by Megan Chance
Wordlessly, William and I preceded him through the doorway.
The room was darkened. Opposite was a bank of windows, though all but one were covered by lowered blinds; the single open one looked out onto the brick wall of the building next door, at COXLEY’S CIGARS, PIPES, AND TOBACCO painted there in large black-and-white letters.
There was a click, and the room went bright, electric lamps blazing into brilliance. I blinked and gasped, used as I was to gaslight.
“You see, we have the most modern conveniences,” said the doctor.
William murmured something, but I could not take my eyes from the room. The false light illuminated it to its worst advantage. It brought into relief the large table near the window, scattered with papers and open books. Behind it were shelves full of messily arranged books, shoved side by side, lying erratically one on top of the other. The only neat shelf was tightly packed with thin black leather-bound volumes bookended with a large white phrenology head.
There was a settee that matched the one in the waiting room, two chairs upholstered in a bright red brocade, and a ladder-back chair that sat next to a large wooden cabinet with several drawers. Near this was a long examination table. These—the cabinet and the table—made me most anxious: the cabinet because I had no idea what it was, and the table because I did. I glanced at William, who was frowning.
He turned to the doctor and said, “You are a phrenologist.”
Dr. Seth was taking off his coat and hat. Though he spoke to William, his gaze went to me. “No more than any other self- respecting physician. The head is merely a personal reminder. Nothing to worry about.” He smiled, and I found myself transfixed, uncertain whether to be charmed or afraid. “May I take your coats?” Dr. Seth asked.
William took his off, but I shook my head and grasped the front of mine, wanting the protection of it. Dr. Seth nodded mildly and gestured to the settee for us to sit down. I did not want to do that either, but these choices were not mine to make, so I went with William to the settee while Dr. Seth took one of the red brocade chairs.
Just then there was a knock on the door, and the girl—Irene—came in bearing a tea tray with service for three. She set it silently on the table beside the doctor’s chair, then left.
When the door had closed, the doctor met my eyes. “You seem nervous, Mrs. Carelton. Perhaps some tea will reassure you.”
William laughed shortly. “Lucy’s nerves are the reason we’re here to see you, Dr. Seth.”
The doctor poured the tea with precision, added milk and sugar, and handed us each a gaily painted china cup. The rims were thick, the edges uneven, but the tea was hot and sweet and soothing; he had made it as I liked it, though I had not said a word.
“I have the feeling we’ve met before, Mrs. Carelton,” he said.
“The other night, at the Baldwins’ supper,” William told him. “We had not been introduced then, but you must have seen Lucy’s fit.”
Seth straightened. His glance sharpened as it had that night. “Ah yes, of course,” he said, and I was surprised to hear a brief impatience in his tone. “I assume that is why you’re here, but why don’t you tell me the whole of it?”
William said, “First, Dr. Seth, we need some reassurances. You’ve been highly recommended to us, but . . . well, you must see our situation.”
“Of course.” Dr. Seth nodded. “I can assure you of the strictest discretion, Mr. and Mrs. Carelton. As you saw, this office is deliberately situated to afford you the greatest privacy. I can promise that, should you decide to undergo treatment, my notes will be destroyed at the conclusion. Irene is highly motivated not to speak of your visit. I guarantee that no one will know you were ever here unless you tell them yourself.”
The doctor wrapped his long fingers delicately around the thick cup as if afraid he might crush it. He looked directly at me. “Now, why have you come to me?”
William said, “We’ve been to ten doctors in the last three years. No one’s been able to help. You’re our last hope.”
I felt the doctor’s dark eyes on me. There was something improper, even dangerous, in the way he stared. My fingers shook as I brought my cup to my lips; I dared not look up.
William went on, “It’s become unbearable living with her. We haven’t been able to keep a maid longer than two months. Lucy’s fits terrorize the household. She has temper tantrums, screaming hysteria—the smallest things turn her into a mad creature. When she’s not having a fit, she’s sad and inconsolable. She’s barely able to rise from bed. I’ve despaired of her. Having anyone over for dinner is impossible, and in my business, it’s necessary.”
“I see,” Dr. Seth said, finally turning to William. “What is your business?”
My husband looked surprised. “You don’t know?”
“I confess not.”
“Yes. Well.” William looked discomfited. “Brokering. I’m a stockbroker.”
Seth nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, I . . . Last night Lucy took too much laudanum. It’s really become—”
“Laudanum? Who prescribed laudanum?”
“Dr. Moore. About a year ago.”
“How much do you take?” the doctor asked me.
“J-just a bit,” I managed. “A few spoonfuls at bedtime. It . . . it helps me sleep.”
“Tell him when else, Lucy,” William said.
“There is no other time.”
William gave the doctor a look as if to say: Do you see what I must contend with? I looked down at my tea, humiliated by my small lie.
Thankfully, Dr. Seth did not pursue it. “What have the other doctors said?”
William sighed. “Well, we’ve been”—he cleared his throat—“I’m sorry, this is indelicate.”
“I’m a doctor, Mr. Carelton.”
“Yes, of course. It’s just that . . . well, Lucy has been . . . unable to conceive.”
“And other doctors have attributed her moods to uterine monomania?”
“Why, yes, that’s just what they’ve said—some of them, anyway. We’ve tried everything. She took the water cure a year ago, and then there was some kind of belt contraption that she had to wear. The one doctor thought an ovariotomy. Recently one suggested she was incurable. He said I should send her to an asylum. An asylum!”
“Has anyone suggested a clitoridectomy?”
I went hot. I could not look at either of them.
“One. But Lucy . . . she’s not . . . not that way. It’s just . . . except for this hysteria, she’s the perfect wife,” William finished lamely.
There was silence. I glanced up into the eyes of the doctor, which so agitated me that I looked down again into my tea, which was sloshing in my cup, so badly were my hands shaking.
Dr. Seth said, “I think I understand, Mr. Carelton. Now, if you will excuse us, I’d like to examine your wife. Irene will find you a newspaper to read, if you like.”
“Of course.” William rose from his seat abruptly. He set aside his cup and patted my shoulder and left. The door latched shut behind him.
Dr. Seth leaned forward. I pressed back into the cushioned settee when he reached out. “Your teacup, Mrs. Carelton,” he said. When I gave it to him, careful not to touch him, he set the cup gently on the tea tray, much as a woman might. I had never seen a man move so gracefully.
“The examination is simple enough,” he said reassuringly. “I trust you’ve experienced one before?”
I could only nod.
“I will try not to embarrass you unduly. But you understand, I do need to know these things to treat you effectively.”
His gaze did not waver. I felt imprisoned by it.
“I understand,” I managed.
“Good.” He went to the door and called out for the girl, who came hurrying in. He said, “Irene will assist you. Please undress to your chemise. There’s a screen just over there—” He pointed beyond the wooden cabinet and chairs, and I saw a red-and-black-lacquered Japanese screen.
He rose an
d went to the table that served as his desk, turning his back to me, and I slowly went behind the screen and let Irene help me. When I was ready, she gave me a small smile and left again. I crossed my arms protectively over my chest when I came out from behind the screen, clad only in my chemise. He was waiting by the table, his suit coat off, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal his bare forearms. The sight of that, along with the tangle of shining instruments gleaming beside him, made me hesitate, but he nodded reassuringly and gestured to the examination table. “Please,” he said, and as I stepped onto a small stool and sat gingerly on the edge of the table, he took up the first of his instruments.
Notes from the Journal of Victor Leonard Seth
Observation 38
Diagnosis: Hysteria (Neurasthenia?), possible Uterine Monomania
January 14, 1885
Mrs. C., thirty years old, consulted me for general hysteria. Married for four years, subject to hysterical bouts occasionally before then but with increasing attacks, especially in the last three years, probably related to an inability to conceive, though she has normal menstrual cycles. Has consulted ten doctors during this time, with diagnoses ranging from uterine monomania to displaced ovaries. Took water cure with mixed results. Laudanum at night (possibly more often) for the last year. According to her husband, she has developed an increased reliance on it, which resulted in an overdosage the night before, producing a deep, comalike sleep lasting fifteen hours.
Mrs. C. received an average education, comes from a wealthy and socially prominent family. Mother died from undisclosed causes when Mrs. C. was ten. Normal childhood. No siblings. Father is still alive. She is rather thin, of average height and normal intellect. Dark hair, face without color, white skin, with deep circles beneath her eyes belying her claim that she sleeps often and for long periods.
Mrs. C. is not completely forthcoming regarding her present medical condition, though she seems to desire help. She complains of a frequent inability to breathe, which no amount of relaxation or loosening of corset stays seems to relieve. Often has the sense of something blocking her throat—“suffocation,” as she calls it. Complains of restlessness and the inability to experience joy or even contentment, along with frequent irritation and agitation that grows into “fits” during which she feels unable to control her emotions.
Present Condition:Temperature 99°F. Pulse 74, regular. Tongue slightly coated, whitish color. Thoracic and abdominal examinations revealed nothing abnormal. She complained of no tenderness or pain, yet I very easily created a painful spot beneath the xiphoid process and a corresponding one on the back by insisting she would feel such. Having thus established that the patient was suggestible, I did the customary vaginal examination.
There was no ovary pain. Vagina has normal sensitivity on both sides, with no evidence of abnormalities in coloration or tissue. Labia majora and minora are of normal sensitivity. Clitoris insensitive when not erect but becomes acutely sensitive during erection, which can be produced easily, with pleasant sensations, flushed cheeks and throat, and rapid breathing. Having determined that she had normal sensitivity, I then told her that cases of her type often came accompanied with numbness on the left side of the vagina and the corresponding side of the labia majora. I explored her sensitivity again and found a well-characterized hemianesthesia at both places.
Mrs. C. suffers from the usual malady of her class: spoiled, self-indulgent ennui, easily managed. Since she ap- pears to be suggestible, I told her I thought she would benefit from hypnosis. She was not enthusiastic about the suggested treatment, and in fact seemed wary. When I called in her husband, he was highly opposed to the treatment, calling it “little better than phrenology.” I assured him that the French were embracing the science, but he was not reassured. “We came here for real medicine, Doctor, not cumberlandism.” I told him that I was highly trained, but he did not relax until I told him I would be combining the hypnosis with electrotherapy treatments, and that—as with most other patients of Mrs. C.’s type—I expected a radical improvement in his wife’s temperament in a short period of time.
The electrotherapy will soothe them both; they believe in it. It’s far better that I establish crédibilité in Mrs. C. es- pecially, than tell her that I believe hypnosis can achieve results without the use of electrotherapy. Bernheim’s maxim! Suggestion is everything.
I expect Mrs. C.’s results to be no different from those of my last several patients. A few visits, and she will be gone from my office completely, restored to her usual uncomplaining, parasitic existence. Though her husband desires discretion, they will both laud my accomplishments and recommend me to another bored invalid. These are the times I begin to despise the turn my practice has taken. Though I am adequately rewarded financially, these women only provide fodder for my critics and keep me from pursuing real knowledge.
I cannot turn my back on the money, but of late, it becomes wearying, and I must ask myself again: Is it possible for true science to exist and flourish in these conditions? I confess I despair of it.
Chapter 5
When we left Seth’s office, I saw hope in William’s eyes again, and I had to confess that I felt it myself. I determined not to—I knew already how this would end, the terrible disappointment, the paralyzing despair—but it was there nonetheless. Here was a treatment we had not tried, and Dr. Seth was a neurologist, a word I’d never heard before but which now sounded scientific and important. Despite my distrust of him, I wanted to be well. I wanted to believe that this time might work. I wanted it more than I could remember wanting anything. To see love in William’s eyes again, instead of concern and despair, to ease my own sense of emptiness. . . . It was as William said to me: I had been willing to risk surgery to feel those things once before. I could do no less now.
So I didn’t disagree with William when he said to me later, “I trust him, Lucy.” His voice was full of yearning, as if he needed my reassurance. “Don’t you? I believe this might just work.”
“Neurology is a new science, as you said. There have been such advances—”
“Yes, there have been, haven’t there?” he said eagerly. “It’s impossible for one to keep up on all the different new theories.”
“He’s just come from Leipzig.”
“Yes. Yes, he has. And this hypnotism, it’s not the same as mesmerism at all.”
“So he’s said.”
William looked satisfied. “I believe him, Lucy. I do. I think we’re in good hands now.”
“Of course we are,” I said to him, wanting it to be true. “I’m quite sure we are.”
It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized how much I wanted to believe my own words.
I went downstairs to find my father breakfasting in the dining room. It was so odd to see him there that I stopped in surprise.
“Papa! What brings you here this morning?”
He was helping himself to eggs and toast from the sideboard while Moira hovered nervously behind. He glanced up when I entered, and his gaze swept me from head to toe. His thick mustache quivered; he frowned. My hand went reflexively to my hair; I forced myself to lower it.
“Lucy, my dear. How late you’ve slept this morning.”
“Late? Why, it’s only ten.”
“The best of the day is long gone.”
“Then you’ve missed it as well. You’re only just now helping yourself to breakfast.”
“This would be my lunch, since Cook cannot bring herself to roast a joint before noon.”
I forced myself to smile. “You should have told me you would be here this morning. I could have instructed her to make something to your taste.”
“I hardly need you to announce my presence in my own house,” he said, turning from the sideboard. He went to the long mahogany table and seated himself at the end, William’s usual place. “And I doubt you could have persuaded her to change her routine, in any case.”
I hurried to the sideboard, where ham swam in juices already gelling int
o grease, and the white of the eggs was curling at the edges. I turned from both of those and took a piece of cold toast. Thankfully, the coffee was still hot.
My father was busily downing his breakfast, seemingly oblivious to cold eggs and greasy ham, but when I sat down, he gestured to his plate.
“Can’t you do something about this, Lucy? God knows we pay that woman enough. You’d think she could make sure the food is hot, if nothing else.”
“As you said, it’s quite late,” I told him. I tried to butter my toast; it crumbled beneath my knife, and because I was not the least bit hungry, I left it on my plate.
“It’s no excuse. You should not let them be so lazy.” He abandoned his breakfast to lean back in his chair. He was growing heavy, I noticed. His vest was pulling at the seams.
“You look well, Papa. Life at the club agrees with you.”
“It suits me,” he said. He poured another cup of coffee. “It’s always clean there. Which reminds me—”
“The coffee’s hot, at least.” It was a futile attempt to distract him from what I knew must be coming.
“A man should have his comforts, Lucy. An oasis of peace from the world. When your mother was alive, I had that.”
I looked down at the bits of toast on my plate, the nearly white lumps of butter.
“You should do more to help William, my dear. This house should be his castle, at least until he builds his real one.” Papa chuckled. “Ah, I see that look on your face. I told William you’d like the idea. If you’re anything like your mother, William will be looking at piles of bills. Grecian urns, stained glass . . . I hope to God you’ve inherited her taste.”
