingenuous. But even as I bid her good evening I knew that a woman’s disingenuousness does not excuse a man’s bad behavior.

  “How are you this evening, Madame Alexandrovna?” I asked as normally as I could; I felt as if I had just seen her naked.

  “Edouard, I am merely Odette,” she said, and she laughed, and I have never before heard such a laugh, hoarse and mocking yet sweet as a siren’s.

  “I want to smoke,” Odette said to me, dismissing the others, and so I took her arm and led her toward the patio. Actually, she led me, because I did not know where the patio was, and I must admit that I was so overwhelmed by her presence that even had I known, I’m sure I would have walked her off into a wall. Her scent was overpowering: something musky and exotic I took at first to be incense; and the strong smell of sweat, which, far from being unpleasant, was practically an aphrodisiac. And she had jasmine oil in her hair, and also the smell of foreign tobacco.

  “Are you enjoying the party?” she asked. Under her keen gaze I felt as transparent as air; she knew exactly the effect she was having on me. She must see men react this way to her all the time, I thought to myself, with no little annoyance. I wanted to be different. I knew I could never mean anything at all to this woman, knew that in my heart I did not really want to mean anything to her. What I wanted was to conquer my own desires.

  We walked out to the patio. I was acutely aware of both my hand against the naked skin of her arm and the frank stares of the men we passed. I was proud to be seen with her, and ashamed of my pride. I wasn’t conquering anything. I suddenly quite honestly wanted a smoke myself. I had to clear my head.

  The cool night air was a welcome slap. But Odette’s face was all the more alluring under the light of the moon, and I hastily removed my hand from her arm under the pretext of locating my cigarettes and lighter.

  “Smoke one of mine,” she said languidly., “They’re Egyptian.” The cigarette was thin and long and oddly scented; I recognized the incense smell. Odette insisted on placing it to my lips, on being the one to hold the lighter that I might have to touch her fingers to steady the flame. I inhaled. At least her ways were not subtle, and surely could not be so hard to fight once I had regained myself. But just then I felt a sudden rush of sensation in my head; I thought I must have spoken.

  “No words,” she said softly.

  So we smoked. Soon I felt that there was an unspoken undercurrent of communication between us, all the stronger for its silence. I felt almost that I could read her heart. Longing, for peace, serenity, a haven from despair—­what despair I did not know. I could feel her pulse beating against the blue veins of her delicate, almost translucent skin. Longing, for protection, understanding: longing for me.

  And I knew with equal certainty that nothing I felt was hidden from her: desire, resistance, the urge to shelter her from all harm.

  And the moon stared down, impassive.

  I was almost delirious with my new knowledge, my certainty of my power. I moved closer, and closer still, and when she lay her head against my shoulder I felt I had never before known bliss.

  The door slammed open behind us.

  “That wind!” I heard a male voice exclaim. I experienced a moment of fury entirely outside my character. Who were these ­people who would intrude on two hearts communing!

  “Take my hat,” a woman’s voice said, and I became aware of a discordance between their words and my understanding. They seemed to be speaking from far away, and their words were fragmented, as if being torn from their mouths by a sharp wind. There was a wind, but it was not the hurricane, surely, that it seemed so suddenly to me; in fact the air was warm and soft upon my neck. And when I turned to see who spoke, I was utterly unprepared for what I saw: faces made grotesque by simple moonlight, grimacing skulls whose bones shone through the merest sheen of skin.

  For a moment I doubted my own sanity. Would Odette appear so? I turned to her face, her beautiful body, and perceived rot and corruption there.

  “Odette.”

  “Silly Edouard,” she said, and she laughed with pleasure. “It is only your cigarette.”

  Then I remembered: the sick-­sweet smell of incense. The s
eeming lifting of a veil over my consciousness. The lucidity of the opalescent moon.

  “What is in those cigarettes?”

  “The finest Egyptian tobacco,” she said, and suddenly her smile was snakelike. “And opium, of course,” she added lightly.

  I threw mine to the floor and crushed it with my foot. There was nothing to resist. The image of Odette I had been so eager to test myself against existed only in her powers of seduction and in the drug, not in the woman herself. I saw now that her makeup was badly applied, and the kohl around her eyes was uneven; that the blush on her cheeks was garishly bright against her pallid skin; that her laugh was a shield and not an invitation.

  “You should have told me,” I said stiffly. Nothing but tinsel, this surging silver feeling. Gone was the delicious pull of mutual attraction. There was nothing but this drugged and pathetic woman in front of me.

  “You don’t like the way it makes you feel? As if you could float right up to the moon as if you were part of the sky. And it sweetens other things.”

  “No,” I said flatly. “I don’t like it. I like feeling what I feel, not what some inhalant makes me feel. I want all of my feelings to be true.”

  “Oh, Edouard, where is the fun in that? Anybody can feel. I prefer to open the doorways to experience. To go beyond mundane feeling and truly live.”

  “I am sorry, Odette, if I misled you.” She laughed and laughed.

  “I misled you, dear innocent Edouard. And yet, you would have been such a pleasure to corrupt!”

  “I will take that as a compliment, but I must take my leave.”

  “You will remember, Edouard. I guarantee you will remember Odette and your missed opportunity.”

  “And I thank you for the memory,” I said sincerely, and I kissed her cold hand and left her on the patio with the moon.

  The party had lost its charm. The great oak I had wanted to climb had proven merely a bush with sweet-­smelling, poisonous flowers, and I was no longer tempted by their fragrance.