An Inconvenient Wife (9 page)

Dr. Seth put down the notebook. “Will two o’clock be satisfactory?” he asked as he came toward me, and before I could say
No, Thursday will never do,
he looked at me, and I immediately felt better: calm and reassured, as if some part of me—the tense, knotted part of me—had
fled.

“Thursday,” I said. “Two o’clock.”

“You’ll feel better immediately,” he told me. “I’m sure of it.”

The odd thing was, I did feel better. Much better. I could not keep from smiling as I left his office, and when I met Jimson
waiting with cold hands and a pinched face at the curb, I suggested he drive me to a nearby restaurant, where I bought him
a few small cakes and a cup of strong tea to warm himself. He was startled but obviously pleased, and the ride home was less
bumpy than it had ever been before.

William was waiting anxiously when I arrived.

“I came home early,” he told me when I stepped through the door and handed Harris my gloves and cloak. “Come to the study,
darling. I want to hear how things went.”

“Why, I feel rested,” I said as I followed him into the study. “Wonderfully rested. I bought Jimson a cake on the way home.
He deserved it for waiting so long in the cold.”

“You bought Jimson a cake?”

“Yes, he was out there nearly two hours.”

“I . . . see. And the appointment?”

“I think you might be right about this doctor, William,” I said. “Dr. Seth is . . . quite unusual.”

William frowned. “Did he hypnotize you?”

“He says he did.”

“He says he did. Weren’t you aware of it?”

“Not really,” I admitted. “But it hardly matters. Where was that invitation to the Harpers’ late supper? I believe I feel
like going after all.”

Notes from the Journal of Victor Leonard Seth

Re: Mrs. C.

January 20, 1885

Today was my second appointment with Mrs. C. I had thought I would start with the electrotherapy to win her confidence, but
then I noticed a pronounced languor in her eyes of a kind I have rarely seen, so I determined to try hypnosis first.

Mrs. C. responded immediately, with a deep level of unconsciousness that I have never encountered. I was able to produce rigid
catalepsy by raising her arm and instructing her to keep it raised. Analgesia was produced as well—she was completely insensate
to a pinprick on the tenderest spot of her forearm. When I told her to rise and walk, she continued until she nearly plunged
out the window, and was riveted to a stop when I suggested it. I then told her that she was thirsty, and that I was handing
her a glass of water, which she should drink. The water, the glass, all was imaginary, yet she took it from me and drank with
gusto until I informed her that she was drinking urine, at which point she gagged and threw the glass from her, spitting and
wiping at her mouth. I told her the sensation of having drunk urine was completely gone, and she then relaxed.

I then tried another simple illusion, telling her she was going for a walk through the woods on a lovely spring day, pointing
out the things she saw along the way: a rock, a tree, a pretty bird. She responded to each item with obvious plea-sure and
interest.

I suggested to her that she would remain calm and happy over the next few days, that the memory of the walk would stay with
her and relax her whenever she felt the urge to give in to hysterical fits. I also suggested that she would have more confidence
in her doctor, and that when she returned home, she would feel refreshed and energized. I then proceeded to create hypnotic
zones: A touch on the underside of her right wrist will send her into a deep hypnotic state, a touch on her shoulder will
awaken her.

Mrs. C. woke with complete amnesia, which I have seen only twice. She did not even realize there had been any passage of time.
I informed her that she had been “asleep” for nearly an hour. She was incredulous.

In an attempt to bolster my suggestion regarding her confidence in me, I then treated her with electrotherapy—general faradization
at the common areas of sexual neurasthenia: upper and lower spine, inner thighs, vagina, and clitoris, which seemed to have
good effect.

She has agreed to return twice a week for treatment, which I think necessary to fully effect a cure in as little time as possible.
Given the extent of her suggestibility, I think it will not be long before Mrs. C. has no more need of me, for which I am
profoundly grateful—although I am uncertain why, given that there will simply be another to take her place. Another invalid,
another bored society matron, another reason for my peers to disparage me because they refuse to understand or believe that
there is room for hypnosis in the treatment of illness and disease. How long must I bear their criticism and their ignorant
fear? What must I do to gain their respect? Such a thing cannot be found in treating upper-class neurasthenics, I am afraid.
My peers can only feel the same contempt for my patients that I do. To convince them that the mind itself can cure, that the
unconscious can be trained to direct the will—they do not believe that at Salpêtrière, Charcot himself is
creating
hysterics through suggestion! They are afraid to believe such a thing is even possible! And if they do not believe that such
a thing is possible in those who suffer from true madness, how then will they come to believe my own experiments, performed
as they are on those who suffer from self-indulgent invalidism?

They will not—that is the only answer. Yet I cannot help but persist in believing that someday I will find a way to convince
them all.

T
hat night was as peaceful a one as I could remember. William and I went to a late supper at the Harpers’, and though I knew
William was watching me carefully, I felt none of my usual strain. It was as if I’d slept deeply for hours; my mind was clear,
and I laughed and ate as I had not for . . . oh, as I never had. Even Elizabeth Sykes remarked on it, saying I seemed especially
gay; had I had good news?

I thought I would not need my cordial that night, but when we arrived home well after midnight, I was more tired than I’d
thought, and my good mood had inspired William in ways I had not counted on. He came to my room just as I was undressing,
and when he left, I felt an overwhelming desire for my nightly dose.

I had the strangest dream. I was in Dr. Seth’s office, and he was sitting in that bright red chair, watching as I walked across
the room. The window beyond me was bright but hazy, and I was walking toward it. Walking and walking, as if I could somehow
climb up into it and be lifted to the heavens, such a beautiful light. How much I wanted to be within it, I could not wait
to be within it . . . when came the doctor’s voice, a steady, sonorous “Stop, Lucy,” though I had never given him leave to
call me by my first name. Then the light faded to merely the thin, crisp sun of a January day, lapsing into late afternoon.
I jerked to a stop at the sill, my hands against the glass, as sad as I had ever been.

When I woke, my cheeks were wet with tears.

I had grown used to odd dreams since I’d started taking the morphia, so I did not give this one any more thought. When Moira
brought my morning coffee, she asked what I would wear to the Carrs’ supper that evening, and the thought of that made me
truly forget the dream and its sadness.

I had not remembered that William had accepted the invitation to Berry Carr’s blue supper, though I should have. My friends
had been talking about it for weeks, the plans, the orchestra she’d hired, the entertainment she’d planned—with several of
the season’s young debutantes playing out the drama of Tennyson’s
The Charge of the Light Brigade,
all in the most elaborate costumes—and canvasback brought in at wretched prices for two hundred guests.

It was just the kind of event that usually sent my nerves jangling. I was surprised at my own calm when I said, “The black
and blue Worth, Moira.”

The Carrs lived on Fifth Avenue, near the site of our soon- to-be home, in their own plush château of pale limestone complete
with all the worst accoutrements: elaborate dormers, balustrades, gaudy ornamentation. But for all Robert Carr’s horrible
architectural taste, Berry Carr had a genius for flamboyant interior decoration.

We arrived near nine, joining the long line of carriages that stretched from the Carr door down Fifth Avenue. A rich, thick
blue carpet had been spread from the curb to the front door, with an awning—to protect it, no doubt, from the snow that had
started to fall only an hour before.

William held tight to my arm as we handed our invitations to the doorman and made our way inside. He released me reluctantly,
so we could pass into separate cloakrooms. There, a maid was waiting to take my cloak and hat. I went to join the other women
who were preening in front of gilded mirrors.

“My, Lucy, how lovely you look this evening.” Daisy Hadden turned from her primping as I approached. “I haven’t seen that
gown in— What has it been? A year, at least. How brave you are to wear it tonight. I never could have accomplished it.”

“It’s blue,” I said, trying to think of a suitable lie, when the truth was I could hardly remember that I’d worn the gown
before. Papa always said I should keep a record. William would have remembered, but I’d already had on my cloak when I came
downstairs, and he hadn’t seen it. “I had nothing else this color.”

“Such a pity there wasn’t time to order a new one. Who could have known Berry would decide on blue? I would have thought gold,
perhaps, after the Goelings’ silver supper. . . . Well, that one
is
lovely.”

I smiled at her. “Thank you, Daisy. I’ve always liked it.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Berry won’t notice. She’s far too busy making sure the cooks don’t spoil the ices.”

I bent pointedly to another mirror, patting into place a loose hair, waiting until Daisy left before I fluffed the black lace
demi-sleeves and adjusted my diamond and sapphire necklace so it fell just at the point of the heart-shaped neckline. I
had
always liked this gown, and I wished I could recall where I had last worn it—not to some huge entertainment, I hoped.

I went out of the cloakroom to find my husband waiting impatiently. He frowned when he saw me. “Lucy, that gown—”

“I’d forgotten,” I interrupted, and together we went upstairs.

The entire ballroom, which had once been wallpapered in roses, was now papered in a deep blue brocade. The drapes were deep
blue velvet with silver-embroidered hems. At the far end, an orchestra played a low, quiet tune meant not for dancing but
for arrivals. There were orchids everywhere, a profusion bunching from blue urns and small silver and blue vases. Near the
door, a table stood piled with rows and rows of white gloves and tiny blue velvet boxes holding some kind of favor.

“This is the kind of supper we shall hold,” William whispered, “when our own house is built. Can you imagine it?”

I pulled away from him. “I see Millicent,” I told him, and he let me go.

My friend stood not far away, talking to Major Grunnel. An orchid tickled her ear from the vase on the table behind her; she
was wearing blue and fuchsia and sparkling diamond eardrops. I didn’t know I had been anxious until she looked up with a smile
and I felt something inside me loosen and ease.

“Lucy!” she said, and then her eyes widened when she saw my gown. “Oh, you look wonderful.”

“Indeed you do, Mrs. Carelton,” said the major with a slight bow. “In fine form, I should say.”

“Thank you,” I said.

We talked of the usual things, the beauty of Berry’s room, the inspired choice of blue, the sweetness of the orchids. Then
the gray old major walked away, limping slightly—a wound from some war—and Millicent and I were left alone.

“You must tell me,” I said, “where did I wear this gown before? Do you think Berry will be furious?”

“A year ago, at least,” Millicent said. “At some supper—I can hardly remember, Lucy, and Berry certainly will not. She was
in London then. Don’t you remember?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes, of course you do. There was a rumor of an affair with that old baron. They said she met him in his rooms at the Dartmouth
House.”

“No, I don’t remember.”

“Honestly, Lucy, it was the talk of the season. Robert himself went to bring her home. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“Much of the last week is in a fog. Last year seems a century ago.”

Millie looked at me oddly. “You seem well today.”

“So everyone says.”

“Did you see your new doctor?”

“Yesterday.”

“And?”

“It was quite . . . interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

“He is very odd. But the truth is, I do feel better today.”

“And William, what does he think?”

I glanced through the crowd and found my husband easily. He stood talking to Robert Carr, who was smiling as William regaled
him with some tale or another—it was one of William’s talents, to engage people thoroughly. It was how he’d captured my father.
How he’d captured me.