An Inconvenient Wife (7 page)

Mrs. C. received an average education, comes from a wealthy and socially prominent family. Mother died from undisclosed causes
when Mrs. C. was ten. Normal childhood. No siblings. Father is still alive. She is rather thin, of average height and normal
intellect. Dark hair, face without color, white skin, with deep circles beneath her eyes belying her claim that she sleeps
often and for long periods.

Mrs. C. is not completely forthcoming regarding her present medical condition, though she seems to desire help. She complains
of a frequent inability to breathe, which no amount of relaxation or loosening of corset stays seems to relieve. Often has
the sense of something blocking her throat—“suffocation,” as she calls it. Complains of restlessness and the inability to
experience joy or even contentment, along with frequent irritation and agitation that grows into “fits” during which she feels
unable to control her emotions.

Present Condition:
Temperature 99°F. Pulse 74, regular. Tongue slightly coated, whitish color. Thoracic and abdominal examinations revealed nothing
abnormal. She complained of no tenderness or pain, yet I very easily created a painful spot beneath the xiphoid process and
a corresponding one on the back by insisting she would feel such. Having thus established that the patient was suggestible,
I did the customary vaginal examination.

There was no ovary pain. Vagina has normal sensitivity on both sides, with no evidence of abnormalities in coloration or tissue.
Labia majora and minora are of normal sensitivity. Clitoris insensitive when not erect but becomes acutely sensitive during
erection, which can be produced easily, with pleasant sensations, flushed cheeks and throat, and rapid breathing. Having determined
that she had normal sensitivity, I then told her that cases of her type often came accompanied with numbness on the left side
of the vagina and the corresponding side of the labia majora. I explored her sensitivity again and found a well-characterized
hemianesthesia at both places.

Mrs. C. suffers from the usual malady of her class: spoiled, self-indulgent ennui, easily managed. Since she ap- pears to
be suggestible, I told her I thought she would benefit from hypnosis. She was not enthusiastic about the suggested treatment,
and in fact seemed wary. When I called in her husband, he was highly opposed to the treatment, calling it “little better than
phrenology.” I assured him that the French were embracing the science, but he was not reassured. “We came here for real medicine,
Doctor, not cumberlandism.” I told him that I was highly trained, but he did not relax until I told him I would be combining
the hypnosis with electrotherapy treatments, and that—as with most other patients of Mrs. C.’s type—I expected a radical improvement
in his wife’s temperament in a short period of time.

The electrotherapy will soothe them both; they believe in it. It’s far better that I establish
crédibilité
in Mrs. C. es- pecially, than tell her that I believe hypnosis can achieve results without the use of electrotherapy. Bernheim’s
maxim!
Suggestion is everything.

I expect Mrs. C.’s results to be no different from those of my last several patients. A few visits, and she will be gone from
my office completely, restored to her usual uncomplaining, parasitic existence. Though her husband desires discretion, they
will both laud my accomplishments and recommend me to another bored invalid. These are the times I begin to despise the turn
my practice has taken. Though I am adequately rewarded financially, these women only provide fodder for my critics and keep
me from pursuing real knowledge.

I cannot turn my back on the money, but of late, it becomes wearying, and I must ask myself again: Is it possible for true
science to exist and flourish in these conditions? I confess I despair of it.

W
hen we left Seth’s office, I saw hope in William’s eyes again, and I had to confess that I felt it myself. I determined not
to—I knew already how this would end, the terrible disappointment, the paralyzing despair—but it was there nonetheless. Here
was a treatment we had not tried, and Dr. Seth was a neurologist, a word I’d never heard before but which now sounded scientific
and important. Despite my distrust of him, I wanted to be well. I wanted to believe that this time might work. I wanted it
more than I could remember wanting anything. To see love in William’s eyes again, instead of concern and despair, to ease
my own sense of emptiness. . . . It was as William said to me: I had been willing to risk surgery to feel those things once
before. I could do no less now.

So I didn’t disagree with William when he said to me later, “I trust him, Lucy.” His voice was full of yearning, as if he
needed my reassurance. “Don’t you? I believe this might just work.”

“Neurology
is
a new science, as you said. There have been such advances—”

“Yes, there have been, haven’t there?” he said eagerly. “It’s impossible for one to keep up on all the different new theories.”

“He’s just come from Leipzig.”

“Yes. Yes, he has. And this hypnotism, it’s not the same as mesmerism at all.”

“So he’s said.”

William looked satisfied. “I believe him, Lucy. I do. I think we’re in good hands now.”

“Of course we are,” I said to him, wanting it to be true. “I’m quite sure we are.”

It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized how much I wanted to believe my own words.

I went downstairs to find my father breakfasting in the dining room. It was so odd to see him there that I stopped in surprise.

“Papa! What brings you here this morning?”

He was helping himself to eggs and toast from the sideboard while Moira hovered nervously behind. He glanced up when I entered,
and his gaze swept me from head to toe. His thick mustache quivered; he frowned. My hand went reflexively to my hair; I forced
myself to lower it.

“Lucy, my dear. How late you’ve slept this morning.”

“Late? Why, it’s only ten.”

“The best of the day is long gone.”

“Then you’ve missed it as well. You’re only just now helping yourself to breakfast.”

“This would be my lunch, since Cook cannot bring herself to roast a joint before noon.”

I forced myself to smile. “You should have told me you would be here this morning. I could have instructed her to make something
to your taste.”

“I hardly need you to announce my presence in my own house,” he said, turning from the sideboard. He went to the long mahogany
table and seated himself at the end, William’s usual place. “And I doubt you could have persuaded her to change her routine,
in any case.”

I hurried to the sideboard, where ham swam in juices already gelling into grease, and the white of the eggs was curling at
the edges. I turned from both of those and took a piece of cold toast. Thankfully, the coffee was still hot.

My father was busily downing his breakfast, seemingly oblivious to cold eggs and greasy ham, but when I sat down, he gestured
to his plate.

“Can’t you do something about this, Lucy? God knows we pay that woman enough. You’d think she could make sure the food is
hot, if nothing else.”

“As you said, it’s quite late,” I told him. I tried to butter my toast; it crumbled beneath my knife, and because I was not
the least bit hungry, I left it on my plate.

“It’s no excuse. You should not let them be so lazy.” He abandoned his breakfast to lean back in his chair. He was growing
heavy, I noticed. His vest was pulling at the seams.

“You look well, Papa. Life at the club agrees with you.”

“It suits me,” he said. He poured another cup of coffee. “It’s always clean there. Which reminds me—”

“The coffee’s hot, at least.” It was a futile attempt to distract him from what I knew must be coming.

“A man should have his comforts, Lucy. An oasis of peace from the world. When your mother was alive, I had that.”

I looked down at the bits of toast on my plate, the nearly white lumps of butter.

“You should do more to help William, my dear. This house should be his castle, at least until he builds his real one.” Papa
chuckled. “Ah, I see that look on your face. I told William you’d like the idea. If you’re anything like your mother, William
will be looking at piles of bills. Grecian urns, stained glass . . . I hope to God you’ve inherited her taste.”

I looked at the thick draperies, the heavy candlesticks on the mantel, turned and gilded, the endless display of gold and
porcelain, and the suffocation started in my chest again. I could only murmur, “Yes.”

“He deserves to be a king in his own house. The way I was until your mother died. That was one thing she was good at, anyway.
If I wanted a roast at three in the morning, and a cook refused, she was gone by daylight. None of this tantrum-throwing nonsense.
Your mother knew how to handle servants.”

“I know, Papa. You’ve said so many times before.”

“Pity you haven’t retained her genius for running a household. You’re too sensitive, Lucy. You must be more assertive.”

“So you’ve said.”

“If you hadn’t spent so much time painting flowers and those silly little scenes—”

“Italian ruins.”

“Ah yes.” He nodded. “Thank God you’ve outgrown that. And the poetry—reams of wretched verse, I must say. I suppose I’ve that
silly school to thank for all that, don’t I? The Misses Graham, wasn’t it? You’d think they could teach a girl her place in
the world.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Well, that’s enough of that. You’ve taken my point, I assume?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good. You make him happy, Lucy, or you’ll regret it, that’s all. Take my advice. Be a wife to your husband. If you make his
world a comfortable one, that’ll go a long way toward calming your nerves. William tells me he’s been staying at the office
late. I saw him at the lunch counter just yesterday, so I know he’s not coming home then either. You will lose him, Lucy,
mark my words, if you don’t do something, and then where will you be? Back on my charity, that’s where. And I can’t live forever,
you know.”

“Yes, of course. Such a pity.”

He frowned again and eyed me. “Yes, well . . . I’ll tell you why I came over this morning. William tells me you’ve been ill.
You do look peaked, but perhaps that’s just your gown. You should not let yourself look so pale. You should not wear brown,
I think. You’re a pretty thing, Lucy, when you’ve a mind to be.”

“I’ll change after breakfast.”

He nodded with satisfaction, and I looked away. His smug expression, his perfectly trimmed dark hair that was only now beginning
to turn gray, his aged face that showed hardly a wrinkle—why should he be so young-looking, so arrogantly sure, so vibrant?
It was as if he sucked the life from this room, from me.

“It’s something more than your dress, I think, isn’t it?” he asked. “What are you pining for now, Lucy? Music lessons? Travel?”

“No. There’s nothing.”

“I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. Go see another doctor, if you must. I’ve a friend in Philadelphia who tells me—”

“I am seeing another doctor,” I blurted.

He looked surprised. “You are?”

I wasn’t sure why I’d told him. To stop his diatribe, if nothing else, to end the ceaseless run of those words, their painful
repetition. But now that I’d said it, I wished I hadn’t. Reluctantly, I said, “William made the appointment. I’ve another
one next week.”

“Oh. Good. That’s very good, in fact. Who is this man?”

There was no point in lying to him. He would find out, as he found out everything. “Just a doctor,” I said. “On Broadway.”

“On Broadway, eh? I hope he’s discreet.”

“I’ve no doubt of it.”

“What’s his name?”

I spoke as quietly as I could, hoping he would not really hear the name, would not really pursue it. “Dr. Seth.”

My father had excellent hearing. “Seth? Seth? I’ve heard that name before, haven’t I? Seth . . . Good God, Lucy, you don’t
mean Victor Seth?”

“Why—why, yes.”

“What in God’s name is William thinking?”

“He specializes in treatments for women, Papa.”

“In cheating women, you mean.”

My hand curled tightly around my cup. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“His own colleagues disparage him. Even that Dr. Moore of yours says he’s a fraud. A dangerous one, no less, with all his
talk of mesmerism and such.”

“Hypnotism,” I said softly.

“What? What did you say?”

“Hypnotism.”

“Hypnotism?” Papa visibly struggled with his outrage. “Hypnotism?”

“And electrotherapy.”

“Electrotherapy? With wires and such?”

“I suppose so.”

“Electricity?”

“Ella Baldwin has nothing but praise for it. I understand it can be quite helpful.”

“Helpful? I suppose so, if you’ve a mind to be a lamp. What’s next? Spiritualism?”

I could not meet his gaze. “Now, really, Papa, how would talking to the dead possibly help me?”

He was quiet. When I looked at him, his lips were thin, his nostrils white. “Good God, Lucy, how can you not see the man’s
a fraud? Listen to your own doctor. Moore says he’s irresponsible. That this is some kind of occult nonsense.”