‘Leprosy is not seen as other sicknesses are, not here. Our people have lost children to measles, to influenza, to smallpox, to all manner of diseases, and their hearts break when this happens, but they see them as sent by God, either as punishment for sins, or to teach them some lesson, however hard. But leprosy,’ here he paused and shook his head. ‘Leprosy is sent by the devil.’
The meeting of the newly-formed branch of the St John’s Ambulance Society in Nelson had about it the air of a little party. We had at last secured the venue – in the shape of the Temperance Hall – for our weekly gatherings, and we would be able to use it for our demonstrations of first aid. As my injuries had continued to heal well, I was delighted to be able to put myself forward to tour the schools and factories in the region. There was something immensely satisfying about taking life-saving skills out into the community. While the cause still dearest to me remained the plight of the lepers, I knew that I could not set out upon that mission until I was sufficiently well again. My mother’s health had improved, and I was confident she could withstand the voyage back to England. All that remained was to secure further funds. I felt certain I could raise more money once in Europe, but at this point my immediate needs extended as far as the price of our passage home. In the meantime, it was to everyone’s good that I throw myself into my St John’s Ambulance work.
And had I not done so, I might never have met Nell. She came to that meeting, she later told me, out of curiosity, not only about the organisation, but about me. It seems she had heard of this nurse who had served in the Russo-Turkish war. She had heard of my good works in New Zealand. And, happily, she had heard of my desire to travel the world in support of God’s outcast lepers; a cause which touched her tender heart.
As the business of the meeting came to a close the society members took tea together, inviting our new guests to join us. Amid the pleasant chatter, the note of which was a shared desire to do God’s work in whatever way we were best suited, I spied Nell in the corner of the room. She was talking with – or rather, being talked at by – one of our more strident members, Mrs Langley, who was, to my embarrassment, telling her how fortunate they were to have me on their committee. Nell seemed to be barely listening, as her gaze was directed at me. When I smiled at her she cast her eyes down quickly, as if caught out in some way. I threaded my way through the small crowd to stand beside her, and offered her my hand while we were introduced.
‘Oh, Sister Marsden,’ Mrs Langley beamed, ‘we are blessed today to have won the support of this good lady, Mrs Duff Hewitt. She is known for her philanthropy, and has given generously of both her time and her own income in many instances. I am certain the two of you will share a great deal of common ground.’
Nell, or Ellen as she was to me at first, was an attractive woman, with soft, soulful eyes, and a freshness about her skin that belied the fact that she was several years older than me. She had, I believe, resigned herself to the solitude of widowhood without bitterness. Perhaps she knew, in her heart, that there was something more, another love of which she was capable.
‘I am delighted to meet anyone who puts themselves forward in the cause of the sick and the needy. There is much work to be done, Mrs Hewitt.’
‘And you are the person to do it, I’ve heard,’ she said.
‘I am a woman unsuited to inactivity,’ I told her. ‘Alas my recent accident forced me to resign my post as Superintendent of Nurses at the Wellington.’
‘Their loss was our good fortune,’ Mrs Langley put in.
Nell said, ‘I do not think we should plan on having Sister Marsden to ourselves. From what I have been told, a little town like Nelson will not hold you for long. Is that right?’
‘I do indeed have bigger plans, if I am to further the cause of the lepers of this world, and they will require my travelling extensively.’
‘How I wish I had a fraction of your bravery. To journey to far flung places and nurse people afflicted with such a terrifying disease… Are you never afraid?’
‘I put my trust in God, Mrs Hewitt. He will send me where He may. I know that He will not ask of me something that is beyond my doing.’
I found myself staring at her, quite without meaning to. Mrs Langley was called away and the two of us were left, surrounded by people, and yet alone for all the interest we had in anyone save one another at that moment. I could see confusion on Nell’s fine face. It was easier for me. The territory onto which we now ventured was familiar. I thought briefly of Rose, and quickly turned from that fragile memory. I saw that a battle was being fought within Nell, where propriety fought with desire. I wanted to spare her such turmoil, and yet to do so would have meant walking away from her. She blushed beneath the boldness of my gaze, but I would not let her go.
‘If you have an interest in my work,’ I said quietly, ‘I should very much like the opportunity to speak with you further on the subject.’
She nodded quickly. ‘That would be most agreeable, Sister Marsden,’ she said.
‘Excellent! I know of a dear little tea shop where we might talk undisturbed while enjoying particularly wonderful cakes. And do, please, call me Kate.’
It seems to me I have made a lifetime’s companion of death. Perhaps that is why now, as the end of my own life is near, I do not fear it. That and my longing to be with my Lord, of course. As a nurse I have witnessed many deaths. I have delayed or prevented others, but to spend one’s time surrounded by the sick is to have death hover ever at one’s shoulder. Some of my patients were not seriously ill but even so the fear of death, of imminent departure from this life, it was in their eyes, in every anxious glance or imploring look. The fear of death stalked them just as the fear of the bears in the forest stalked me.
And what was leprosy if not a slow death? Wherever I treated lepers, on whatever continent, under whatever conditions, they received their diagnosis with a dread of dying from the disease, but as time went on it was living with it that frightened them. In the end, many longed for the release of death.
If I retreated to my personal life I would find death waiting for me there too. My father had died when most of us were still children, his death signifying the end of our innocence, the end of our protection. And then my sisters embarked upon their painful journeys through tuberculosis to meet our Maker.
Were there times when I wished death upon one who suffered? I would not be truthful if I pretended otherwise, but to admit it causes me distress, for I know it is for God to decide when our souls will go to Him. No one else has the authority to make that decision. There were occasions – few, but seared into my memory – when I was pleaded with to bring about an end to suffering. To see a person beg to have you end their life is a terrible thing. Terrible because you cannot accede to their wishes. Terrible because you have no desire to see them in pain. Terrible because you have no words that can lift them from their despair.
Come then, death, when God wills it. I know you are near. You always have been. But you have no power over me, for the hour will not be of your choosing. I felt you close when the ice cracked beneath the runners of our sledge upon the frozen lake. I knew you were watching when the forest burned and my horse threatened to throw me into the blaze. I heard your rasping breath in the midst of the fever that gripped me so far from home. But God had a purpose for me, and he kept me to it.
It was not my first visit to the city of New York. During my time travelling around the states of America to raise funds for and awareness of the plight of my poor lepers, I had been there on several occasions. Indeed after two years of such campaigning I had visited the majority of the major cities of that country, and had, for the most part, been welcomed. Good people know good when they see it, and who could not be moved when told of such suffering? I was able to give a first-hand account of the conditions in which the lepers of Siberia lived, and then able to explain our plans for the hospital.
But this time was different. I arrived by train, and took a cab from the station to a hotel w
hich I shall not name here, for fear of further trouble and litigation. I had been travelling a number of hours, having recently come from Hawaii, where business had taken me. The porter took my luggage, the doorman tipped his cap, and I entered through the gleaming revolving doors. The reception area of the hotel was smart rather than grand, and I had always admired its understated elegance. There was something refined about its style. It was important that people with whom I would hold meetings should have somewhere to come to that set the correct tone for our discussions. This hotel offered just such an ambience. I was greeted at the desk by the concierge and the under manager, both of whom knew me by sight and by name.
‘Good morning, George. Mister Whitely. It is a pleasure to be here again. Oh, don’t the lilies in the foyer look delightful?’
The under manager, was about to respond and was indeed on the point of reaching for the register for me to sign when the manager himself, Mister O’Dwyer, came hurrying through from the rear office. He put his hand on the register and pulled it back towards him across the desk, an action that seemed full of significance to me even at that moment.
‘I regret, Miss Marsden,’ he said in a voice so low I had to lean forward to hear it, ‘we do not have a room available for you.’
‘Not? How so? I wired to inform you of my arrival. Did you not receive my telegram?’ I asked, my gloves already half-removed in preparation for signing my name in the book.
‘We did, madam.’
‘Then am I to understand there has been a sudden influx of travellers and your hotel is full?’
‘That is not… exactly the case,’ he fidgeted as he spoke and had difficulty meeting my eye. His assistant looked as nonplussed as I.
‘I am sorry, Mister O’Dwyer, but I am at a loss to comprehend what you are trying to tell me. Do you have a room or do you not?’
He hesitated and then said carefully, ‘For you, Miss Marsden, I regret we do not.’
Behind me a small queue was forming. Other guests were waiting to check in or to collect their keys. Even with the manager practically whispering, it was clear some manner of altercation was taking place, and I had no doubt those close by would be able to hear his words if they cared to listen.
‘I see,’ I said, making no effort to quieten my own voice. ‘And may I have the reason for this… exclusion?’
The man’s fidgeting reached its height, so that he all but squirmed in front of me.
‘I fear I am not able to speak of the details behind this decision…’
‘Not able! Come, man, I have a right to know why I am no longer welcome at this establishment. I demand to know!’
Now all ears were strained to hear his answer. There was no escaping it; I would not allow him to slink away without explaining himself.
At last he said, ‘It is a matter of protecting our guests. The hotel has a strong policy…’
‘Protecting them from me?’
‘Not yourself as such, Miss Marsden, but from, well, to put it plainly, the risk of infection.’
There it was. The gossip that had started as a malicious whisper had found its voice and progressed from city to city with breathtaking speed. There is a saying that a lie will travel around the world before truth has got his boots on, and indeed that seemed to be the case. I took a steadying breath. I let myself be strengthened by the knowledge that by being so shunned I was in the smallest of ways knowing the suffering of those I had given my life to help.
‘Do you call me a leper, sir?’ I asked, making my words loud and clear for all present to receive. There was a collective gasp. The couple nearest me took a step backwards. Aside from this all movement in the foyer ceased. The door did not revolve. Luggage was not wheeled in or out. Guests stopped mid-stride, uncertain whether to remain and listen further, or to flee. Such was the power of the word.
The manager flapped his hands as if he would silence me.
‘Miss Marsden, please try to understand…’
‘I understand perfectly well. You have allowed rumour and slanderous hearsay to influence your judgement. You are badly advised, Mister O’Dwyer. Your facts are nothing but fabrication.’ I pulled my gloves on and straightened my shoulders. ‘I shall take myself to an establishment where good sense and sound judgement are still the order of the day.’
So saying I strode from the hotel, the bellboy trotting after me with my cases. I swept from that place with my head held high, but I felt the disgust and fear of all I passed, and I shall never forget it.
That morning the sun was slow to rise above the horizon, the frozen tundra revealing itself in pale, faltering degrees. There was a light wind sighing about me as I stood waiting for the men to break camp. Their gruff voices seemed to recede, so poignant was the sound of the wind, and as I listened I was transported back to another time. To another dawn. To Rose. And the sighing was her own sweet voice. I closed my eyes then, allowing myself to be taken by the memory, experiencing a surge of love as I glimpsed her golden skin, her long limbs, her languid expression. It was but a moment, vividly brought to mind by the moaning of the Siberian wilderness, and yet it moved me so.
I opened my eyes and blinked away the bittersweet memory, pushing my hands into my pockets. I found a wrapped piece of Christmas pudding. Carefully I folded back the Fortnum and Mason paper and took some of the sugary contents. The taste alone was reviving, restoring my mood. I walked over to my waiting pony and fed him a little of the pudding, watching his delight as he enjoyed the treat and nuzzled my hand with his soft nose, hoping for another morsel.
I sat across the desk from the doctor, this time not as a nurse waiting to assist him, but as a patient, come for my diagnosis. It was a hard thing to find myself in such a position, and yet I should not have been surprised. After all, was not the fear of contagion what had driven those Siberian families to carry their dear mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers out into the cruel wilderness and leave them there? Was it not the nature of the disease to strike those who came close to it? Why should I escape then, when I had spent so many hours, days, weeks, years with lepers in all stages and conditions of the disease?
The room was cool, the blinds lowered against the glare of the Hawaiian sunshine. the doctor was a local man, born, raised and schooled on the island. He had grown up knowing of the ravages of the disease, and like me, he had dedicated his life to helping those who fell victim to it. Unlike me, he had not, thus far, been compelled to undergo the tests and examination that would confirm or reject a positive diagnosis. He cleared his throat as he shuffled the notes in his hand, reading quickly. From outside came the sounds of children playing in a nearby park. A dog barked somewhere. A carriage sped past, the ironclad hooves of the horses ringing louder, then softer as it raced away. All was normal and ordinary and as it should be. And yet there I sat awaiting the words that would decide my future.
The doctor looked up at me then and gave a gentle, kindly smile.
They said you were mad.
I was not.
Yet you did not defend yourself.
I could not.
Could not or would not? You should surely have been indignant, outraged, shouting your denial from the rooftops.
I imagine that might only have confirmed their suspicions.
You could have demanded a retraction. What was it William Stead said of you? That your experiences had brought about ‘Painful maladies which disturbed her mental balance.’
He was quite wrong.
And yet you did not say so at the time. Not publicly. Why was that?
I had neither the time nor the inclination to answer every slur upon my character.
Wasn’t the truth rather more personal? Wasn’t it the case that being thought mad was preferable to being thought bad? After all, an insane woman can hardly be held to account for her behaviour, however abhorrent. Insanity might have proved a rather useful diagnosis to hide behind, is that not so?
The chief advantage of travelling in a tarantassrather than a sledge w
as speed. Despite the idea that one might move more swiftly on runners over snow, the conditions of the winter roads were such that progress was both painfully uncomfortable and painfully slow. Once summer had arrived properly, it was possible to negotiate the roads in one of these heavy vehicles with three or more horses pulling it, often at a gallop. Indeed, the chief disadvantage appeared to be the recklessness with which the drivers of these fiendish conveyances controlled them. They were often inebriated, having taken frequent nips from a bottle of vodka to fight off the chill of the night, or to ward off fatigue. Their judgement thus impaired, they would urge the horses on, faster and faster, seemingly without regard for their own safety, nor apparently that of their horses, and certainly not that of any passenger.
On one occasion I was travelling alone in a particularly bone-rattling tarantass, and was already clinging on in a state of some terror as we tore through the evening with ever increasing speed. The driver cracked his whip and shouted at the horses, urging them on as if we were being pursued by the devil himself. Within a few miles I came to think that we were in point of fact being driven by him, as we began to descend a steep and rugged slope, and still the driver did not rein in the wild-eyed steeds that pulled us. I did not believe it possible that we could complete our descent safely at such breakneck speed, but worse was to come. Jolted from his seat, as one of the horses stumbled, the driver was pulled forwards, so that he fell, still clinging to the reins, between the bolting beasts. His cries were terrible as we galloped on, and I could do nothing to help. I could barely haul myself forwards to the empty seat, and, even then, there was no possibility of my retrieving the reins, which meant all I could do was hold fast, listening to the dwindling screams of the poor driver, waiting for whatever end was to come.
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