She peers around her, and an inspiration occurs to me.
“Look Anne, behind me, on the wall. In fact,” I say, standing and unhooking one of my certificates from it. “Here. Read it, please, and tell me what you see.” I pass it to her.
DR GEORGE SAVAGE
M.D, M.R.CP.
PHYSICIAN AND SUPERINTENDANT OF BETHLEM ROYAL HOSPITAL
“Well? Does this not offer proof that I am who I say I am?”
She is silent for a moment, studying the writing, turning the frame over and running her fingers across the back of the glass.
“It would appear that you are a fine fraudster, Mr Savage, and that you wish to woo me with fancy letters that anyone could write after their name.”
Working with the insane can be frustrating, for previously indisputable facts of life become negligible, and fantasies abound. They will not believe the sky is blue, or worse: that there even is a sky.
“What about the stamp, Anne? That cannot be faked; it proves this is a genuine certificate.”
She glares at me. “What do you want with me, you fish-eyed fiend? Can I go home now?”, as if the previous five minutes had not occurred.
“May I have that back, please?” I ask her, gesturing to the frame. I should not have given her a pane of glass. I remember what she did the last time she called me a fish-eyed fiend, with a shard.
“Certainly.” She passes it back to me, smoothes her gown and sits down again. I breathe again. “I’m sorry; I seem to have lost myself there for a second or two. My head flies away from me at times.” She shakes it, as if to clear her mind. “You wanted to speak with me about the ransom?”
I find it difficult to keep track with her thought processes and moods. Her temperament flips as a blink, yet her delusion is fixed.
Ideas flow along certain lines more rapidly than in health; somewhat hard to follow in their rapidity of formation. No continuous thought process. Attention may be garnered momentarily. Long term memory remains lost; past is left with an irregular outline.
For hypnotherapy.
“Anne, I believe that's enough for today.” I press my bell, and summon Agnus. Her young head peers around the doorframe.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Can you escort Anne back to her room, please? And please, ask Nurse Ruth to contact a Dr Tuke.”
“'Dr Tuke'. Of course.” She moves into the office, and takes hold of Lady Stanbury's hand with her own. Surprisingly, Lady Stanbury doesn't fight her. Instead, she rises willingly; looking behind her as the attendant leads the way.
“You confuse me,” she says, looking lost. “Why don't you tell me how much you want for me? You are a perfectly cruel, awful man.”
Light A Fire
Beatrix
November 5th, 1885
Asquith Manor
“Shush!” I whisper in a hiss, pulling Betty down from the window. “They'll hear us!”
“They won't Miss, they won’t! But ye' have t' look outside, I can see tha' Mr Jordan, an' I think 'es stolen somethin'!” she whispers back, defiantly.
“Why should you think he has stolen something, Betty?”
“Cos 'ee has sumthin' under 'is arm, an he' dinnae come wit' anythin'!
Putting my hand upon her shoulder, I creep my head slowly over the window-ledge. Lord, when did I start indulging youngsters in their childish fantasies again? It seems only yesterday that Anne was a child of Betty's age, telling me stories about the comings and goings of our visitors.
Mr Jordan is indeed stood outside.
“De' ye' see 'im? De' ye'?” She yanks at my arm, tugging like a monkey.
“Shush!”I say more forcefully this time, swatting her hand away.
“But Miss,” she says, the title comes out as a whine. “He may'be stelin' Lady Anne's things! P'rhaps Mr Stanbury is sellin' er' stuff, ee's a commoner and got ne' money, Miss!”
I ignore her, unwilling to enter into a debate neither about Mr Stanbury nor about Anne. Watching Mr Jordan, I almost laugh out loud when the man's hat is blown off by a gust of wind and he scrabbles for it uselessly. The hat lands in a wet patch of mud as a carriage enters the main gate.
“Betty, Mr Jordan is outside because he is waiting for the carriage to take him home.” I sit back down beside Betty, and take her chin in my hands. “He's just an old friend of Mr Stanbury's, and there's nothing else to it.” I push her away playfully and lift myself up from the floor.
She crosses her arms and stamps her foot.
“Miss, yer nae listenin'! I'm tellin' ye 'e has sumthin' in his hands!”
“No, he doesn't. Now, come on, I'm not getting anything done today with all this talk of thievery and such.” I give her my stern face and she relents, letting me pull her to her feet.
Thinking about Anne, I wonder if she received the letter I sent.
“Betty, you did post that letter to Lady Anne, didn't you?”
“Of course I did, Miss,” she says indignantly, opening the door and gesturing for me to pass through before her. “I wan' 'er back 'ere just as much as ye do. I am missing her sumthin' awful. I dannae like Mr Stanbury, 'ee wants t' have us all fired, ye' know.” She looks at my face, and notices that I still appear unconvinced. “It's not all stories, Miss! It's nay!”
That I do know. We all know. Newman told us the discussion Mr Stanbury had had with Lord Damsbridge not a week after Anne was taken away. I was the one he professed to be the worst, 'lounging around' and 'idly chatting with Anne, as if it is her job simply to be my wife's companion'. Well, his wife needed a companion, for he was certainly never up to scratch, and never will be.
No matter. I have it on good authority he will be gone from the Manor, soon.
“It doesn't matter what Mr Stanbury wants, or doesn’t want, Betty,” I say, as we descend the stairs back to the servant’s quarters. “This house doesn't belong to him.”
“How can tha' be, Miss?”
“Because Lord Damsbridge owns it, not Mr Stanbury.”
“But Lord Damsbridge doesn't live 'ere anymore Miss, Mr Stanbury does.”
“Yes, in this main house. Lord Damsbridge is over in the dowager house, that's true, but he still owns the Manor, Betty.”
She looks confused.
“Have you ever heard of an entail, Betty?”
“ An En-what?”
That's a no, then.
“The Manor and its grounds are entailed, that means that they can only ever belong to the son of Lord Damsbridge.”
“But 'ee don' 'ave no son. Only Anne.”
“Exactly.” We stop at the door to the kitchen, and I pat her on the head. She's a lovely child, and she's incredibly loyal and loving towards everyone around her. I know she considers Anne to be a sort of older sister, in an admiring manner. When Anne was here she always took the time to speak with Betty and inquire about her own and her family's health. A couple of times I caught Anne putting a shilling into Betty's grubby little hands.
“So it dannae belong t' no-one then Miss, only Lord Damsbridge?”
“That's right. So stop worrying.”
She frowns, and fiddles with her dress. “But that man did 'ave sumthin' under 'is arm. I'm not lying.”
“I know you're not lying, Betty. You're as honest as a puppy.”
She smiles.
“Well then, I'll be seein' ye'!” With that she dives into the kitchen, and warm shouts of greetings and endearments echo in my ears.
I climb the stairs to Mr Stanbury's chamber. Anne's clothes need to be aired at least once a day. Thankfully, the moths haven't gotten to them yet, though I worry about it constantly. Her dresses must be perfect for when she comes home. I make my way across the room, heading for the wardrobe, when I notice an errant sock on the floor. I bend to pick and as I do so, spy something underneath the bed.
An envelope.
Addressed to Anne.
I hold it for a moment. Do I chance to read it now? Where is Mr Stanbury? I rush to the window and look outside, holding t
he note. The carriage has gone, which means he could be anywhere. I run across the room, and close the door. If he comes up here, at least the turning of the handle will give me time to throw it back underneath the bed.
I sit on the bed, and read it.
By the time I have finished, I am determined to light a fire.
Anne will never see this letter.
A Lie By Omission
Dr Savage
November 10th, 1885
Royal Bethlem Hospital
Dear Dr Savage,
It is with regret that I write to you rather than speaking with you face to face, but at present I am engaged in a rather tedious yet necessary business matter, and will be away from London for a few weeks. Doctor, it has come to my attention that you have adopted a regime of mechanical restraint since the retirement of your eminent predecessor, Dr William Reece Williams. I shan't go so far as to echo the opinions of your contemporaries in labelling such methods as primeval: nor do I believe that in the future, you shall look back upon your defence of restraint with the same wonderment of those whom encouraged domestic slavery. However, being aware of this issue arouses in me some sense of anxiety, as only a father whose own daughter is locked in such a place could appreciate. So, whilst I believe that your personal character is sufficient to serve your profession and henceforth my daughter well, I hereby request that you do not put Anne under any restraints of this manner, nor of any other, including that which is termed 'chemical restraint'.
Kindest Regards
Lord Damsbridge
Folding the letter into eight, I bite my tongue and remind myself that anger is poison.
It is one thing for a Lunacy Commissioner to attempt demands and restrictions upon me, but for a lay-person to instruct me in my treatments! And with a rather clear sense of blackmail, at that! Lord Damsbridge has the good fortune of birth and riches but the ignorance of a peasant when it comes to the field of psychiatry. No doubt he has read one of Dr Bucknill's numerous articles and letters published in The Lancet: that man has been doggedly pursuing his mission over the past two decades to abolish the use of mechanical restraint throughout the entirety of England. Damned journalists and their sensationalist cosh! Their indulgence of one half-mad alienist could risk the very future of psychiatry.
I pen a letter back:
Dear Lord Damsbridge,
Whilst I understand your concerns on the matter, and agree to indulge you upon your request, I would like to make my point known. First of all, I can only assume, and, forgive me if my assumption has no basis in fact, but I am fairly certain that you must have read an article by the 'eminent' Dr Bucknill. Whilst it would be improper of me to voice a negative opinion against a fellow doctor, I feel I have to say, quite forcefully, that he is wrong in his impressions. Mechanical restraint has been abused in the past and regretfully, with that comes a sense of fear, and public outrage against the practice. I am aware of this, and indeed aim to change such negative perceptions. Used sparingly, this method offers a substantial amount of freedom to those patients whom would otherwise be controlled with the use of drugs: that is to say, medicated to the point of semi-consciousness, the chemical restraint to which you mention. I should be wanting in courage indeed my Lord, if I refrained from the use of those means simply based on their neglectful and improper history. My profession has not yet reached the point of having fixed principles, and as such we are chiefly guided by experience. I am sure it will be of great comfort to you, that I do not use this chemical cosh method on any of my patients. I must also impress upon you that Royal Bethlem Hospital prides itself on being an epicentre of excellence: providing a wide variety of methods of psychiatric investigation, in the fields of both neurological and psychological research. If you do not wish Lady Stanbury to take part in such, I will, of course, abide by your wishes.
My Kindest Regards
Dr George Savage
I omit mentioning the other research we perform, and the fact that Lady Stanbury will be taking part in it.
Is a lie, a lie by omission?
If so, I have just lied to a man who contributes thousands of pounds per year to this hospital.
And yet.
I consider myself to be a moral man and I abhor liars, but I cannot stand back and watch a young woman potentially be destroyed. Her father’s ignorant and dogmatic incredulity with regards to a field he does not understand is dangerous to her.
After all, how long it will be before he blackmails me again, insisting his insane daughter is discharged: still mad? It is essential I work upon her quickly, for if he asserts his authority before she is cured, I fear for those around her. Lord Damsbridge himself would be in danger, though he does not recognize this fact. He is blinkered by his understandable, yet incredibly biased feelings towards his own flesh and blood. If I must apply treatments to Lady Stanbury away from the eyes and ears of her father, then so be it. There is nothing of more importance than the well-being of my patients.
I have no doubt that one day; this hospital will become the scientific and social centre of the English lunacy world. I will prove to everyone that by adopting a wide variety of methods within psychiatry, we can cure almost every type of madness.
And one of my successes' will be Lady Stanbury.
I pen a second letter, this time to my close friend and eminent colleague, Dr Daniel Hake Tuke, just in case he did not receive notification from Nurse Ruth. This trustee of Bethlem is a scientific sponge of a man whom specializes in experimental psychology.
“Doctor?” Nurse Agnus peeks around my open door. “Miss Fortier is here.”
“Wonderful,” I say. What perfect timing. “Please, show her in.” Lady Stanbury's obsession of finding someone whom speaks French infers to me something of importance between her and the maid. 'Fortier' being a name of French origin, it seems unlikely that this would be a mere coincidence, and mad as she is, most lunatics still retain some sort of grasp on reality. In this manner, there may be something I can use from their shared history that will allow me to establish a rapport with my patient. I have been looking forward to meeting the woman who now enters my office with a proud and dignified air.
“Miss Fortier, how wonderful to meet you. Thank you for making the journey to talk with me. Was it terribly long?”
“Not at all, Sir. It's a good day for it.”
The rain pounds against the window, and I thereby assume she is not referring to the weather.
“Miss Fortier, do you know why I have asked you here?”
She puts her gloved hands upon her lap, and maintains eye contact with me.
“I do. You want to speak with me about my Lady. How can I help you?”
“Tell me about what sort of child she was.”
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“What were her interests, her habits? Start when she was a child. Was she a playful child? An insolent child?”
Her eyes adopt a far-away glaze as she remembers, gazing at a point slightly above and to the right of my head. With a deep intake of breath, she reverts her gaze to me and says, “She was a normal child, Doctor. Running amok around the fields, climbing trees, quite cheerful, considering her motherlessness. I tried to be some sort of substitute for that sad fact; though of course, she considered her only friend in the world to be one of the servants, a girl her own age. Perfectly natural in such a young child. She did not view me as a friend, then, she was more interested in exploring the woods and trees around her than she was in mathematics, French, music, art, or any other academic subject. Her interests lay in being a young girl, and playing with those around her.”
“So you wouldn't say that she was a particularly gifted child?”
“No. I would say, with clarity, that she was a perfectly normal child, Doctor.”
I open Lady Stanbury's medical file and start writing.
No precocious traits as a child.
“Was she a nervous child?”
“No.”
No nervousness
in childhood.
Attacks of nervous disorder affecting the unstable developing nervous tissues of child, can cause rapid and permanent degeneration. Had Anne suffered from this, it would most certainly have been a contributing factor to her current insanity. However, she appears to have been confident, and happy.
Next is to focus on her education. Over-education, or bad education, consists of the development of one side of the person at the expense or neglect of the rest.
“When she had her lessons, did you oblige her in that which she wanted to do with detriment to the rest?”
“No, Doctor. I taught her all manners of things, and she had lessons in each of them in equal amounts; whether she liked it or not. Despite what I said, when she wasn't off running around the grounds, she was an attentive and mediocre pupil.”
“Did she excel or fail in any subjects?”
“No. She passed them adequately, and to the standard expected of a young woman.”
“Any particular musical talent?”
“No.”
“Artistic talent?”
“No.”
“What of her accomplishments? Did she play the piano, the zitter?” Almost every well educated lady can play at least a little of these. “What about sketching, archery?”
“No. Well, she can play a tune on the piano...now. She excelled in reading, Doctor, and both she and I perceive this to be her accomplishment. She was an avid reader since a relatively early age. Naturally, Asquith Manor boasts a rather large library.”
I don't like the sound of this.
“Did she read alone?”
“Often.”
“Did she continue reading into adulthood?”
“Yes, she did. Even now, she can almost always be found with a book in her hand.” A look crosses her face, and I'm not sure what to make of it. Is it smugness, or the hint of knowing something I do not? This woman gives me an uneasy feeling, and yet I cannot say how, or why.
The Medea Complex Page 9