Patient embraced useless book reading from an early age, allowed to educate herself through this means solitarily; probably at the expense of social interaction. A certain element of defective education from a member of the weaker sex.
I frown at Miss Fortier.
“You do recognize that a woman reading all sorts of...” I search for the word. “Sorts of...rubbish, and stuffing her mind with useless nonsense is dangerous, don't you? Why would you allow this to happen, as her Governess?”
“She was, and remains, an intelligent person, Sir. If she wanted to read, I let her do so. She didn't lose herself in fantasy nor indulge in romance books. You never asked me what type of books she read. She learned astrology, social friction, politics, history, and nature through her books. They have served to improve her as a woman, and I must say I disagree with your rather old fashioned sentiment indeed.”
Women. Most of them are bordering on the limits of insanity at the best of times.
I sigh.
“Moving on, Miss Fortier. How was she during her pregnancy? I’m sure as the woman closest to her, you would be aware of the most intimate details.”
“Which pregnancy?”
I mentally deride myself. Of course, the miscarriage. I have seen these occur with frequency in the insane. Mother Nature steps in and procures the natural destruction of a child who ran a very great risk of being an idiot. Though I don't believe this to be the case with Lady Stanbury; no doubt, she over-exerted herself.
“The second one, Miss Fortier. The pregnancy that led to her being here.”
“Oh, she was anxious, of course. After all, if a woman knows ten or fifteen women, she probably knows someone who had died giving birth, or would later die. Add into this equation her own mother and the first baby and well...” she raised her arms, palms to the sky. “How would you expect her to feel?”
“I'd expect her to be naturally anxious. But did she do anything to console herself of these worries?”
“She read, Doctor. About everything.”
“I don’t really understand what reading would have done to comfort her-”
“Oh, it was more of a comfort than you'll ever realize, Sir. She read all about pregnancy. She really is a talented reader. She even read some articles from The Lancet.”
My God. That's it. I start writing, quickly.
Anne was clearly distressed following the miscarriage she suffered. This grievance left Anne extremely susceptible to future mental problems. I do not believe that she fully mourned the loss of her first child, and when faced with her second pregnancy, she thereupon read any and all literature she could lay her hands on with regards to midwifery and childbirth in a misguided attempt to keep the second baby safe. This in turn filled her mind with apprehensions at to the horrors that might be in store for her, and she thus developed a cerebral disturbance.
It is noteworthy here that Anne gained access to advice books, medical literature and periodicals, and, having an intellect great enough to both understand and digest this information, Anne was open to terror and anxiousness regarding the impending birth of her second child.
It is for this reason women should not educate themselves beyond affairs of the home.
I put down my pen. She has confirmed my suspicions. I now know exactly what caused her insanity.
Books. Women and their books.
“I think I have enough information, Miss Fortier. Thank you.” I rise from my chair, and call out to Nurse Agnus. Miss Fortier surprises me by being astute enough to catch my mood, for she instantly justifies her actions.
“I didn't mean to do her any harm, Doctor-”
“I'm sure you didn't. You should have known enough as a governess to never have let her read those books. You should never have encouraged her to become a reader. But the damage has already been done now, hasn't it? Unfortunately, women don't often think of the consequences of their actions until afterward.”
Nurse Agnus knocks and enters, smiling at the both of us.
“Beatrix!” she says, the smile growing wider. It quickly disappears, turning into a blush. “I mean, Miss Fortier. How nice to meet you.”
Miss Fortier turns to the attendant, her hands shaking. “Oh, how nice to meet you too-”
I interrupt.
“Thank you, Miss Fortier. I bid you good-day.”
I want her out of my office. Yet she lingers.
“Sir,” she says, rummaging in her purse, dropping it. She casts aside handkerchiefs and coins until she finds an envelope. “Could you give this to my Lady? It's a letter, from me. She will be very happy to hear from me. I know she will.”
I take the letter from her and nod, neglecting to inform her that we don’t, as a rule, pass letters onto patients.
It is not until much, much later that I wonder how Agnus knew Miss Fortier's first name, and I completely forgot to ask her about the importance of French.
Falling Apart
Edgar
January 10th, 1886
Asquith House
I am alone, sheltered in a house tainted with blood and decorated with murder. The thick covers that surround me heat my body, but fail to thaw the coil of cold anger around my neck. Misery is my only bedfellow.
Ultimately, what do fancy homes and pricey possessions give to the person that owns them? Satisfaction? Superiority? What has my father been searching for all these years? What did he expect to gain from this? It is I, not he, that has borne the brunt and result of our lies.
It is I that saw my own child, dismembered into several different pieces across a fancy kitchen floor.
It is I bearing the burden now.
And yet, he has the audacity to ask me for money?
What I wouldn't give to possess all that is owed me. A wife who is not in a lunatic asylum, a son that is not dead, and a father that cares for me. I don’t understand how this has become such a nightmare.
This is her fault.
I hate her.
I love her.
I hate her.
I need her.
The realisation does not come quietly, and I sob into the sheets.
The servants hate me; I saw the glint in that bloody lady's maids' eye. And in those of the brat with her, what's her name? Betty. Yes, she too, will go when I am master of this manor. Do they think I haven't noticed the distinct undertone of simmering resentment? Do they imagine that their jealousy is well hidden behind the 'Yes Sir's', and 'No, Sir's'? Yes, I know what their problem is. They see me as a usurper: a commoner that has waltzed into their home and become a man. A gentleman. I am now what I always aspired to be. I may not have the money but damn them, they will treat me as a gentleman. If not, I'll sack them all, and buy a new staff from Europe. Just like the Doctor. Yes, that is what I will do when my wife is free, and our new baby son is born.
Happy with my newly positive thoughts, I jump out of bed.
But wait. Can I go ahead with this day as I did so yesterday? Can I spend another morning sat alone, staring out of the window? Another afternoon pouring over newspapers from yesteryear, whilst all the while my wife lies rotting amidst her insanity?
She needs to come home to me, so therefore, I must help her.
I need her.
Where is that book the Doctor gave me?
It is not on the bedside table.
It is not on the floor.
Oh no. Have I lost it? I can't remember what I did last night. Was I drunk? Is it possible I put it somewhere?
Frantic, I throw cushions and lamps and a wooden animal out of my way, all of them bouncing safely off the plush rug underfoot.
I find Insanity and Allied Neuroses still sitting unopened next to the dregs of last night’s alcohol, atop Anne's vanity table. Opening it up, I flick through it.
'We may classify by the causes, as in epileptic, puerperal, or alcoholic insanity; or by the forms which the symptoms assume; thus, mania, melancholia, or dementia.
‘At almost any period after delivery sympto
ms of insanity may arise’
‘She becomes sleepless and nervous, fancying that she is going to be deserted, or that something is going to happen to her children and herself’
‘Inheritance plays a very important part in puerperal insanity’
I close the book and put it back on the table, thinking.
Lord Damsbridge has been away these past weeks, attending some political function, on account of him sitting in the House of Lords, so there is nobody to speak to about this situation. In any case, he and I are not so close as to discuss such frivolities as my loneliness, especially not when his only daughter sits in a nuthouse. When he moved into the dowager house, I got the distinct impression that he blamed me for it somehow. Is it true what the old lawyer said, that my father-in-law will not let me stay here, in Asquith House? I don’t think Lord Damsbridge ever realised that it takes two people to make a baby, and yet only one person to destroy it. And the one who did so wasn't me. It was his precious daughter.
I go to my washbowl, satisfied to see it filled already, and splash cold water upon my face. I reach out blindly for the towel to wipe my eyes, and my hands settle around something hard and lumpy.
The wooden giraffe.
It landed right next to my ablution bowl, and I didn’t even register what it was.
My dead sons only toy.
Furious, I leave it and make my way into the next bedroom, my eyes settling upon the crib. How have I slept in the room next to this every night? No wonder I have nightmares! I rush over to it and start kicking it repeatedly, not stopping until the wooden slats crack and fall apart, not caring if I alarm the servants with the noise. Eventually, a pile of broken wood lies on the floor, which I scoop into my arms. Before I know what I am doing, I am running along the hallways; lined with paintings of ancestors long deceased from this world, and then I am outside in the garden wearing nothing but my night wear, making a fire, upon which I make a pyre of the cot. The heat and smoke sting my eyes.
"Sir!" The shout arouses my attention from the flames. The fire I am currently imagining Anne burning within. Burn, slut, burn. "Sir, oh dear!" Miss Fortier near on runs straight into me, in such a hurry is she to get to my side. "Goodness heavens above! Fire! Sir, sir, let me get some water immediately!" I grab her arm as she turns, evidently meaning to run back through the mud to fill a bucket.
"Do not distress yourself so, Miss Fortier." I say, stabbing it with a stick. "It's a good fire. A right bony bonfire indeed. Poke it; look at the sparks it sends up."
Wide eyed, she glances down at my hand that still holds her. I release her, and turn back to the pyre. I throw the stick upon it as she rubs her arm.
"Sir, what is it you have burning? What if the land shall catch fire? Oh, sir..."
"Enough, Beatrix."
She dithers, not sure where to put herself.
"Return to your duties Miss Fortier and leave me be," I say.
She looks to the ground, and then to my face. "Sir, forgive me for speaking so terribly out of turn, but I worry about you. I hear you crying at night, and I know just how terribly in grief you are. Please, I implore you; take care of yourself." I wonder if she knows of my drinking habit of late. I wonder if she can smell it on me now. I wonder why I don't feel ashamed. I stare at her, and resist the urge to hit her. Though I understand her trepidation, I certainly don't need Anne's maid giving me advice, and my silence unnerves her.
“Sir, I-”
I click my jaw.
The unspoken response gives her an answer she didn't want, and she turns from me and runs away back towards the house, lifting her long skirts high above the mud that splatter her boots.
Maybe I can control my grief. Maybe I can't.
Oh, but how can I forgive her? How? She has ruined everything, everything.
What happens if she should not come back? What happens to me, and our marriage?
My whole life is falling apart.
I will get my wife back. I must. The mother of my child; the murderer of my baby.
The love and the hate of my life.
I See Something In You
Anne
February 2nd, 1886
Royal Bethlem Hospital
I have been here for fifteen weeks already. Where has the time gone?
So far, they have taken my picture three times, plunged me under cold water twice, and tied my hands once. Still, I am strong, and they shan't break me.
Apparently the shape of my head is normal. That's good.
Fat Ruth has never given me her keys instead of porridge, and I have never had anything other for breakfast in this stinking hole of a place since the day I arrived here. I feel almost destitute at times. Though they have started letting me out of my cell for longer periods each day, and sometimes they even take their eyes off me, it's hardly enough time to make another attempt at escape. So, I don't try anymore.
Grace has become my mute friend, she doesn't say much but that's fine with me. Obviously her nerves got on top of her being locked up in here, and I can empathize with that. I sit on the floor next to her under the watchful eye of Agnus. I like Agnus, but how can I possibly trust her amongst this place of thieves, robbers, liars and tricksters? She treats Grace with nothing but compassion. I see true sympathy in her eyes regarding our plight but still, she is employed by these people so she can't be that pleasant. I treat her with wariness, though she always tries her best to engage me in conversation.
This day, Agnus tells me Grace has been here for eight years.
"Eight years!" I exclaim in utter mystification. "Why in heavens did her family not pay the ransom?"
"Anne, how many times do I have to tell you?" Agnus admonishes.
"Yes, yes, I have not been kidnapped," I repeat back to her, a sentence she repeats to me daily when I start becoming slightly hysterical about my current predicament. "Can you believe that Doctor has fake certificates hanging on the wall in his fake office?”
“Anne, you are in a hospital. He really is a Doctor.”
I grumble.
“Yes yes...I must try to remember this."
"Yes Anne, you must, if you ever want to get well and get out of here," Agnus says, softly brushing Graces' hair. "And not through escaping. We are responsible for your safety, and we have force at hand if necessary. Do not compel Ruth to use it.” She sighs. “You got that man into a world of trouble."
“What man?”
“The one you tried to escape with.”
I make a noise in my throat.
At this point, I hardly care.
"How old is she, then?" I say, pointing at Grace. I do not wish to discuss escape attempt number one. Eleven, for the gentleman. Nor do I want to be reminded of the fact I was restricted to my cell for three days as punishment, and emptied my bowels on the floor.
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen! She looks more like fifty!" I am incredulous.
"She is deaf and mute." says Grace.
"Pardon?"
"Anne, open your ears. Grace is deaf, not you."
I adopt a look of appropriate remorsefulness.
"She was suddenly afflicted by scarlet fever at only nine years old, since then she has been unable to communicate. She gradually became insane."
"That's terrible," I say. I mean it. "But I spoke to her, that time I asked her to move, and she looked right at me!" I argue, trying to contradict what she has told me. It cannot be true that a young girl has had her life stolen away from her at such a precious age.
"She sensed your presence. And anyway, I didn't say she was blind, Anne."
"Hmmm."
I ponder my situation.
"If I was deaf, I should kill myself." I add.
Agnus shakes her head, but I swear I can see a curve of a smile at the edges of her mouth.
"So, Agnus, is that your real name?" I move on the floor and sit next to Grace where I take over Agnus' stroking of her hair. It relaxes me too; it reminds me of stroking a horse. My horse. Ophelia.
> "Yes, Grace, why wouldn't it be?"
I raise my eyebrows.
"Of course, yes, we are all conspirators in your grand kidnapping fantasy. Sorry, I managed to forget for a minute there."
"It doesn't do a Lady to be sarcastic." I say.
"Who said I was a Lady, Anne? And anyway, I am not sorry."
Silence.
"Anne, could we drop the subject of your having been kidnapped for ten minutes?"
"I don't have a stick; how am I to tell how long ten minutes is?" I say. "Though I suppose we may chat awhile, if you tell me a bit about yourself and why you are here.” I pluck a hair from Graces head, and she winces. “Convince me, will you?"
Agnus doesn't notice.
“I just wanted to help people, Anne. It is a debt I owe.”
"Ah, so you are in cahoots with my kidnappers!”
“No Anne, oh no, you've misunderstood me.” She holds her arms out to me, and slowly rises to her feet. I move backwards towards the wall. My breathing comes fast and heavy, and I consider running away.
“Anne...the debt I owe is a moral one. There was once a woman who took very good care of my mother, and I owe her.”
I'm mystified.
“Well, how on earth is being in here helping?”
“It just is. I’m making a difference to women like Grace here...and you.”
I fiddle with the strings on my gown and look at the floor, thinking. Is she trying to make it better for us poor, lost, kidnapped women?
I suppose it might make some sort of ridiculous sense.
"Listen," Agnus says, whispering. "Where do you suppose Ruth is right now?"
"Fat Ruth?" I say, loudly.
"Shush, Anne! Just Ruth, plain and simple Ruth. Don't be so rude."
My good cheer returns.
"Well, Fat Ruth is busy chasing a suicidal hostage down from the roof." I smirk. "I heard her shouting as she wobbled down the corridor earlier. You know, she can't even run, she's that fat. The hostage is probably dead on the ground by now because she's so slow."
The Medea Complex Page 10