The Honeymoon

by Dinitia Smith

  “We were sure he was all right. He seemed perfectly well. And Mama was absolutely adamant, she insisted we not tell anyone. You see, when our sister, Emily, fell in love with Frank Otter, he found out that there had been … illness in the family, and he almost didn’t marry her because he was afraid if they had children …” She remembered that time at Weybridge, and Emily and Frank walking together and arguing and Emily crying. So that must have been what they were quarreling about that day.

  Why hadn’t they told her? Mary — Mary had been her friend.

  Willie hesitated. “Mama wouldn’t have wanted you in particular to know. You see,” he said, “there had been difficulties in the family before.”

  “Difficulties?”

  “Illness,” he said. “Our uncle William was in the asylum in Dumbartonshire. And our brother, Alexander.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes. It was the tragedy of our mother’s life. He never learned to talk. He was like a wild animal. They had to put him away. We never saw him again. Then we heard he died.”

  She was reeling.

  “I’m sorry, Marian,” he said. “But I’m here to help you now. I know Johnnie better than anyone. I won’t leave you alone. I’m going to sleep in the room with him along with the other men. He’ll be very well guarded, I promise you.”

  “But why didn’t he tell me?” she asked again.

  “I don’t know. Because he was ashamed. Or he didn’t remember.”

  “He didn’t remember?”

  “We don’t know. You see, when he got out, he never spoke about it again. It was as if nothing had happened. The doctor said amnesia is common with that sort of thing.”

  Chapter 23

  In the late afternoon the sky darkened ominously, as if it were night. A clap of thunder shook the air, then came the wind and the rain, a blinding rain beating down onto the canal. The horizon was completely obscured. Below on the riva, the boatmen struggled to buckle blue coverings over the gondolas. The canal was empty. The sirocco was upon them.

  After an hour, the rain ceased. Gradually the sky cleared and for the first time in days, the air was fresh and cool.

  In the morning, Willie came in to her. “He went without the chloral last night. He’s awake and calm.”

  “Awake?”

  “Yes. But very tired.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He asked what happened. I told Corradini, the gondolier, to bathe and dress him. Perhaps you’d like to see him?” Willie said.

  “I don’t want to see him.” She felt a sudden anger at Johnnie, for what he’d put her through, for wanting to leave her, for ceasing to love her.

  “I’ll be with you,” he said. “Ricchetti is with him.”

  Reluctantly, she rose and followed him into the sala.

  Johnnie was slumped at the table, washed, in clean clothes, silent, staring straight ahead. Dr. Ricchetti and Corradini stood over him. Now that the crisis had passed, the gondolier had resumed his cold, contemptuous expression, an expression he was making little effort to hide, with the big Englishman reduced to a blubbering fool. He’d seen it all with these tourists, drunkenness, violence, madness. He’d taken other men to the Rialto.

  Johnnie looked up at her, bewildered.

  “Johnnie,” Willie said. “It’s Marian.”

  His brow knit as if he were trying to remember where he’d seen her before. “Yes?” he said, mystified. His voice was faint, slurred.

  “You’ve been ill,” she said stiffly.

  “What happened?”

  “You don’t remember?” she said, looking to Willie for help.

  Johnnie shook his head.

  “Mr. Cross,” Ricchetti said. “You had a collapse.”

  “A collapse,” Johnnie repeated.

  “Is it normal for them not to remember?” she asked Ricchetti.

  “Yes. Typical. Then it comes back later, usually.”

  She said coldly, “I’m glad you feel better, Johnnie.”

  He appeared to think about her remark. “Yes,” he said vaguely. “Better,” parroting her. Then, uncertainly, “I feel better.”

  Ricchetti said, as if Johnnie weren’t there, “We will try again today and tonight without the chloral and see how he does.”

  “But you’ll still be here?” she quickly asked.

  “I have other patients to see. But we won’t leave him alone. The gondolier will stay with him. The chloral remains in the body for many hours. It will continue to sedate him, even after we stop the dosage. We are going to take him out for a little walk today. It will be good for him.”

  She looked at Willie. “But people will see him? They know what happened.”

  Willie hesitated. “Yes, that may be.”

  “He must have exercise,” Ricchetti said.

  Willie said, “I spoke to Inspector Basso.”

  “The policeman?” she said.

  “By law they’ve got to file a police report.” Willie waited, letting it sink in. “The newspapers take it from the police report. There’s something in Il Tempo and in L’Adriatico.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

  Her heart sank.

  Willie said, “It’s in Italian. I don’t think the English read the Italian papers. I’m doing what I can. I’ve given Marseille a very large sum to keep him quiet and to forbid the hotel staff from discussing it.” He nodded toward Corradini and lowered his voice. “And to him, of course.” The awful man had made money out of this. More than his wages. More than the “tip” Johnnie had given him that first day.

  “And Gerita — the maid — she took money?” she asked.

  “No,” Willie said, surprised. “She wouldn’t take it. It was a large amount too.”

  The next morning, Vigna came again. “It has been twenty-four hours now without the chloral hydrate. He is quiet still.” He studied her with his dark, pouched eyes. “The mania has abated,” he said. “He is in the depressive phase of the illness now.”

  “Depressive?”

  “Yes. We must still watch him carefully. This can be a dangerous time. Sometimes, after the mania, they sink into a profound melancholia.”

  “What is the name of it? What he has?”

  “The French call it la folie circulaire. Around and around,” he said. He smiled sadly and circled the air above his head with his finger, as if, after all these years of coping with the mad as a medical man, he still saw some humor in this. A form of self-preservation. And perhaps because he knew there was no cure.

  She asked, “That means he’ll … It could happen again?”

  “The fact that he is responsive,” he said, “and that he has remained calm for this many hours, without the chloral, is a good sign. He is drowsy, he is slow, but he is talking normally. I think he understands what is happening around him now.”

  “Is it safe for us to leave? To take him home?”

  “We will see what happens in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “What caused it? Can you tell me?”

  He shrugged. “We cannot know. You say there have been incidences in the family. And,” he said, “then there is the sirocco. Thank goodness, it has broken.” With this, he gave a little smile, as if he had nothing else to go on but the weather. “Sometimes, with the sirocco, the tourists, we see they go quite mad.”

  Chapter 24

  At last, on Tuesday evening, eight days after the attempt, the doctors deemed it safe to move him. She’d refused to consider an asylum for him — the notion of the word “asylum” getting back to London appalled her. Ricchetti and Vigna said that in light of that, they recommended that they go on to Wildbad, where he could take the cure, which might be of help.

  She wrote to Charley saying only that Johnnie had “taken ill” without mentioning the nature of the illness, that Willie Cross had come to Venice to help, that Johnnie seemed to be improving. They were traveling slowly back to England, she wrote, giving him time to recover, and they hoped
to be there by the end of July if all went well.

  Gerita and Corradini accompanied them to Santa Lucia, the gondolier supporting Johnnie, nearly carrying him. Johnnie shuffled his feet like an old man, vacant-eyed, slackmouthed, concentrating, as if he couldn’t put one foot in front of the other without effort. It was as if by some awful twist of fate, the cold, strange, stale-smelling man who had precipitated this had now taken full possession of Johnnie’s body.

  Willie managed the luggage and the tickets, then he and Corradini loaded Johnnie, heavy with his drowsiness and silence, onto the train.

  Marian hugged Gerita goodbye. “Thank you,” Marian told her, dully.

  “Good luck, Madame,” Gerita said.

  Marian dug into her purse and found some coins at the bottom which she wrapped in her lace handkerchief and gave to the girl. She gave nothing to the gondolier. She would never have to see him again.

  “Oh, no, Madame,” Gerita said. “I cannot take.”

  “This is for your sweet mother, to help care for her,” Marian said.

  The train to Verona had no first-class compartment, and there were other passengers in the carriage with them. But no one seemed, thank God, to know who they were. Willie sat between her and Johnnie as if to protect her from him.

  They spent the night in Verona, Willie never leaving Johnnie’s side, taking care of him. “Johnnie, you’ve got to eat,” he said, and later, “Johnnie, you’ve got to bathe.” He held out Johnnie’s fork toward him and Johnnie took it and fed himself a bite of food.

  She was exhausted with fear, the need to be alert at all times, lest he try to hurt himself again. This quiescence could be an illusion, he could suddenly spring up, run away from them, try to do it again.

  The next morning they left for Trento, two hours north. This time they had a private compartment with wood paneling and luxurious, upholstered seats. There was no fear of being recognized.

  As they headed into the Tyrol, the air grew clearer and cooler. The train chugged through the brilliant, snow-capped Dolomites and glided along the narrow ledges, Johnnie seldom uttering a word, and then only in answer to a direct question from Willie.

  What would happen back in England? She would be alone again. Everyone would have realized her failure. All the London gossips who pretended to worship her, the sycophants secretly envious of her, the same people who’d laughed at her when they saw the wedding announcement in the Times — they’d have real fodder now.

  As she sat in the train contemplating this, everything went black. They’d entered a tunnel, the carriage was enveloped in darkness. It went on and on, the thunder of the engine filled her ears. She was frightened. What would she find when the light came back? Would he be standing up and yelling over the noise of the engine and tugging at the carriage door, trying to open it and jump out?

  Suddenly the carriage filled again with a blinding light. And there he was still, looking submissively out the window.

  They arrived in Innsbruck, and for two days it rained unceasingly; the atmosphere was close, the mountains obscured by fog. One evening, Willie said, “I think that you should come. He’s in rather a bad way. He wants to see you.”

  He was sitting with his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving. “What have I done?” he sobbed, his voice guttural with tears.

  “You’ve been ill, Johnnie,” she said. “You got ill in Venice.”

  “But I don’t remember. I’ve done something awful.” Then, “Polly, what have I done to you?”

  From behind her came Willie’s voice. “You tried to harm yourself, Johnnie.”

  He looked bewildered. Then, as if remembering, “Yes,” he said. “Polly, please forgive me. Will you forgive me?”

  “Yes. Of course I forgive you.” What could she say now? She couldn’t ask, why had he done this? Was it because he no longer loved her?

  Willie muttered, “Perhaps we should call the doctor.”

  “Oh, God,” she said. “I can’t bear it.” Another doctor, another scene in a hotel.

  He began weeping anew, clutching his head in his hands.

  She saw him there, her boy who’d been kind and loving, reduced to this. She reached out and touched his head. “Johnnie, Johnnie,” she whispered. “I want you to get well. Please, just rest and eat and sleep. Will you?”

  He looked up, his eyes red, his face still wet, mute.

  The next morning, he got up and bathed and dressed himself. It had been ten days since the collapse. He came tentatively into the drawing room, pale and thin and fearful, as if taking baby steps.

  He went up to her, took her hand, and kissed it, then looked around the room, wonderingly, as if seeing it for the first time. The breakfast things were set out on the table. Cautiously, he lifted the toast cover and went to pour his tea. She was suddenly afraid he’d scald himself with the boiling water, and she poured it for him. He watched her as if learning anew to perform this rudimentary task.

  In Innsbruck, as the days passed, he began to smile — faintly. He listened and nodded in agreement as she and Willie carried on their stilted conversation, commenting on the view, a neutral topic.

  He seemed slowly to improve. He struggled to learn again the activities of everyday life, to act “normally,” to join tentatively in the conversation. With each moment of his recovery, as he began to talk, to remark upon the sights, she wondered if he was gearing up for another catastrophe. Willie, still silent and unsmiling, never took his eyes off him. He knew more than she did.

  They journeyed on, to Wildbad on the border of the Black Forest. It was three weeks since they’d left Venice. They’d engaged rooms at the Hotel Klumpp. It was unlikely anyone would recognize them here. Wildbad was a town of the old and the sick and the dying, people in bath chairs pushed around by attendants, bent over their crutches, inward-looking, preoccupied with their illnesses.

  They’d arranged for Johnnie to take the waters at the Curhaus, under the direction of the head of the spa, Dr. Von Burckhardt, himself. The Curhaus was the grandest building in town, a pink sandstone Moorish structure with arches and a colonnade.

  After a few days of treatments, Johnnie’s face began to glow with health, there were roses in his cheeks, and he was smiling. He was putting on weight.

  “Dr. Von Burckhardt says I’m making absolutely splendid progress,” he announced.

  In the afternoons they sat in the Platz listening to the band play creaky German marches, Johnnie nodding his head enthusiastically as the tuba thumped.

  They took their supper together in the immense dining room. All around them were the crippled and the palsied in their bath chairs, old people bent over their tables, concentrating with shaking hands on lifting fork to mouth, slurping their food. She sat uneasily, Willie was constrained and unsmiling. But Johnnie was cheerful now.

  Their food finished, Johnnie pronounced it “Marvelous!”

  On the third day, after his session at the Curhaus, Johnnie said to her, “Shall we go for a walk? Let’s go and see the ornamental gardens. I’m sure Brother Willie won’t mind some time without us.”

  She hesitated.

  Willie muttered uncertainly, “I suppose it’d be all right.” He wanted it to be all right, she knew. “I’ll be here if you need me,” he said.

  For the first time since Venice, Johnnie took her arm, and they strolled across the wooden bridge over the River Enz, past a cluster of houses that gave way into the park. On either side of the narrow valley were steep hills covered in pines. A walkway along the river led into a forest.

  They made their way up the path, shaded by trees on either side. The afternoon air was pleasant, the Alpine climate warm and mild. As they walked, Johnnie breathed in the pure air and beamed, as if he’d forgotten everything that had happened, his back perfectly straight, his shoulders broad in their usual fine attitude.

  Other tourists passed them. Along the path, there were little statues and wooden shelters where people could rest. Below them, the Enz ran clear, more a broo
k than a river, taking its course over the big rocks.

  Close to the top of the hill, they came to a bench overlooking Wildbad. The other walkers had disappeared or gone back down.

  They sat quietly, looking out at the little town beneath, the two broad streets lined with oaks, the row of hotels, the Platz, and the Curhaus. He stopped and took both her hands in his. Was he going to have another outburst?

  He said suddenly, “I know I’ve caused you terrible suffering.” He went on, “I know that I’m well now. I’m not asking your forgiveness, only that you’ll let me, for the rest of our lives, take care of you and make you happy. I’ve got no words to describe how sorry I am.”

  His voice was measured, no longer the desperate rush of illness in it. His blue eyes were clear, his skin soft and pale, there was pink in his cheeks. There was no trace of the haggard man of only weeks before. She saw the neatly trimmed beard, his straight posture, heard his voice with its faint Scottish notes, its American softness. His big, warm hands enveloped hers, protecting her again.

  They proceeded arm in arm down the hill, she silent, leaving her response a mystery, he eagerly beside her.

  The next day she took the waters herself. She lay in the blessed silence of her private piscine, the clear, green waters gurgling up around her, the dim light reflected in the blue tile. Slowly, her limbs were infused with its magical properties. At the end, the attendant enveloped her in a huge warm towel.

  That night she wrote a letter home. A friend, Elma Stuart, had written congratulating her on her marriage. She thanked Elma and mentioned that “Mr. Cross had an attack of illness” in Venice, due, she said lightheartedly, to “lack of muscular exercise which the allurements of the gondola bring with them.” That’s what she’d say — “due to lack of exercise.” Or, if pressed, it would be “typhus,” not common among tourists in Venice. “He is,” she wrote, “a little more delicate than is usual with him.”

  “En revanche,” she lied, “I am quite miraculously strong and equal to the little extra calls upon me.”