The Green Muse (12 page)

 

I
COULD
NOT
remember half of what was done or said to my shame. (The humiliation I have just undergone has almost undone me.) The lights were very bright, and the doctor's voice very stern. He spoke, and I disappeared. It was as if I became trapped within my body: I could feel its contours, but not as I ordinarily do. I could experience my body only from the inside. A snake's skin, a carapace, not a protection but a prison of flesh. There was a young woman who moved her arms just so when bidden, who tilted her head and mummed a part as though she knew it well—­but that young woman was not me. And I was not truly bidden but controlled, utterly, by a faraway peremptory voice I could not even think of disobeying.

I remembered only one other thing: blue eyes. Paler than mine, but fixed on my own like the beam of a lighthouse and seeming to blink on and off like the beam of a lighthouse. In the storm of my immobility those eyes were my guiding star; I saw them shining as if far from shore, the one steady, rhythmic point in my dissolving presence. I felt I would disappear completely without those eyes, or at least become, against my will, something not Augustine. I looked toward those eyes, and they held me fast, and I did not drown.

And then the lights were bright again, and I was ashamed, although I don't know why: My loss of control was not of my doing at all. But ashamed I was, a gawky country girl standing near-­naked in front of all Paris, and my eyes did not want to rise to meet those beacons that had held me. But I had no more will against those eyes than I had had against the Master's voice. But Charcot's voice was a call toward oblivion and death, and those eyes a call toward comfort.

And there he was, a tall ginger-­haired man not so much older than I, and he was blushing, and I realized that in my trance I had heard a repeated click and shush, click and shush, like waves lapping the shore, and that that had been him loading his plates and snapping his camera, his eyes hidden and revealed in a steady rhythm as he took his photographs.

And he smiled at me.

 

T
HE MESSAGE C
AME
to me as I was gathering my photographic equipment after my work at La Salpêtrière was done: Bezier needed me. I sent word that I would come immediately. I had worked hard and was longing for my dinner table, my coffee cup, and my cat, Goncourt.

The address was in an area that had a distinctly unsavory reputation. I took a cab, but the driver was loath to cross the bridge; his horse shied, and he explained that he could never get it to cross to that place, especially as it was after dark. I tipped him and set out on foot. It was dark indeed as I crossed the bridge, heading away from the busy square of Nôtre Dame with its portrait artists and booksellers and ­couples on promenade. It began to rain, and without looking back I had the sensation of leaving a place where it was not raining and there was still light.

As I walked I thought of the girl on the stage on the Amphitheatre of La Salpêtrière. I only knew her name: Augustine. I did not know her station or her background. I did not know her age. She was a patient in a mental institution; she wore a patient's uniform, and her feet were bare.

But her hair was honey, and her eyes are cornflower blue; and she was afraid. She looked to me to reassure her, and I could not. She looked away, and a light was taken from me. Something moves in my heart when I think of her. Pity? I do pity her; but not as one would pity an unfortunate soul whose miseries were of her own making. This is odd to me because whether the weakness is inborn or the result of circumstance, surely it is weakness of character that leads to madness.

And yet she didn't have the physiognomy of the insane. She did not have the bearing of the lost. She had the bearing of a child. With all our eyes on her she retained an innocent dignity.

A thin black-­and-­white cat skittered across the pavement before me. There was offal in the gutters. Every so often there was the faint smudged light of candles behind a windowpane.

I will pray for that girl. But it wasn't prayers I thought of, when I thought of her. It was beauty, and fear; I thought of something like love.

But can love come like that, silent and sudden and cornflower blue? Choosing me as an anchor in that Amphitheatre was surely nothing more than coincidence.

Does she even remember me?

I had not brought my umbrella, and soon my hat dripped rain onto my nose. I walked as though I knew quite well where I was going; I was not surprised when a woman, not young, approached me, unheeding of the rain.

“I have something you might like, Monsieur,” she said pleasantly as she came up to me, with no coquetry and no fear. Instead of being insulted I was filled with respect for this creature who was brave enough to apprehend a strange man so matter-­of-­factly.

“Why are you not afraid?” I asked her.

“What have I got to be afraid of?” she asked with honest surprise. She was pulling at the stopper of a small bottle. “Laudanum,” she said, and as she smiled she looked younger, and free. I had the most absurd urge to kiss her, and felt instantly repulsed; it was almost a physical thing.

“You should not be here,” I said. “It is dangerous.” And when she laughed again I knew I was absurd to her; I was absurd to myself.

“It's you who are the lost kitten,” she said. “Have you ever tasted laudanum?”

“No,” I said, and felt young and naïve.

“These are my streets, Monsieur. This is my home. You are the one in danger here.”

“In danger of what? You do not seem dangerous to me.” I wanted to offer her dinner in a warm place; I wanted to rescue her; and still I wanted to kiss her.

“Do you think you are too good for me?” she asked good-­naturedly. “You should see the fancy men who risk coming here to find themselves a street girl. Not everybody wants a whore pretending to be a lady. There are plenty of fancy men who are just looking for a whore.”

It hurt to hear her speak of herself that way.

“I am sure,” I said awkwardly, “that this was not your first choice of occupation,” and was aware immediately of what an ass I sounded.

“First choice of occupation!” There was no anger in her voice, and no shame; she laughed and laughed. “I was a lady's maid, and the gentleman of the house got me pregnant and had me thrown out. First choice of occupation!”

“I'm sorry,” I said, and she touched my arm with gentle fingers.

“You're a real innocent, aren't you? I'll bet you have a sweetheart. Your sweetheart, she's a lucky girl.” I am afraid I blushed.

“And yet here you are,” she continued. “Does your sweetheart not give you what you need?” Again she tipped the laudanum bottle, and it left her lips as dark as blood. “I will be your sweetheart, Monsieur. If you kiss me now, you will taste my laudanum.”

“I am not here for that,” I said, and suddenly I was afraid: of her, of these streets, of myself.

“Have it your way,” she said casually. “I will give other men pleasure tonight. I will ease their hearts as well as their wallets! Go home and kiss your sweetheart. Muss up her hair and her petticoats. She will love you the more for it.”

I sighed. “I am looking for 31 rue de l'Eglise. And nothing else.”

“Ah, that is just down the block from Madame Sylphide's place. Not one of the Big Numbers, but her girls are good. Not as good as me, but good. I know tricks they haven't even thought of.” And she pointed the way with her bottle.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle. God keep you safe.”

“God!” Again she laughed and laughed. “God brought me to these streets. God brought me laudanum. It is I who keep myself safe, you little lost kitten, and I suggest you not depend on God as you are walking here tonight.”

“I wish I could do something for you.”

“Then give me money! And then give me money, Monsieur, and kiss me. That will ensure my safety tonight.”

“Why do you want me to kiss you?” I asked stupidly.

“To corrupt you, little kitten. And to taste decency with my lips. I have not tasted decency once in my entire life.”

So I took a ten-­franc note out of my pocket, and as I placed it in her cold hand I leaned and kissed her lips. They were sharp with the drug she took, and they were soft as petals.

And I thought of the girl from La Salpêtrière. And could not look into this woman's eyes.

“I envy you,” she said, and I looked up. “You are incorruptible. You thought about your sweetheart, didn't you? Did you know you sighed? And yet you have not wiped your mouth. I thank you for that. Go on now, kitten, and find what you are looking for. I envy that sweetheart of yours.”

“I'm . . .”

“Don't say you're sorry. For once a man has given me joy. Go now, and don't look back.”

And as I turned I heard her quick, resolute footsteps fade away behind me.

I heard Capt. Bezier before I saw him.

“—­in his pockets,” he was saying loudly to a gendarme standing next to a lit carriage. “Clearly the work of a thief.”

There was a dead man lying on the sidewalk, face-­up with a surprised expression on his face. A vicious-­looking knife was still lodged in his chest. He had been dead perhaps one hour, perhaps two.

“His watch fob is still here,” I said. “May I?” I pulled the watch, heavy and gold, from his pocket. “I would not have left this behind.”

“There was no time,” Capt. Bezier said impatiently. “She took his wallet. Clearly there would be enough in that for a drink, or opium.”

“She?”

“A prostitute, Edouard. It is obvious.”

It was getting cold. An hour ago it had been warm, and not raining, too warm for a woman selling her body to be wearing a coat that could have hidden such a large knife. And no woman could have gotten such a knife out of a bag without the man's noticing, and quite clearly he had been taken by surprise. A woman to take him off-­guard, a man to stab him. My camera was ready. I knelt to take the first shot.

“—­an ordinary crime,” Capt. Bezier was saying. And like as not this was a not a chance meeting. A man like this would ordinarily have gone to one of the Big Numbers. I was concentrating on the photographs: the angle of the knife, the shocked and yet expressionless dead face, the unmarred hands crossed piously across his chest.

“—­put him in the Morgue tomorrow,” Capt. Bezier said.

“Who is it that frequents the Morgue? I asked, almost to myself. The man's legs lay military-­straight, and his feet could not possibly have fallen into the stiff, upward position they were in now, toes pointing toward heaven.

“The whole populace of Paris, Edouard. ­People come to do their civic duty by identifying the nameless dead. And of course, it is listed in the Cook's Tour.”

“So, it is like a museum. A museum of the dead.”

“How poetic you are, Edouard. It is a curiosity. We do have identifications, to be sure, or we would not allow these viewings. But ­people come to see death, that is all.”

“That is what I said.” I snapped the last shot. “Death distanced. Death neatly set up and framed.” I stood up. I did not know, yet, what purpose this killing had served, and certainly not to whom. But it was clearly not the work of one woman, nor robbers, for why cross the victim's arms, why set straight his feet? I said nothing to Capt. Bezier. I simply packed up my camera equipment and made ready to leave. I refused his offer of a ride back to my apartment, for I wanted to walk alone with my thoughts, which were as clouded as this moonless, windy night.

 

Y
ESTERDAY EVENING THE
girl with the sad brown eyes approached me. “I perceive,” she whispered, “that you are not among the insane.” She darted looks about the room, which was the vast airless place they call the Day Hall, where patients may walk or sit without the constant attentions of the attendants. I almost wrote
guards
.

“I don't know,” I said. “I feel quite sane, although oh, I do not have a word for it, but in this place I sometimes feel almost unreal. At home I was unhappy, but I never doubted my sanity. But Papa has always known what is best for me, and surely, if something were wrong with me . . . They say I am suffering from green disease.” The words were hardly out of my mouth when I was mortified. What a way to talk to a stranger! And yet I was starved for conversation. How starved I had not known until that moment. I felt sudden color in my cheeks: What if this girl knew the symptoms of green disease? What if she suspected my secret vice? I could not breathe; surely I would faint.

But she smiled and reached to take my hand. I let her. “I fancy they could not control you. Am I right?” And then, seeing the surprise on my face, “That is what this so-­called green disease is. And that is all it is.” Her great big eyes regarded me with the utmost tenderness. We exchanged names, and then she said, “I have been here two years because of my rebelliousness. Look, the men are not paying attention now.” And indeed the four attendants were huddled in the corner by the fireplace (where we were not allowed, the perceived threat being that we might be tempted to harm either our own persons or one of the other inmates).

“Would you like to hear my story? ”

“I would like that very much indeed.”

“I fell in love. My parents had the `perfect young man' picked out for me. Oh, they're progressive, my parents. They married for love. And they always said that I should marry for love until I actually fell in love, and then it was, ‘He has no inheritance, he has no income, he's a poet, Adelaide, he will never sell his work, and what is his work, anyway? Morbid scenes of death, degradation, and sin. And look at the way he writes about women in these poems of his! He cannot possibly respect you, Adelaide, if he is capable of writing obscene words about unclothed nymphs and dryads! This is not what we want for you. There is a boy in town you have known him all your life, and he comes from a good family.”

“Gérard,” I said softly.

“Gérard?”

“The boy my parents wanted for me. The greatest clodfoot in the village.”

“But he had `prospects,' didn't he?”

“Prospects! He works his father's farm. Someday he will be a landed gentleman, Adelaide, heir to every cow and chicken.”

“And you could not see that every happiness was laid out for you, if only you were to come to your senses and become his wife? A home of your own in which to practice the womanly arts, lots of little clodfoot children?”

“And the chickens. Do not forget the chickens.”

“And the cows. What fools we are, Augustine, worse than fools, to aspire to something other, something higher, than our mothers' dreams for us! It's a sickness, this will in young women to carve their own fate!”

“It is the chief evil of our age, Adelaide. The medical men say that neurasthenia—­the weakening of the nervous system of our entire society—­is caused by the intolerable pace of modern life. I say it is a moral weakness! What has changed for woman? Nothing. Her kingdom is still the home. And the following of her natural inclination for domesticity, her inborn need to follow, not to lead, is completely unaffected by modern change. If anything, the conveniences of modern life foster woman's natural lassitude. A woman reads of the fashions of Paris and is seduced. Immediately she must have dresses à la mode, and makeup in the latest style. Nerves! Nerves, indeed. The inherent weakness of a woman's mind can and must be—­”

“Oh, my, Augustine, but you re good!”

I had completely forgotten myself. Instantly, I felt myself go red, and felt as well a sharp pang.

“My father used to say those things. It was a kind of game for us. What spirited discussions we had! I think he so often chose the topic of a woman's place because he wanted me to exercise my mind. He knew it incensed me. And yet, I never became angry with him. It is funny, Adelaide, but I know he was proud of my resistance to his views. He will never admit it, but he wanted me to think for myself. He brought me up from infancy to have a mind as strong as a man's.”

“And yet when you used it—­”

“It was my will I used. My will and my heart. I do not think he expected that. Even though he was proud of my ability to argue against his views, I truly believe that he expected, once it became time for me to choose, that the male qualities he thought he had instilled in my mind would bring me to the logical conclusion that he was, in fact, right, and that I would realize that my highest good lay in acquiescing to live as the wife of a landed blockhead that my male intellect would realize that my womanly nature could not, and should not, be denied.”

“You certainly don't sound as if you think like a man, Augustine!”

“I don't. I never have. I've never pretended to, either. I am deeply grateful for the education my father has given me. We have studied astronomy, botany, history, politics, Latin, religion, in addition, of course, to the things our mothers teach us: piano, singing, recitation, sewing and tatting, cooking. I am the most dreadful cook, Adelaide, whoever I do marry is going to be quite dissatisfied with me.”

“Have you studied poetry, Augustine?”

“A bit.”

“I have lived for poetry,” said Adelaide. She seemed suddenly lit from within. “Poetry is apparently the tool of the devil, although how something so exalted, so noble—­forgive me, but this is my passion, and this is what brought me here, as much as anything else. Of course there was a man—­nobody ever seems to notice that there's always, always a man involved in the downfall of a young girl, nobody insists a man be sent away for loving. There was a man—­a boy, really. I sent my poetry in to the weekly
L'Illustration
, and oh, Augustine, they printed it! My father was enraged, but my mother felt that perhaps this small success would diminish my need, that such an accomplishment would suffice for a woman. And it did, for a time, and although I doubt it really would have, I did not have a chance to find out because he wrote to me. François Nanet. A fine poet in his own right, and impressed that I had the courage to send my poetry in for publication, where he had not. And he loved my poetry! He understood every nuance, he traveled in the same atmosphere in which I lived. We corresponded. It was heaven. We fell in love . We exchanged photographs and arranged to meet. I felt as if my life, my true life, my intellectual, spiritual, and romantic life, was just beginning.”

Her voice softened almost to a whisper. “I met him twice before my parents found out. Twice.”

Everything I would never have asked was in that word twice. She was silent then, staring into the fire too far away to warm us, lost to a sweet reverie of what had brought her here. Finally she said, so quietly that I barely heard her, “It was worth it.”

“I was in love, too,” I said, perhaps too quickly. “Nothing would ever have come of it. He was married. I dreamed, but that was all I did. My parents found my behavior strange. I would not concentrate on my piano, I dreamed over my lace and tatted peculiar patterns, unaware of my work, then . . .” I paused, and felt myself burn red, that curse I've always had, my skin not my own and now my body is not my own, either.

I found I had spoken those last words aloud.
My body is not my own.

But Adelaide only laughed. “That's true,” she said cheerfully. “We belong to Dr. Charcot.”

“I meant—­”

“I know what you meant. They try to control our minds and our wills by controlling all of our actions, don't they? I understand it when we are small, but we are women now! The way I see it, if I am old enough to marry, I am old enough to love. And if I am old enough to love, oughtn't I be trusted to choose my love? And oughtn't you be free to feel? I cannot imagine, even on our short acquaintance, that you would be the sort of girl to ruin a marriage! If I ever find that my daughter is loving inappropriately, I hope that I will be able to believe in her goodness as I believe in yours, and to help her through her pain instead of condemning her to a place like this!”

I said nothing.

I had never met anyone like Adelaide. I felt that already I was a fully formed character in the adventure that was her life. That she had made up her mind about my character on such short notice, that she had shared the most intimate details of her emotional life with almost a total stranger. Well, it was a strange place we were in, and there was something endearing in her earnest need to see the best in me. I had never met such a lively intellect, such an open countenance, such an enthusiastic acceptance of the vagaries of love and life. It was why I gave her my story. Her openness invited openness and erased caution. Adelaide lived life at a pitch that few of us could ever hope to reach.

She was looking at me with kind and expectant eyes.

“The worst thing,” I said slowly, “is that now that I am here, Louis is completely gone. I cannot remember anything. I have lost his eyes. I have lost the smell of his hair.” These were things I did not think I would ever say to anyone. And I looked at her face and saw only gentleness and interest, things I had not experienced since I got here. I felt an urge to cry and saw with surprise that Adelaide's eyes were moist.

And I knew I had found a friend in this place.

I came here determined not to lose hope, and God has sent me a girl who does not know how to lose hope. So I will remain Augustine, and not define myself as some ill and broken creature. I will remain the hopeful girl who dreams of one day dancing on the stage in Paris, the city of her dreams.