“Yes.”
“It was you who laughed at me, wasn’t it—that day I broke the eggs?”
“Yes. If you want to believe it was.”
“I knew it was, the minute I saw you. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t think it needed to be spoken about,” she said. “When two people recognize each other, nothing needs to be said.” She dropped her head, resting her chin on her shoulder, and stared out at the lawn. Howard and Mandel had disappeared, and under the willows I could see mist rising from the wet grass. We did not speak for some time, and I became aware of a growing sense of tranquillity as I sat in the soft green light of the veranda turning Lilith’s vine ring on my finger and looking out beyond the end of the grounds to where townspeople passed occasionally in the street. A woman pushing a baby carriage, whose wobbling wheel caused her to pause sometimes and examine it with ineffectual anxiety, made a slow, halting progress toward Diamond Avenue. How far away they seemed—and how droll their dilemmas—separated from us by the shadows of the poplars and the panes of sunlight that fell between the trees! I must have smiled—perhaps I even made a murmur of amusement—for Lilith turned to look at me and asked, “What is her name?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Carmichael, I think.”
“Don’t you know her?”
“Not very well. I see her in the grocery store sometimes.”
“Why did you smile, then?”
“I don’t know. It just seemed sort of . . . amusing, somehow.” She turned her head to watch Mrs. Carmichael disappearing slowly among the shadows of the elms.
“Are they nice people?” she asked. “What is it like, living in this town?”
“I don’t really know,” I said. “I was born here and I’ve been here all my life; but I don’t really feel as if I’ve lived here, somehow. They have a way of making you feel alone, and ashamed.”
She listened with her eyes lowered, closing them slowly with a look of soft intensity as she asked, “Why are you ashamed, Vincent?”
“My father was a strange man,” I said. “He was cruel, and selfish, I suppose; he wanted to be free. And my mother was . . . different from most of the women in this town; I think she was more generous. And they’ve never forgiven me for it.”
“Oh, I know,” Lilith murmured. “That is the great prize they offer, isn’t it? Their forgiveness.” She raised her head and leaned a little forward, whispering with a look of mischievous woe to the retreating figure in the street, “Mrs. Carmichael, forgive me, please. I am barefoot. I have yellow hair. And look at my arms, Mrs. Carmichael; see how soft and white they are. Forgive me for them. Forgive me because I am beautiful, and full of joy, and because I have visions.” She broke into glittering laughter, stretching her throat sweetly and shaking her tangled hair. As much to compose myself as for any reason, I said, “That isn’t really fair.”
“No, I’m not fair,” she said. “It’s a long while since I tried to be. But you are, still, aren’t you? So terribly fair.” She regarded me gently for a moment. “And your poor mother, Vincent? Did they kill her?”
“I don’t know,” I muttered, truly distressed by her question. “They helped, perhaps, although I would hate to think so. They made her feel very bad; none of them ever came to see her, and they would hardly speak to her in the street. And she felt things very deeply. But I don’t think it was that so much as—”
“As your father?”
“Yes.”
“Your wicked, wandering father.” She smiled slowly in a way that caused me suddenly to be profoundly shocked at the willingness of my confidences and at the way I had exposed myself, in making them, to both her irony and her disturbing sympathy. (For I had spoken with a sense of release—at expressing to someone feelings I had kept so long concealed—that was as surprising as it was profound.)
“Do you hate him, Vincent?”
“I don’t know him,” I said, “and I would have no right to condemn him if I did.”
My sudden defensive diffidence must have made its way into my tone of voice, for she appeared to accept this as a rebuke, dropping her eyes and turning her head away from me.
“Are your people any different?” I asked her gently, in a rather conciliatory way, to lessen the severity of my last remark.
“Oh, yes. They are generous and gentle.”
“There are such people here,” I said.
“Yes, there are a few; you are one, Vincent. But my people are wise as well.” She moved her hand toward me quickly in a gesture of contrition. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I have no illusions about my wisdom,” I said.
“But I think you have more than most. You have had moments of vision, Vincent, which I can see in your eyes; they are more like the eyes of my people than any others I have seen. And you have a way of walking, and of using your body, that reminds me of my people. When you were climbing the cliff the other day I saw how much you resembled them.”
“You actually see them, then?” I asked, somewhat unwillingly gratified by this distinction. “Their bodies and faces? What are they like?”
She watched me for a moment, as if examining the impulse that had made me question her. “They are tall and fair—do you think my hair is beautiful? It is growing more like theirs, but still it has nothing of their beauty. In my next Degree it will become more beautiful.” She paused to catch a strand of her hair and spread it in her fingers, smiling while she studied the separate golden filaments. “Do you see how coarse it is? It makes a sound like sand when you rub it in your fingers; theirs is finer than silk, and soundless.”
“They must be very beautiful,” I said.
“Oh, yes. They are too beautiful to describe. Their eyes are so clean, like diamonds, and their breath and bodies smell as sweet as cinnamon. They are not stuffed with filth, because they do not eat, as we do; they are nourished by light. Only sometimes, for joy, they touch their lips with nectar or cold spring water. They speak the purest language in the world, which they have taught me very early, because I am talented—it isn’t generally allowed until much later. And when they pass one another they do not turn their eyes away and pass in silence; they hold their hands out to one another and clasp each other’s fingers for a moment, without shame. There is no shame.”
“But there is sorrow?” I asked. “You say they weep for you.”
“Only for me. Only when they fear that I will not be faithful, that I will slip away.” She raised her eyes slowly to the lawn, staring wanly for a moment. “They are afraid that I may . . . return. That I will find something . . . desirable again.”
“Something that you love?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t they believe in love, then?” I asked her softly.
“It is all that they believe in,” she said. “But they love nobly—for joy—as they are teaching me to love. Not out of pity, or necessity, or guilt. As only children love, in your world.” The wind stirred, and she watched the leaping shadows of the elms along the distant street. “But perhaps there is still such love here. In this town, even. Can you tell me?”
I watched the far houses for a moment with their porch swings and rocking chairs, thinking of the evenings I had spent on them with Laura.
“No, I can’t tell you if there is.”
We sat in silence while an old gray horse went past in the street, pulling a creaking wagon full of split oak firewood. A farmer in faded overalls, sitting on the wagon seat, lashed its haunches while it struggled between the shafts, its lips foaming and working convulsively about the bit.
“Poor beast,” Lilith said. “They shouldn’t be made to work; they are too beautiful.”
“Do you like horses?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, more than anything! Do you?”
“Yes. You must see one of the tournaments, then, before the summer’s over. There’s some wonderful riding.”
“A tournament!” She turned toward me swiftly with an expression of delight. �
�Do they really have them? With lances and armor? Oh, I’d love to see one!”
“Well, not with armor,” I said. “We don’t try to knock each other off the horses any more. Only to spear targets.”
“Do you ride in them, then?”
“I used to, before the war. I had a little mare of my own once.”
“How wonderful!” she said. “Will you take me to one, Vincent? Do you think they’ll let me go?”
“I think they’d be delighted that you want to,” I said. “I’ll let you know when the next one is held, and we’ll ask.”
“Oh, please! And will you ride in it? You must! I want to see you ride.”
“I don’t have a horse now,” I said. “And I can’t very well, anyway, if I’m going to look after you.” She frowned wistfully. “What about your people?” I said. “Won’t they punish you for going?”
“Oh, not now,” she said. “They can’t, now.”
When I returned her to her room she stood just inside the door, her head hanging, looking down at her white feet.
“I almost forgot to tell you,” I said. “Mr. Evshevsky sent you his regards.” She raised her head and, after watching me for a moment with an amused and quizzical look, laughed softly. “He said he hadn’t seen you for several days and was afraid you might be ill. He asked about your health.”
“Tell him I am incurable.”
I could not help smiling at this. “I refuse to believe it,” I said. “You will see.”
When I turned to go she touched my sleeve and said, “You won’t be so long in coming to see me again, will you? That wasn’t kind.”
“Well, I have lots of other patients to see,” I said. “I can’t get up every day; but I’ll see that someone does, if you want company. I’m glad to hear that you do.” She did not reply, looking somberly into my eyes for a moment before turning away toward the window.
I have not said a great deal here about my own sensations during this interview, perhaps because I am still too uncertain of what they must have been, at this stage of my acquaintance with Lilith, to set them down; but there is a long passage in my journal—I shall not quote it entirely—which will indicate the state of mind in which, that evening, I sat down to record them.
TUES., MAY 5:
. . . a suggestion of understanding—even of intimacy—which I cannot deny is unsettling, even though I have seen her behave in much the same way to Warren, and understand that it is part of her sickness. When we were sitting on the veranda, for example, and she slipped the tendril of vine onto my finger, I had a sense of peace which, even while I was experiencing it, I felt the strangeness of. A feeling of—what? Imperfect content, sorrowful content—which is absurd to say. Is peace an imperfect or sorrowful thing? I can’t believe it, and don’t understand it. I have tried to think of something to compare this feeling to; but I have had only one other experience which is even faintly comparable, and it is equally odd:
When I was on leave in Sydney and shopping with the fifty pounds that I had saved to buy a Christmas present for Grandma; and I met the American deserter in civilian clothes in the milk bar at Bondi. He looked hunted, and begged me for money to get out of Australia; he said that he could bribe a freighter captain to smuggle him into San Francisco. He was afraid to turn himself in, he said, and couldn’t, anyway; because he had thrown his uniform away, and would have been shot if he were caught without it. I believed him, and gave him the money—I don’t know why—so that I had nothing left to buy a present for Grandma with. It left me with a feeling that was a little like this: peace, of a kind, but imperfect peace; peace that is half grief. (I have made too much of this. How confused it all is!)
And yet, in spite of the confusion that she makes me feel, and the obscurity of what she says, I feel that I understand her—almost perfectly, sometimes—and burn with ambition to help her, to perform some miracle cure that will astonish everyone. When I listen to her speak there are moments when I feel as if I knew exactly what it is that she needs, and can show her how to find it; that only I can heal her.
But why on earth did I say those things to her about my parents? They were far too intimate, far too intense. I had the feeling suddenly that our roles had become entirely reversed—that I was the patient and she the therapist. Perhaps it was that curious sense of fraternity that she made me feel; of understanding—even anticipating—my feelings, and sharing and supporting me in them. Much of what she says—her ironic litany to Mrs. Carmichael, for example—I seem to recognize, to have felt myself, and for some reason to rejoice at hearing her express. This is perhaps the most alarming thing about it all.
She does alarm me, I must confess, after my experience at Great Falls. When I think of taking her alone to the tournament (as I promised to do!) I have a rather chilly feeling of anxiety. Perhaps it was not wise to offer to, without Bea’s advice. (But I’m sure she will approve, and Dr. Lavrier as well.) Still, it may go very well; and at any rate it would be quite unnatural, as Bea says, not to feel some nervousness at such an early stage of my career. Particularly when I have made such an impressive contact with a patient whom the rest of the staff finds so difficult, and have the opportunity to perform a really valuable and individual piece of work. It is the delicacy and originality of the opportunity that makes it so disturbing, I suppose.
Later (2:00 A. M.):
Have been reading more of Jung, and have found this passage, which I must set down, however cheerlessly. It seems to me to illuminate not only my feelings about Lilith, but also—very greatly—the conversation which I had yesterday with Mrs. Meaghan. While I could not find within myself the full relevance of her words, I seem to have found it here in Jung; and reading them back, now (from yesterday’s entry), in the light of this remarkable comment, how much more profound, how bitterly penetrating, they have become!
The man who uses modern psychology to look behind the scenes not only of his patients’ lives but more especially of his own—and the modern psychotherapist must do this if he is not to be merely an unconscious fraud—will admit that to accept himself in all his wretchedness is the hardest of tasks, and one which it is almost impossible to fulfil. The very thought can make us livid with fear. We therefore do not hesitate, but lightheartedly choose the complicated course of remaining in ignorance about ourselves while busying ourselves with other people and their troubles and sins. This activity lends us an air of virtue, and we thus deceive ourselves and those around us. In this way, thank God, we can escape from ourselves. There are countless people who can do this with impunity, but not everyone can, and these few break down on the road to Damascus. . . .
And then, a few lines later, these most disturbing words of all:
How can I help these persons if I am myself a fugitive?
I know I won’t be able to get to sleep immediately, because these words are clamoring in my mind; so I think I’ll go out and take a walk before I go to bed. There is a really savage moon above the cherry tree. I may walk down to the Lodge. I’ve always wanted to see what it looks like in the moonlight.
HERE are fragments from my journal for the next several days:
FRI., MAY 8:
. . . Not much time tonight, because it is quite late. Just come in from specialing Mrs. Johnson and Susan Turner. [“Specialing” was a kind of extracurricular escort service, outside of regular working hours (i.e., on Saturdays, Sundays, or weekday evenings), which was paid for privately by the patients concerned, rather than by the Lodge. It generally meant no more than accompanying them to the movies in Stonemont, although occasionally on a more elaborate excursion into Washington for a theater performance or concert; and was not very strenuous, as they had to have “special privileges” in order to make such trips and were therefore in a fairly reliable condition.] Interesting to see them outside the hospital surroundings in a normal civil environment. Both second-floor patients with whom I have not had much contact so far, and found them very quiet and agreeable. Saw a Randolph Scott western, which t
hey watched with evident glee, and stopped afterward for a soda at Wingate’s. Among patients in better condition there is a kind of naïveté when they are outside, which is probably a result of their confinement and is very appealing. Felt like an indulgent uncle taking his two favorite nieces out on a special occasion. After eleven when I got them back to the Lodge. Mrs. Daniels, the second-floor night nurse, gave me a cup of coffee, and we smoked and chatted for half an hour. Very nice, housewifely type from South Dakota.
Floors are strange at night. So quiet, and with the bright white light in the corridors. Big electric clock with second hand sweeping soundlessly. Attendants prowling, opening doors sometimes and peering in. Darkness, breathing, occasional whimpering or soft sobs. Last night’s linen spread out in the hydro rooms, being examined for semen, blood or excrement. Their poor mad nighttime secrets pried into. Gives you a feeling of rage sometimes: “Oh, leave them alone! Leave their wretched dreams alone!”
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