An Inconvenient Wife (16 page)

To remake her in the way I wish is to destroy the life she claims to want so desperately; I know this, and yet what shall
I do? Make her into another useless parasite? Shall I let scientific knowledge pass because of the wishes of one woman who
cannot hope to understand the secrets she possesses? I would be less a scientist—truly worthy of the contempt of my colleagues—if
I conceded to her wishes. She is only a woman.

I do not walk blindly into this experimentation. In an attempt to gain more insight into the genesis of her behavior, I took
her, in a trance state, to the time of her mother’s death. As she did when describing the trauma of having her father throw
her paints away, Eve went easily back through time and described the incident to me as if it were currently happening. This
is most important, because consciously she claims to remember nothing about that day.

Apparently her mother committed suicide while the family summered at their country home. Eve had been playing in her bedroom,
which overlooked the Hudson River. She went to the window and watched as her mother walked purposefully into the water and
kept walking until she foundered and was gone. “I called and called, but it seemed like hours until anyone came, and then
it was too late. When they found her, she looked only as if she were sleeping.”

Though Eve speaks of sorrow and disbelief and grief, I detected envy in her tone as well. Before I could question her further,
she broke into such copious, heart-wrenching sobs that I was obliged to comfort her.

I had no opportunity to make another suggestion; my main goal was to determine the effect of a mother’s suicide on such a
young, passionate girl. It is clear that Eve suffers from both a desire to have a full life and the fear that such a longing
can only ruin her, as it did her mother. I must work to overcome that fear—it is a strong barrier to the desires of her unconscious
mind. I must work to erode her reason, to make her inner life seem the more attractive one. The strictures of society are
not easily overcome, and it is true that Eve could correct my suggestions according to her own flawed judgment if she were
left alone long enough. I cannot allow that to happen. The more time I spend with Eve, the more I can bolster the suggestions
I make in her trance state.

To that end, I suggested Eve meet me at Delmonico’s for luncheon. I explained that I wanted to observe her in a social situation,
and though this seemed to trouble her, she agreed. The truth is that not only do I want every hour possible to work with her,
I must also strengthen any bond she feels between us. I must make my influence stronger than any of the other influences in
her life, including those of her husband and social ostracism. Only then can I achieve what I mean to.

February 4, 1885

Today I met Eve at Delmonico’s, as we had agreed. It was a very cold day, with a chill wind that seemed to cut through my
coat, and I was a few moments late. Though I did not expect to find her waiting outside on such a freezing day, she was by
the front stoop, half sitting on flower boxes covered with snow. When I asked her why she did not wait inside, she replied
that she would not be welcome as a woman alone, and gave me such a glance that I was reminded of the class difference between
us.

To cover my embarrassment, I ushered her inside. They knew her—it seems everyone does, and she took charge of the situation
as if she had been born to it, which of course she had. I was left feeling a bit useless. She asked for a quiet table, and
we were led there right away.

I had not been inside Delmonico’s before. We were placed close to a window in the main dining room, which I appreciated for
the view it afforded of Fifth Avenue and the frostbitten greenery of Madison Square. I could tell from her anxiety that although
we were in the corner, she would have much preferred the safety of darkness. I told her she should like the chance to stare
out a window, and she smiled in a jittery fashion and confessed that she was unused to being alone with a man who was not
her husband—something that I am ashamed to admit I had not thought of. She made furtive glances throughout the room, and her
movements were nervous: the folding and unfolding of the napkin in her lap, the clasping and unclasping of her gloved hands;
and when the soup was brought and she took off her gloves, she often fiddled with her wedding band.

The noise of the dining room left us ample opportunity to talk without being heard, so great was the clatter of dishes and
silverware, the shouts of orders, waiters yelling back and forth to one another. The dining room was quite full.

I asked her if she knew anyone here. She gave me a quick nod and then confessed there was no one she knew well, which seemed
to relieve her somewhat. She ordered a glass of wine. I did not drink but watched her as she did. She is a fount of nervous
habits, as if it is only by sheer dint of will that she keeps hysteria at bay. I found that curious and oddly sad (a surprising
reaction, I must admit).

She seemed possessed by some tension, and with every gulp of wine it seemed to grow within her until she spilled out with
it. She spoke carefully, as if she did not wish me to know of her discomfort or her need for an answer.

E: What did I say at our last appointment?

S: You told me of your mother’s death.

E: I was . . . crying when I woke up.

S: Yes. You were quite distressed.

E: I remember nothing of it.

S: Not even in dreams?

Here she closed her eyes, and her face twisted in distress.

E: Oh. Yes. A few things. Nothing I understand.

S: It’s no wonder your conscious mind has refused to remember it. It was a terrible thing to witness.

E: You mean . . . I saw her drown?

S: From the window of your bedroom.

She gave the window a quick glance and swallowed.

S: What you saw would be traumatic for anyone. Since your visit, I’ve gone back to my case studies. You should take comfort
from the fact that it’s not unusual for hysterics to forget the incident that brought on the hysteria to begin with.

E: I wasn’t hysterical when she died.

S: But soon after, perhaps. Isn’t that when you turned to religion?

She was quiet for a long moment. There is intelligence in her eyes that is sometimes quite astounding. I waited to see if
she would admit the connection between her mother’s death and her search for fulfillment.

E: Why . . . yes.

S: As a substitute for your mother?

E: I’ve told you I barely remember her.

S: Your unconscious remembers her quite well. She was very kind to you, and quiet, as you’ve said before. She guarded you
from your father’s outbursts, though you were always aware of them, and it was impossible not to feel the tension of his disapproval
in the house. She came from old money, and she smelled of it in a way your father did not: She wore the same perfume her mother—your
grandmother—had worn. Something imported from Holland. It smelled of tuberoses and ivy. When you smell it today, you feel
faintly nauseated. She had soft hands, and she preferred colors in plums and roses, though your father did not, and she ultimately
gave in to him.

When I finished speaking, Eve reached for her wine so convulsively that her wrist caught the fork and sent it clanking hard
on her plate. I could barely hear her when she spoke.

E: I . . . I told you all that?

S: How else would I know it? I did not know your mother.

E: I don’t understand. How could I have forgotten so much?

S: You haven’t forgotten. Your unconscious remembers it all.

The waiter came, looking embarrassed as he brought the next course, partridge in some winey sauce. I put my hand over Eve’s
to calm her. She gripped my fingers hard, as if she took strength from them.

When the waiter left again, she gave me a thin smile.

E: I’m sorry. I had not meant to—

S: It’s quite all right.

E: We’re in public, after all.

S: It is nothing to be ashamed of, missing your mother.

She looked thoughtful, and I asked her what she was thinking about.

E: How much I have longed for her. Or perhaps not her but
something
.

I explained that what she felt was
sehnsucht,
as the Germans call it. The longing for something that can’t be named. She agreed that her bouts with religion and poetry
and painting all may have related to the loss of her mother, and with the sense she had that there was something more for
her, something she couldn’t see and did not understand.

This was my opportunity. How easily she presented it. I admit I did not feel a moment of guilt as I suggested she make an
attempt to somehow regain the satisfaction she had felt from her religious frenzy and her poetry and painting, before her
father took those things away.

E: I could not. William would never allow it. Papa would—

S: Don’t tell them.

The notion shocked her.

I did not want to frighten her into retreat, so I suggested that she start slowly, perhaps by sketching in pencil in her garden
at times when neither William nor her father are at home.

She seemed to come alive at my words. Though she was still wary, I detected a certain glow in her eyes: The idea appealed.
I told her I thought it would help to ease her feeling of emptiness, that elusive
sehnsucht,
and when she agreed to try, her fingers linked through mine. I was aware that I had not released my hold on her hand, nor
had she on mine, and I felt the sheer exuberance that power can bring.

H
e had given me permission to be free. When I left him, I asked Jimson to stop at some little shop on Lower Broadway. Careful
that no one saw me, I ran inside and purchased a small sketch pad and pencils, along with a little cloisonné box that was
quaintly pretty. I hid the sketch pad and pencils beneath my cloak and gave a vapid smile to Jimson as I came out into the
freezing air, muttering some nonsense of how I’d seen the box earlier and it was the prettiest little thing. All of which
puzzled him, I’m sure, because I’d never made a habit of talking with him before, and it was none of his concern where I might
have him stop or why.

But I felt safer for the lie. I could not take the risk that William or Papa should find out. I felt a little guilty about
it as well, but that feeling fled nearly the moment I got back into the carriage and went home.

My fingers itched to do as Dr. Seth had bade me, but it was too late in the afternoon. William would be home soon, and though
I was tempted to draw only something small, I was glad I had not when he came home earlier than expected, bringing Papa with
him for supper.

“I heard you were at Delmonico’s with some gentleman today,” Papa said as he applied himself to a saddle of mutton.

Papa’s tone was insinuating, and William looked up with a frown on his face, his fork poised in the air. “A gentleman?” he
asked.

I felt a twinge of guilt that made me angry. I had done nothing wrong. I met my husband’s gaze steadily. “It was Dr. Seth,
William. He said he wanted to observe me again in public, and it was time for luncheon.”

“I see.” William looked uncertain.

Papa frowned. “I’ve never heard of a doctor taking a patient out for luncheon.”

“I admit it’s unusual,” I said. “But William felt I should spend as much time with him as possible. You
did
think it would be beneficial, William.”

William seemed about to protest, but then he glanced at my father and said with false ease, “Yes, I did. Well. I certainly
hope you introduced him to anyone who might not know who he is.”

“Thomas Crowe was there,” Papa said.

“Was he? I didn’t see him.”

“He said you looked right at him and looked away again as if you didn’t want to be seen.”

“Of course I didn’t do that,” I said, though I had, of course I had. To him and to several others. It had been the wrong thing
to do, I saw that now. William was right. I should have introduced Dr. Seth. I should have made sure everyone saw how innocent
it was. Why hadn’t I done that? “I don’t remember even seeing Thomas Crowe.”

“He said he was at the table next to yours. That you and Seth seemed to be quite involved in your conversation.”

I didn’t turn to William, but I felt the question in his gaze, and I flushed again, as though I were lying or trying to keep
something secret. The store flashed through my mind, my surreptitious visit, the sketch pad and pencils that were hidden in
a box beneath my bed, the doctor’s words,
Don’t tell them,
the way his hand had covered mine.

“It was merely lunch with my doctor.”

“No doubt it was. It was simply the way it looked.”

“And how was that?”

“You should have introduced him,” William said quietly. “It looks bad, darling, not to do so.”

I glared at him, and William had the grace to lower his gaze.

After dinner, when Papa had excused himself and retired to his room, I said to William, “You were the one who wished for Seth
to be seen more in our circle.”