Lilith (28 page)

“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.

. . . 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 they 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!”

When I came down in the elevator remembered that I had used a tire pump this afternoon, and went back to see if I had locked the bicycle shed. Wonderful warm summer night, with locusts singing in the trees and the poplar leaves stirring softly. There was someone there behind the shed, lying in the dark grass. Could see them faintly through the hedge, and hear their whispering. Mandel and a girl. I stood there listening for a minute until I heard him whisper, “No, leave them on.” Could not go then until I had discovered her identity. Waited, listening and peering with rabid curiosity through the hedge until I caught a glimpse of her clothing in the moonlight—blue-striped uniform with white collar and apron: one of the student nurses. Do not understand why I was so shocked and disturbed by this. Ugly feeling in the mind. I can’t stand that boy.

Then, when I came back down the drive, saw someone standing under Lilith’s window in the moonlight. Warren, looking enormously tall and sallow, with dark hollows in his eye pits and huge luminous hands. He was moved from Second Floor to Field House this morning.

“Is anything the matter?” I asked him.

“No, no. I’m just not very sleepy. He raised his eyes rather feverishly. “She sits at her window sometimes at night. I’ve seen her. I think she sits there all night sometimes.”

“Well, not tonight,” I said. “You’d better go to bed.”

“Yes. Did you know that I was in Field House now? They moved me this morning.”

“I know. Congratulations. I hope you’ll stay.”

“Oh, I will. I know I will. Until I move out for good, that is. I feel so much better. So much surer of everything. I think I’m beginning to make some real progress.”

“It’s good to hear that, Warren.”

“Thank you. I’ll be outside by this time next year, I’m sure of it. Even working, perhaps. I feel as if I
could
work again; my mind is so much steadier. I may even be married—you can’t tell. What would you think of that?”

“I’d be delighted to hear it.”

“Yes. That’s very kind of you.” He raised his head again to her window and lifted his long hands, glowing in the moonlight, to bite pieces of flesh from the tips of his fingers, spitting them out with an unpleasant soft plosive sound.

“You’d better go to bed now, Warren.”

“I will, yes.” He turned his face down suddenly, looking at me out of the black hollows of his eyes. “Have you given her my message? That I asked about her?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She said to thank you. She isn’t ill. She’s been very busy on a piece of tapestry she’s making.”

“Oh, thank you! That was very good of you. You’ve no idea how pleased I am to hear it! Good night, Mr. Bruce.”

“Good night.”

He turned and walked off under the shadow of the poplars, chuckling and muttering to himself.

Should not have lied to him, but the poor devil needed it. What else could I do? I’m glad he wasn’t there last night. . . .
MON., MAY 11:

. . . Stopped by this afternoon to speak to Lilith for a moment. She did not answer my tap, but as her door was slightly ajar I pushed it open and looked into her room. She was standing in front of the window, her body latticed by pale gray diamonds of shadow from the wire netting and patched with blazing rags of sunlight, like a slender, smiling Harlequin, holding her breasts and dreaming. I closed the door gently, without speaking to her.

Terrible scene with Mr. Palakis. He is on Third Floor again, and in a dreadful hunted state of fear. After much persuasion I got him downstairs, but as we came out of the elevator he looked down at that slowly rotating ventilation fan in the basement window. A clatter of cutlery and kitchenware and the smell of cooking meat blew out from between its blades. He stared down at it with a look of horror, his face turning pale.

“What is down there?” he asked.

“The kitchen.”

“Yes.” He raised his head and stared at me, asking in a terrified voice, “That’s where you’re taking me, isn’t it?”

“No. I thought we’d walk down to the pond.”

“Oh, that’s very clever; but I know what they’re going to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re going to eat me! That’s what they want, isn’t it? That’s what they do with all of us.” He thrust his face forward suddenly, peering into my eyes with a stealthy, cunning look. “What’s happened to Waters and Archmore?”

“Why, they’ve been discharged,” I said. “They went home last month.”

“Oh, yes, that’s a very satisfactory answer! Do you think I don’t know what’s happened to them? Do you think I don’t know what it is that you give us to eat? You keep us locked in here until you eat us, one by one!”

“That’s nonsense, Mr. Palakis,” I said.

He backed away from me suddenly, striking out with his hand. “You want to take me down there and kill me. Hack my body into pieces and cook it, and then sit there munching it at those long white tables. Monsters! Eaters of the earth!”

He turned and began to run wildly across the lawn toward Crowfields. I caught up to him at the edge of the plowed soil and we struggled for several minutes, stumbling in the furrows. He is very strong, in spite of his size, and I couldn’t have held him very long if Mandel had not run down the shop stairs to help me. One of the few times I’ve ever been pleased to see him. Bob and Brewster, one of the floor attendants, came to our aid in a few minutes, and the four of us carried him back to the Lodge, shrieking and stammering, his face scarlet and his lips covered with spittle. We dragged him into an isolation room and stripped him of everything but his underwear. He became suddenly inert, slumping onto the padded floor, where he lay moaning and breathing heavily, like a wounded animal. Have been in an unpleasant state of agitation ever since. My hand is still trembling as I write this. . .
THURS., MAY 14: