by Megan Chance
“Why do you care what they think?”
I turned to look at him. He stood near the door, haloed in the light coming through the windows. He could have been a god. “It matters to me what they think.”
“You don’t need friends like that.”
I said disbelievingly, “How can you say such a thing? I want them to be my friends. To have them talk like this, they could ruin me. They will ruin William.”
“What did he think of your costume tonight?”
The abrupt change of subject flustered me. “He was unhappy with me.”
“Because of what you chose to wear? Or because of what your choice shows you to be?”
I crossed my arms; the air was freezing on my bare skin. I felt the rise of gooseflesh. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple enough,” he said. “You look unfettered tonight. Free. Like a woman of passion. Don’t you feel so?”
I shivered. Did I feel pleasure or fear at his words? “I am not a woman of passion. I don’t want to be one.”
“Why is that?”
I laughed bitterly. “Look around you, Doctor. This is the world I live in. Would you have me live outside of it?”
“That’s not up to me, Lucy,” he said. He stepped closer. “My goal is only to help you find happiness.”
“Yes. So you’ve said.”
“Aren’t you happier?” He was in front of me, only a few steps away. I felt his warmth. “In this costume, don’t you feel more free? Since you’ve been drawing again? The truth, now.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, of course. But—”
“But there’s so much more,” he said. He stroked my cheek, and the touch made me uncomfortable, but I did not pull away. “Can you live within these constraints, Lucy? Think about the way you used to feel. When you read poetry. When you painted. Can you live without feeling that passion again?”
“I don’t want to feel it.” I heard my own voice as the merest of whispers.
“Yes, you do,” he said quietly. “I understand you, Lucy. Look at me: You know it’s true. I know what you want.” His eyes were burning in the near-darkness. His hand was a comfort, and in that moment, I felt it was the only comfort available, the one I should take. His eyes urged it; I yearned for it.
I heard the pull of the latch, the scrape of the door. Seth’s hand dropped. I jerked from him and saw William stepping from the shadows of the door.
“There you are,” he said. “What are you doing out here? I’ve been searching for you.”
“Lucy needed some air,” Seth said mildly. “I was just bringing her in.”
William nodded. “Thank you for seeing to her. It’s time to come to dinner, Lucy. The first course has nearly started.”
“Yes,” I said, stepping around Seth to my husband, acquiescing when he took my arm possessively.
Notes from the Journal of Victor Leonard Seth
Re: Eve C.
March 17, 1885
I have ceased making suggestions that Eve be calm; I no longer try to safeguard her unconscious with suggestions that she refrain from fits. My hope has been that with every suggestion I make that leads her closer to her passionate inner life, her hysteria will naturally cease, and I have found that to be the case. I have encouraged her drawing and made several suggestions during trance that she put aside the ostentation and social obligations that so obviously frustrate and constrain her. I have encouraged her to test the limits of the cage she finds herself in.
I have written to William James regarding my discovery and my experimentation, and have had a letter back from him and G. Stanley Hall urging caution. Hall in particular accuses me of attempting to play God. Yet what else is God but a manifestation of our will? What is a soul but the melding of our conscious and unconscious minds? I intend to prove that our will can be molded, that a “soul” can be created. I am creating a new woman—and succeeding beyond my greatest expectations. To have such astounding results through the use of hypnosis is something I could not have imagined. This is the kind of experimentation and research I had only dreamed of, those days in Nancy. I have come an even greater distance from my colleagues who still hold dear their insistence on the centrality of the somatic. In Eve there is a compelling argument for Beard’s theory of mental therapeutics—that the will rules the body. Eve desires no children; therefore she becomes physically unable to have them. She denies her sexuality and therefore becomes passionless. But I must go even further. I believe that the will itself is controlled by the unconscious mind. Eve’s hysteria is proof of that. When her unconscious mind could no longer accept its subjugation to her will, it rebelled and caused her great illness. Now that I have allowed it power, her hysteria is gone.
The only question that remains is whether or not these changes will be permanent. If I can take her even further—if I can create in her the need to be free, rather than a vague and simple longing—she may sustain them. She is still constrained by society’s measure, and by her husband. These artificial chains must somehow be thrown off. How to do so?
It has not escaped my notice that Eve has recently become quite attached to me. This is quite common in patients of all types. At Nancy there were several women in the laboratory who desired a sexual relationship with their doctors. There forms a great attachment between patient and doctor, as is inevitable when one divulges one’s greatest secrets. Hypnosis—especially for those who achieve trance through touch—can be quite seductive: putting oneself into the hands of another person, surrendering completely. This is the root of the fear my colleagues hold against hypnosis, and there is a compelling aspect to such power. It can also be difficult to detach from such a relationship, though in my experience, it has seldom lasted long and is rarely completely satisfactory.
Yet I wonder. If I were to utilize this attachment, to show Eve what true satisfaction can be, to lead her ever further into the sublimity of the experience that her upbringing has kept from her—
The idea is tempting. Perhaps even intoxicating. To be able to mold her passion, to watch her come alive—I must admit to feeling a certain headiness over the possibilities.
Chapter 13
Once the season ended, I wanted to leave the city, to go somewhere—away from Seth, away from expectation. Away.
My friends were leaving; Millicent and her husband had gone to the Breckenwoods’ country home for a month; the Villiards had departed for the continent, the Goelings to the South, to visit relatives. I had thought William would insist on attending one of these country affairs. In spite of the fact that he could not leave his work for long, we often spent the months after Easter visiting. But this year he refused to do so.
“There’s the house,” he told me, “and I cannot afford to leave just now.”
So I spent my days drawing and longing for paints. I wanted to show William my sketches, but I remembered too well Papa’s admonitions and my husband’s solid acceptance of them. So I brought my sketches to Dr. Seth.
I had a case full of my work—studies I had made of the garden or the park. I drew these out and handed them to him one by one, sitting on the edge of my chair to hear his opinion, wanting his approval so much it was like a fever.
He said nothing. He leafed through them one after another, with little expression in his face. When he was done, he handed them back to me, and my heart sank.
“You don’t like them,” I said, stuffing them blindly back into the case.
“On the contrary,” he said. “I like them very much.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t help my smile. “Do you think them good, then?”
He steepled his fingers before him. “What do you suppose William would think of them?”
“William? Why, he would hate them.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because he would. I know it. He’d rather I was spending my days shopping for trinkets and carpets and curtains. I tell you, I hate curtains. If I could, I’d have eve
ry window bare.”
Seth looked thoughtful. “Why?”
“So I could see the outside. The sky, the trees . . .”
“If you cannot be among them, then you can at least see them.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly!”
“It’s more than a longing to be outside, isn’t it?”
I frowned.
“You can see it in your sketches,” he went on, motioning to my case. “Every stroke of your pencil is in motion, every scene is open. There are no houses or windows. No dark places. I think you’re right. I think William wouldn’t like them. I think he would find them threatening.”
“Threatening?”
Dr. Seth leaned forward, and his face filled my vision. “Every page shows your longing, Lucy. For freedom. For passion. Just think of what you could be if William encouraged you, if he wanted your passion.” His hand dropped to cover mine, settling on my knee. “Just think of it.”
I barely heard his words. He had curled his fingers around my hand. As if he realized my discomfort, he drew back again so quickly it was as if he hadn’t touched me at all.
“Was there ever a time when William wanted your passion, Lucy?”
I did not need to search my memory; the scene was there. Seagulls and salt wind. Sand in my boots, the rising tide. The smell of seaweed in the sun and William’s warmly astringent bay rum. Do you really think that I could keep from you a single moment longer than I must? . . . Marry me.
“I see there is,” Seth murmured.
I shook away the memory. “It was a long time ago.”
“Before you were married?”
“The day he proposed to me.”
“Show me,” Seth said.
Obediently, I began. “It was during the summer. My father and I were at Newport, and I hadn’t seen William—”
“No.” Seth rose from the chair and stood before me. “You must show me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I will be William, and you must be yourself.”
I was confused and a little appalled. “You mean I must act it out?”
“Yes.”
“I fail to see what good could come of that.”
“Because I believe that you have refused to feel such emotions since that day. I would like to know why. What did William do or say to show you that such feelings were anathema to him?”
“There’s nothing—”
“We will try to see if we can reach some conclusion,” he went on. “But you must try to describe your feelings to me as we progress. Now, where are we?”
Reluctantly, I said, “At Newport. Bailey’s Beach.”
“You went there together?”
“I was there alone. He came after me. It was the first time I’d seen him all summer.”
“And you were angry.”
“Of course I was angry!” I rose. “I had thought he no longer cared for me.”
“Very good,” he said. “Then let’s proceed. You are on the beach, and I am William. I’ve just come upon you.”
“I can’t do this.”
“You must try, Lucy,” he said, and his voice lulled me into submission. “I’ve come upon you at the beach, and I say, ‘There you are, my dear, I’ve been looking for you.’ ”
I shook my head. “No, no, it wasn’t like that.”
“How was it, then?”
“I was watching the surf, and he stole up behind me.”
“And said?”
I turned my back to him, trying to remember. “Something about mermaids trading their fins for legs. How I reminded him of that.”
“Very poetic,” he said. “Very well. Lucy, my dear, you look very like a mermaid who’s traded her fins for legs.”
Not right, but this entire exercise felt so odd to me, I only wanted it to be over. I turned to face him. “William,” I said, then nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of it. “I didn’t expect you.”
Dr. Seth gave me a chiding look. “I had trouble getting away.”
“The entire summer?”
The doctor shrugged. “It’s been a busy season. I came as soon as I could.”
“You could have written. Or sent someone to explain.”
“But I thought you would know,” he said, stepping closer. “You must have known I would come if I could. You must know how much I love you.”
I winced. “William was not so . . . passionate.”
Dr. Seth raised a brow. “No? But I think that’s how you wanted him, wasn’t it? Passionate.”
“Perhaps a little,” I admitted.
Seth came closer still, only inches away, and he took my arms, lightly holding me in place. “It was a romantic evening, wasn’t it? Near sunset?”
“Yes,” I said. I began to feel a little breathless.
“The sky was pink. There were seagulls—”
“A single gull.”
“A single gull. Dipping with a wind that was barely there. The waves were soft on the shore.”
“Yes.”
“You were longing for something. For me.”
“Oh, yes. . . .”
“I love you, Lucy,” he said. “I want to marry you. Say you’ll have me.”
“Why should I . . . have you?” I managed. My throat was dry. The doctor’s face was wavering before me, so I could not see it clearly. “You’re nothing to me. My father’s stockbroker—I shouldn’t care for you at all.”
“But you do.”
“Yes. I do.”
“Then perhaps I can convince you how much I care,” he said, and he kissed me, and for a moment I forgot it was not William; I closed my eyes, lost in the experience, in the hard softness of his lips. I opened my mouth to him and stepped closer and felt that dip deep in my stomach, that turning over, that yearning that made me moan against him and grip him.
“Is this what you want?” he whispered in my mouth, and I said, “Yes. Yes. . . .”
I was still saying yes as he drew back slightly, saying, “What do you want to say, Lucy?”
“Don’t leave me,” I whimpered. “Oh, why won’t you take me there? Why must you leave me?”
“Because I’m afraid of you,” he whispered back. “A woman like you, Lucy, would suck me dry. You’re a vampire.”
I felt as if I’d just awakened from a deep sleep, from too vivid dreams. I opened my eyes and broke away, seeing not William but the doctor, his expression contorted and angry, speaking the words William had never spoken but which I knew were true.
“Oh dear God,” I said, putting my hand to my mouth, trembling.
Impatiently, Seth said, “Isn’t that what he would say?”
“Yes. Yes. But how do you know this?”
“You forget, I know William. I’ve talked to him. Do you think he’s so different from anyone else? Half the men on Fifth Avenue think the same way.” Seth turned on his heel and strode to his desk. “No doubt he’s even afraid of self-gratification,” he said contemptuously. “Such absurd ideas run rampant among supposedly learned men. To think that a woman’s passion can steal the energy from a man . . .”
“It’s not true?”
“There are no scientific grounds for such a belief, only moral claptrap.”
“And morality cannot be truth?” I asked.
He was at his desk riffling impatiently through papers, but when I asked the question, he stopped and looked at me. “Do you think you’re a vampire, Lucy?”
“Sometimes,” I said carefully, “I believe that marriage has taken the best from William.”
“Really? I rather think the opposite.”
“The opposite?”
“That marriage to William has taken the best from you.”
I could say nothing to that.
“I believe,” he said, leaving his desk and coming toward me, “that William felt your passion that day at the beach—it would have been impossible not to—and it frightened him. I believe this is one of the reasons he’s never encouraged it. The only question is
why he went ahead and married you, if passion was not what he wanted.”
“Perhaps he wanted love,” I said.
“Or social advancement?”
“He does love me.”
“Conditionally,” Dr. Seth said. “If you were to give in to your passion, do you think he would accept it?”
I knew the answer, but I would not tell the doctor. “We both had expectations when we married,” I said stubbornly. “I know of no one who doesn’t.”
“I’m not speaking of expectations,” he said. “I’m speaking of conditions. What were yours, Lucy?”
I could not answer.
“You said: ‘Why won’t you take me there?’ What there did you mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I felt undone. I could not think. “It was just something I said. I don’t know.”
“Perhaps you should think on it,” he told me. “What was it you wanted from your marriage? Did you perhaps think that at least one aspect of your longing could be fulfilled? Did you think your husband would satisfy your desires? Or did someone tell you that only coarse women experience sexual fulfillment?”
“My father,” I whispered. “My husband.”
“Ah,” he said with a sharp smile. “The two men who have kept you in chains. Tell me, Lucy, what does your husband call you when he makes love to you? ‘My angel’? ‘My savior’?”
Startled, I said, “A-angel.”
“A man worships angels, he does not screw one.”
His crudeness brought tears to my eyes. I backed away from him. “How can you say such things to me?”
“I’m trying to help you, Lucy,” he said, and his voice softened. His eyes became gentle. He came over to where I was, nearly at the door. “Do you remember how you feel when you’re drawing?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And when your mother drowned, wasn’t there a moment when you envied her?”
“For dying?” My voice was shaking.
“For escaping,” he whispered. “For finally being free.”
I could not deny it. He reached for my cloak and put it around my shoulders, fastening the clasp. I fancied that his hands lingered there overlong, that his fingers stroked my shoulder.