GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007
Page 5
"Master Will. Just in time. I haven't eaten this morning. Perhaps you would join me, and I can tell you what we plan to do, yes?"
Bishop entered and seated himself, pushing away a newspaper and a novel on the table. He gestured William to join him.
"Sir, I've already eaten,” Will said. The woman returned with a large tray, and a maid followed behind with another. A pewter coffee-pot, a basket of toast, butter, a steaming dish of almond pudding, and a plate of stewed lamb's liver and bacon were spread across the table.
"Eat some more, then. Eat some more.” Bishop tucked a napkin into the front of his jacket and helped himself to a mound of meat and pudding. Politely William took a corner of toast. Bishop ate with his mouth open. Will watched morsels of liver popping open between his teeth, the juices running over his red tongue. Bishop mopped his lips.
"You have been tutored, I think,” he said.
"Yes, sir. I studied at Henry Par's academy, in the Strand. Four years.” Will felt his father's letter in his pocket, but he was loath to hand it over. He remembered the careful writing, the humble request.
"And what are your plans now?"
"Well, sir. Well.” The boy faltered. “My father sent this.” He seized the note and passed it to Bishop. The man unfolded the mean piece of paper and flattened it upon the tablecloth. He read it, eating still. Will waited.
Then Bishop sat up straight, belching. He pressed his hand to his belly. Then he reached into a waistcoat pocket and took out a tiny enamel pill-box and dosed himself with three tiny tablets. Will smelled peppermint. Bishop did not mention the contents of the letter.
"I run a small private clinic,” he said. “Here, within this house. I have seven patients in residence. Now, William, the ailments afflicting these poor souls are not diseases of the body. No. I have little interest in curing the flesh. Instead, I am a leading figure in the modern science of curing the diseased mind—plucking out the thorns of mania and melancholy. Dispelling the clouds of delusion."
Bishop spoke with a flourish, a toss of the hand. Will, the audience, nodded. His flesh contracted, shivering, to feel the weight of the unknown presences in the house, the madmen. He could hear nothing.
"Now,” Bishop said, “we arrive at the nub. During my researches, I have uncovered a curious matter. I took on an artist to paint portraits of my patients at the beginning of their treatment, planning then to make another portrait at the end so my patrons might see the difference. Yes? But we discovered the process of being painted—sitting for the artist—had in itself a therapeutic effect. The sitter becomes calm. The agitations of the mind are soothed. Now why might this be? Indeed, why? How does it work?"
Bishop rose to his feet, shedding his napkin onto the floor.
"Come,” he said. Will scrambled to his feet.
Until now he had been dazzled by the splendour of the house, but he discovered it to be effectively cut in two: the front rooms plush and fashionable, the rear sparse and unadorned. The windows overlooking the back garden had bars. Will trod bare floorboards to a small room used for the preparation of medicines. A dark-haired man had his back to them, but turned as they entered, glancing at the boy.
"Dr. Marks,” Bishop said.
"Pleased to meet you, sir,” Will said. Marks disregarded him. Bottles lined shelves. A small set of scales dangled from Marks’ fingers, a scoop of a pepper-coloured powder on the brass bowl. Will looked about him quickly, noting the charts and tables pinned upon the wall, numbered codes beside names and dates, Latin inscriptions, weights.
"Shall I start him on Mr. Scott?” Bishop suggested. Marks furrowed his brow, his skin very thick and dull. He nodded, still engaged with the substance on the scales.
"Come along, Will,” Bishop said, almost gaily. “Come along."
They climbed stairs, passed another door behind which he could hear shuffling and murmurs. Then a sudden fit of helpless laughter.
"Yes,” Bishop said, confidentially. “Mr. Sturgis.” He winked.
Beyond an open door, Will saw a rectangular iron tank, full of water. Too large for a bath.
They ascended another flight of stairs; Bishop hummed as he unlocked a narrow door. Inside, Will had the impression of an alcove in a museum, a dull and empty room save for the exhibit in the centre. An old man sat hunched on a plain chair. Will wondered, quickly, why the subject did not move the chair. Why not sit by the wall, in a corner? Then he noticed the chair had been nailed to the floor, and he was moved to pity the man, with a flash of contempt for Bishop and Marks for such petty cruelty, forcing their patient to sit surrounded by space.
"Mr. Scott,” Bishop said gravely. “Here is William. He has come to take your likeness. He is an artist, Mr. Scott."
Will waited in the room while Bishop called the maid, instructing her to bring a stool. Bishop himself handed Will a small easel with a piece of paper already pinned in place. Mr. Scott did not move nor make any sound, gave no indication of being conscious of the people in his room.
"To work, William,” Bishop said. “I will return in an hour. Is that time enough?"
Will nodded, biting his lip. Did Bishop intend to leave him alone with this man? Bishop flinched, pressing his fingers into his belly. Will focused on the old man, who appeared smartly dressed, refined even, though a cord of spittle dangled from the left side of his mouth. His eyes, crusty about the lids, were not focused, but oddly his fingers were active, fluttering like little birds. A strange semaphore. The whole life and spirit of the man expressed in the agitation of his fingers. Will took a fragment of charcoal from a tray attached to the easel.
Bishop drew back from the door, fiddling for the key, and as he stood aside the woman in the blue dress strode past, leading a very thin young woman in a stained dress. She turned her face, catching Will's gaze for an instant. Then Bishop locked the door, leaving Will alone, confined in the room with Scott and his fingers. Will felt a moment's fear. Then he took a breath and began to draw.
* * * *
She thinks that something comes for her. A wolf perhaps. She knows of wolves from stories. Their mouths flow with saliva. A figure walks ahead of her. She wonders if it is Death she follows, but the figure glances back at her and it is a familiar face.
They walk past Mr. Scott's room; the door is open so she looks inside. She sees a boy sitting on a stool at an easel—not a rich boy, but he has finer clothes than she. Time slows around her. She steps outside the moment. On tiptoes, she enters the room to stand before him. Gracefully his head arcs up and their eyes meet. She smiles.
She says, “You needn't be afraid of Mr. Scott."
But she is still in the hallway, following the madam and causing no trouble. She wonders if she is going to meet with Miss Marks again. She is pleased when that turns out to be the case. She thinks Miss Marks is very grand.
"Hello, Eliza,” the lady says. “I would like to paint your portrait again if I may."
Eliza smiles. “That would be fine,” she says. “Will you let me see the picture? I do not have a mirror in my room."
"Of course. Perhaps you would like to see the portrait that I made yesterday?"
"Oh yes, please."
Jane walks away from her to where the picture leans against the wall. She picks it up, brings it back, and shows it to her. “I think it is a good likeness,” Jane says.
Eliza reaches out a hand and touches the edge of the board to which the canvass is fastened. The image makes her feel strange. It is empty around the edges. “Where are the others?” she asks.
The door to the room opens and Bishop hurries in.
"What am I missing?” he blusters.
Eliza looks at the floor. Bishop takes hold of her and escorts her back to the chair where she is to sit for the portrait. The room has a bare wooden floor. It is polished and glistens, but underneath the sparkle she sees dark lines, patterns in the grain of the wood. Something stirs.
Jane says, “Good morning, Charles. How are you?"
"I am fin
e. And I swear, you look lovely this morning."
"I'm sure you can do better than that."
Bishop reaches forward, placing his hands at Jane's waist, and gently pulls her towards him until her face is close to his. “I would do far better,” he says, “if we were alone."
"And if my brother should come in here now,” she says, “as he might at any moment?"
"Edgar would interpret whatever he might see in the most benign terms possible. He has no passion of his own, and even less imagination."
"He is my brother,” she says, pushing Bishop away. “And fortunately we are not alone."
"The time will come,” he says, hand to brow, theatrical. Jane is amused.
She returns her attention to her subject. “Child,” she says, alarmed, “are you all right?"
"They say I am not strong enough."
"Who says?"
"They say that I am only a waif."
"Charles? What is she babbling about?"
"She often talks of others. It is a symptom of her dementia, but I cannot convince her of it."
"They want to be rid of me,” Eliza says, “but I will not allow it. I am all that stands between you and them. Be careful where you go from here, or...."
She stops in mid-sentence, her head jerks back suddenly, her eyes roll back in their sockets. Then her head snaps forward again and she rises to stand. When she speaks, her voice is clear, without its usual timidity.
"Something lives in the grain of the wood,” she says. “It stands on legs larger than my whole body. It does not remain still. It spins. Tendrils of smoke snake out and they wrap themselves around us. I know when saliva falls from the mouth of a wolf...."
Jane Marks looks anxiously from Eliza to Bishop.
"Fascinating,” Bishop says.
Eliza's head turns to one side. “When the fairies come in from the garden, the smoke chokes them and snuffs them out. I love the fairies but I am afraid when I see them because I do not want them to die."
Her whole body begins to spasm violently and she falls to the floor in a fit. Her girl's mind is snuffed out. Another part observes as Bishop pulls a wooden rule from his pocket and forces it into her mouth. Eliza is aware of her brother, kneeling over her; but, towering over them both, the darkness congeals into a bituminous figure.
"I am inside you,” it says.
But then dozens of spirits rise up in the room. Collectively they say, “We walk beside her."
The darkness howls, disintegrates into a thousand black moths, which flutter wildly before sunlight burns them away.
Nowhere. Nothing.
When she wakes, she hears her brother talking with Dr. Marks and with Jane. She keeps her eyes closed, bathed in a sense of peace and well-being, the curious aftermath of the fit. Briefly, her mind is very still, and she wants to savour the taste of it.
"The best yet,” Bishop says, inflamed with excitement. “She was speaking with another voice. Another voice!"
Jane murmurs something in contradiction but Eliza cannot make out her words. Marks speaks in a deeper voice.
"What did she see?"
"Wolves. Fairies—something about a giant in the grain of the wood."
Marks gives a low, dismissive laugh.
"You're a fool, Bishop. Listen to what you are saying. Her diseased mind plunders fanciful memories of childhood story books. I've heard the same kind of nonsense from a dozen chlorotic young women. She needs fresh air and friends and bodily exercise."
Marks leaves the room. Jane moves closer, peering into Eliza's face. Eliza can feel the faint heat of her body, smell a thread of eau de cologne.
"Look, she wakes,” Jane says. But Eliza keeps her lids closed.
"You must paint what she said.” Bishop kneels beside Jane. “You must recall her features in the fit, the altered form of her face, the blank eyes. You must capture the other likeness. And the spirits she saw, the demon rising. You must pin them into your painting, Jane."
Eliza opens her eyes. Her moment of peace has passed. Jane and Bishop are staring at each other; Bishop's face is bright with excitement. Jane is pulling back, disturbed. Then she notices Eliza.
"Eliza, my dear.” Her voice is soft and insincere. She is still agitated. “How do you feel?"
Eliza smiles. “I am well, thank you, Miss Marks."
"Eliza, can you remember what happened?” Bishop asks. It strikes Eliza that her brother is a clown and she giggles. Then she cannot stop. The laughter carries her off, another seizure. A convulsion. She laughs and laughs till hot tears leak from her eyes and pour over her face. She tastes the salt on her lips.
"Bah!” Bishop ejects. “Useless. It is a consequence of her attack. She will make no sense to us now.” He rises to his feet, pushing back his wig. Jane sighs, her body pressing against her stays. She looks up at Bishop, eyes wistful.
What does she see to desire? Eliza wonders, and laughs again. The thought flashes from somewhere in her mind that Jane Marks suffers the greatest delusion.
Bishop exits and returns swiftly, carrying a small curved bottle with a glass stopper and a long silver spoon. Eliza stops laughing abruptly. The room is suddenly very still.
"I don't want any,” she says. Her tiny stomach curls up in anticipation of the dose.
"Come now,” Bishop says sternly. “You want to be better, don't you? You want me to take you to the opera. You want to walk in the park. Be a good girl, Eliza; you will be better soon."
"No,” Eliza says. But Mrs. Jenkins is behind her, holding her head between strong hands, so Eliza fears her skull will be riddled with cracks.
"Open your mouth, Eliza,” the nurse says grimly. She tilts back Eliza's head. Jane looks on, trying to cover distaste at the spectacle. Eliza squeals, fighting the firm grip.
"Help us, Jane, damn it,” Bishop says. Jane steps forward, very pale now, not knowing what to do.
"Sit on her legs. Keep her still.” Bishop's voice is rising.
He presses the sides of Eliza's mouth, forcing her lips open. Eliza squeaks, the brute fingers bruising her skin. Bishop tips the syrup from the spoon into her mouth, but Eliza refuses to swallow and ribbons of the sugary medication rise up again, spilling stickily over her cheeks, mixing on her lips with the salt of her tears.
"God damn it, Eliza, we're trying to help you.” He squeezes her nostrils so she cannot breathe, and she gasps. Bishop seizes the instant to tip the liquid straight from the bottle down her throat. Eliza chokes and splutters, but much is swallowed. The three adults draw back as Eliza breathes heavily on the floor. It is always the same. The medication tastes sweet as honey and roses upon the tongue. But in her stomach it is bitter as wormwood. A contamination. She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. Jane Marks, penitent, fumbles for a handkerchief and dabs Eliza's face with a false expression of concern. Eliza is disillusioned. She knows, as she has always known, that Jane is an enemy too.
* * * *
Will stepped down from the carriage. His boot splashed into a muddy puddle, beads of bright mud sticking to the smooth new leather. The crisp stock itched and the jacket, which pleased his eye with its colour, stiffened across his shoulders. Bishop stepped down after him, and the carriage lurched. He looked at once distinguished and absurd.
"Are you excited, Will?"
But Will hardly heard him. The opera house rose up like a coliseum. Still slick from the downpour, it glistened in the moonlight, an elaborate stone framework, channelling enough energy to draw the stars down from the heavens like an ancient megalith. The walls of the King's Theatre reared high into the night sky, offering the angels a place to pause and rest their wings.
Jane Marks asked, “Cat got your tongue, boy?"
Bishop offered his hand to Eliza as she, the last of the party, stepped down to join them.
She was dressed in blue silk, simple but elegant. A faint flush had risen in her cheeks beneath her eyes, but she looked nonetheless like any young girl, excited to join her elders for a night out.
Bishop asked, “Do you want to stroke him, then?” Will blushed.
She asked, “He's a little young for that, Charles, wouldn't you say?"
"Indeed. Perhaps later you will try your hand elsewhere?"
She began to walk up the stone steps. “More likely you will have to do your own stroking."
Will glanced at Eliza, but she cast back an expression that suggested the conversation was unimportant.
Inside, they mingled with the other patrons. Dr. Bishop clearly knew a great many people and went about shaking hands with enthusiasm.
"Will,” he asked, “would you stay here with Eliza?"
Will nodded. The crowd pressed against them, the perfume of warm human bodies mingled with the sweeter notes of artificial fragrance and the hectic odour of bright pink and white lilies adorning vases about the entrance lobby.
Left alone, Will and Eliza stood in silence for a moment. Then Eliza said, “It is I who should be charged with looking after you. I am older than you."
Will smiled in acceptance. “I have never been in a place like this."
"I would come here every night if my brother would allow it. But I have not been for the longest time."
"It is very expensive, I imagine,” Will said, making excuses for the doctor, a role which he had no wish to perform.
"We have money,” she said.
"Yes, of course. In any case, functions like this should be open to all. It should not be a question of money, not just something for the rich. A revolution is coming. In America, and possibly in France."
He bit his tongue, afraid he sounded pompous. But Eliza looked alarmed.
"Do you think so? I wonder if it shall reach me."
"Oh, I didn't mean.... You mustn't worry."