The Green Muse (20 page)

 

I
HAVE
HAD
a shock. A shock, and I have sorely disappointed myself: I have never before put my feelings ahead of my work. And yet, to see her limbs performing the same contortions as those of that old woman with religious mania. Not until now have I seen that old woman as fully human. Through my lens I gave her the same careful consideration I would an interesting rock formation, or a waterfall, a delicately posed corpse. The dead woman I photographed in the dirty courtyard at dawn with Capt. Bezier was more real to me, more alive than that old woman. That I could see her as less real than a pretty corpse–I am ashamed of my nature as a man.

And then I think of Adelaide. When she is in the midst of her constrictions she says appalling things:
I could be so much more . . . entertaining . . . than your girlfriend
. I am quite certain she is mad. I have seen her befriend Augustine, but even then there is a certain nervousness, a certain overabundance of animal spirits that sometimes accompanies things worse than green disease. I give no consideration to what Adelaide says while in delirium.

Augustine said not a word, although the sounds she made while she posed were disturbing indeed. She went through each constriction and every phase of an hysterical attack as though she had been practicing a routine.

And yet it looked so real! As real as the old woman's conniptions, as real as any of the movements I had seen depicted in Richet's albums.
How could this be the girl I know?
She said not a word, but her face became as wanton as any I have seen lost in their hysteria.

T
HAT MORNI
NG
I
was readying the camera equipment for Dr. Charcot's Friday lecture. The Friday lectures differ greatly from their Tuesday counterparts in that the latter are held for the masses; often the entire Amphitheatre is filled. But one must receive a special invitation to attend a Friday lecture, as they are intended not for the ignorant, spectacle-­hunting public but for those students with a real interest in and talent for the subject. Generally those that attend are handpicked by the doctor himself.

The Friday lecture is held in a private office into which a bed is sometimes wheeled. The hysteric, once hypnotized by Dr. Charcot, enacts the whole arc of the hysterical attack, from the initial facial spasms and characteristic opening cry through the frozen contractures of the hands and feet to the attitudes passionnelles to the lessening of symptoms, until the attack is over.

And today the girl brought in was Augustine The first thing she saw was me; I wanted to run and comfort her. But her bearing stopped and almost affronted me. She was so calm of demeanor, as though walking dressed only in her shift into a room full of strange men were commonplace to her. Only her eyes betrayed her. She stared at me terrified, and yet I was certain I was the only one who saw it. She looked haunted; she looked as if she might bolt; she looked angry with me for being there.

And then her eyes went blank, and she walked lightly over to Dr. Charcot and stood in front of him, the dutiful student, and I did not know her anymore. It was her poise that most unsettled me. After that one moment of bright blue fear, the Augustine I know simply disappeared. No more was she the frightened girl I had first seen on the Amphitheatre stage, and no more the charming woman-­child who caricatured Dr. Charcot and was brought almost to tears by the plight of a voiceless insane woman.

In their place was a young woman, beautiful and unapproachable. She held herself as a dancer might, still and pale as ivory. Her eyes were like a sailor's, trained always on some distant horizon only he can see. She looked toward the wall but it was not the wall she saw; I do not know what she saw. I felt a sudden, aching desire that she look toward me as she had in the Amphitheatre, as if my face were the only life raft that could save her.

Dr. Charcot spoke briefly to her, too softly for me to hear, and she walked over to the divan and lay upon it. If I had not known this girl I would have thought her a cataleptic.

And then she began to move. As Dr. Charcot narrated the steps of the hysterical seizure, Augustine moved, always few steps ahead of him, leading him through a dance she seemed to know better than he.

I cursed myself for showing her those pictures of Adelaide. And yet Adelaide had schooled her well. Augustine cried out, a clarion call. Every student drew in a simultaneous breath. Then her face became a rictus of fear that slowly melted into a beatific, disturbing smile; her eyes were fixed on something we could not see, and that something was beautiful. And then, with startling abruptness, the smile went wanton, the eyes wild, the apparition before her both alluring and threatening; she began to entreat it with little purring growls, and her hands, which had been clenched, opened like flowers and, as if they belonged to someone else, gently stroked her collarbones, her neck, her face unaware and ecstatic.

This is not Augustine
, I thought, and knew I was protecting myself. Because this was as surely Augustine as the girl I knew was Augustine, and I knew I was going to have to reconcile the two. Because I would never abandon her.

The attitudes passionelles were the most difficult to watch—­worse than the face of the sensual, wholly foreign Augustine were the movements she made, rolling across the bed, kicking as if at an unseen assailant, and then suddenly arching her back until she was a dreadful rainbow against the rumpled sheets.

It was over quickly. She collapsed against the mattress, and suddenly nothing was happening at all.

The lights went up, as they would at the theater, and two attendants approached Augustine where she sat straightening her shift on the bed, suddenly demure, pulling the cloth to cover her legs, smoothing her hair: like an actress after a performance.

And I understood.

One of the attendants took her arm. “Wait,” I said. Dr. Charcot turned at my voice and glared. The darkness in the depths of his eyes reached for me across the room. But I ignored him and walked toward Augustine, who was looking at me now with some of the same fear I had seen on her face when she first noticed me in the room.

“Are you all right?” I whispered. She relaxed; she shook off the attendant and he abruptly left the room, following the doctor, who surveyed us from out in the hall.

“I would like to explain it to you,” she said seriously, her eyes begging forgiveness.

“You do not have to explain,” I said gently, sitting next to her on the bed. She scooted away; she was so clearly Augustine again! “You are confined in this place through no fault or choice of your own, and yet you have made a place for yourself. And not only a place, my most clever girl, but art! You wanted to dance, Augustine, and who am I to judge how you have chosen to dance? What else could you have done? And it is art, what you do. I can see that. You are a born actress.”

“Then you do not hate me?” she asked, still cowed, still ashamed.

“Hate you? I could almost say I respect you all the more. Augustine, your pictures are to appear in a book. You are already being studied, in England as well as France, as the quintessential hysterical patient. Your pictures have been in magazines, did you know that? I have not wanted to see them; please forgive me. You have made your name. Is that not what you wanted?”

“Not this way. Not with my shift up to my thighs!”

I found myself laughing.

“But are you Augustine when you perform? Is Sarah Bernhardt herself when she performs? An actress immerses herself in her part, and I have never seen a more thorough performance. Please do not feel ashamed. We do what we must to survive, and I think none the less of you for it.”

“Attend to your work, M. Mas,” a deep voice said behind my right ear, and I got up off the bed so hastily I almost fell. I looked over, expecting to see Augustine frightened, ready to protect her. But she was smiling a small smile, as if to herself. She seemed to rouse herself to speak to me, and her eyes were blank: “Thank you, Monsieur Mas. You have been quite the gentleman.”

And she let herself be led away, stumbling a little, seeming weak and faint. I turned and went back to my equipment without looking at Dr. Charcot.

 

I
HAVE ONCE
again received unexpected visitors. What an odd life this is! The last thing I expected, upon being committed to the Hôpital Salpêtrière, was to become a young woman who entertained visitors!

But yesterday one of the attendants came to my room to tell me I had visitors, and would I like a few minutes to freshen up? This was odd too, because I didn't know whether it was meant as a small kindness or an observation of the habitual dishabille shared by all the patients here.

I brushed my hair and pinched my cheeks. I almost used some of the blush Adelaide had given me, but I was certain it must be Maman and Papa come to see me; if it had been Edouard, Claude would have said visitor, not visitors. And for a moment I almost laughed aloud at the thought of Maman should she come to visit her only daughter in the mental institution and find her with an artificial blush on her cheeks!

So I restrained from biting my lips as well, lest so much color in my face alarm Maman, and awaited my dear parents.

I was so happy! I had not expected to see them for some time. Papa had written that there was a great workload at home and besides, he felt it would be better for me to be away from anything that reminded me of home. I knew that meant Maman was afraid to come to Paris again. But I had missed them so!

Maman would cry, of course (and so would I), but Papa and I would have a chance for one of those spirited intellectual debates I knew we both so missed. He had already indicated, in his letters to me, that he did not hold with these modern ways of treating a young woman's distress (that is the word he used,
distress
, and I loved him the more for it).

So I was sitting, all anticipation, and the door opened and I smiled my joy into the faces of strangers.

I froze. It was a lady and a gentleman, and very fine ones at that. The first thing I noticed was the feathers: a profusion of black feathers on a sleek black hat. How I had always loved to look at the hats in the copies of the Woman's supplement of the
Journal Illustré
my father did not know I managed to acquire! I had not seen a hat like this. The first thing I thought was,
Oh, I have not kept up with the latest fashions!
Which would have made me laugh, its being such an utterly ridiculous thing to think while confined to La Salpêtrière, but I did not laugh. I had no urge. The face beneath the hat was so exquisite, and had so warm a smile, that I was more moved to cry. The woman stood timid in the doorway, holding the arm of the gentleman, whose countenance, though less warm, was nevertheless welcoming. He seemed more concerned for his wife than for me. She stood like a deer come upon suddenly in the forest, and I was so struck by her consternation at barging in on a complete stranger, indeed, by her so obvious fragility of spirit, that I found myself saying gently, “It's all right.” I wanted to comfort her.

She smiled, and the warmth grew deeper as her reservations were assuaged.

“You see, V, I told you the young lady would not mind,” the man said, and I fell in love with her name. So innocent a name, with a purity that matched her delicate beauty.

“Excuse me,” said the man. “My name is Monsieur Soulavie, and this is my wife.” Again she smiled at me, and my smile in return was eager. And then for the first time I really looked at the man, M. Soulavie. He was very tall, imposing in his good looks, and would almost have frightened me were it not for the softening of his wife's presence. I could not find a reason for my disquiet upon observing him, and it was only that, a faint unease in his presence.

“My wife saw Dr. Charcot's examination of you at the Amphitheatre,” he said, and I noticed that his voice was kind, and thought,
Had it been kind a moment ago?
But I was also instantly humiliated: These ­people had seen my degradation.

“I felt terribly bad for you,” V said. Her voice was like a lullaby. “I had a sister . . .” she said softly, and I saw her small fist clench and her lower lip suddenly quiver.

“Come in,” I said to her. “You are welcome here.” And she ran across the room and knelt at my feet, with a loud sigh of her petticoats, which billowed around her like fog.

“Please,” she said. “You are so like her.” She broke down and sobbed.

I did not know what to do. That a woman of such obviously high station should be crying at my feet alarmed me. I wanted, quite desperately, to help her. She had already, in an instant, become important to me. I looked importunately at her husband.

He was all consternation and consideration, for me as well as for his wife. He knelt beside her, he smoothed her hair. He whispered comfort and endearments, his cheek to hers.

Then he looked up at me and said, “Suicide,” so quietly I almost did not catch the word.

I gasped, and Mme. Soulavie looked up. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “So very sorry.” She was clearly trying to compose herself.

“Charles and I were at lunch with friends last week, and they absolutely insisted we attend one of Dr. Charcot's famous Lectures du Mardi. I was hesitant . . . my nerves.” She looked down, a faint blush rose to her cheeks. “But they did not know of my sister, and although my dear Charles”—­ indicating her husband—­“tried to make excuses, our friends were quite adamant. I did not want to appear rude. So we went, and it was as if the Fates had brought me there. As if God himself had wished me to see you.”

“Please,” I said. “Don't kneel.” Her evident distress was difficult to witness. There was something about the delicacy of her countenance, now stained with tears, that made me, ignorant bumbling country girl that I am, want to be the one to comfort her, to help her, to rescue her.

“V,” said M. Soulavie. “Please get up.” He lifted her gently, and she rose out of her cloud of petticoats (I noted that there were at least six, and that the lace with which they were trimmed was very fine indeed) like a naiad arising from a lake.

She smiled and reached to touch my hand. “I beg your forgiveness for two reasons. One is that it was quite wrong of me to discompose you by appearing without sending a proper introductory letter first. Charles did try to make me see reason, and I apologize for not requesting permission to visit you. “The second reason I must ask your pardon is that I am quite distressed. I am afraid, actually, that you will assume I think you insane, being in this place. But nothing could be further from the truth. You are no more insane than my dear sister.” Again she broke down in tears, and again her husband touched her shoulder and shushed her with whispered tendernesses. But I had the oddest sense that he was somehow in awe of her at this moment, although I could not see why this should be.

He turned to me. “She is overwrought. Her nerves. I could not dissuade her from coming here today. But V has never had a bad intention in her life, and certainly the effects of her intentions have never brought anyone anything but joy. She is a rare flower, my V.”

And my fears dissipated. It was the sternness of his aspect that had unsettled me, that was all: the strength of his features, the obvious intelligence and fortitude of his character. It is in certain men's natures to be fierce, almost to the extent of frightening womenfolk. Certainly my father ought to have shown me that!

“Let us begin again,” said Mme. Soulavie, “because the truth is that I am delighted to have the opportunity to make your acquaintance.” She held out her little hand, and it was like holding the bones of a baby bird. I took the gentleman's hand as well, and his grip was surprisingly gentle.

I asked them both to sit, then realized I had only one chair. Mme. Soulavie put her hand on mine and asked if she might sit beside me on the bed. I suspected it would not be the last time I would see her smooth over even the slightest awkwardness with a kind word or gesture; her graciousness was both fluid and apparent in everything she did. I was, I confess, quite in awe of her from the moment we met.

I had never before met a great lady. And that Mme. Soulavie was a great lady I did not doubt for a moment. She was exquisite in every movement she made, in every delicate, kind gesture, in her immediate girlish friendliness. From the instant I made her acquaintance I felt that it was she who needed me, she who needed protection, she who needed succor. And the way her husband fluttered around—­yes, fluttered, although he was an altogether manly personage—­both endeared him to me and showed just how sensitive and delicate Mme. Soulavie truly was.

She plunged into conversation as though we had long been intimate, and her voice was honey. “I know I could never understand how horrible it must have been for you to go through the ordeal of having, well, not only to be onstage, but also to be under the scrutiny of such an imposing figure as Dr. Charcot. I confess, the man frightens me.”

“He does?”

“Oh, yes, terribly. I was so impressed with your composure in front of that man! I fear I would have been in tears immediately.”

“It is not like that. I have no control over how he uses my body. Because that is what it is like—­it is like being a puppet.”

I glanced over at M. Soulavie—­and I was frightened of what I saw. His face had on it a fixed look. I saw that as I spoke he was looking not at me but at his wife, with an intensity as strong as that of an entomologist studying a new specimen. For the briefest instant something shifted in his eyes. I was speaking of my body being completely under the control of the doctor, and I saw a spark of something—­I do not know—­something feral. Something almost inhuman, as though he wasn't the kind, concerned grandmother in a fairy tale but the ravaging wolf lying in wait.

It was only for a moment. I faltered in my speech, and he caught my eye, and all I saw there was gentleness. But somehow even that frightened me, because it seemed not so much the genuine feeling but a mask hastily slipped on.

Mme. Soulavie's gentle voice brought me back to my senses. “Charles,” she said. “I think your presence is upsetting the young lady. Am I not correct?”

And I realized that it was simply the fact that I had almost forgotten her husband entirely. And when I became aware that I was speaking about my body in front of a strange gentleman! Well, it is no wonder I became overwrought.

M. Soulavie was kind; he apologized first to his wife, and then to me, and said that he had wanted to walk again the long, tree-­lined avenue that led up to the hospital entrance, having found the road sinister in a beautiful way.

Again I had a flash of discomfort, but Mme. Soulavie laughed after he had gone and said, “The things he says! He is a poet, you know, with a poet's morbid sensibility. He has absolutely no idea the effect his words have on ­people who do not know him! Come now, let me brush your hair. I insist, Augustine.” And she took from her soft velvet clutch a brush with a silver back embossed with a profusion of roses entwined on a branch. I let her take down my hair, my flyaway farm-­girl hair, and was not ashamed.

She brushed my hair with swift, sure strokes; she admired its thickness and color; she lamented that her own hair was not as abundant as mine. The brushing lulled me, the susurration of her voice lulled me, and I found myself almost under a spell.

“Augustine,” she said, as I listened to the soothing sound of the brush though my hair. “Is there anything you need?”

“To get out of here.”

At this Mme. Soulavie laughed so heartily I was worried she might perhaps have a coughing fit although I had no idea if her health was as delicate as it seemed to be.

“Well, that is something we might be able to see about, in time. Right now I would like to give you this brush for your beautiful hair.”

“I—­I cannot.” I could hardly catch my breath. My own wooden brush was nothing compared to this. This was beyond anything I had thought I would ever own. And yet feminine vanity, ­coupled with the look in the lady's luminous eyes, won out. I accepted her gift.

As she made ready to leave, I said, “My world is so very different from yours in Paris, Madame Soulavie. And yet I would give almost anything to go beyond these walls and see that world for myself.”

“And I am certain you shall. You were not made for this place. You are not mad, dear girl. I am so glad you accepted the brush. My husband provides me with anything I desire. Things mean nothing to me. If I can do anything to make your stay here less bleak, please let me.” She was so like a child wanting to please, and so like a child wanting to have her way, that I could not help but relent.

I was bewitched, and knew it, but she was kind as Maman, with Maman's sincerity and simplicity of manner. Only a pure heart can act thus. I have found an angel.

What adventures I am having, and what fascinating ­people I am meeting here where I expected only solitude and misery. I have found friendship, and light, and life, at last, in the most unlikely and unexpected place.

Ah, the dinner bell. And I am taken once again back to the mundane realities of life as a patient in La Salpêtrière.

But I have met a fairy, and spent time in an enchanted realm.

And I have made another friend.