Authors: Stephen Curran
The change came without warning. Accustomed to feeling energetic and mentally alert during the day I found myself experiencing periods of lassitude and melancholy, suffering irritating mouth ulcers and aches in my limbs. A dull pain around the temples was my constant companion. Aside from these minor ailments, though, I could complain of no bodily derangement and so, observing myself with a physician's eye, concluded my condition was one of the imagination and would soon pass.
Next came the insomnia itself. Waking suddenly into the gross darkness of my room I would find it impossible to return to sleep. With my spine straight and my fingers together I listened to the unfamiliar noises of the house at night: the knocking of the pipes, the creaking walls, moths tapping against the ceiling. Often I would abandon any hope of drifting off and try instead to occupy my mind, reigniting the candle and picking up the well-thumbed editions of Wordsworth's
The Prelude
or Goethe's
Die Laiden des Jungen Werthers
I inherited from my old childhood acquaintance, Oscar. Yet despite my wakefulness I was unable to make much sense of anything I read and was reduced to running my eyes uncomprehendingly over sentences again and again. Ultimately it proved less frustrating to remain still and pray for sleep to find me.
What little rest I was granted came accompanied by dreams so shapeless and obscure that I could seldom recall them, but which left me with a sense of great exhaustion, as if I had survived a period of intense mental effort. By the morning only the memory of a voice remained, speaking at a vast distance and bringing forth muddled feelings of fear, regret and shame.
I mentioned all this to David Toynbee when he made his regular Thursday evening visit to my home.
“I'm sure it's nothing serious,” he said, having already commented on the dark rings around my eyes. “Have you made any changes to your diet recently?”
He was planted in his usual chair in my drawing room, one long leg dangling over the other and occasionally nudging against the low table which stood between us whenever he grew animated. My friend was possessed of the most singular features: a hooked nose, a tapered chin and unruly red hair that proved invulnerable to even the most generous application of Macassar oil. His eyebrows were arched in a way that gave him the appearance of being eternally astonished.
“Not that I can think of. I may have been consuming more green tea than usual.”
One of his remarkable eyebrows rose at this: “Green tea? Really?” Picking up his decanter he filled his wine glass for the third time, his movements suggesting a frantic nervous impatience despite him being perfectly relaxed. “How funny you should say that. Have you ever heard of Martin Emerson?”
“Should I have? Is he a medical man?”
“Absolutely not, although he's certainly quick to describe himself as a doctor. I came across him when I was staying in New York, in the dining room of the Hotel Chelsea.”
For much of the previous year David had been touring the United States with his family, making a study of their lunatic asylums. On his return he was full of disturbing reports of retrogressive behaviour by our American counterparts, of the mistreatment of patients and the systematic overuse of mechanical restraints. But try as he might, he could not conceal how much pleasure he had taken in the trip. More than once he had stated his desire to move there with his family, where he had a sense of something new being created, something thrilling. He longed to leave the fog and drizzle of London behind: the great city had, in his opinion, entered a state of terminal decline.
“He makes his living giving what he calls 'trance lectures', where he claims to commune with spirits. We got along rather well so he invited me and Sarah one of his performances at Union Hall. It was quite the spectacle. His trick is to encourage the audience to suggest difficult topics – when I was there, for example, people proposed primitive rocks, evolution theory and, I think, the Neapolitan War – then proceed to speak on them at length and in impressive detail. His seemingly boundless knowledge, he suggests, is imparted to him by a band of ghosts who bring him information from the other side.”
“A very diverting piece of theatre, I'm sure, but what does all this have to do with my diet?”
“I'm getting to that. It is his assertion, both on stage and off, that humans possess a kind of sixth sense, something he calls 'interior vision', quite distinct from ordinary 'exterior vision'. Rather than being situated in the eyes, it is located immediately about and above the eyebrows, in the nervous tissue of the brain.” He tapped his forefinger against his temple. “Learning how to use it gives a person insight into a non-corporeal world which exists parallel to our own: the domain of angels and demons, an entire unseen realm. This extra sense, usually dormant, can be awakened in a variety of ways, using meditation for example, or prayer, or extended periods of solitude. It can also be awoken in error, through various abuses, the chief of which, he says, in the overconsumption of green tea.”
“So if you take what he says to be true then my bad dreams are, in fact, glimpses into another world?”
“It might explain why you seldom remember them: because your waking mind is incapable of processing the non-sensual.”
“You'll forgive me for saying this all sounds rather unlikely.”
“Yes, I'll grant you that.” He smiled self-indulgently and took another sip of Amontillado. “No doubt the man is a charlatan. But when he's in the footlights I must admit he can be highly persuasive. He talks of a whole new world, an unknown Earth. When he's getting particularly carried away he swears blind he has seen the Apocalypse, although he prefers to call it 'The Renewal'. It's coming soon, he says. Society is collapsing. Civilization is on the brink of a catastrophe. We are living in the
end of days
. You can see why so many people flock to watch him perform. It's made him a very wealthy man.”
The evening over, we exchanged our farewells and I made my way to the study to sketch out some cursory notes on an article I have been writing for
The Mind
, on the advantages of excessive feeding in the treatment of certain cases of neurasthenia and hysteria. Before long the hallway clock had struck eleven and it was time for me to perform my exercises then – with some trepidation – to go to bed, administering myself a mild barbiturate before I did so.
The Feast of Roses
I had always set the greatest store by an energetic morning walk. The fresh air combined with steady rhythm of my steps seldom failed to leave me feeling ready for the challenges of the coming day. This was never truer than in the rural surroundings of Devon County Asylum. For thirteen years I held the position of Medical Superintendent, an activity which - while bringing with it constant tensions and setbacks - as tragically demonstrated by the suicide of my long-time acquaintance Doctor Finch at Brislington House - I took great satisfaction in performing. Each morning before my working day commenced, regardless of the weather, I would leave the accommodation I kept in the grounds and head in the direction of the airing court, from where I would pace at speed along the outer perimeter and through the orchard, rounding the nearby farmer's fields and finally bringing my journey to an end at the great door of the main building. When I moved to Marylebone I sought the same sense of solitude and briskness in Regent's Park, only a short distance from my home. Although it was almost impossible to ever be truly alone amongst London's multitudes, this routine at least provided me with the chance to invigorate my body and order my thoughts.
On entering the park via Chester Terrace that morning I found it markedly busier than I would usually expect, lively with people of all ages dressed as if for a special event. Approaching the Royal Botanic Gardens I happened across a stationary row of coaches brightly decorated with red roses. A marquee was in the process of being erected on a nearby stretch of grass and multicoloured paper lamps were being hung in the trees. Asking a nearby woman the purpose of all this I was informed that preparations were being made for something called The Feast of Roses, a parade due to take place later that afternoon. Thanking her I changed direction and took my handkerchief from my top pocket. Already my hay fever was beginning to bother me. A man with daffodils poking out of his top hat walked by: judging by his expression he was greatly amused by his own appearance.
Leaving the hubbub behind I spotted a tall young woman coming towards me from the direction of Saint Catherine's Lodge, attractively dressed in a plain gored skirt and a masculine tie, her hair tied beneath a straw sailor hat. With one hand she was pushing a perambulator while the other supported a white parasol, the handle of which rested on her shoulder. I was quite taken by her remarkable looks and found I had to resist the urge to stare: something that had not happened to me for many years, physical beauty having long ago lost its hold over me.
As we drew level the wind gathered strength and surged into a sustained burst, threatening to tear the parasol from her. A second gust turned the shade inside out. Seeing she was battling to keep hold of it while also preventing the pram from rolling away I naturally stepped in to provide assistance. No sooner had I grasped the crook handle, however, than it was pulled from my fingers. Together we watched it bounce and scrape along the gravel, making its way towards one of the park's many ornate fountains. Setting after it I left my business bag with the young woman, walking at speed but unwilling to embarrass myself by breaking into a run. With dismay I saw the contraption lift over the edge of the basin and tumble into the water. Arriving at the fountain's edge I reached for it using the full extent of my arm but only managed to push it farther away. It was clear I was going to have to climb onto the stone rim. For balance, I held my arms out to my sides, the tails of my frock coat flapping wildly about my legs.
“Please don't trouble yourself so,” said the lady, who had moved the pram over to me.
To reassure her I was happy to help I raised my hand – it was, after all, my fault the parasol had ended up where it was – but put it instantly down when I began to lose my equilibrium. Twice I feared I would spill headlong into the water but, thankfully, I managed to suffer nothing worse than a soaked boot. It was sheer luck that the wind changed direction and delivered the handle to my waiting hand. My dismount was less than elegant.
The woman offered her thanks. She was almost the same height as me, with blue-green eyes and a proud young face. Behind her, pink and white blossoms whirled across the pathway, shaken from the trees, while two muscular black mares trotted slowly by: “I really am extremely grateful.”
I shook the water from the shade and sheepishly handed it back.
Again, she thanked me: “You are very kind.”
“Not at all. It is a pleasure. I only hope it isn't damaged beyond repair.”
“I wish there were some reward I could offer you.”
“No, no. That I could be of any assistance at all, however small, is reward enough... Well. Good day to you.”
“Good day, sir.”
Once we had parted company I checked my watch. Time had gotten away from me. My right boot squelching, I set off for my appointment in Wandsworth. It was far later than I had imagined.
Mr Utterson's Room
“I was most encouraged by your letter. From what you say I think it would not be irresponsible to suggest your husband may yet make a full recovery.”
I had recently arrived at the Utterson residence, having been met by their landau at Wandsworth Station and taken on the short journey to their detached villa. On opening the garden gate I was greeted by a grey kitten that rubbed insistently against my ankles, pestering me to be stroked. Lifting its body up with the end of my boot – now mercifully dry – I moved it out of my way.
At the door I was greeted by a butler of extraordinary girth, who led me with wheezing breaths through a high-roofed hall paved with flags and into the drawing room, where the lady of the house was waiting. I would never normally have considered visiting a private patient but Mrs Utterson had written to me on the advice of an old colleague from Devon, so I felt unable to refuse. I did not intend to waste much time over the matter.
She replied to my statement uncertainly, staring at her large, freckled hands where they rested in her lap: “It saddens me to tell you that things have changed since I wrote those words.”
We were sat on a Chesterfield running parallel to a large bay window, behind a low table on which were displayed several copies of
Penny Magazine
. An enormous and plump-leafed rubber plant dominated the corner nearest the door. Glancing about the room I felt satisfied the family's decision to take Mr Utterson out of Highgate Infirmary had been the correct one. A person accustomed to these rich surroundings could only suffer in that institution's stark and impersonal wards, whatever my less enlightened peers might say about the shortcomings of domestic care.
Mrs Utterson was woman in her thirtieth year, thickset with salt-and-pepper hair and prim, puckered lips. A prominent black mole spoiled the line of her chin. Despite her sitting bolt upright with her round shoulders placed firmly back, her fatigue betrayed itself in her pallor.
“He has been in very low spirits. He had been progressing so excellently since he came home: venturing out of his room, even sharing a meal or two with me. Privately I had begun to hope he would soon be returned to his former self. Now, without warning, he has retreated once more. It is almost as if we never sought help at all.”
“Have you any idea what might have triggered this setback?”
“I only wish I could say. I cannot make sense of his behaviour. He locks himself away all day and night, refusing to speak to the servants. His attitude towards me is ill-tempered and dismissive. He cannot bring himself to look me in the eye.”