My Dear Theodore,
Please, forget all that I have told you. God forgive me! but none of it matters now. Whilst seeking to warn you in order to solicit your silence, I have failed utterly to heed my own advice. It seems I have become immune to any effect promulgated by the sufferings of M. Valdemar. It is terrible what actions the fear of loss can provoke, but our desire to hold on to those dear to us, oft times forces us to do that which we know full well to be misguided. I have subjected another to a mesmeric trance! She was—is—close to death and I sought to postpone the inevitable by inducing in her a trance which would not only suspend her pain, but which I hoped would give her physician time to find some new remedy for her illness. In doing so I fear I have consigned her to the same fate as Valdemar—that her soul, caught inside that trance, is assailed by those same visions and torments of Hell. I know not what to do unless it be to bring her out now, before she is too far gone. But my fear is—No! I cannot bring myself to write the words. I am in despair and can write no more. I ask nothing further of you.
E.
I read the letter over again, greatly troubled. On retiring I found myself unable to sleep, as my mind attempted to make sense of what P– had said. Was this another ruse to persuade me to desist in the publication of my account of the case, or was he finally speaking the truth? Given what he had said to me just two weeks previously, not to mention the manner in which he had spoken, it seemed incomprehensible that he would resort to mesmerism after all this time. Unless of course—as instinct whispered was the case—this was some new deceit. It was impossible for me to separate truth from falsehood. Eventually, some time before dawn, I fell into a fitful sleep and woke late in the morning, more troubled than the night before.
Reluctantly, I decided to visit P– in New York as soon as was practicably possible. I had no clear notion of what I would do when I confronted him, yet I felt that by looking into his eyes I would know whether he had spoken the truth. But my plans were put to one side by the arrival of a summons from Dr Hawthorne, requesting the pleasure of my company that evening at a recital to be given by a young poet from Long Island. Knowing that Frances would also be present, I replied that I would be delighted to attend.
Thus it was that the confusion and sense of urgency which P-’s letter had provoked, gradually came to assume less prominence in my thoughts. In truth, over the next few weeks, what little spare time I had was devoted to thoughts of Frances and how our relationship might develop. By the time I heard from an irate Mr. Burton at the end of January, I realised that the anger I had felt towards Mr. P– had all but dissipated. It was, I decided, time to let go of the past. I could not change what had happened, I could not bring Valdemar back. If P– still had demons to wrestle with, then they were demons of his own making. I would pursue him no further.
*
Frances and I were married in Spring of the following year and moved into furnished apartments within walking distance of the Infirmary. As time passed and I grew accustomed to my new domestic arrangements, preoccupation both with Frances and work allowed certain memories to fade and retreat to distant corners of my mind. Such did things proceed for a little over a year, until I received an urgent summons from Dr. J.J. Moran of Baltimore, requesting my presence at the Washington College Hospital. I took the train to Baltimore early on the morning of Sunday October the seventh, and arrived at the hospital at noon. I was shown to Moran’s office and after he had greeted me and bade me take a seat, he said, “I believe you are a friend of a Mr. P– the author, formerly of Philadelphia?”
I was surprised at hearing P–’s name but managed not to show it. “We were once acquainted.”
Moran nodded slowly, as if too vigorous a movement might precipitate some injury to himself. He glanced at some papers placed on his desk, before looking towards me and asking if I believed in the life hereafter.
“Is there a connection between your theological curiosity and my presence here?” I said, irritably, for I was fatigued after my journey. “And what has either to do with Mr. P–?”
“I beg you, indulge me,” Moran said.
Curious, despite my irritation, I said, “I have long confined my faith to that which can be empirically demonstrated.”
“Have you ever been confronted with such a demonstration?”
I was about to laugh at the suggestion when a sudden chill took root in my mind. Momentarily, I was thrown into a state of uncertainty and was unable to answer his question. Ascertaining my confusion, Moran came out from behind his desk. “Forgive me, Dr L–l,” he said. “I see that you have made some connection. I hope I have not unduly alarmed you.”
“No,” I lied.
He took my arm and helped me stand. “Please,” he said. “There is something you should see.”
We ascended to the second floor, walked along a narrow corridor and hence into a small but tidy room. He stood aside and gestured towards the bed, on which lay an unmoving figure. As I approached he drew open the curtains and the light revealed to me the face of Mr. P–. From the set of his features, I saw that his passing had not been easy. His mouth was fixed in a rictus of agony and his cheeks had sunk such as to leave deep hollows in the sides his face. The tongue, blackened and protruding, summoned forth a terror from that corner of my mind to which it had receded since I had put aside my account of M. Valdemar’s death. Before I could prevent him, Moran had pulled back the sheet which covered P–’s body. The sight of his emaciated frame shocked me. It was as if I had been transported back nearly ten years and was once more standing over Valdemar’s inwardly collapsed body. “When?” I managed to say.
“He was found four days ago,” Moran said, averting his gaze from the corpse. “Stretched unconscious across a plank outside a saloon on Lombard Street.”
“What happened to him?”
“He got off the Richmond train nine days ago, feverish and probably drunk. It seems he called to the house of a Dr. Brooks, only to find Brooks was out. The next five days are a mystery on which I thought you might be able to shed some light.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have been unable to trace anyone who saw or heard of his whereabouts during that period. It is as if he disappeared off the face of the earth. Four days ago, he was brought here by a friend of his, a Dr. Snodgrass. He was called to the saloon to attend Mr. P– who, it was supposed, was insensible from alcohol.”
“Supposed?”
“Yes, and indeed that was what I first believed. He displayed the usual symptoms—tremors, delirium—before becoming comatose for a period of some ten hours. There followed more ravings before, late on Friday morning, he became calm.”
“You spoke with him?”
“Yes, though what he had to say struck me at first, as insensible as his semi-conscious ravings.” The doctor hesitated, as if unsure how to proceed. “And yet—”
“Yes?” I prompted him, unable to contain my agitation.
He suggested we retire to his office. “No,” I insisted. “I must hear it in his presence.”
“The man is dead,” Moran said, seemingly troubled at my excitement.
“Tell me,” I hissed through clenched teeth.
“Sir, I beg you, control yourself,” he said.
With an effort of will I composed myself, but determined to remain in the room. “Yes, of course, but please, continue—something caused you to question the nature of his illness?”
“There was no doubt as to his alcoholism,” Moran went on. “Nor indeed was there any doubt as to the nature of the other substance he had taken.”
“What other substance?”
“A small bottle was found in his case. A solution called DeQuincey’s Mixture, which, upon analysis, proved to be a tincture of alcohol and opium.”
I gripped the bedrail to prevent my arms from shaking. It seemed that P–’s habits had finally got the better of him.
“Of course,” Moran continued, “I made the same diagnosis which I see you have
now formed—a fatal combination of alcohol and opium ingestion.”
“Yes,” I said, dazed.
“Perhaps, Dr. L–l, but even so, doubts remain.”
“What doubts?”
“In those few hours of calm we talked, and though his words seemed tainted with madness, his tone, on the contrary, was lucid. It was only after he had succumbed to the prolonged agonies of death that I thought anew on what he had said, and it is these musings which have prompted my doubts.”
The room was deathly still; even the sunlight that streamed through the window was robbed of its vitality. “Tell me,” I said, my voice not much above a whisper.
“I believe my diagnosis to be correct,” Moran said, “but I am inclined also to believe the alcohol and opium use to have been symptomatic of some far greater malaise.”
My heart pounded furiously and I feared to speak lest I should be unable to prevent myself from telling Moran to cease his speculations—speculations which I needed to hear.
“It is not uncommon for those wanting of will to seek refuge from life’s travails in such substances, yes?” He glanced at me but did not wait for an answer. “From what I have learned of P–, I doubt he lacked such will or determination. He told me that what he was running from was unconnected with the failures he had encountered in this existence. I believe he was attempting to obliterate the memories of events he had witnessed in some other physical and temporal plane.”
A debilitating numbness spread through me as Moran spoke of the visions of absolute horror and madness related by Mr. P–. I knew that these were the same visions which had afflicted Valdemar. The only logical conclusion was that P– had finally found the courage to attempt some form of self-mesmerisation in an attempt to confront the demons he had inadvertently summoned into being.
“Dr. L–l,” Moran said, “are you all right?”
“Yes,” I cried, unable to tear my gaze from P–’s lifeless form.
“And what do you make of what I have told you?”
For some moments I was silent—in truth I did not know what to say. At the very least Moran deserved to have his speculations confirmed. Instead, I told him I was tired after my journey and that the news of P–’s death had come as a great shock.
“Of course, my dear fellow, I should have realised. I will arrange lodgings for you.”
“No need,” I told him, formulating another lie. “I have already taken a room close by. I’ll come back tomorrow and we will discuss this further.”
“Yes,” he said. “With your assistance, I believe we can unravel this mystery.”
I found a boarding house some distance from the hospital and after a light meal I retired for the evening. Despite my fatigue, my mind wrestled with thoughts of P– and M. Valdemar.
After some hours, I resolved to tell Moran everything, confirm his suspicions that there was more to P–’s death than could be rationally explained. Only then, I believed, would I be granted some measure of peace. For now though, sleep remained a remote prospect, so I rose, got dressed and went outside. It was not long past midnight and a thin, wintry mist was falling over the city like a shroud of confusion.
I wandered aimlessly, trying to shape my thoughts in order that Moran would understand me and not think me a lunatic. After nearly an hour, and fearing myself lost, I stopped to get my bearings. Dim, watery light from the gas lamp on the corner illumined a sign that told me I was on Lombard Street. How was it possible that I had come to be there? I asked myself, seeking conscious intent where none existed. I walked along the street, past saloons and gaming houses, the mist now more of a fine, persistent drizzle. A rough-looking woman accosted me and plied me with lewd suggestions. I crossed the street to get away from her and saw the place I had unwittingly come to find.
Ryan’s Saloon was filled to overflowing, even at that unearthly hour. Though I was uncomfortable in that place, I knew I could not leave without making an attempt to fill the gaps in P–’s last days. I went to the counter and caught the attention of the saloon keeper. “A man was found unconscious outside of here four days ago—you recall the incident?”
He grinned, his gin-smelling breath wafting over me. “Lotsa fellas been found on their back after a few jars,” he said. “Can’t remember ‘em all.”
“He was a slight fellow, very ill. He was taken away by a Dr. Snodgrass.”
“Friend a yours, was he? Mebbe you need another friend for the night?”
“He’s dead,” I said, bluntly.
“Ah well, can’t help you then, less you’d be wanting a drink?”
I ordered a brandy and sat at an empty table towards the rear of the saloon. I began to brood on the foolishness of seeking to discover something of those five missing days, given that Moran, who knew the city better than I, had been unable to learn anything. Such introspection has a wearying effect on the soul and it was in such a mood that I sat and drank alone for the best part of two hours.
A quiet, yet insistent voice drew me out of my reverie. I looked up and saw that the saloon had emptied somewhat. A young woman—not much more than a girl, really—stood beside my table. Her eyes were large and dark, her skin unnaturally pale. Beneath it, I could see the beauty that —in spite of her youth—disease, or life itself, had robbed her of.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not unkindly, “but I have no desire for company.”
She dabbed at her mouth with a stained handkerchief and threw an anxious glance towards the door. Taking pity on her, I bade her excuse my manners and asked her to sit. She did so, looked once more towards the street, then turned her mournful gaze on me.
“You are waiting for someone?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “But he does not come.”
Thinking she was awaiting a lover, I smiled and told her I was sure he would arrive soon. She lowered her head and told me that he was already long overdue.
“How long have you been waiting?”
She did not answer me, but instead began to weep. Somewhat taken aback, I wondered if her illness was more than physical, if perhaps she had been driven to distraction through abandonment. Such things were not unknown. She was struck suddenly, with a fit of coughing. Her entire body shook with the violence of it and I put an arm around her back until it ceased. Seeing the beads of sweat that gleamed on her forehead, as well as the fresh spots of blood that stained her kerchief, I said, “You are sick, Miss, you should go home.”
She gave me an anguished look and her eyes hinted at knowledge beyond her years. “I have no home without him.”
“He is not worthy of you,” I said, firmly. “To abandon you this way.”
“No,” she said. “It is I who abandoned him.”
“And yet you wait for him still?”
“Yes.”
“And he has not come.”
“No, but still I must wait.”
“This is foolish,” I said, feeling a sudden sense of disquiet. “What can you possibly owe any man who would treat you this way?”
“You would equate love with debt?”
“No—all I am trying to do is understand.”
“I have seen them again,” she said, lowering her voice. “Since I came here to wait for him this past week. I fear they have him now.”
“Seen who?”
Her hands shook on the table’s surface. “If they did not, he would be here.”
A queer thought wormed its way into my brain. “This man you wait for—how did you come to know his intention?”
“What good is it to drag the past out into the light?” she said, her voice brittle with despair. “We do not seek the truth, we hide from it.”
“What good does it do us to conceal the truth?”
She stole another furtive glance towards the street. “You can say for certain that you know the truth?”
“No,” I admitted. “But the man you speak of, he—”
She shook her head, a gesture of finality. “Please, you do not want to see.”
“Because they would have you too.”
“They?” The strange unease I felt became a cold dread that clawed at my heart.
“Those who dwell in…the margins, the spaces between. I have been there, sir, I do not want to return.” She rose from her seat. “I must go now, before—”
“Wait,” I pleaded. “Tell me what you know.”
“Let the world think what it will,” she said, moving away. “The tale tells itself.”
“Who are you?” I called out.
She looked back from the doorway and her lips shaped a single word. Then she was gone. I hurried after her but found only a brutal rain pounding Lombard Street as if to cleanse the stench of ruination from its bones.
I went back inside and found the saloon keeper talking with a drunken slattern at the counter. I asked him if he knew the young woman who had just left.
“Young woman, is it,” said the slattern. “Ain’t I young enough for ya?”
“Sure you are, Kitty,” the man laughed. “Youngest cuntlet in this banging-shop.”
Angered by his manner, I grabbed him by the collar. “Listen, damn you. I’m not interested in her. I want to know about the girl I was just talking with.”
He broke free of my grip, reached under the counter and brought up a cudgel which he jabbed towards me. “Best you leave now,” he said, all trace of humour gone from his voice. “I won’t be abused in my own place.” I stepped back from the counter, raising my hands in a placatory gesture.
“Please,” I said. “I have to know who she is.”
Perhaps he took pity on me, for he lowered the cudgel and said, “Wasn’t no piece with you all night.”
I left the bar and hurried away from Lombard Street in the driving rain. I wandered for some hours, tormented with thoughts of the young woman, of the fragility of life and the closeness of death. Was there an interim space between the two? A margin in which one was neither alive nor dead and in which dwelled other beings, envious of our ways? Upon reaching the boarding house and retiring again to bed, I told myself that such a place could not be. And yet I felt the light of reason dim a little inside my soul.
The Dream Operator Page 19