Human Traces

by Sebastian Faulks

  She kept a ring that Jacques had sent her in a small velvet purse. She took it out and slipped it on her finger as she wrote to him, but even the unbroken circle did not quite convince her that she was truly loved – that she existed permanently and luminously in the mind of a young French doctor in the Latin Quarter. She did not feel she had the right to presume such a thing; it was a phenomenon for which she daily needed new evidence, even though his letters were as frequent and disbelieving as her own. She wondered if she should tell Jacques about her glimpse intoWard 52, but decided that it might worry him, that he might think she had been needlessly upset and blame Thomas for it. She felt a churning of fear and pity when she thought of the iron stable in the basement; it was worse than anything she had seen or imagined, but she presumed that Jacques and Thomas understood the philosophical and religious questions it provoked; indeed, that understanding must be the source of the urgency behind their medical ambition. It was not just scientific curiosity that drove them on, there was a deeper philanthropic motive, and therefore it was unnecessary for her to share her thoughts or to tell her story to Jacques.

  Instead, she told him how Thomas had offered Faverill a position at their new clinic, and how he had already mentioned one or two patients he would like to take. ‘Are you quite sure, my dear, that Thomas is allowed to hire all your staff in this way? Are there not one or two brilliant young men at the Salpêtrière? And what about me? As the partnership manager – was that my title? – surely I should have a stake in these matters. There is a girl here called Daisy, a patient, whom Thomas seems keen for us to take (I think perhaps he is a little sweet on her). She has not been able to convince the Committee of Visitors that she is sane enough to be released, soThomas is proposing that she escape! If a lunatic stays at large for more than fourteen days, she is deemed to be free. Thomas tells me that he and this girl have escaped before and that she intends to follow him when he leaves. He is still not quite the responsible man of science that he would have us take him for; a little of the night reveller persists . . .’

  In May, a few days before he was due to depart from the asylum, Thomas asked Faverill if he could take one of the many days of leave that were owing to him, so that he could make his farewells.

  He put on his strongest shoes and went to the farm to watch the lunatics milking the cows and hoeing the rows of vegetables in the kitchen gardens. The spring breeze brought the smell of malt and hops drifting down from the brewery on the hill, and he glanced up to see the chimney of the laundry puffing away behind it, like the funnel of a stalled brick engine.

  Thomas was surprised by how much he had come to tolerate, even to like, the asylum. The vast lateral folly was hidden from his view by the elms at the edge of the cow pastures, and he could briefly view it with detachment. The things he had seen inside the walls had seared his soul. But ‘sear’ was perhaps the word, he thought, like ‘cauterise’: he was burned, but he did not bleed. He dreaded becoming ‘a doctor’, like old Meadowes, someone who examined a patient and diagnosed by elimination, checking symptoms against the remembered student textbook, then, knowing the rudiments of pharmaceutical science, prescribed. Or – in so many cases – said there was yet no cure. He passionately hoped that he had not become such a mechanical practitioner, such a clockmaker, such a cobbler of the human.

  It was time for him to go, and his mind was full of Paris. He had estimated, before Tyson gave him the exact figure, that in the male wing of the asylum there were ten thousand epileptic fits a year. Most of these people were not even mentally unwell, but their tendency to choke at dinner time meant that the piece of medical equipment he had used most was not a stethoscope or a thermometer but a probang, an instrument for pushing stuck food down the oesophagus, something he had been instructed to carry at all times.

  He sucked deeply on the fresh May morning and sighed. He had solved nothing by his stay at the asylum; all he had done was shine a clear light on his ignorance. The trials of tube-feeding, the stench in ‘dirty school’ where the negligent were drilled, the candle-lit struggle to bring the casebooks up to date . . . How glad he would be to leave those all behind, to enter into private practice with a chance of making someone well. And in case he should become detached from the scale of the task, there were still the wards of the Salpêtrière to visit, notebook and stethoscope in hand.

  He began to loop back towards the circular ice-house, which made him think of Daisy. He had agreed to meet her at an inn outside the town in three weeks’ time. Her appeals to the Committee ofVisitors had been rejected, and his word alone was not enough to have her discharged. He told her he would help her find a job in a factory or farm (perhaps even in a counting-house now that she could read), until he had set up his clinic with Jacques, when she could come and work for them. Daisy was confident she could escape by the brewery gate, as they had done before. Thomas had also entered into negotiation about the case of the blind girl, Mary, and had successfully persuaded the Committee that in the absence of any symptom of lunacy she could be released when he found accommodation for her. He decided that he would not tell Mary until he was ready to look after her; he feared that she might otherwise prefer to stay.

  As he made his way back to the building, he hoped that his time at the asylum would be thought worthwhile by the patients. He had cured not a single soul, but he had laid kind hands on them. He had been compelled to protect himself from looking too long into the gulf, because to do so, he feared, would make him lose his own mind. He remembered God’s visitation to King Solomon, and His offer to grant any wish the king might have. Solomon had asked for ‘an understanding heart’. When he read the story as a boy, Thomas had been disappointed and indignant. Solomon, having already made a dutiful marriage to the Pharaoh’s daughter, had surely merited some self-indulgence – castles, gold and dancing girls. Now, as he plodded back towards the asylum, he found that he could not recall the story without tears flooding his eyes.

  Being a man who liked, where possible, to see things through to their natural end, Thomas decided he would visit the only part of the building he had not seen in his time there. Nodding to Grogan in his glass-panelled box in the main hall, he began to mount the main staircase. Lesser corridors, higher and lighter than the one on the ground floor, led off to wards on the right and left; but a narrower staircase led up, into the heart of theTuscan belltower. And here, he had never before had cause to go.

  Through windows on the top landing he was able to look north towards the main gates and Patterson’s lodge, or south over the Downs towards the river. A spiral staircase led up to a locked trapdoor, beyond which was presumably the bell itself. To the east and west sides were green wooden doors, on one of which was stencilled the word ‘ARCHIVE’. Thomas tried the brass handle and found that the door opened easily.

  He felt unaccountably frightened when he stepped inside. The room was a library, with free-standing bookshelves, a metal door into what appeared to be a strongroom, and many rows of boxes, books and files. Seated at a table in the western window, was an elderly man in a dark velvet jacket and a smoking cap; he had a reddish-grey beard and reading glasses, which he removed as Thomas approached him.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you. I am Dr Midwinter. I do not believe that we have met.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ said the man, standing up and offering his hand. ‘You are not disturbing me. I have all the time in the world.’

  ‘I was just looking round. I am to leave the asylum shortly and I was just . . .’ How odd it was, thought Thomas, that Faverill had never mentioned that they had an archivist.

  ‘Saying goodbye?’

  ‘Exactly. Saying goodbye.’ Thomas coughed. ‘And these are all the records of the asylum?’

  ‘Since it began. The building was opened in 1851. Here we have all the casebooks, the daybooks, the minutes of the meetings of the Committee, the reports of the Commissioners in Lunacy and so on.’

  The man stood up and walked to a shelf. He was about Thomas�
��s height. ‘This one is signed by Lord Shaftesbury himself. Do you see?’

  His voice was educated and kindly; there was something of the scholar in it, Thomas thought.

  ‘On these shelves we have the farm records, all beautifully done. Until a few years ago, at least. Food is so important for lunatics, is it not? Do you see this? “Provisions consumed during the Year ending Dec 31st 1858. Beef and mutton, 198, 285 lbs. For the Sick: Porter and Ale, 34, 400 pints.” Goodness, they were well looked after. It was quite a different place in those days.’

  ‘Did you know it then?’ said Thomas.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the man. ‘I have been here since the first day. The building was opened by the mayor, of course. It was a fine occasion. The local press was well represented. Everything in the building was quite new.’

  ‘And were you . . . What was your . . .’ Thomas found it difficult to phrase the question.

  ‘A resident,’ said the man in his fussy voice. ‘I have always been a resident.’

  ‘I imagine the asylum must have been very different then,’ said Thomas, anxious to move the conversation onwards.

  ‘Yes, Dr Midwinter. Yes, indeed. Those were the days of hope.’ He walked back to his table.

  Thomas, for no reason he could explain, affected a rather languid manner. ‘I have been concerned with the casebooks myself. It is a little like theAugean Stables – no, like Sisyphus, I should say. I am for ever rolling my stone to the top of the hill. But the next day . . .’

  ‘I am aware of your work. Some of the books have already been sent up and stored here. You have an elegant hand. Not a doctor’s hand, I should say.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Perhaps I should continue with my work.’

  ‘I am sorry. I had not meant to—’

  ‘Do stay. But forgive me if I write.’

  He took his place at the table again and bent over the open volume, in which were pasted casenotes written on individual pieces of paper. He appeared to be copying them out into a different book on his right hand.

  ‘From what year are these?’ said Thomas.

  ‘These are from 1860.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘The year of my birth.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  The western light was strong behind the man’s head, and lit the wisps of reddish-grey hair above his ears. Thomas tried to read upside down what he was writing; it appeared that he was merely copying out the doctor’s original notes into a more legible copperplate.

  ‘Are you . . . Transcribing? Or . . .’

  ‘These words are so bare. “Believes the devil is in his abdomen. Says voices come to him through the walls of the church.” I try not merely to transcribe, but to redeem. Is that not the duty of the man with the pen?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Thomas looked once more round the room, then began to take his leave, seeing that the man was bent to his work.

  ‘I have enjoyed talking to you,’ he said.

  The man stood up. ‘It has been a profound pleasure to meet you,’ he said. ‘I seldom have visitors up here. I have admired your work and I did hope that one day I should have the pleasure of meeting you face to face. It is a remarkable coincidence. My name, too, you see, is Midwinter.’

  VIII

  THERE WAS A timid knock on the door, and Thomas, who had been looking out over the chestnut trees and daydreaming, leapt to his feet.

  ‘My receptionist,’ he said, ‘is absent. Please excuse me.’

  A note on the desk from Jacques told him to expect Madame Lafond. A Parisian woman of about thirty stepped into the room. She was wearing a burgundy silk dress with black gloves that she twisted in her hands; she had golden hair swept up and pinned beneath a black velvet hat.

  ‘Please do sit down, Madame.’

  The woman spoke rapidly and nervously. ‘I have previously consulted your colleague, Dr Rebière.’

  ‘So I understand.’ He picked up some notes from the desk. ‘And how are you feeling, Madame?’

  Madame Lafond passed a hand across her forehead. ‘Not well, Doctor.’

  ‘You seem a little short of breath.’

  ‘Well, naturally. The stairs . . .’

  ‘Forgive me. I am so used to them that I sometimes forget. And what difficulties are you having?’

  ‘I have headaches. I do not sleep well. And I have a pain here.’ She held her hand to an area above the waist.

  ‘Is this the same pain for which you originally consulted Dr Rebière?’

  ‘Not exactly the same. It is a little more severe. I first consulted Dr Charcot. Then Dr Babinski. Then Dr Rebière for a second opinion. I am beginning to feel a little like a parcel no one wishes to unpack. But my husband . . .’

  ‘Yes, Madame?’

  ‘He insists that I must be cured. I took the waters at Aix last spring. And then we went to Vittel. I was bored.’

  ‘And I see that Dr Rebière diagnosed exhaustion. Have you been able to rest?’

  ‘It is difficult to find the time. My husband is a financier and he is obliged to entertain a great deal. Naturally he wishes me to act as hostess when his guests come to dine.’

  ‘Naturally. And how often would you have to preside at such a dinner?’

  ‘Perhaps twice a week. Then we are also obliged to dine out frequently.’

  ‘I see,’ said Thomas. ‘And these dinners. Do they consist of many courses? Are they rich?’

  ‘I eat so little I could not really tell you. I suppose they are sometimes lavish.’

  ‘What was the dinner the last time you entertained?’

  ‘Some foie gras. Oysters. My husband is very fond of oysters. Some sole perhaps. A side of beef. Champagne. I forget.’

  ‘And wines?’

  ‘Of course. You are English, I believe, Doctor.’

  ‘I am indeed. I am familiar with French wine, however. One of the glories of the world.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Madame Lafond looked distracted. ‘I drink only water. Sometimes a little brandy. Tell me, what do you think the matter is?’

  ‘I shall need to examine you before I can be sure. If you would care to step behind that screen and take off your clothes.’

  Madame Lafond obeyed with the docility of the chronic patient. Thomas went over to the window and looked down on to the traffic of the rue des Saint Pères. He had found the attic room in his first week in Paris and hastily arranged a brass plate; it was an unfashionable street and its three flights of stairs made it impossible for elderly patients. Most of his clientèle, however, seemed to be young women, impressed by its proximity to the Boulevard St Germain and strong enough to make the climb.

  Madame Lafond was sitting on the edge of the couch in her underclothes, staring stoically ahead; her narrow blue eyes had a look of weary patience as Thomas rubbed his hands together.

  He touched her arm. ‘Please tell me if my hands are too cold.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Please lie down. I am going to examine your abdomen.’

  As he lifted the silk chemise and laid his fingers on the skin of her belly, Thomas had a picture in his mind of the first female corpse he had seen in‘Meaters’, as the Cambridge undergraduates had called the dissecting room or meat-shop, a shanty with a tin roof and an overpowering atmosphere of formalin and pipe-smoke. He often brought to mind the billowing stoves, the tallow soap and clammy towels by the sink when he was examining a female patient; it helped him concentrate. Madame Lafond’s skin was soft, and the flesh beneath it felt normal to his touch. He pushed down the ivory drawers a little, and pressed over the appendix.

  ‘Do you have children, Madame?’

  ‘I have one son.’

  ‘And is everything regular? Your monthly period? May I touch here? I am looking for any sign of ovarian disorder. Has there been any swelling? Any pain? Good.’

  With some relief, he moved up to the area beneath the ribs, where he did elicit a small cry when he pushed firmly against the stomach.


  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘A little air, I think. Now the liver. Is that tender? No? Very well. If you sit on the edge of the couch again and lift up your slip. I am going to test your knee reflexes. No need to roll down your stockings. Just sit on the edge. Very good. You may get dressed now.’

  He asked her some more questions about her diet, her habits and whether she took exercise. He checked her pulse and examined her eyes. He looked at his watch: patients usually wanted a consultation to last for at least half an hour.

  ‘And your relations with your husband, Madame. Are they quite normal?’

  Madame Lafond looked a little uneasy. ‘Yes. He is a . . . demanding man. He likes to . . . Idon’tknowwhat is normal, but I imagine so, yes. Listen, Doctor, there is a Swedish doctor I have heard of who diagnosed a friend of mine. He said she had colitis. It seems to be a very common ailment in Paris at the moment.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Thomas. ‘So I believe. Very fashionable.’