An Inconvenient Wife (14 page)

He put his hands on my forehead, fingers and thumb pressing into my skin. “You can remember,” he said.

It was odd; suddenly I could. I remembered his questions, I remembered crying. I remembered the day my father took my paints
from me, throwing them into the street, his words; and then later, William’s compliance.

I recoiled from Seth’s fingers, appalled, feeling violated again. “You stole my memory,” I whispered.

“Not stole,” he corrected. “You told me freely. I did not force you. I believe you wanted me to know.”

“It was a long time ago. I was very young.”

He hesitated. “Lucy—”

“I have not given you permission to call me that.”

“Lucy, tell me something. These things you say you want: to be like other women, to be at peace—are you certain they would
make you happy?”

I was filled with a terrible fear. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“You’ve led an entire life ruled by a will not your own,” he said. “Your father’s will, your husband’s will. What if you could
be the woman you were meant to be? What if you could escape from this”—he gestured futilely about the carriage—“this dull
acquiescence?”

I stared at him. “Surely you’re joking. My father would be appalled if I were such a woman. William would leave me. My friends
would turn from me. It would destroy me. Surely you must understand that. I came to you for help. I want to be like everyone
else.”

He stared at me for a long moment, and then he said, “I’m not sure we can achieve that, Lucy.”

“Stop calling me Lucy,” I ordered. My voice was harsher than I intended. “My husband is paying you a goodly sum of money to
make me well.”

“Which I can do only if you’re honest with me.”

“Very well.” I nodded. “I’ll be honest.”

At that he smiled, but it was a disturbing smile, one I didn’t trust. I considered taking back my words, telling him it would
be better not to see him again. But then I thought of William, of the asylum, and they filled me with such a terrible desperation
that I said, “I don’t want to fail, Dr. Seth. Please. I know you can help me. You must help me.”

“Very well,” he said, and though there was resignation in his voice, I had the strange feeling that he was not at all resigned.
“Then we will try again. Be at my office tomorrow. At one o’clock.”

“One o’clock,” I agreed.

“What is it he does?” William asked for the dozenth time as we came into the house. He followed me as I handed my cloak to
Harris. I headed for the stairs, pausing to adjust the gas, waiting for the little
pfftt
as it went out. “You were so calm when I came back with your father.”

I sighed. “So you’ve said.”

“I tell you, it was like magic. Like some parlor trick. What does he do to you?”

“It’s hypnosis, William. He explained it to you.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But I should like to see it.”

“I’m tired,” I said, reaching the first landing. “I should like to go to bed.”

“But Lucy”—he reached for my hand before I could continue on, curling his fingers around mine to imprison my hand on the banister—“what
does he say to effect it?”

“I don’t know what he does or what he says,” I said. I jerked my hand away and continued up. “He’s a magician, I suppose.”

“He is a genius.” William’s voice was hushed.

I turned on the stairs to look at him. “I wouldn’t call him that. He hasn’t cured me.”

“Not yet. But I’m convinced he’s the man who can. More convinced than ever. I forbid you to even think about not seeing him.
In fact, I’ve asked him to attend to you more fully.”

I stopped. “You’ve done what?”

“I think it’s certain we’ll begin to see him in social situations more and more often. I’ve asked him to watch—”

“You’ve asked him to spy on me?”

“No, no, no, not that. But if he can do what he did tonight . . .”

I felt ill. “I thought you wanted him to be discreet.”

“I’m certain he will be. I’ve merely asked him to be aware.”

I remembered how much I had disliked seeing Seth there, intruding upon my life, observing the things I didn’t wish him to,
and I began to move again, wanting the sanctity of my room so badly it was all I could do to keep from running there.

“How odd that you trust him so,” I said, finally reaching my door. William was behind me. “It’s almost as if he’s hypnotized
you as well.”

William laughed. I pushed open my door and went inside, not even saying good night before I closed the door and leaned against
it, keeping my hand on the knob, holding my breath, waiting for William to push inside. Instead I heard his laughter fade
as he passed my door and went on to his own.

“Good night, my dear,” he called, and there was a joy in the words that I had not heard for a long, long time.

Irene was not in the office the next afternoon. I paused, unsure of what to do. I knocked lightly on his door.

“Come in,” he called.

When I went in, he was at the desk writing furiously, his round glasses nearly sliding off his nose, the hair that was normally
swept off his forehead falling lankly into his face. A smoldering cigar perched on the saucer of a teacup next to his elbow,
befouling the air.

“Am I interrupting?” I asked. “I’d thought you said one o’clock.”

He looked up, and I realized he hadn’t really seen or heard me before that moment. His gaze was blank at first, and then he
broke into a smile. “Lucy,” he said.

“Mrs. Carelton,” I corrected.

He put down his pen and shoved back his chair, took off his glasses, and he was once again the doctor I’d grown accustomed
to. He stood and motioned for me to hang my things on the coat- rack. I glanced at the wooden cabinet, which was open to reveal
the electrotherapy machine, and the sight of it sent a shudder through me—of revulsion or anticipation, I could not say.

“We won’t do faradization today,” he said, as if he’d read my mind. “Unless you’d prefer it.”

“As you wish,” I said.

“You seem nervous.” The doctor took his customary seat in the wing chair and motioned for me to do the same.

“I am always nervous,” I said.

“Shall we move beyond that, Lucy? You’ve promised to be honest with me. No edict of your husband’s could force you to do that
unless you harbored some hope of success yourself. Isn’t that true?”

“I try to be an obedient wife,” I said.

“But you aren’t, are you? You’ve taken refuge in hysterical fits for years, and therefore achieved just what you wanted: some
wretched imitation of autonomy. You’ve done everything you possibly could to fight the constraints of your life while still
clinging to the semblance of it. In what way do you believe you’re an obedient wife?”

I searched for the answer to his question, for some hint that I was no different from any other wife, that I inhabited my
place with grace and humility. Only one thing came to me, and it was so intimate I could barely say it. “I continue to try
to conceive a child.”

Dr. Seth’s gaze held me in place. It was as condemning as his words. “Unconsciously, you fight even that. Your body obeys
your mind.”

“What are you saying?” I asked. “That I don’t want a child?”

“Isn’t it true?”

“No! No, of course not.”

“There’s no need to lie to me,” he said calmly. “I’m your doctor. I can’t help you without some knowledge of your feelings,
however unsavory they might be.”

He knew, though he could not know; it was something I barely admitted to myself, something I tried to deny. But there was
also relief in his knowing, and that was the worst of it—I couldn’t acknowledge that relief, so I persisted with the fiction.
“Why would you say such a thing to me, when I never told you I didn’t want a child?”

“Under hypnosis you did.”

“It was a lie.”

“No,” he said. “It was the truth. You know it was, Lucy. Stop trying to protect an ideology you don’t believe in.”

“I’m not. I’m not.”

“The truth,” he said gently, “is that you haven’t conceived a child because you don’t want one.”

“But that’s absurd! I could not possibly! There’s something wrong with my womb.”

“Who has told you that?”

“Why, other doctors.”

“They’ve found abnormalities in your uterus?”

“Well, yes. Of course they have. They’ve suggested ovariotomies—”

“To treat your hysteria.”

“And rest—”

“To treat your hysteria.”

“And the water cure—”

“To treat your hysteria.”

Desperately, I shouted, “Shock treatments, nutrition, massage, blisters, leeches, camphor douches . . .” I ran out of breath
and sputtered the last. “The only thing I haven’t tried is an asylum.”

“Which is where you’ll end up if you continue to deny the truth.”

I was clenching my fingers into fists so hard they hurt. “You’re saying that it’s only my thoughts that have kept us from
conceiving.”

Dr. Seth nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s what I’m suggesting.”

“Believe me, Doctor, I would like to think my mind is so strong. It’s not, I can assure you. I feel I’m losing a little bit
of it every day.”

“Sit down, Lucy.”

“I think I’d prefer to stand.”

“Sit down.”

I went to the chair across from his and sat, pulling my knees to the side so they would not brush his, pushing against the
back of the chair to put distance between us. He would not let there be distance. As he had in the carriage, he leaned in
so that his hands brushed my arms.
What if you could be the woman you were meant to be?

I jerked at my memory of the words, which were so loud in my head it was as if he’d just said them to me.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want it. You told me you would not.”

“Would not what, Lucy?” he asked calmly.

“I want to be like everyone else,” I said. I could not stop the tremor in my voice. “I want to be what William wants.”

“And what your father wants?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, Lucy,” he said. “You won’t be sorry that you put your trust in me.”

Then he took my hands.

Notes from the Journal of Victor Leonard Seth

Re: Mrs. C.

February 2, 1885

I find myself plagued by my questions re: Mrs. C. I have not slept for thinking of them. She resisted my attempts to convince
her to give in to her inner life, and though that does not surprise me—in fact, it should quiet the ceaseless questioning
in my mind—I cannot rest so easily.

Though I knew it would avail me nothing, I could not keep myself from suggesting my new theories to her husband. I met him
at the Staten Island Athletic Club. It was a foul day, so I proposed we take ourselves to the boxing ring and spar. He is
fairly proficient, though I beat him readily. Years of fighting the other boys on Hester Street have left their mark upon
me, I fear, and I don’t wish to embarrass myself by admitting I have no idea how to row or play polo—rich men’s games that
I never learned.

I found it the perfect opportunity to explain my new theories regarding his wife. I couched them carefully—he is quite ambitious
and sensitive regarding his place in society and does not want to upset the balance he’s managed to attain over the years.
I understand that, but I begin to think that he could help his wife in some elemental ways. I told him that I believed Mrs.
C. is a passionate woman caught in the confines of a society that reviles such passion.

At first he pretended not to know what I meant. Then he proceeded to tell me that his wife was everything he expected in a
woman—she did her duty uncomplainingly, and he did not expect passion from one so well bred. He was even slightly repulsed
by the notion. He confided to me that before their marriage, he kept a mistress, but he felt she was draining him of energy,
so he left her. He has been “faithful, for the most part—more than any wife can expect,” though he said there have been times
when he has visited prostitutes in an effort to keep his filthy passions from sullying his wife.

These mindless notions weary me, but I pretended to understand his reasons and refrained from telling him that his wife would
no doubt benefit from his filthy passions. Only a few days ago, I had a letter from my old mentor, William James, who has
recently been made professor of philosophy at Harvard. I had felt confident in revealing my problems with Mrs. C. to him—my
peers in Boston are more open to ideas of the brain as a psychic organ and are not so insistent on the centrality of the somatic
as the cause of nervous disorders. Though James strongly disapproves of my reliance on hypnosis, he has spoken of Mrs. C.’s
case with G. Stanley Hall at Johns Hopkins. They both wonder if the root of her problems is sexual in nature: i.e., that the
repression and sublimation of sexual instincts, particularly in women, may lead to intense hysteria and/or neurasthenia.

This indeed may be the case. I strongly suspect that the only orgasm Mrs. C. has ever experienced has been through faradization.
She, like many women of her class, has learned to subvert her sexual passions. Most women channel such passions into their
children, of which Mrs. C. has none, so she may have channeled this sexual passion into religion, poetry, and painting. When
even these were taken from her, she had no outlet for her passion but hysteria.

But when I suggested to Mrs. C.’s husband that she be satisfied sexually, he was profoundly opposed to the idea. He muttered
of corruption and indecency and reminded me forcibly (by boxing me into a corner and nearly spitting in my face) that they
had come to me for help in making Mrs. C. more normal, not less. “My wife has fits, Victor. They already talk of her as if
she doesn’t quite belong, and her lineage beats any of theirs. Make her well. What I certainly don’t need—and what no one
in our circle will accept—is one of those New Women.”

His refusal will cost me. Treatment would move much more quickly if Mrs. C. experienced sexual release other than through
faradization. For now I did not gainsay him. But I could not stop myself from the smallest of tests, from planting a simple
suggestion in Mrs. C.’s unconscious, only to satisfy my curiosity. Perhaps I will be wrong, and her reason will once again
overcome her unconscious, in which case I will return to my earlier attempts to treat her. In any case, it can do no harm,
and I shall be satisfied once I know for certain if I am correct.