by John Paulits
"It's not a secret. It's not a topic of much conversation in Genoa either but it's no secret."
"Go on."
"I don't profess to know the whole story, but I've heard mention of it."
"Go on, Angus," Dickens sighed. Dickens wondered where patient people got their patience.
"Well, Madame de la Rue met Emile on some trip she took with her father."
"Her father was a missionary?"
"Yes. Emile had to go off on business and, to hear him tell it, he had already fallen in love with her. She met a young man name of Dowd. Rodney Dowd. A young fellow, an engineer of some kind as I remember. In Rome, I believe. Planned to marry him, according to what I hear. Rejected de la Rue. The Charles you mention was her brother. Older by a couple of years - maybe twenty, twenty-one. Seems he and this Dowd had an argument. Patched it up. Went off on a hike together but only one of them returned. The brother, Charles. He claimed he and Dowd got separated and he never saw him again. No one ever found the body. Lots of gorges, crevices, where they'd hiked."
Dickens began to see where a phantom might easily spring from this tale.
"Go on, Angus. Was it murder?"
"Couldn't be proved. Oddly enough de la Rue had returned to Rome by then on business and was visiting her family. He claimed to have heard a loud argument between the two men the night before their trek. There was no corroboration of that, however. The brother Charles stood in disgrace, though nothing could be proved against him. Ended up going to Australia, as I recall."
"Did Emile ever say what the two men argued about?"
"He told everyone they argued over whether the lady should marry Dowd or not."
"And did her brother’s account agree?"
"No, he claimed the argument never happened, of course. Proclaimed his innocence but his reputation was in tatters. Went to Australia, as I said."
"And then?"
"And then what?"
"How did Madame de la Rue end up marrying Emile?"
Fletcher shrugged. "He asked and she eventually accepted. That's all I know."
Dickens sat back - he had been leaning eagerly forward - and sipped from his wineglass.
"Angus, I'd rather not have Emile know I asked about any of this."
"Yes, Charles, I heard you the first time. It's between us."
Dickens bobbed his head once and absent-mindedly cut off four cubes of cheese as the conversation moved onto more pedestrian topics. Thirty minutes later, Dickens bid Fletcher farewell.
Dickens walked back toward the Peschiere deep in thought. Augusta’s phantom could easily be the Dowd boy, her lost lover; or Charles, her exiled brother; or a combination of the two, merging to forge a symbol of the whole episode, an episode no doubt very painful for her. He would have to get Augusta to acknowledge the source of the phantom. Elliotson assured him that getting a patient to realize the source of the distress and confront it, discuss it, and eventually master it, offered a certain pathway to cure.
Eager as he was to put his plan into effect, Dickens decided it would be best to spend a few hours at home - he did not want to face Catherine's reaction to his staying out all day and, in her mind, spending it with Madame de la Rue. Catherine lately exhibited increasing signs of jealousy. Misplaced, unnecessary, and offensive, to be sure, but that was Catherine. It would not be the first time her insecurity had raised its ugly head. Her reaction to his day notwithstanding, he would return to the Brignole Rosso before dinner and place Augusta under trance. This time, however, he knew what questions to ask.
Chapter Eight
As Dickens approached the entrance to the Peschiere, he heard his name called. He turned and recognized Giovanni, a servant from the Brignole Rosso.
In rapid Italian, Giovanni said, "Madame has sent me for you, Monsieur Dickens. She says she is ill and needs you."
"What’s wrong?"
Giovanni touched his head. "Headache. She is in bed."
"Have you been to my house for me?"
Giovanni said he had not.
Dickens paused. His wife would have to wait. He followed Giovanni toward the Brignole Rosso.
Dickens entered Augusta de la Rue's bedroom, leaving the door ajar as a concession to propriety. He pulled a chair to her bedside.
"Augusta. It's Charles. I'm here."
Augusta lay still, her eyes closed, but at the sound of Dickens’ voice her eyes sprang open.
"Charles!" She stared confusedly at him a moment. "Oh, my head, Charles. Not long after you left...it's been throbbing horribly."
Dickens took Augusta's hand and spoke to her, concentrating on his tone of voice.
"Don't let this frighten you. I told you your condition could easily worsen on the way to a cure. This is what is happening. I will cure you." Dickens scolded himself for altering his tone and emphasizing 'will.' Reassured and reassuring. Focus. Stay calm. "I will take your headache away. You know what to do, Augusta. Look into my eyes and don't turn away."
This time it took more than five minutes for the woman's eyelids to flutter closed and Dickens to note her steady, even, peaceful respiration. He let her rest for ten minutes more and then began.
"I want to speak with you, Augusta. You know where we are going. We are going to the safe place where nothing can harm you. Will you go with me there?"
Dickens felt his stomach shrink into a nervous mass as he waited to see whether Augusta would speak or simply sleep on. She inclined her head in acquiescence.
Dickens sighed in relief and composed himself.
"I know where your brother, Charles, is."
Augusta's eyes opened slightly.
"He is safe and happy. He cannot be hurt."
A faint smile visited and fled from the woman's lips.
"I know where Rodney is. He also is safe and cannot be hurt."
Augusta moved her head as if trying to settle deeper into the pillow.
"Which of these two men is the phantom who visits your dreams?"
The woman began breathing more rapidly. Dickens felt the pressure of her hand on his strengthen. Her left cheek twitched.
Dickens soothed her and moved off the topic, reassuring her of her safety. It took five minutes before he managed to return her to quiet trance.
“Tell me about Rodney,” Dickens said quietly. He waited a moment and then repeated the question, watching carefully for some physiological reaction from the woman. He repeated the question twice more. Augusta's eyes fluttered and opened slightly.
"I met Rodney in Rome. He visited me often. We walked out together often."
"Did you love him?"
"I love my husband," she responded, a tinge of alarm in her voice.
"Of course you do. I know that. But you met Rodney before you married your husband. Did you love Rodney?"
Dickens repeated the question until the woman answered, "I loved Rodney."
"Did he ask you to marry him?"
She answered right away. "He planned to ask me."
"How do you know?"
“Charles told me. Charles. Oh, Charles.” Suddenly, her eyes sprang wide open. "Where is my brother? Where is my brother?"
Dickens decided he had put the woman through enough and worked quickly to quiet her. With his free hand he made passes before her open eyes and around her head. Her facial spasms lessened. Her cheek and mouth, however, continued to quiver. He spoke to her quietly and eventually her eyes fluttered closed. Dickens watched over her for another twenty minutes and then quietly went home.
Catherine's greeting tried his patience. "Have you been with that woman all day?"
"No, I had lunch with Angus. I walked over to his studio."
Catherine sniffed loudly. "The children have been asking for you."
"Then I will go t
o them." He walked off.
On his way to the Brignole Rosso next morning, Dickens realized he would have to hurry his treatment of Madame de la Rue along. His family’s previously planned months-long tour of Italy began on January 19th. This gave him barely two weeks.
The session that day and for the next few days produced little in the way of new information. There were even two days when Madame de la Rue felt a treatment unnecessary. Dickens urged her to a treatment anyway, fearing his power over her would diminish with missed treatments. Those two days, however, she insisted and he had to accept the rejection.
Emile de la Rue returned to the Brignole Rosso on Friday, January 10. Dickens informed him he had been helping his wife rest each day. There had been headaches, he reported, but he had been able to alleviate them in minutes. His wife’s nights had been restless but there had been no severe attacks like the one which left her crumpled on the floor. De la Rue found it encouraging when he heard of his wife’s two normal, untreated days. He thanked Dickens and begged him to keep on with his treatments, a petition heartily seconded by Augusta.
Dickens continued to visit the Brignole Rosso daily. On Monday, January 13, however, Augusta had an attack which shattered the quiet of an evening at the Peschiere. A little past eight in the evening with dinner long over, Dickens sat in his office off the grand sala going over correspondence. He could hear his children playing and Georgy's voice in the distance. Catherine's voice, shrill and insistent cut through the evening. Something, he knew, was wrong. He left his office and walked across the sala toward the staircase in the direction of Catherine's voice. At the bottom of the stairs, his wife engaged in an animated discussion with Anne, her maid. Dickens started down the stairs. Catherine heard him and looked up.
"That woman - that woman has sent for you again?" she asked through clenched teeth.
Dickens noticed Giovanni standing by the front door.
"What has happened?" Dickens asked.
"You'll have to ask him," his wife answered.
Dickens approached the servant.
"Monsieur Dickens, it is Madame. You must come. She is...she is shaking and moaning."
"I will come immediately," Dickens responded in Italian.
"You're going to her?" Catherine asked in disbelief. Dickens could see how she restrained herself in front of Anne and Giovanni.
"Madame de la Rue is ill. You know I'm committed to helping her. You were there when I made the commitment. I will be back as soon as possible."
Dickens went upstairs and changed his slippers for shoes, spent a moment arranging his hair, found his great coat, and left the house.
Emile de la Rue met Dickens at the door and led him to the bedroom where Augusta lay under the counterpane. The muscles of her face danced uncontrollably.
"She has been like this for over an hour," de la Rue reported.
Dickens looked at him and de la Rue understood. "I will be outside in the sitting room." Dickens waited until de la Rue closed the door behind him and began his usual procedures. He pulled a chair over, took the woman's hand, and stroked it. He spoke to her. For the first few minutes the woman simply moaned, "My head; my head," but Dickens would not be stopped. He continued his usual patter about her being safe and his being there to cure her. Alternately, he stroked the back of her hand and made slow passes with both hands around her face and head. Fifteen, then twenty minutes passed. Slowly her facial contortions abated. After thirty minutes the muscles in her face quieted.
"Augusta, I've taken you to the safe place. We are there now. Together. Both of us. Can you hear me?"
Dickens patiently repeated the question until Augusta bent her head in response.
"Has the phantom come to you tonight, Augusta?"
"Yes. Oh, yes."
Augusta's hand clutched his tightly.
"What did the phantom look like?"
"Bloody. The phantom wore a bloody mask. He would not let me see his face."
Bloody? "What did the phantom do?" The woman's voice remained calm at the mention of the phantom, surprising Dickens. He felt doubly surprised when she answered question after question.
"He took me to a field."
"What did he do in the field?"
"He pointed."
"What did he point at?"
"Low mountains. Hills. A waterfall."
"Do you know where these hills and waterfall are?"
"Rome. Rome. I walked there with him. I..." Dickens saw Augusta's mouth quiver and he feared losing her.
"Who did you walk there with? Who took you there?" Dickens knew immediately he had erred. His voice had risen in desperation, and he had asked two questions at once, a thing Elliotson specifically warned him against. He tried to recoup.
"Who did you walk there with when you were in Rome?" Dickens felt a strong urge to add, "Your brother? Rodney?" But he held his piece.
"Where is my brother?" the woman whispered. The muscles in her left cheek began to dance, and Dickens spoke to her and calmed her. When she returned to a quiet state, he considered. She was communicative tonight. He would try once more.
"Who did you walk with in the field in Rome?"
Four repetitions of the question brought no response.
There were only five days until he left on his tour of Italy. He must press on. If she would not answer that question he would try another.
"You said Rodney planned to ask you to marry him. Who told you so?"
She answered without delay. "Charles. He and Rodney were friends."
Friends? Angus told him they quarreled.
"When was Rodney going to ask you to become his wife?"
As soon as she heard the question, the left corner of the woman's mouth began to dance.
Quickly, Dickens urged to himself.
"When was Rodney going to ask you to become his wife?"
"That day. That day. Oh, where is my brother? Where?"
Tension filled Augusta de la Rue's face. Dickens calmed her and led her back into quiet trance. He let her remain there, unwilling to put her through any more that night. He accepted Emile de la Rue's thanks and left. He would pick up the story from there tomorrow. He would have the story out of Augusta de la Rue even if he had to move into the Brignole Rosso and mesmerize the woman five times a day. He would have the story out of her, and he would have it before he left Genoa.
Dickens returned home to a quiet house just before eleven. As he lay in bed next to a sleeping Catherine, he counted backwards. They were leaving the Peschiere on Sunday. He realized his getting away from home on Saturday, what with packing and organizing, getting correspondence in order, would be next to impossible. The de la Rues were giving a farewell dinner for him on Friday evening. Dickens knew Catherine did not want to go but also knew that she would go. He had told her so as a certainty. It gave him only four days. He closed his eyes but sleep had no chance to establish its dominion over him, and he lay staring into darkness, dissecting the bits of the story he had extracted from Augusta de la Rue. A bloody phantom. An incipient engagement. Dickens knew he did not have enough information to complete the picture, though. He felt as if one of his twenty-number serials lacked parts nine through sixteen.
On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday Dickens appeared at the Brignole Rosso by ten o’clock. Maddeningly, Augusta de la Rue merely repeated things she had already revealed to Dickens. Her nightly headaches continued but not of a severity requiring Dickens midnight presence. The phantom did not reappear. Until Friday.
Chapter Nine
Dickens had always delayed his visits to the Brignole Rosso until ten in the morning - in his mind, the earliest well-mannered hour possible. But Friday morning, January 17, Dickens received a note from Emile de la Rue at seven-forty-five as he sat at his breakfast table. Madame felt ill and would he please come qu
ickly.
When he arrived, Augusta de la Rue lay in bed moaning, her eyes closed, breathing at a rapid rate. Spasms rippled through her body, though for once her facial muscles were still. With no hesitation de la Rue closed the bedroom door on Dickens and his wife.
Dickens began his work and in fifteen minutes Augusta's breathing calmed and she lay still.
"Do you remember what you were telling me, Augusta?" asked Dickens, determined to drive the story forward on this, his final opportunity.
It took three repetitions of the question, but finally the woman nodded.
"Do you remember you told me about Rodney planning to ask to marry you?"
She nodded again.
Even though he felt certain the phantom bound the disease to the woman and the woman to the disease, he would not mention the phantom until last. Perhaps then she would remain in quiet trance and answer his other questions.
Before Dickens could even posit a question, though, the woman spoke.
“Charles told me Rodney would ask me to be his wife and give me a ring after they returned from the hike. Charles said Rodney had things he wanted to discuss with him. Charles told me he had seen the beautiful ring Rodney had for me. He said the ring once belonged to Rodney's mother. Diamonds and rubies set in gold. It was so beautiful. How it shone!"
This puzzled Dickens. She spoke as if she had actually seen the ring.
"Did Charles tell you how the ring shone?"
"No."
Dickens paused. Augusta's left hand clenched into a fist. He opened it gently and held it.
"How do you know the ring shone so?"
"I saw it."
"You saw the ring?"
"Yes?"
"When did you see the ring?"
Dickens grimaced as Augusta clamped her hand around his.
"That night."
"The night of the...accident?"
The woman nodded once.
Rodney was dead by then, his body lost. How could she have seen the ring? Perhaps her brother had brought it back with him? No, that didn’t make sense. It would have made him even more a suspect than he had been.
