by Victoria Mas
Every year, the excitement is the same. The Lenten Ball – or ‘the Madwomen’s Ball’, as the Parisian bourgeoisie called it – is the highlight of March, the highlight of the year. In the weeks that precede it, no one can think of anything else. The women begin to dream of gowns and finery, of orchestras and waltzes, of twinkling lights, furtive glances, swelling hearts and applause; they dream of the men who will be invited, the cream of Parisian society thrilled at the prospect of mingling with madwomen, and the madwomen thrilled that they will finally be seen, if only for a few brief hours. The arrival of the costumes two or three weeks before the event ignites their enthusiasm. But far from overstimulating their frayed and delicate nerves, it heralds a period of calm in the dormitory. Trapped behind walls of tedium, the women finally have a distraction. They sew, make alterations, try on shoes, searching to find their size; they squeeze each other into dresses, hold impromptu fashion parades between the beds, admire their reflection in the windows; they exchange accessories, and while they are busy with these preparations, they forget about the senile crones sitting in the corner, the depressives prostrated on their bed, the melancholiacs who do not share their festive spirit, the covetous who have not found a costume to their liking – but most importantly they forget about their troubles, the physical aches, the palsied limbs, the memories of those who brought them to this place, the children whose faces they no longer remember; they forget the tears of others, the stench of urine of those unable to control their bladder, the intermittent screams, the cold tiled floors and the endless waiting. The prospect of this costumed ball quiets their bodies and softens their faces. Finally, there is something to look forward to.
In the midst of this commotion, the immaculate uniforms of the nurses stand out: like white chess pieces, they glide from left to right, horizontally and diagonally across the tiled squares, ensuring that the excitement provoked by the costumes does not get out of hand. In the background, like the white queen, Geneviève supervises the distribution, making sure it all goes smoothly.
‘Madame Geneviève?’
The matron turns around. Behind her is Camille. Again. Her auburn hair could do with being brushed. And she should be wearing warmer clothes: she is dressed only in a thin nightshift. Geneviève wags a finger.
‘No, Camille, the answer is no.’
‘Just a little ether, Madame Geneviève. Have a heart.’
The woman’s hands are trembling. Ever since she was treated with ether to calm a seizure, Camille has been demanding more. The seizure had been serious, and nothing had seemed to bring her round, so one of the doctors had given her a slightly higher dose than normal. Camille had spent five days vomiting and fainting – until she recovered and pleaded for more.
‘Louise got some last time. Why not me?’
‘Louise was having a seizure.’
‘I’ve had seizures since then too, and you didn’t give me any!’
‘You didn’t need it last time. You came round quickly.’
‘How about a little chloroform, then? Please, Madame Geneviève . . .’
A nurse bustles in from the corridor.
‘Madame Geneviève, you are wanted in reception. A new patient.’
‘I’m coming. Camille, go and pick a costume.’
‘I don’t like any of them.’
‘That’s too bad then.’
*
In the entrance hall, two doctors are supporting the limp body of Eugénie. Her father and her brother briefly survey this place they have not seen before. What is initially surprising is not the relatively narrow entrance hall, but the corridor down which Geneviève is striding – a vast, endless tunnel that might suck a person into its bowels towards some unknown destination. The clack of heels echoes around the vaulted ceiling. From far off come the moans and whimpers of women, but the men pay them no heed – not because they are indifferent, but because they are weak.
One of the doctors holding Eugénie turns to the matron. ‘Shall we put her in the dormitory?’
‘No, there is too much commotion there right now. Put her in the usual room.’
‘Very well, ma’am.’
Théophile stiffens. He watches as strangers carry the unconscious body of his sister – whom, at his father’s insistence, he forcibly dragged along until she passed out – down the endless corridor into the depths of this moribund hospital. Her head lolls back, her dark hair swaying left and right as she is manhandled away from them. Scarcely an hour ago, he was calmly eating breakfast with the family, little knowing that Eugénie Cléry, his sister, would end up here, at the Salpêtrière, like a common lunatic. Granted, they have never been particularly close. Théophile respected his sister, but felt little affection for her. Yet to see her like this, being carried along like a sack of grain, betrayed by her own family, ripped from her home and confined to this accursed place, this hell for women in the heart of Paris, is a shock unlike any he has known before. Feeling his stomach lurch, he races from the building, abandoning his father. Disconcerted, the latter proffers his hand to Geneviève.
‘François Cléry. I am the father. Forgive my son, I am not sure what has come over him.’
‘Madame Gleizes. Please, follow me.’
Sitting in the little office, François Cléry takes his fountain pen and signs the necessary papers. He has placed his top hat on the desk. From the only window a beam of daylight, dancing with dust motes, falls across the tiled floor. Beneath the desk and the open cabinet crammed with hundreds of files and documents, small grey balls of fluff have gathered. The room smells of rotting wood and damp.
‘What do you expect us to do for your daughter?’ Geneviève sits facing this man who is about to have his child committed. François Cléry’s pen hovers in mid-air.
‘To be perfectly honest, I have no expectation that she will recover. Mystical ideas cannot be cured.’
‘Has your daughter previously experienced seizures – fever, fainting, fits?’
‘No. She is quite normal . . . Except that, as I have explained, she claims to see the dead. And has done so for some years.’
‘Do you believe that she is telling the truth?’
‘My daughter has her faults . . . but she is not a liar.’
Geneviève notices that the man’s hands are clammy. He sets down his pen, slides his hand under the table and wipes it on his trousers. He seems constrained by the buttons of his suit. His lips are quivering beneath his salt-and-pepper moustache. It is rare for this famously imperturbable lawyer to struggle to maintain his composure. This hospital unsettles all those who enter its walls, especially a man who has come to commit his daughter, or his wife, or his mother. Geneviève has lost count of the men she has seen sitting in this same chair: labourers, florists, teachers, chemists, merchants, fathers, brothers, husbands – but for their initiative, the Salpêtrière would doubtless be less populous. Granted, women sometimes bring other women here – mothers, though more often mothers-in-law, sometimes aunts – but the majority of the patients have been committed by the men whose name they share. It is the most wretched fate: without a husband, a father, there is no support – and no consideration for their existence.
What Geneviève finds surprising about this particular case is the social class of the man sitting opposite her. Generally, the middle classes are horrified at the thought of committing a wife or a daughter. Not because they are possessed of some higher ethical standard and consider it immoral to lock away a woman against her will, but because the committal would be talked about in fashionable salons; it would forever tarnish the name of the patriarch. At the first sign of mental illness amid the crystal chandeliers, middle class women are usually medicated quickly, then shut away in a room. It is unusual to see a respected lawyer bring his daughter to the Salpêtrière.
Monsieur Cléry hands the signed papers to Geneviève. She glances at the documents, then looks up at the man.
‘Might I ask a question?’
‘By all means.’
‘Why entrust your daughter to a psychiatric hospital if you do not expect her to be cured? This is not a prison. Here, we work towards treating our patients.’
The lawyer thinks for a moment. He gets to his feet, picks up his top hat and brushes it vigorously.
‘No one talks to the dead unless the devil is involved. I will not have such things under my roof. As far as I am concerned, I no longer have a daughter.’
He gives Geneviève a curt nod then stalks out of the office.
The day wanes over the hospital grounds. They might look like any other park in Paris, but for the fact that there are more women here. In winter, they wander the paved pathways, muffled in thick woollens and hooded cloaks, alone or in pairs, trudging along slowly, glad to be outdoors despite the cold that numbs their fingers. When summer comes, the lawns and the groves reclaim their luxuriant colours. Women lie on the grass, eyes closed, their faces turned towards the sun, tossing breadcrumbs for the pigeons; others, reluctant to feed the vermin, seek the shade of a tree where they talk of all the things they dare not mention in the dormitory. Away from the prying eyes of the nurses, they share secrets, console each other, they kiss hands, lips, necks, touch faces, breasts, thighs, allow themselves to be lulled by the birdsong, make promises about what they will do when they leave this place – for their stay is only temporary, you know, they do not plan to spend their lives here, the idea is impossible, one day the black gates will swing open and they will be free to walk the streets of Paris as they did before . . .
Not far from the dappled pathways, the hospital chapel watches over the gardens and the strolling women. It stands out from the hospital buildings by virtue of its size, its scale. The black cupola with its belfry can be seen from any direction; it almost seems to follow the viewer, at a bend in the path, above the leafy treetops, through a window, and there it is, hulking and magnificent, filled with the muttered prayers, the whispered confessions, the masses celebrated within its walls.
Geneviève has never stepped through the great purple doors. When she crosses the courtyard, moving from one section to another, she walks past the vast stone edifice with indifference, sometimes with scorn. The little Catholic girl she used to be, who was dragged to mass every Sunday, always recited her prayers with disdain. As far back as she can remember, she has always been repulsed by anything to do with church: the rough wooden pews, the dying Christ on the cross, the host pressed on to her tongue, the bowed heads of the faithful at prayer, the sanctimonious clichés scattered like magical powder; people paying heed to a man who, simply because he wore a cassock and stood at the altar, wielded absolute power over the villagers; people mourning a man who was crucified and praying to his father, an abstract concept, who judged all those who dwelled on earth. The very idea was grotesque. She would silently seethe at the absurd pageantry. The only thing that stopped this otherwise well-behaved little blonde girl from expressing her disgust was her father. Since he was a doctor who was respected in the neighbouring villages, people would talk if his eldest daughter refused to attend mass. In the countryside, the church plays a more important role than it does in the city. In villages where everyone knows everyone, one cannot afford to think differently, or to stay at home on a Sunday morning. And besides, there was Blandine, her little sister, a slim, pale, red-headed doll two years her junior. Blandine was genuinely devout. She loved all the things her elder sister despised, as though she had enough belief for both of them. The piety she demonstrated from an early age convinced Geneviève to bite her tongue and remain silent. She loved her little sister. She even admired this devotion of which she was incapable. It would have been easier if she could have believed in God. She felt excluded, and exhausted by the inner rage she had to suppress. Seeing that Blandine’s love of God made her seem paradoxically more mature, Geneviève had tried to change her own opinion, to force herself to believe – but to no avail. Not only was she incapable, but the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that God did not exist. The church was a fraud. And priests were charlatans.
The mute rage she had felt during her early years was only exacerbated by the brutal death of Blandine. Geneviève had been eighteen at the time. She had discovered her vocation for nursing while spending her adolescence helping her father during medical examinations. She was a tall girl, with a confident air about her. Her proud, square face was framed by blonde hair that she pinned up into a chignon every day. She had a keen eye, and could precisely diagnose any affliction, even before her father, to the extent that patients began to ask for her instead of him. She had read and re-read every medical book in the family home, and it was in these pages that she finally found her faith. She believed in medicine. She believed in science. This was her creed. She had no doubts: she would be a nurse, but not here in the Auvergne: she dreamed of Paris. That was where great doctors practised, that was where scientific progress was being made, that was where she needed to be. Her ambition had prevailed over her parents’ hesitation, and she had spent her savings on a move to the capital.
Some months after her arrival, a letter from her father informed her of Blandine’s death, having been ‘struck down by virulent tuberculosis’. In the little room where she still lives, Geneviève had dropped the piece of paper and fainted. She came to in the late afternoon and spent the whole night weeping. Unquestionably, there could be no God. If he truly existed and dispensed earthly justice, he would not have allowed a devout sixteen-year-old to die whilst an ungodly wretch who had always renounced him was permitted to live.
From that moment on, Geneviève had vowed to devote her life to healing others, and to making whatever contribution she could to the advancement of medicine. She worshipped doctors more than she had ever worshipped a saint. She had found her place among them, a role that was humble and discreet, but indispensable nonetheless. Her work, her conscientious attitude, her intelligence, had earned her the respect of these men. Gradually, she had made a name for herself in the Salpêtrière.
Geneviève was unmarried. Two years after she had arrived in Paris, a young doctor had asked for her hand and she had refused. Part of her had died with her sister, and the guilt she felt at still being alive stopped her from accepting anything else that life had to offer. She had the privilege of working in a profession she loved; to want more would have been arrogant. Since her sister had not had the chance to become a wife and mother, Geneviève would not allow herself to do so either.
The matron slips the key into the lock. In the cold, dark room, Eugénie is sitting on a chair next to the bed. Her arms are folded over her chest, her fine dark hair spills down her back. Staring intently at the corner of the room, she is not disturbed by the sound of the door opening. For a moment, Geneviève studies the new patient, uncertain of her mood, then she steps forward and sets on the bed a tray with a bowl of soup and two slices of dry bread.
‘Eugénie? I’ve brought your dinner.’
Eugénie does not move. Geneviève is hesitant to move closer and decides it is best to remain by the door.
‘You’ll stay in this room tonight. Tomorrow morning, you will have breakfast in the refectory. My name is Geneviève, I supervise this wing of the hospital.’
At the sound of the name, Eugénie turns around. Her dark eyes study the matron, then she gives a faint smile.
‘You are very kind, madame.’
‘Do you know why you are here?’
The girl stares at the woman with the blonde chignon standing in the doorway. She thinks for a moment, then looks down at her boots.
‘I cannot blame my grandmother. In a sense, she has set me free. I no longer have to live in secret. Now, everyone knows who I am.’
Geneviève keeps one hand on the doorknob as she stares at the young woman. She is not accustomed to hearing a patient speak so clearly, so articulately. Sitting on the chair, Eugénie keeps her arms folded over her chest but then she slumps forward a little, as though suddenly exhausted. After a moment, she looks
up again.
‘I shall not be here for very long, you know.’
‘That is not for you to decide.’
‘I know. You will decide. You will help me.’
‘Well. We’ll come and fetch you in the morning . . .’
‘Her name is Blandine. Your sister.’
Geneviève tightens her grip on the doorknob. For a moment, she is speechless, she can’t breathe. Then she exhales. Eugénie is looking at her calmly, the same placid smile playing on her weary face. Geneviève stiffens as she stares at this madwoman. This dark-haired creature wearing the elegant, immaculate clothes of a young woman from a good family suddenly reminds Geneviève of a witch: this, surely, is how the witches of old must have looked, fascinating and charismatic on the outside, but on the inside, vicious and depraved.
‘Be quiet.’
‘She has red hair, does she not?’
Eugénie seems to be looking at something in the room; she is staring at a fixed point just behind Geneviève. The nurse feels an electric shock surge through her body. A trembling seizes her chest, as though she has suddenly caught a chill, and with each passing second it grows worse until her whole torso and arms are shaking. Instinctively, in a movement over which she has no control, she turns on her heel and leaves the room, her feverish hands struggling to turn the key in the lock, then she takes several steps down the hallway before giving in and letting herself fall back against the cold floor.
The clock reads eight-twenty when Geneviève arrives home. Her tiny apartment is in darkness. Stepping inside, she mechanically slips off her coat, hangs it over the back of the chair and sits down on the bed, which creaks slightly. She grips the mattress with both hands as though fearing she might collapse a second time.
