Gaslight Essence: Flesh And Blood

Through the drifting gray fog off the Thames the figure strode idly.  He was a few bold strokes of charcoal with a couple of white notches of white chalk at the end of his sleeves and a patch of white chalk between collar and stovepipe hat.  The face was pleasant enough, with its crooked, but well-meaning smile, and perhaps handsome, if a little anemic in its complexion.  Pale blue eyes and pale blue lips and an easy how-do-you-do-this-chill-evening bearing.  He was what might be best described as lackadaisically stoic, and of an indeterminate age.  What was more, he was on his way to a murder investigation.

“Evening, constable,” the tall, anemic man said as he approached the other man upon the street corner.  “Chilly night, isn’t it?”

“Always chilly where murder’s bloody as this is, sir,” the constable rejoined, his flaring mustache a pale white bird beneath his long, red nose.  “Too chill for these old bones, I dare say.”

The constable held his arms tight to his large body, as if huddling around himself for warmth.  The lamppost’s gaslight carved in harsh light the cobbled sidewalk and the brick facades, impressing upon any passerby the oppressive reality of their countenance, which was as stern as the constable’s grim expression.  Yet, the gaslight rendered the other gentleman almost translucent as the fog itself; as if the light would burn him away utterly were it just a little starker on the monotone block of moonlight and shadows.  A ghost made flesh, he followed the constable to the nearby edifice.

“This way, detective,” the constable said, opening the door for him.

Women were weeping within the building.  They sat together upon faux-posh couches of red satin, their mascara running down their pockmarked faces.  What they wore would have been scandalous in any other sphere of London, but suited the alluring interior of the establishment itself.  The anemic fellow tipped his hat to the madame—a lady in her forties, likely, with a weave too fair for her dark eyebrows—but the constable shooed her away before she could address the former gentleman.  The constable led his guest up the stairs, with their wobbly bannister and dank carpet, and down the hall.  Several doors were closed along this hall, on either side, and were silent, their trade postponed for that evening.  Candelabrum lit the way, presuming more prestige for the purpose of that place than what would have been allowed by the estimation of higher social circles.  Touches of feminine grace adorned the hallway here and there, however, despite the pretense of that establishment: potted flowers of hale vibrancy, watercolour paintings undertaken by a keen eye, and even needlework wherein sharp steel rendered delicate conceits of colour and form.  The anemic gentleman noted all such things with the same phantasmal smile as he followed the constable.  There was a pretense of taste at the establishment, despite the aim of that establishment.

At length, they came to an open door.  The constable stroked his mustache once, as if to calm it lest it should fly away in fright.

“This way, sir,” he said.

The pale gentleman entered the bedroom.

The woman’s neck had been cut, ear to ear, her bodice and gown and blonde hair all soaked through with her own blood.  Her eyes stared vacantly as she sprawled upon the bed in parody of a model to some Bohemian artist in want of scandal.  Her face was drained of colour, excepting her lips, which were blue, and yet she was not so pale as the pale gentleman who surveyed her leisurely at a glance.  His crooked smile was immutable.

The room itself was lit well enough with candles, though shadows still clung here and there to the walls like spiders, devouring flowery wallpaper with their black gossamers.  Strangely, despite the body of the prostitute, the room was rather tidy.  The bed was tidy.  The prostitute herself was tidy, except for her blood.  It was as if the room had not been used at all that night.

A watchman wobbled to attention beside the bed as the constable and the gentleman entered.  He looked groggy and irritable, squinting sternly.  He snorted once, then spoke.

“The Magdalens raised a right fuss all over the street,” he said.  “So I came runnin’ and found this here whore laid out just as you see here.  I told the rest of ‘em to stop botherin’ the fine folks round here, but they been cryin’ evah since and won’t quiet themsel’es ah tall.  How can a man piece together the puzzle when he can’t ‘ear ‘imself think?”

“Did you happen upon anyone in flight hereabouts?” the pale gentleman asked, patiently.

“No sir,” the watchman said.  He wobbled a bit in his long coat, either from sleepiness or drink or both.  “When I come up ‘ere the lady of the house— if you can call ‘er that—shown me up ‘ere directly.  And here I stayed, sir, exceptin’ to send someone to fetch the constable.”

“And so I, in turn, requested you, sir,” the constable said.  “For it bears all the signs of our industrious Jack.”

“Indeed?” the pale gentleman said, dubiously.  “I wonder…”

The pale gentleman looked upon the bloodied corpse of the prostitute with his pale blue eyes.  His smile never wavered, but was pleasant as ever, though it still remained crooked and pale.

“Such a waste of warm blood,” he said.  “The chill London air has squandered it all.”

The constable cleared his throat.  “We have a witness, sir,” he said.

“Then let them testify to their truth,” the pale gentleman said.

The constable frowned in confusion, then nodded to the watchman.  The watchman left the room, venturing down the hall.  A door opened, then the watchman’s rough voice said, “C’mon, then.”

A young woman— too young by many standards— entered the room.  Her hair was light brown and loose about her shoulders, the natural curls like ripples on the brown surface of the Thames.  She wore only a white shift and had a countryside tint of sun to her skin.

“Hello, young lady,” the pale gentleman said.

“Hello, sir,” she said tremulously, not looking at the corpse upon the bed.

“And what is your name?”

“Emma, sir,” she said.

“Emma,” he said courteously.  “A lovely name.  And what do you do here?”

“I am…an apprentice, sir,” she said.

The constable was agog with disbelief.  “An apprentice?  Is that what you would call it?”

“I’m not of age yet, sir, to be of…purpose,” she said.  “Madame says I have not yet bloomed to it, sir.”

The constable shook his head pityingly.  “Such sins would shame Babylon.”

The pale man ignored the constable and addressed the young woman.  “What did you see, young lady?”

She stammered.  “A man…a big man…hairy…thin.  But strong.  Tall.  But not too tall.  Everyone is tall to me, sir.  I am so short, you see?”

“Do you happen to know the reasoning for this…barbarism?”

“He did not like how Madeline…how Madeline looked,” she said uncertainly.  “And how she spoke.  He took a knife and…and…”

She burst into tears.

The pale man waited patiently, his crooked smile unmoving; his pale blue eyes unblinking.

“And where did he go?” he asked after a moment.

“Out…the window…” the young lady said, sobbing.

The constable and the watchman exchanged uneasy looks.

“A man might go out the window,” the constable said, “but not run away at a sprint.  He’d be hobbling, if he could walk at all.”

The pale man went to the window.  The curtains were drawn aside, but the window was not open.  After a moment’s thought, he about-faced with a smooth motion, as if a wooden figurine in a Dutch clock.

“I should like to speak to the young lady alone,” the pale gentleman said.  “Please, Emma, show me to your quarters.”

He followed the young lady down the hall.  She led him to a room with three beds laying nearly side to side to side.  Colorful dresses hung within an open wardrobe, alongside more mundane clothing, and the window was covered with a curtain.

“Ah,” he said, entering the room.  “Quite…cozy.”

“I share it with Lacy and Madeline,” Emma said.

“And where were they?”

“Seeing to…business, sir.”

“Ah,” he said again, nodding once.

The pale gentleman walked toward the window and the young lady became deathly silent.  He drew back the curtain to reveal the view of a brick wall belonging to the neighboring building.  The window’s frame was peeling, scabrous, and a few red streaks were the only paint it would ever see for years to come.  The pale man noted these red streaks, then covered the window once again with the curtain.  He turned back to the young lady.  She was sitting on the bed, her feet dangling laxly while she wept into her hands and trembled.  The pale man’s smile faltered for but a moment, replaced with something akin to pity.

“And I suppose he fled out the window?”

The young lady only nodded, but did not look up.

“As I thought,” he said.

Emma said something, but he left the room as if had not heard her.

 

The madame of that house was quite unnerved as she stood before the constable and the pale gentleman.  They were upon the street now, in the garish glow of the gaslight lamps.

“Not one among your other employees saw the culprit in question?” the pale gentleman asked her.

“No, sir,” she said.  “Most of my girls were…entertaining customers.  Those that were not were in their rooms, seeing to other arrangements.”

“And they did not hear anything afore the incident?  No sounds of struggle?  Of a scuffle?  Did the victim scream before her death?”

“No, sir,” she said, her lips aquiver with a dread as she looked into the pale blue eyes of the gentleman.

“See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” the pale gentleman remarked lightly.  “And when did Emma make known the murder had been committed?”

“Well, sir, she wasn’t the one who made it known,” the madame said.  “Angela was walking by and saw it.  She screamed, and then we all came runnin’ in haste.”

“And where was Emma at this time?”

“In her room, sir, useless as a knife without a blade.  She was crying awfully hard and rocking to and fro like one of them lunatics in the asylums.  I had to slap her good to wake her to.”

The pale gentleman had not blinked once that entire evening, and did not blink now.  “And her roommates?”

“Lacy was entertaining,” she said.  “The dead girl…Madeline…was her other one.”

“And she, of course, was predisposed,” the pale gentleman said.  He said it as a matter of fact, neutrally, and yet it slipped into the air with a sense of morbid flippancy.

The constable rose on his toes and shook his head in consternation, coming back on his heels.  This seemed quite a feat for a man as portly as he.  “Her roommate dead and Emma could only tend to her own feelings?  What is it with this generation nowadays?  Soppy-minded and with waxen spines, I think.”

“Perhaps she has more sense than we realize,” the pale gentleman said.  “She is an ‘apprentice’, after all.”

“Emma lacks sense,” the madam said hurriedly.  “Emma’s naught but a servant in the house.  Truly.  For cleaning and cooking and such.  Everybody knows whores don’t have ‘apprentices’.”

“Indeed,” the pale gentleman said, his smile still pleasant, and crooked.  “And why, my lady, did you not see the culprit in question?  Before he ventured upstairs with Madeline?  ”

“I do not attend to every…transaction,” she said, defensively.  She swayed a bit, her eyes bloodshot in the gaslight.  “I have other things to do, it just so happens.  The girls are grown enough to see to the business themselves.  So long as they don’t allow thrift, I won’t complain of it too much.”

“Indeed,” the pale gentleman said again.  He said no more, but narrowed his eyes at the fumes of alcohol he smelled on her breath.  He still did not blink.

“And so no one knows the man’s name?” the constable almost exclaimed with anger.  His mustache seemed ready to fly about with fury.

“It is better that we not know our clients’ names,” the madame said, simply.  “Could lead to more trouble than it is worth, sir.”

“I’ve no doubt,” the pale gentleman said, “that the victim knew the murderer’s name.  But what good is that now?  Poor little Emma cannot tell who the murderer was.  And, so, we have yet another clue hinting at nothing but what we already know.”  He waved away the madame.  “Good night, madam.  See to your girls with greater care in the future, please.”

The madame merely laughed shortly, humorlessly, and returned inside the brothel.

“We shall never catch him!” the constable growled.  “‘Jack’, indeed.  He is a jackdaw, more like.  Cheeky as he taunts us as stupid countryfolk lost in the barley!”

“Jack is not difficult to discern,” the pale gentleman said quietly.

The constable’s bushy eyebrows leapt in surprise.  “How do you mean, sir?”

“Our mutual friend, Jack,” he said, “is London itself.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” the constable said, incredulous.  “Do you mean to say he is the run-of-the-mill sort?  I cannot fathom it.  He is an animal.  A beast.  Even our worst criminals do not commit themselves to such a frenzy of sin.  He is absolutely diabolical.  Nothing in it, if you pardon my boldness, sir, is so common in Jack’s wicked exploits.”

“I must disagree, my dear constable,” the pale gentleman said.  “Such brutality is quite common here.  It is definitive.  Essential.  And why should it not be?  We do not propose that a lion is wicked in its nature to hunger for flesh and blood, nor should we condemn it as it satisfies such hungers.  It is his habit.  So why, pray tell, should we expect a city such as London to live as a lamb when it, like all such large cities, grew upon a surfeit of flesh and blood?  Show me a lion who became the lamb and I will show you a corpse feeding the grass.  London thrives as a beast ever on the prowl.”

“We are not lions, sir,” the constable said.  “We are Christians.”

The pale man’s smile never left off at all, but lounged crookedly upon his face.  “As you say,” he said.  “But the notion of a Christian seems to me a more fabulous notion than a lion becoming a lamb.  Even in the notion, too, the blood is the life.”

The two gentlemen agreed to resume the case in the morning.  They bid each other adieu and a good night.

Yet, the pale gentleman did not leave.  Rather, he ventured into the alley between the brothel and its neighboring building.  There he found a knife amidst the rubbish and the secretive shadows.  A little farther way off he found a dress streaked with blood.  These things he found easily, though the alley was pitch black.  His eyes could see easily in the dark.  Conversely, the gaslight haloes that punctuated nocturnal London that made it difficult to see sometimes, garishly rebuffing the darkness with an inventiveness and arrogance only the pride of Man could conjure; like little artifices of suns luridly lit, obliviously unaware of their folly.  London thought such lights the haloes of a saintly city, whereas the garish glow was a whore’s suggestive leer as she would fain entice a king with her debased bed.  So proud, she was, and so obliviously imbecilic.  So grotesque in her gaslight essence.  Yet, innocent too.  As innocent as Eve within Eden.

Or perhaps as Lilith in exile.

Looking up, he saw the window belonging to the room where Emma resided.  The pale man went to her window, as easily as anyone might walk down the street.  Easier, in fact, for it required no locomotion at all as he floated above the pitted darkness of the alley.  Coming to the window, he peered within.  Lacy was asleep.  Emma pretended to be so, but the pale gentleman knew she was not.  Gently, he tapped on the window.  Lacy did not stir.  Emma did.  She sat up in the dark, blind to the figure at the window.  He tapped again.  Slowly, Emma walked to the window.  She squinted through the glass, but could not see him, so dark was it.  She turned, as if to go to bed, and the pale gentleman raised the window.  Before she could turn again, he grasped her, gently but firmly, his hand over her mouth.  In one silent motion, he spirited her away from that room, that brothel, that street corner, taking her atop a building where no eyes could see them.

Setting her down, but keeping a hand upon her mouth, he spoke to her.

“Emma,” he said, “it is time for the truth.  Do not scream, or it will go badly for you.  Tell me what happened.  Do not shrink from the facts, however bloody they may be…or iniquitous your own dealing in them.”

He removed his hand.  It was a cold hand, and long-fingered.  She moaned.

“Are you the Devil, sir, come to take me away?” she asked.

“The facts, Emma,” he said sternly.  “Or you will know something of the Devil tonight.”

“God Almighty!” she exclaimed in her girlish voice.  “I did not want to do it!  I truly didn’t!  But the madame said I would be entertaining soon!  And I dreaded that!  My apprenticeship was almost up and I did not want to do it!”

“So you killed Madeline to avoid your…progression?” he said.

“I thought it might put it off for a time!” she cried, weeping and clutching at herself in the chill, misty dark.  “And Madeline was so cruel to me…so hateful in what she was teaching me.  I loathed her, and feared becoming like her, and she liked that I feared it, and so taunted me, and so made my life a Hell.  And now I am off to Hell, aren’t I?  I am going to Hell for taking a life!”

She fell to her knees and wept in fright and guilt and anguish.

The pale gentleman was unmoved, at least insomuch as her feelings were of importance.

“And there was no man at all in the room?” he asked.

Emma was too taken away with her tears to answer him.  His crooked smile never vacating his face, he snatched her up with a hand by the arm.

“Was there no man in the room?” he demanded, his voice transformed.  It was no longer soft and amiable, but edged as hoarfrost upon Westminster Bridge.

“There had been,” she said, sobered at once.  Her eyes were agog in the dark, and twinkled with tears, the moonlight through the parting clouds making stars of them.  “Madeline had made me sit and watch as she…entertained him.  All the time she would do something she would say, ‘You’re a right one for this soon!’ or ‘She’ll be a keen learner of that!’ and then she would laugh, and the man would grin, and they were like a witch come to Sabbath afore the Devil!  I couldn’t take it, sir!  When she had finished, and the man had left, she continued to taunt me!  I told myself I would endure anything for the debts of my family, but the closer I came to the true work of that Godless house the more frightened I became.  The more I told myself I wouldn’t do it.  Whenever I was frightened by it, I would take my mind off it with stitchin’.  So I started stitchin’, making pretty flowers as I used to in the countryside, before my family moved to London and lost it all to our debts.  But Madeline resented me my stitchin’.  ‘You think you’re so clever with that needlework, do you?’ she said.  And then she stole it away from me.  And so…I took the knife I use for my stitchin’ thread and I…I unspooled, her!”

The tears had stopped.  She looked vacant, but also vindicated.  The guilt ebbed away from her eyes as her lifeblood ebbed away from her throat and into the mouth of the pale gentleman.  He drank deeply of her warm, young blood, draining her slender neck until she swooned and fell into his arms.  Her eyes fluttered and then the lids hung heavy, as if she were to fall asleep forever.  Before she did, he took the knife with which she had slain Madeline and he cut his own pale wrist, forcing it to Emma’s lips.

“Drink,” he commanded in his beastly voice.

The blood dribbled at her lax mouth for a moment, but then the lips awakened tautly and she sucked at the wrist proffered.  The sinews of her neck tightened with hunger, with Life, and she clenched upon him with her arms, not unlike a cat upon its prey.  After a time, she released and swooned, her head lolling with a surfeited ecstacy.  He held her until her willowy body grew rigid with newfound strength.  She stood now, steeped in a new life.  She could see all of the London through the dark and the moonlight.  She saw the gaslight glow of the lamps, and she hated them.

“Master,” she said in a voice that was girlish, but also bestial.

The pale gentleman’s crooked smile was lined in crimson stitchery.

“Now, Emma,” he said, “your true apprenticeship begins.”

 

Metamorphoses

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The oil lamp sits on my escritoire, before a window in my library whose pane dulls the moonlight with the webbed frost along its glass. How emblematic of my life, the small flame confined in its glass prison and the coldly frosted world beyond it. Is it not like me, that flame, as I sit behind this window and yearn to burn away the cold uniformity of the world beyond this gnostic prison? But we are both prisoners of our mortal circumstances, too soon extinguished upon our wicks to realize our brilliant potential.
The pale gaze of the moon illuminates the distant hills as Selene searches for her sweet shepherd, steeped in his dreams. I hear the genteel rabble down the hall as a pack of mongoloid idiots chittering away to vapid self-importance and anemic music. Is it not enough that I have apportioned them the entirety of my remaining estate if they would but grant me the solitude of my study? How I loathe that stilted, stiff, and ultimately dead music down the hall. It is as pretentious as it is vapid, like finely crafted machinery to reproduce sounds never intended to be enjoyed by living beings. Music should be made by men and women in the throes of desire, their fingers desperate in their unsated appetite for contours and crescendoes and tactile decadence. It should not be played by men and women who have never lusted except in grabbing a Bible to deaden themselves against their own compulsions.
Yet, it is all a diversion constructed by my own volition. I have supplied to please my wife an interminable Winter Waltz; a venue for her entertainment, whose means and manners have acclimated to my own insomuch as the routines of life demand— as Duchess to Duke— and all that faded spectrum of jaded tedium that frequents me, not unlike maggots growing in a long-buried corpse. And what have I earned in return for my generosity? The ambience of an asylum at Christmastide.
“Of course, my dear,” I had said with a tone as sincere in exasperation as a child’s is in his governess’s lectures. “Whatever you wish you shall have, insomuch as I am not disturbed.”
And yet, here she comes down the hall to pester me in my solitude. She has been, if ever anything, a persistent jackdaw intrusive upon my lucubration.
“Love,” she says. “Would you please honour your guests with your presence? They are disconsolate at your aloofness.”
“They are honoured enough,” I retort, “in your presence, my love, and have a place esteemed by my generous hospitality. They need no more.”
“Then honour me, love, by gracing me with a dance.”
I sigh, seeing my breath upon the cold pane by my escritoire, like a fog long lingering afterward. The moon is high, among the stars, and her pale, bloodless light glistens upon the snow beyond the frosted hedges of the garden. It is a cold Winter’s day, and the lights and the noises and the warmth of the inner ballroom are faraway; yet not faraway enough to afford me refuge. The air is still and chill, as if it, too, shares the languor of inert indifference that lays upon me.
“You have partners in abundance,” I say, “and many young gentlemen envious of such an honour.”
She folds her arms across her bosom. It is the symbol of her irritation, the folding of her arms athwart her heart, and were I not annoyed by the bother of her I might be amused to think of the many times I have kissed her breasts which she now enfolds. Yet, I am not amused by anything anymore.
“The scandal of your continued absence will be the talk of London!” she says.
“Excellent,” I rejoin, “for much merriment will I have provided such insufferable personages. Dance, dinner and gossip. Why, they will be preoccupied for a fortnight. I am a most generous host indeed.”
She paces to and fro, as if contemplating the ending of the world. To and fro, to and fro, behind my chair and about my library. I see her reflected upon the window before me, ghostly in the halo of the lamplight. Her shadow flickers with the sullen blaze of the hearth. Her hair recalls a crested bird, though I know not which one. Certainly not those of Halcyon. All at once she halts and tightens her fists at her hips. How women may wear corsets and exercise their emotions without swooning is beyond my understanding, or curiosity. I have always preferred the exercise of women without their corsets.
“Is this work truly so very important?” she demands. “It seems something you might work upon any other time. I am merely asking for a fortnight to help me in entertaining our guests.”
“The stipulation was that you should entertain them at my expense, love,” I say. “Are not the servants sufficiently serving in their vocations? If not, I will attend to that at once.”
“They are as adequate as always,” she concedes. “But it is in your deficiencies as host that the guests murmur rather than exude complete gaiety. Before the week is up they will be outraged…”
“Come, dear, you know as well as I that high society delights in being outraged. Offense for them is a mainstay of their daily diet, and they cannot survive without some slight to gnaw with their afternoon tea. I should not wish to deny them their crumpets.”
“It is a bitter tea you serve them now!” my wife says, her voice crescendoing in its pitch. She would have made a fine soprano had she the inclination.
“Oh, but one with sugar enough to compensate the bite,” I say, my fingers tapping impatiently upon my splayed book. “For it is as with your lovely countenance that they shall sip it. ‘The Duchess is such a saint to endure her hermit husband.’ That is what they shall say. Indeed, and then they shall invite you to London for more soirees and balls than you can bear.”
There was a touch of pain in her eyes as they blinked in disbelief above her sharply hooked nose. It is not an ugly nose; only a Grecian nose. It is one of the reasons why I married her. She reminds me of Helen of Troy, and I have ever been a man seeking what will disrupt the treatises of this banal existence. Her father despises me. Most men among his ailing generation do.
“I do not wish to be a saint,” she says. “I wish to be the Duchess. And what Duchess was ever such without her Duke?”
“A Duchess happy to have the kingdom to herself,” I say, flippantly.
Shaking her head, she leaves the library, heading down the hall to join again the stifling imbeciles she has invited to abuse the atmosphere of my home. Marriage is a matter of compromise. I have compromised for her pleasure; she should compromise for mine. If I was not of a compromising mind, I would fetch from my den my rifles and make sport of her guests. It would not be the first safari where I have downed many among a dullard’s herd of grazing beasts.

I return to my tome for a few moments. Yet, my concentration is adulterated by the ambience of my estate; its potency lessened as a consequence. It being Winter, there is a chillness to the air that calls attention to itself, distracting me from my studies. It is, of course, England herself that is distracting me. Much rather would I be on Crete in Summer than cloistered in Albion’s overbearing frigidity. And yet not even Crete would remedy this malaise of spirit that has vexed me for so long. The chill reminds me— however poorly— that I am yet alive, and I would never be happy, even Summering upon Crete, for it is an experience overfamiliar to me. The novelty of this world has worn as thin as the shroud of Christ. As for creature comforts, I am kept warm enough with a gentleman’s attire, and should I feel more in need of protection against the Winter’s spitefulness I will simply don my ulster and sit closer to the fire, perhaps at my marqueterie table with its Grecian inlay of seashells and geometric patterns. Yet, I wish to gaze upon the dreaming moon, as Endymion upon his lover, and so aspire to the metamorphoses to come while the fools down the hall prattle incessantly.
And so, embattled with imbecilic pastimes common to the myopic gentry, I attempt to read a tome concerning metaphysical transmutations; and yet the echoing exuberance of the Waltz interrupts me as much as my materialist wife.
As I read an exceedingly trite passage in this exceedingly trite tome, and am incessantly vexed by the musical accouterments of my wife’s Winter Ball, my mind loses focus and wanders, as it often does, to the various poetry of Ovid and his lascivious visions. Nor is it depravity that excites such visions to tease my attentions elsewhere, but rather numb stoicism; involuntary stoicism wrought from jaded disillusion which has vexed my life from an early age, proceeding my manhood. For I have been both gifted and cursed with excesses in life— excesses of luxuries and flesh, the sum of which has indebted my emotions to a negated form of Hedonism. That is to say, a Hedonism which knows no satisfaction in the tiresome plane of mortal experience, however variegated the continuum proves to be. Were I the arbiter of manifold forms and granted grand determination over this vapid realm, I would transpose upon the banal world the utmost expressions consistent with nothing except heightening necessities of personal gratification. Caterpillar to butterfly to fairy, such would be the successions of my corporeal intrigues until, at last, Sublimity reaches its zenith and the world would die blissfully in its own exuberance. For it is my unreserved belief that Sublimity is the ultimate purpose of this otherwise useless universe. Sublimity above all else. And yet, that is the curse and the blessing of corporeal manifestations. It is not that Tantalus could not fill his cup to quench his thirst, but that the same libation dulled upon his palate, and so the cup abstained from the rising tides lest he drown forever in the cloying blandness.
And so I sit here, at my escritoire, with a glass of French wine untouched before me while wine and cheer pour down the hall, in my wife’s crowded ballroom, where the prestigious jackanapes of London engage one another with the ebb and flow of oblivious tomfoolery, unaware of the deadening insistence of Time and Age which numb an Epicurean soul such as mine— a soul which has molted and expanded beyond its simple-minded pleasures of melody measured by a lively foot and a welcoming hand.

I arrive at the section entitled “Epistemology of the Assumed Form” when I hear the clacking footstep of a presumptuous guest intruding upon my coveted solitude.
“Duke, if you would kindly pardon the interruption, but I have a matter utmost in need of your jurisprudence.”
It is not a guest, but my majordomo, Augustus, standing beside me, gloved hands behind his coattails and his spine proper and straight, chest held outward despite his ailing age, and his broad nose raised, chin up, all at disciplined attention and focused upon my every word as if Biblical decree. Or so it may seem. What a dull life he leads. Seeing him in the reflection of the window, he appears not unlike a broad-headed bull snorting his contempt in curt issuances from a stubborn head cold.
“What is the matter, Augustus?” I demand. “Can the Duchess not handle it herself? She has always boasted of her superior judgment.”
“The matter is the Duchess, sir,” August says, snorting insolently. “She requires your assistance and is taking great umbrage at your…studiousness.”
I sigh in contempt. How can I not? “And so she sends you here to jeopardize your standing in this house? Why heed her to your own detriment, Augustus?”
Augustus sniffs indifferently— it is another of his discreet means to express his insolence.
“Sir,” he says, “she has threatened my departure from service in this esteemed household if I do not consult you, and now you threaten my departure for granting her request. How can I reconcile myself with such a perilous situation except to throw myself upon your patience and mercy for an expedient resolution?”
Augustus is in all things proper and devout in his duties, except in his tone. Whatever words might be poured in refined elegance from his mouth, their flavour is ever bitter and biting, like an overaged wine. While his words were premised in capitulations, his tone is ever bullishly snide superciliousness. My wife often urges me toward his dismissal, but I find his mild petulance amusing, in a way, whereas the carousel of obsequiousness that spins about me—as pertaining to my other house servants—galls me and prompts my hand toward violence. Abject servility is an unpardonable crime. Such a perpetrator should never be forgiven except in his or her sudden assertion of willfulness.
Augustus, I realize, is yet addressing me.
“…and so she requires your opinion, and your opinion alone.”
“Regarding what?” I say.
Augustus clears his throat impatiently. His collar has always been too tight upon his large neck, and ever seems to struggle to contain the bulge of his throat.
“Regarding the wine selection, sir.”
“By the stones of Jove!” I swear, slamming my fists down. “Let them drink the swill of swine for all it matters to me!”
Calmly—superciliously—Augustus speaks. “I will offer a choice more tempered on your behalf, sir.”
He exits forthwith, his broad nose higher than ever in the air. No doubt he believes himself a more fitting Duke in my stead, and I delight him to persist in this presumption, for I know it gnaws at him to think thus and yet be bound in service to such a man as myself; a man inferior in his estimation. Let him think so, and let such thoughts gore him in his sleep. I played the dutiful, dignified genteel for a quarter of my life, and I am finished in its stagnant, stultifying pretenses. Life is too short, and too stale, to further deaden the heart and the head with stifling manners.
Unto solitude once again, I set forth with renewed interest in my sterile tome. Yet, however strong the oarsmen, a contrary current can overwhelm the most Herculean of men. So is it with me as I burn the oil and ignore the cacophony of instruments and laughter echoing through my home. Icy moonlight through the window reminds me enviously of Endymion in his cave while Selena embraces him. How tender and gentle that repose! Body stilled, yet dreams unending and of myriad marvels! Such a slumber I desire, if only to escape the colourless monotony of this earthly realm.
So much noise down the hall! A noise of stiff, cadaverous airs! A danse macabre, for all it purports in its assemblage. Would be better were all my wife’s guests rendered satyrs and nymphs in a sylvan debauchery of old. Perhaps then the intolerable inanities of their merrymaking might substantiate itself with merit and significance rather than that niggardly imitation of copulation known balefully as “the Waltz”. Indeed, who would ever substitute nocturnal endeavours such as the tapping of toes with the tapping of shoes except in these mendacious times when puritanical pretenses reign tyrannically over all spheres of humanity? The world would be better written with the church and the brothel sharing the same back-door, if not the same nave. The pagans of old knew how and why to live life, and knew the brevity that threatened their lives every waking moment. Thus they lived awash in wine and song and fleshly pleasures that carried them jubilantly upon its powerful tide until oblivion claimed them.
And yet I cannot enjoy any such thing now; neither wine nor song nor fleshly pleasure. Passion has been failed by a prudish world. Had I a poet’s inclinations and capacities I might elevate my consciousness unto the higher realms, thereby exorcising such demons as besiege me. Alas, I have all the Byronic impulses for poetry, but neither the inspiration nor expression required to channel in wizardly fashion the passion, and so cannot supplement tedious earthly existence with the Sublimity afforded by a creative daemon.
Presently a figure approaches from down the hall. I recognize her hurried manner at once, and her lithe form. My exasperated wife.
“My love,” I say, “I have said all I will on the matter. Leave me be.”
A sibilant sigh of vexation, yet I do not close the tome, nor look to her. I will not afford her an appraisal. She is a pretty creature— naturally, for I would have accepted none contrariwise—and yet there was ever a pettish contrariness in her pretty blue eyes beneath her golden curls. I need not look at her to know this. Habit has transfigured her quite stagnant in my mind, like all other things, and that stagnancy holds fast, however dire the need for transposition. For such a pale creature one might be dismayed to witness what passions could be summoned in her seemingly frail frame. Yet, I have summoned what daemons I could from the throes of her bedchamber, and they proved satisfactory only for a time. Do not mistake me, for she is given much to le petite mort, yet the deficit is in the modality of her forbearance. She is too passive a lover to invigorate interest anymore, and has always accepted me gladly, but without the aggression that invigorates my own jaded appetite. I yet sate her appetite with every timely meal rendered, but find myself strangely hollow afterward. She is a harpy in all ways yet what I desire from her. It is a failure of the sex, or perhaps the British woman, for I have enjoyed the proclivities of women in other parts of the world. Women in the Dark Continent, for instance, dominate their lovers when in copulation. This also seems a prevalence among the American Indian squaws. The best I have experienced was a Spanish girl in Cadiz. A lovely creature, too, though alike to dusk compared to the moonlight of my wife. She delivered unto me deep pleasure, though it, too, dulled after a time, as do all things to a mind not encumbered with imbecility and ignorance.
I realize, suddenly, that my wife is yet speaking to me and I have favoured my own thoughts during her orations, as I often am disposed to do when presented with lusterless conversation.
“…it is therefore customary…No! It is vital that you greet your guests at once!”
Vital, she says. I once knew of the vitality of life; of the passions long since deceased. But I have been born of a Faustian bargain, which all knowledge of this world’s sensations exhausted with overripe experience, and so wish for a new bargain whereby the world may be transfigured anew, if such a bargain may be struck.
“My dear,” I say, “for three days your esteemed guests have been getting on without me. For three days I have been attempting— despite the inconvenience of their prattle and prancing—to get on without them. This arrangement is vital to both enterprises. Can you not understand that when I wish to be uninvolved, it is for the sake of you and your festivities? Were I to debut, I would debate, or destroy. It is as simple as that. Therefore I save you and your guests from the catastrophe of my reluctant presence, and they, in time, will save me from the catastrophe of their distractions.”
My wife is silent for some time, not unlike a hawk as it watches its prey keenly.
“You know not what wrongs you do to me,” she says quietly.
“Indeed,” I say. “But I know which wrongs I spare you.”
The Duchess leaves with her frills swishing most petulantly, like some bird of prey whose meal has escaped. It matters not. I am once again afforded time and attention toward the arcane tome. Thus, whatever censure she lays upon me will be a fruitful exchange on my behalf.
Do not doubt that I know my wife to be the angel of my hearth and home— she certainly is—and yet she fails the enterprise of imagination required to sympathize with my disappointments. She is too meek in her conduct, too, and though I loved her once, there is wanting in her manner a certain passion; a passion to recompense my own dulled passions of late. Angel though she is, I long for the night which she should doff her celestial wings and spread talons upon my body, raking deep to awaken flesh wherein to dormancy we are all resigned.

Once again I return to my rare and resplendently dull tome concerning transformations. In the lamplight I read these Greek letters with dutiful attention, and yet like light turning ordinary objects into baleful shadows, that illuminating script writhes and worms its way elsewhere in my attentions while fanciful figures prance ever in my jaded thoughts. It is not that my comprehension lacks crucially in fortitude, but that the trite passages fail to elicit appropriate phantasia. And so my mind, finding the desired effect inadequate, compensates its dearth with wandering wonderment. Often I wander, as Ulysses apart from his home, and yearn for the Siren song of madness, or the oblivion whirling within the jaws of Charybdis. Nor do I find solace in Circe’s favour, nor Calypso’s, but, at times, would gladly welcome the novelty of congress with Scylla, if only to impose upon this pale, murmuring existence the fresh roar of vivacious novelty. I am reminded of The Golden Bough, that work that is as more poetry than true portal to the Mysteries. This tome before me is the antithesis to Frazer’s work. The latter is poetic insight without truth, and this book is truth without poetic insight.

By the womb of Juno! There approaches another interloper! It is Lord Grantchester, no doubt. I know him by his peculiar footstep that tattoos most strangely down the hall, pronounced with a tap and then a slide of his stiff-legged left foot which had been crippled by a projectile from a Mohammedan in one of his many Pyrrhic battles to the South. Since his return to England he has become a notable hero, elevating his status with a lame leg and a library of war stories. Granting credibility to these tales, too, was his missing right eye, which is ever covered with a patch now. Some patrons have offered to generously provide him a glass eye, but he has refused this dubious honour outright. His patch and his lame gait allow him a certain mystique for most who do not know him. Those among us who do have his unfortunate acquaintance, on the other hand, know him to be a dreadful bore. Currently he is aspiring to be a shepherd among the tepid-blooded sheep of our nation. That is to say, he is entering the fray of politics. I wonder how he shall achieve atrocities in the House of Lords likewise to those he has achieved in combat. He has made meringues of men upon the battlefield with his myopic war strategies, blinded as he is by his own myth, and looming Cyclopean in the esteem of fools everywhere. They speak of him as if he devoured the Mohammedans by the bushel whereas the Turks routed his forces toward legendary slaughter. Had he any sense of shame he would have taken the bullet closer to his heart and so ended his incompetence against Britain once and for all.
“Duke,” he says, “we all fear for your well-being. Does the malady originate in illness? If so, may I counsel you to a nice Brandy to inspirit recovery. It is ever the doctor I favour when on the battlefield.”
“Doubtlessly,” I say, flatly. “And great is such counsel provided when countering your enemies. A sound defeat is ever assured on the one side.”
“Indeed,” he says, ignorant as always to my meaning. He can only ever see one side of things, and at that, a side always favourable to himself. “Why, the Mohammedans should have counsel likewise or they will never stand a chance against our might.”
I grow tired of his absurdities. “I am engaged studiously,” I say, “and can ill-afford time for pleasantries. Please excuse me, and enjoy the Duchess’s ball.”
His presumptuousness prompts him to stare over my shoulder, surveying my book.
“Is that Latin?” the cretin asks.
“Greek,” I reply. “They are quite distinguishable. Even to the most unlearned eye.”
“Indeed,” he says, leaning over my shoulder. “Pardon me, though, for, as you know, my vision was impaired in a valiant battle against Christianity’s foe, and so I see but poorly as a consequence. Yet, I see the difference entirely now. It is quite obvious upon closer observation. Naturally, it is Greek, not Latin. Alas, candlelight affords only the most preciously scant illumination, as you no doubt know. That is why I never read anything after nightfall and prefer my newspaper by the light of noon.”
A silence passes— vexing and meaningless and insufferable—and I plead silently to any willing god to spirit this fool away from my person. None answer my prayer.
“And what is the nature of the text?” he asks.
“Tedium,” I say. “The tedium of static forms. Ontological stagnation. Mutability in regard to diminutive matter in a constrained tapestry of being.”
“Ah!” he sighs pleasurably, as if understanding the matter— that is to say, the restrictions on matter, generally speaking. “An excellent subject, to be sure.”
He looms over me for a time longer, then turns away. I am relieved, thinking he will leave. Yet, he merely hobbles to the hearth, warming himself in its glow.
“Do you recall Lady Stonewall?” he asks after a long thoughtful pause.
I do recall such a Lady. She is a fair-faced creature with a winsome mischief in her dark eyes, though too tame to tempt my engagement once again.
“I do,” I say. “Married to Lord Stonewall.”
“Just so,” he says. “She has honoured me as her dance partner for three of the four previous Waltzes.”
“Indeed?” I say, mildly curious now. I regard him, knowing his mind, and knowing hers. Such a short, crippled man to loom so large in civilized society. “And her husband abides in some corner, nursing his knee?”
“He did not accompany his wife,” Lord Grantchester says, flushing red as scarlet upon a letter. “He has taken ill.”
“At his age it is only natural,” I say. “And a young wife must have her freedoms, particularly when so young a Lady as Lady Stonewall. I am sure Lord Stonewall would be grateful to know his young, pretty wife is being attended by a man of such high honours as yourself.”
He does not note the sarcasm in my voice, being deaf to such tones, and instead nods vigorously as he stares into the flames.
“Exactly my thoughts,” he says. He drops his gaze and fidgets restlessly on his good leg, experiencing a moral dilemma from which he seeks— I have no doubt—some deliverance. He stands with his hands behind him, as if bound and awaiting the firing squad.
“You should return to Lady Stonewall,” I say, impatient to have the fool away from me. “Doubtless, she is wanting your company.”
“Indeed,” he says, inhaling and exhaling like a near-drowned man. “Indeed. Indeed.”
He hobbles toward the hall, pausing at the threshold of my study. He sighs, then says, “Egyptian women were never so enigmatic.”
He leaves, his brow troubled now by his own behaviour more than ever by the innumerable dead he had through his incompetence sewn throughout Khartoum. He has made a garden of Earthly Delights by such dragon-tooth men, and yet he fears the sex of a woman. Rightly so, I should think, for Lady Stonewall is wiser than most men of any age. Why else would she marry a man breathing dust from his imminent grave? Nor has Lord Stonewall any hope of producing an heir by her, thus leaving her unspoilt for the next fool she seeks to ensorcell. She is as Aphrodite marrying Hephaestus, yet taking idiotic Ares abed. Had I not partaken once before of her dalliances I might do so again, but I’ve no interest now— not even in the most brazen of women. I am beyond such established fare. The world’s banquet of women is bland to me, however freshly procured from the vine.
I take a moment to contemplate the situation. Lord Grantchester is enamoured of the Lady Stonewall, and she encourages this fixation, knowing her husband is bound for Charon soon enough. Happy woman! You are a slippery, fanged thing, and twist yourself around any man you fancy to lose in your coils! A delicious Delphyne, that she-creature of prophecy, you are serpent-tailed and encoil a man, head to toe, root to head. There was a time I fancied you, and you I. But as all things in my dreary life, such glories fade and all that remains is taedium vitae.
Nonetheless, Lady Stonewall is a credit to her sex. Too many British ladies are of that bloodless marble stiffness so perfectly captured in Frederic Leighton’s abhorrently lifeless paintings. Indeed, like those paintings there is beauty to be had in their elegance and preciseness, yet where is the flush of passions? It is as if they had, one and all, been drained by vein of their crimson life force, leaving only cold porcelain shells. Even his paintings of bare-breasted Andromeda languishes beneath the tyranny of his serpent, and seems too soon to swoon with a morbid pallor rather than writhe with the living pulse of fright. That is not to say that I have, in the past, never enjoyed hastening the pulse of such coldly marbled women to bring a darkening flush to their alabaster flesh. Indeed, it was a pastime cherished for a season. I delight in nothing more than rendering to life the glass-eyed dolls that enumerate so many corners of London. Now, however, it is but a fancy that leaves me as cold and bloodless as they. All life for me is a feeble imitation of life now. A pantomime as uninvolved as it is disbelieved.
As I think of it, I would consider Leighton the antithesis of Pygmalion, for he took women of living flesh and rendered them cold, immobile ivory. But that is this age we live in. It is the Age of Lifelessness. Morality is the calcification of the soul; the rigor mortis of the sensual life. Meanwhile, there have been so many technological revolutions— locomotives, telephones, and, now, automobiles—and yet no revolutions of the flesh. Bound by our anatomy, we seek to bind ourselves evermore, but now in unfeeling steel to transport ourselves from one banal location to the next in a long life of dulled experiences. Nor did the Age of Reason transform the flesh alongside the mind. Perception and knowledge have changed, yet sensation remains stagnant by inborn limitation. There are those who, in the self-loathing passion of Oedipus, willfully blind themselves to the wretched reality into which we are born, gouging out their eyes with either drink or dogma or domesticity. What cowards these individuals be, and the world is rife with them. I am no such person. I gaze into the eyes of our Mother Sphinx and dare to dream of a better lover; a lover more lioness than sandstone rigidity.

My wife approaches yet again, as a harpy besetting that wretch, King Phineus, as he attempts his meal. And how many attempts have I made of this dull banquet before me? So many, and yet she snatches away my attention with her covetous claws and fierce beak.
“My love,” she says, “Lady Chatterley is insistent upon speaking with you. She is inconsolable. Lord Hemingworth, too, wishes to speak to you. Come the Summer he hopes you will join him at his estate for a weekend of hunting.”
“I haven’t the time for either,” I say. “Send them my regret or regards or whatever false feeling would be appropriate.”
“This will not do, love,” my wife says. Irritation heightens her voice, though she attempts restraint. “You shame us both.”
I take up my glass of wine and drink deeply from it— not for sake of thirst, but to have something to stay my tongue lest it speak irrevocably. The French wine is bitter; familiarly bitter.
“So you do not wish to go hunting in the Summer?” she says. “I would have thought it something keeping in your interests.”
“I will not leave my estate in the coming Summer, or any Summer,” I say, “unless there is someone worthy of my devotion.”
“Am I not worthy of your devotion?” she asks, her tone bitterer than the wine.
“Are you to go hunting at Hemingworth’s estate?” I ask. “Is that the cause of your keen interest?”
“No,” she says, “but it should please me to visit with Lady Hemingworth while you are happily engaged in hunting. I…I want to see you happy, my love.”
“Then you can see to that happiness immediately,” I say, “and leave me be.”
She walks to the hearth, staring into the fire and sighing heavily. Her nose, in profile, is as a raptor’s beak. I am reminded of Dante’s Inferno, thinking of the Forest of the Suicides.
“And so you wish me away?” she asks. “Shall I visit our friends alone, then? What would they say? What would I say to pardon your stubborn absence?”
“Whatever excuse comes to mind,” I say. “Or no excuse at all. It means nothing to me whichever you deign to do.”
Her face hardens in the firelight.
“You wish me away while you linger here. No doubt so you can entertain your little harlot during my absence.”
She is close to tears now, which is a sign of anger rather than sorrow. Oh, but that is just one of many of her feminine wiles.
“My dear, you know I have tired of her as I have tired of all the others. Nor were their enjoinments to supplement in your affections or passions. No, I am a man of surfeited appetites, and so all is colourless and tasteless in my estimation, even as I condescend to animal pleasures with women of a fallen nature. It is no slight toward you, nor toward them. All life is Byronic languor to me now.”
“Oh, how I wish you would not say such things,” she says. She shakes her head, and her blonde locks, and then hurries to the hall. She pauses at the threshold. “You may not love me, but you could do much if only by pretending you do.”
I do not contradict her, for I wish for her hastened departure. And so it comes to pass that she returns to her guests down the hall, in the ballroom, and I am left to my solitude once again, reading as dutifully as before, which is to say, intermittently plagued by petty distractions. The Duchess is not incorrect. I do not love her. I do not love anything, including myself. Neither do I detest her, or myself. It is this reality that I detest. So long as it reigns indisputably over us then I will detest it. Alas, I cannot escape it— this waking nightmare that is tedium. So much means and wealth at my beck and call, yet nothing affords me true relief. Epicurean pleasures have dulled in their piquancy. I am as the Chinaman in his crowded opium den, requiring more and more of my sweet poppy fumes to deliver me from the dark reality I live until, at last, I surrender to its final plume of pleasure, passing away into a dreamful Oblivion, not unlike Endymion in Selene’s arms.

The pleasures provided by my privileged life have been Protean, with a plenitude of Nereids both innumerable and indulgent, but even the most virile tides must ebb, their froth dissipating upon the languid sands. Thus has it been and thus do I wish Desire herself, Aphrodite, would stand astride her seashell and beckon the waves to swell once more.
What am I but an aspirant to Protean powers? Usurper to that tyrannical demiurge who binds Man to his limited scope of gnostic iteration, heroically seeking to replace his imminence so as to manifest myriad transformations in measure apace of my dissatisfied sensibilities—to liberate human form from that gnostic devil and his abominable banalities enumerating monotonously this bland plane of existence, thereby instilling unto all the novelties and innovations wherefrom come invigoration—of caprice and genius to liven a dreary routine of flesh, Platonic expression and spirit overmastering flesh with a method to madness and madness unto form innumerable and manifold and ever revelatory.
Some self-proclaimed poet attested to the feeble doctrine that Greek mythopeia existed simultaneous with banal normality and that the observer might witness thereof if applying the proper advancement of insight. What a deluded fool! All is excrement and worms in this faded tableau of grotesque corporeal ontology. He attested, too, that all poetry and beauty and indeed Sublimity becomes commonplace where ingratitude dwells in aspect of the furrowing worm in the bruised fruit. Perhaps there is a bit of truth in it, but truly he was a man of limited means and vision, for my appetite outsizes all presence fare provided only insomuch as fare be meted in undue measure and insipid flavor.
How many such self-proclaimed poets have scoured the spheres as I have to seek such phantasia equal to jaded imagination? Perhaps if such people lived longer they would experience enough to understand the ineptitude of reality and, therefore, cease their pestilent evocations. Had I rosewater tears enough to swell and flood my eyes, I would not even then see what they render in their nascent consciousness as anything but effluvial nonsense.
I am reminded of Dorian Gray and Wilde’s need to celebrate Art, engage it, and ruin it as he brought it low to man’s mortal realm. Quite insightful for a sodomite. Then again, are we all not repressed in our need to live the passions our souls clamber toward in futility? I think of my wife, and all of the women upon whom I have sought invigoration; all of those puckering, parting lips which I have trespassed upon in lascivious ways never dared spoken thereof in polite society, let alone a Christian one. And by a Christian society I suggest the society of the Hypocrite.

Someone approaches from the hall. I know him by his rhythmic step. I see him in the reflection of the window, a tall shadow in the light of the hall. He steps forward and is carved into relief by the light of the hearth.
“Sir, there is an urgent matter needing your attention,” he says.
Sometimes I fancy Augustus as his namesake, Augustus Octavius; that is to say, stiffly obsessed with all of his moralistic prudishness and strict observances of decorum while I, a Nero, lounge beneath his sneering disapproval. Rome does not burn, least not in this cold heart, but I would gladly burn my entire estate to ashes if it would only stir some unexplored corner of my own bosom to beat once again in exultation, however brief and futile. Perhaps I am more Marc Antony, concerned with Cleopatra more so than actual power, and soon to fall upon my own sword.
How his eyes flash with silent fury, as a bull trapped behind a prison of stone, gelded and impotent in his rage.
“A guest has broken your mother’s antique vase,” he says, as if a judge sentencing a man to the gallows. “I believe you should address this issue personally.”
“I think it is of no concern to me,” I reply. “Why should it be?”
Augustus fidgets and snorts, reminding me of a bull confined to its pen, yet stomping impatiently about; angry at its prison.
“It belonged to your mother,” he repeats, “ and it dates to the Ming Dynasty. Sir, if not personally concerned, you should have a vested concern for the history it represents.”
It is my time to snort in contempt. “History is a long shadow bearing no tangibility upon me or my concerns,” I say. “I feel its imminence no better than the Present.”
“But sir!” he growls.
“Must you be so bullish, Augustus?” I say. “I have told you I have no interest in it, nor interest in anything else. Let all my antiques be shattered until they are dust drifting on the wind. It means nothing to me. All form is ephemeral, you thick-headed ox.”
Augustus’s broad nose wrinkles, the wide nostrils flaring. His tulip-shaped ears spasm beneath his crown of horns, and he bellows irritably. His hooves clop down the hall.
His insolent manner is ever emboldened by his aversion to my admittedly Hedonistic propensities. How it nettles him to be subservient to a man of my make and means and manners! Yet, I am no Mogul with his indulgent harem arrayed endlessly around me like pretty little satellites with which to while away the tedious, idle hours. True, I have enjoyed an orbit of Ladies and mistresses, but never for long. Reality itself impoverishes even the most precious of jewels in any crowned life. However pretty and picturesque a woman’s visage— and indeed vying with Dawn in splendid aspect—even so, she cannot contend against the Morphean imagination while impoverished as all such creatures are in thrall to this banal world to which and of which and from which we are born.
Resplendent and myriad must be the mold of Vulcan’s smithy or else it is as a thing of fleeting appeal and appeasement. Were I, thus, a poet, my transmutations might reward reality its unglimpsed marvels with keener credulity. But I am not, nor have I the capacity for such miracles. What wondrous wizardry is worked by wringing from empty air magnificent images and form, and what disappointment when what was wrought withers to pervasive void when the mind’s eye falters to sustain it, and the hands fail to grasp its intangibility to form it from formless flashes of insight. The illusion remains thus, a phantom on the periphery of existence; a wish without woven being.
That is not to say that I have never tried. Once upon an age I, too, was mesmerized by mysticism. When the flesh failed the lofty spheres of Sublimity, I sought elevation through spiritual means. The Dionysian Mysteries. The Sex Cults of Shaktism. Seeking a witch-doctor from the Amazon, I partook of the “soul vine”, a tea made from the leaves held sacred by his tribe. The visions inspired no awe, but only tantalized my curious consciousness more, ultimately disappointing me as the visions dissipated like so much ebbing froth, leaving me in the grotesque descent into la purga. I have partaken of such nectar of gods from all over this insipid world, and found them weak, waning, and wanting.

How tedious and tired this tome, and thus how true, for it is easily presumed that such tedious, tired prose must have been written by a tedious and tired scholar who was quite worldly, the world itself being tedious and tired, and so the truth herein recorded, contemplated, and bore out in all of its tired tedium must be truthful. And yet, it is a book of fancies, and seeming fantasies— a magic tome I read to enliven the tedious and tired world it purports to explicate in all of its minute machinery so as to engineer it anew.
And this magical tome must be true, for it is written with stern sense, and sterile feeling, and this world is so deprived of feeling at its core that this tome speaks to that truth mercilessly, unadorned, and without even slightest embellishment to elicit feeling or ease the digestion thereof. Compared to Ovid— so rife with poetically heightened feeling and being nought if not genius counseled by feeling and a paragon of truth— and this tedious tome champions itself with its bland tedium. Yet, how I long to subsume the one work with the other, which is to say, the one world with the other. Let this bland, sensible, tedious and tired cosmos be unseated by a phantasia of feeling long desired and long denied.
Yes, this tome must be true, for its magic incantations are so banal. Were I but more disciplined in my erudition I might achieve something worthwhile, but I must confess myself lax in all matters of edification and industry save for those which concern the flesh. Alas, as an overwrought intellect may dull the mind, so too does too much carnal enlightenment dull the lips and skin and loins. To think that I have followed Folly and all of her delicious vices, only to return to a regretful state not unlike Erasmus in the depths of despair at the end of his long ascetic life! How ironic to press the spectrum at one border and to arrive at the opposite threshold! It is the most cruel of paradoxes devised by Nature. And yet the fault lies with the inescapable paradigms of this accursed planet, formed as it was by crude hands in want of greater inspiration, or perhaps braver, bolder Willpower.
Desire, for my jaded tastes, is not Aphrodite in her plain human form, but an enchanting Echidne, her hypnotic tail swaying, scales glistening lustrously in and out of shadow and moonlight. Furtive horror and pleasure unified and manifest. Perverse as it may seem, I often wonder if only a gorgon’s figure and gaze should suffice to entice my desires once again, for they had proven in all other venues flaccid of purpose in these, my most jaded of times. What a terrible age this is. It is the Age of Ennui, layered as our ladies are layered in stiff artifices that render the victim incapable of breathing freely and so soon to swoon. They need only disrobe, peel away the layers until their silk shifts remain, thereby assuming the freedom of the bacchantes in their himations— a single layer to tantalize and to easily doff at a moment’s whim when passion should rule the hour and invite itself unto a life like a fairy godmother to transform the rags of existence into the satin of sensuality.

The grandfather clock chimes deeply, as a faerie gong, to proclaim the midnight hour, and yet it does not signal the end to the evening’s festivities. The musicians play as ever before, and the dancers fling their insipid laughter down the hall like a flock of birds to peck most obnoxiously at my brain. I am of a mind to make an appearance at last, and to recompense their jubilation with extravagant repudiation. Yet, before I may indulge this compulsion my eye alights upon a keenly interesting passage in the mystical tome which awakens my curiosity once again in its full luminosity.
Reading with renewed interest I find passages concerning a certain Minoan magus and the invocations employed to conform natural phenomena to unnatural configurations. The invocations are not, themselves, of particular potency; rather it is the act of reading certain script from a scroll that transforms in accordance to the reader’s whims. Any script suffices, given it was written using a certain ink extracted from a particular creature in the sea. This, I can only surmise, must be a cephalopod, for the passage asserts the need of both ink and the ability for such a creature to mutate its morphology at will. Having read extensively about various marine life, I know this likely alludes to the squid, even if the text seems to strangely hint at a being of human intellect willingly offering its protean ink to the magus. It hints at a few Greek words with which I am unfamiliar and, thus, I cannot fathom their meaning. Words such as “Yog Sothoth” and “Nyarlathotep” and “Cthulhu”. Indeed, they seem more in keeping with Egyptian words than Greek. But that is no matter. The Hellenes and the Egyptians had a rich history intertwined together. Why, it was only last year that I visited the recently discovered Temple of Bast on the island of Delos. I had sought sensual visions there, aided by a mushroom wine, but only found a bland Summer awaiting me.
The author also claims that the very words in this tome were recorded in the same ink and would, by their potent power, manipulate form and function as one pleases. This cannot be so or I would have observed such an influence hitherto and attributed it accordingly. Indeed, this seems literary grandstanding on the part of the author.
Time’s pendulum swings slowly as I read the author’s exultant self-indulgences, championing himself like some magus Machiavelli in need of a patron.
Suddenly feeling utterly irritated with the presumptuous author, I am ever more irritated when I hear Lord Grantchester approaching me once again, his arrhythmic footstep announcing his slow arrival like a graceless cur in attendance.
“I have need of your guidance, Duke,” he says, his voice a booming bass in the hollow barrel of his broad chest. “Lady Stonewall is acting most…unusually.”
What nonsense!
“In what manner?” I say.
“She is very…forthright, sir,” he says, his voice gruff and echoing. “I would almost dare say improper, but I hold her in too high of esteem to denigrate her so heartlessly.”
I look up to see that Lord Grantchester is wringing his massive hands, his single eyebrow arched with distress over a single eye soon to glisten. His head hangs forward from his thick, knotted neck, both in dejection and to avoid brushing the ceiling. The club hanging from his leather belt is stained crimson, as if with lingonberry jam. To think such a killer of men could be afraid of an assertive woman! It amuses me, albeit mildly.
“Lady Stonewall is a married woman held in high esteem,” I say, “and so, by reputation— which is tantamount to actual character in a civilized society—cannot be anything other than what she most certainly happens to be.”
My assessment perplexes and shames the giant, one-eyed man wholly, the small brain within that massive head unable to divine my meaning.
“Yes,” he says at length. “Of course. Naturally so. I should think her thus always as she should be.”
Grantchester lopes apishly to stand before the hearth. The flames flicker and flare, throwing shades from his profile out onto the tiled floor and Persian rug, and I cannot help but fancy such shades of the many dead men clambering futilely in the underworld to rise and drag that fool down below with them. A competent general must navigate war as Ulysses did his ship between Scylla and Charybdis. This imbecile, however, plunged his ship into the whirlpool time and time again only to find himself on the golden shore of Calypso’s island, held in veneration and unconditional love by the British people. And yet, he is more Polyphemus in his idiocy than ever the wise and dastardly Ulysses.
“Marriage is a sacred bond,” he mutters to himself, his voice soft as wet gravel. “And I can ill afford a scandal now…”
Listening to his moral deliberations, I cannot help but think of Man and Monogamy and all of the multitudinous complications such dynamics bring. I have never truly been attached. Even when I was attached to the Duchess, I was ever unattached. Whether by one woman or by a harem of women, I am never attached. When engaged, I am never truly engage. “Engaged”, “attached”, “bound together”: these are presumed societal obligations…modalities…which, if not observed, enumerate minor nuisances in a modern life. Yet, how much simpler life would be without such artificial constrictions. True, they were enforced by necessity where wealth and heirs were concerned…but why should any of that matter to one such as myself? May I procreate a thousand little cherubic children—and should they all die from Need—it would be as meaningless to me as any church edict or moral lecture.
“And her husband…” Grantchester continues to mutter. “He is a fine man. As fine a man as any other in London. And a good patron. Yes. He has lent support to me on more than one occasion. But…he is old…closer to Heaven than to the coming year, as they sometimes say…what good is it to his wife to be saddled to the side, so to speak, because the wagon is rattling apart at its last timbers…”
What needless torments Man invents for himself. Astonishingly so, insomuch as the unimaginative herd is scandalized by such liberties of acquaintances and intimacies. Indeed, intimacy is not so intimate in my estimation. To rut between a heaving bosom is to be no nearer to that quickening heart than to the moon beyond the windowpane.
Grantchester turns to leave, then hesitates, his broad, hairy shoulders sagging despondently as if he is lost.
“Her scales scintillate like the stars,” he says. “They are the most appealing of her features, I think. Yet, her slitted eyes are beautiful too. She is the most darling creature I have ever known.”
This affection confessed, the cyclops hobbles down the hall, cracking the tiled floor as he passes.

Once again I look beyond the window, seeing the Corinthian columns in my garden gleam in the pale midsummer moonlight. Cherubim perch upon the capitals and the collapsed pediments. Vines grow up the marble trunks, seeking sunlight which will never come. The garden grows riot with hyacinths and cypresses. Had I Daedalus in my employ I should set him upon reality itself, rendering through his genius the world in a stranger, more mythic aspect of dimension and routine. The mystagogue of this tome— so conceited with his own delusions—is a charlatan, I so conclude.
I have never been one to let my passions carry me with wild chariots. Rather, Hippolytus lost control for having been overly strict with his own reins, and whipping his horses too vigorously. Despite my desire for desire, I have, in truth, ever been a man rehearsed in temperance. After all, it is ever a matter of time and place and intention, and so long as all are reconciled, even a Pope may lord modestly in a bordello without fear of overwrought passions— for such passions belong in a bordello, and thus are confined to time and place and intention. Wine may flow freely, and loins also, at a Bacchanal and should be estimated a success in moderation and propriety, for orgies are not equivalent to the routine hours devoted to other banal modalities, and, so, are of an accord with currencies exorbitant in other circumstances, but not in the circumstance whereof they are portioned. And why should such considerations of values not be made? Does not the soldier kill in times of war and refrain in times of peace? To slay another human being is considered abhorrent in schedule-addled London, whereas how we celebrate Lord Wellington for killing many Frenchmen in his war against Napoleon. There are many among the gentry who admire the French and Lord Wellington in turn, all while failing to acknowledge the contradiction of wartime prejudice and peacetime appreciation. Why, then, should bacchants be shunned for appropriating their pleasures when a proper circumstance is provided? It is just another among the infinite inanities complicating the waft and weave of life.

Someone lingers at the threshold.
“By the dark womb of Demeter!” I exclaim. “Have I any hope of peace this night?!”
My wife inhales sharply, then steps forth like Andromeda into the surging tides as the dragon looms.
“My love,” my wife says. “This will not do. The guest are absolutely despondent from your continued absence.”
I listen to the music echoing down the hall, and the idiotic clamour of voices from my wife’s guests, and in no measure diminished or diminishing in mirth or music. There is nothing wanting in their revelry except, perhaps, genuine joy. My presence would not change that.
“My dear,” I say with growing irritation, “they seem to carry on well without me. To the contrary, I am morose and would likely hinder festivities with my present disposition. Verily, I would determine it an affliction catching and would ruin your evening as a plague upon everyone’s morale.”
“Or the conviviality of your guests would catch in you,” she counters. “That is what sways you from joining us. You cannot enjoy anything anymore. You behave as if life were some duty you must observe begrudgingly, and it upsets me to no end.” She takes hold of my forearms with her clawed fingertips, attempting to wrest from my tome my attentions. Looking up at her, I see her feathered brow sadly furrowed and anxious. Her beak is sharp and tears each word from the tense air surrounding her.
“My dearest,” she says, “it would do my heart well to dance with you.”
Though her words postured from a stance of pleading, her tone— much as Augustus’s—exacts something contrary to import: a vexation bordering ire which she reserves solely for careless servants. But I will not yield in this battle of wills. My mind, and body, are rooted wholly in place. All else must change around me, in accordance to my will.
“Dearest,” I say with due frigidity, “if you should wish to dance with me, I will indulge you at the proper time. We shall dance beneath the sheets if you so desire it, but I will not waste precious oil by light of this argument. A great many more whales are hereby imperiled.”
Her countenance is ever lovely, especially when furious. My wife is a beauty like Scylla in the eviscerated furs of a dog-faced fidelity and faith. She glares at me for a time, not leaving immediately, her reflection glowering in the glow of my lamp and the fire-and-frost glass of the window. Rather, she stands by, tapping her taloned feet while her white feathers are ruffled roughly around her neck. Yet, she cannot tarry long or else risk neglecting her guests. So, with a frustrated flap of her wings, she returns down the hall, her tail feathers jutting out angrily above her shanks.

Prometheus is chained to the mountainside of Olympus, feeding his beaked torment as a slave his master while wallowing in what could be as he gazes toward the summit, so far away. That is the emblem of my suffering; of my woe. Reality chains me while I yet aspire to ascend to greater heights, and tedium, its torturer, wheels around again on easy wings for its timely feast. The hours! How dreadful they are when beset with the carrion birds of boredom.
It is a grotesque irony that we should strive toward Sublimity only to achieve futility in the realization of its dizzying heights— heights thereafter diminished by experience, not unlike the wish of possessing a fox in all of its wild beauty only to kill and mount it, and thereby transpose its vivacity into a lurid dead thing of lifeless inertia. It also reminds me of desiring a vestal nymphet whom inspires desire to propel us into wooing her virginal trust, and thus losing what was coveted all at once in the petal-strewn bed. To gain and to thereby lose— that is the dilemma of the Sublime. Pleasure and apathy. Exultation and disappointment. Love and disillusionment. Evanescent ecstacy. Fleeting fantasia. It is the beauty of the Asphodel; Hades drawing Persephone down into his darkened halls, thinking to beautify his dead world and only, by so doing, darkening the fair face of his beloved.
There was a time when I played my own Hephaestus, devising instruments of pleasure to employ upon women, and also pain. When the former lapsed in elicitation, such as were preferred by the Marquis de Sad, but now all such diversions pale; all the world bereft in its manifold diversities.
Having explored the full spectrum betwixt pleasure and pain, I have found all wanting. To mine more would be to torture a cadaver, or to deflower a whore. There is nothing new in any of it. This is an age of plenty that is paradoxically bereft of substance. A cornucopia of empty, shallow necessities presided over by our overlarge Queen and her inbred children. It is good her German bullock is dead, or else she would spread her legs and expel of her imbecilic brood upon the earth.
Do not mishear me. I have attempted to supply the cornucopia of my life with things of substance. There is no greater collection of divers oddities, rarities, and specialities to scandalize the common purveyour of perversities than herein assembled. And, yet, how so much bores me, the most especial of finds around the world recompensed with listless indifference.
Nor is my heart a sealed vault closed to the world. It is as easily accessed as my library— more so, in fact, for it is as a tired old museum freely admitting all, yet while crowded with many coveted things it proves to be of value to all except its curator, for I see nought except trinkets and antiques which are worthless in their static state. Better would it be to take cudgel to such dusty ceramics and make a vivaciously shocking scene of chaos over which the curator might at last exult in its differentiation, rummaging through the rubbish like newfound treasures. Thus will I shatter this world’s stifling confines and create from the disorder a divine bliss for myself entailing salvation for a world-weary curator of curiosities.

And who is this now, shuffling again into my sanctuary?
My sharp-beaked wife!
“Beloved,” she says. “Lady Blansworth wishes for us to attend a festival in Cornwall in the Spring. It will be a lovely affair. Her husband’s villa is one of the finest in all of England.”
“You may go on our behalf,” I say.
“Love,” she says, her chest heaving with great upset even while she struggles to retain a calm, measured voice, “it is my desire that you should accompany me. It would be such a delight to see the countryside together.”
“I am in no mood to leave the estate,” I say firmly, “certainly not so I might spend a month with Lady Blansworth and be subjected to the torment of her idiotic laughter. Moreover, you will enjoy Cornwall infinitely more were I not present to cast my gloomy shadow over the outing.”
The Duchess is silent for a few moments, and I see her reflection in the candle-brightened windowpane. Her eyes are wide with what appears to be anger, and pain, and I know she is, once again, to create drama where none should exist.
“You are no doubt infatuated with another crumpet!” she says, her voice shrill and near to squawking. “That is why you wish me to leave and you to stay!”
Her bosom heaves with the burden of her passion, up and down, as the pistons of a locomotive accelerating along its tracks.
“My dear,” I say, wearily, “you know I am not infatuated with anyone or anything anymore. It is all a bland tableau to me, from sunrise to sunset. Cornwall would be no different, and I would only ruin your pleasure as a consequence of being there with you. Express your regrets to Lady Blansworth…if you must. Yet, you must not express regrets on my behalf, for that would be an intolerable lie.”
She is inconsolable, weeping and squawking, her feathers ruffled wildly as she hoists her petticoats and dashes down the hall. Were she so passionate in the bedchamber, then perhaps my heart might spark with feeling for her anew.

If my wife has made a scene, I do not hear, nor does it intrude upon the festivities of her guests. Rather, they are evermore fervent in their inane laughter while the musicians devolve to strangely pastoral accompaniments for their Waltzes, such as would be concordant with a peasant’s bonfire revelry. Mad piping of flutes and scrambled stroking of strings. It pleases me no more or less than their previous attempts.

O! This tedious tome! Should Heracles committed himself to this labour he would never have achieved any of the rest, for he would have been forestalled permanently here, in these scribbled straits of insipidness. And yet, the alternative rears large and inescapable. As between Scylla and Charybdis, I am between a rock and a hard place, and thus must ford forward the arduous narrow channel before me. The novelties of existence wane. The methods of sensuality stagnate. The means of pleasure wallow. Nor could Elephantis— with all of her legendary expertise in regard to human congress—lecture me except to sleep with whatever elucidations were hers in the time of Antiquity. It is not the manner, but the means of congress that is wanting presently. So long as the medium remains the same, the method will be ever restricted, and thus insipid.

Restless beyond discipline, I sigh and rub my strained eyes. Pushing myself up from my chair, I walk to the hearth and stand before the fire. It is too hot for a fire, now, and so I extinguish the flames with a readied bucket of water. At last I fulfill the Duchess’s wish and condescend to venture down the hall toward the ballroom.
The breeze through the colonnaded hall is warm, slipping through my himation with a lover’s fondness. I pass Augustus in the hallway. He has engaged a maid, rigorously rutting upon her, the force of which shakes various vases and amphoras from their pedestals and shattering them upon the floor. The large bull-headed man does not mind their ruin, but is solely occupied with the nymph and her stooping figure; her wanton moans. He bends over her with his massive form, his bullock horns raking against the foliated canopy overarching the hall.
I can hear the sounds of pleasure rising in a delicious cacophony.
At last I arrive at the ballroom, finding a grove bathed in radiant moonlight. Satyrs rut upon eager nymphs while fawns blow upon lascivious flutes or strum licentious lyres. The moans of the nymphs and the growls of the satyrs compose a music complementary to that of the fawns. Nude figures arrayed around me, I recall my many visitations to the more forbidden parts of Amsterdam and Delhi. Figures writhe with pleasure, or collide with passionate impact, or wallow in sensual ecstacy, their flesh stained with spilt wine and spilt seed and a thousand lashes by tongue and tooth and engorging lips.
Lord Grantchester looms large among the glade, Cyclopean in size and attacking Lady Stonewall with his priapic excess while her coils envelop him, so rapturously engaged. Nightmarish and divine, it excites in me pleasure— for a moment— and then becomes a commonplace thing once again.
All of my wife’s guests are here— their attentions indivisible—but my wife is yet unaccounted among the Bacchanal. I do not know if I feel relief or regret at this discovery. Perhaps I am naught but a vessel of apathy.
And yet, a briny breeze teases me through the moonlit grove, away from the hedonistic congregation.
It is too late to continue my studies, for I feel the moon cresting over my thoughts. Conversely, I am not exhausted sufficiently to retire to bed. Thus, I choose to venture beyond the Dionysian flutists and outside, into the garden for a moonlit stroll and fresh air. There is dew upon the grass, gleaming like pearls in the moonlight. Where the shadows fall from the tall trees the dew is like the glinting winks of shades. Dew glistens upon the lips of wild flowers, too, the pink petals most suggestive. Through the hall of trees I come to a vast field, rolling in sinuous, sleepy waves downward, toward the vast ocean. The frothy waves whisper huskily as they throw themselves upon the sand, beating a lusty rhythm of desire and self-destruction.
I hear the shriek of a large bird, and a woman, and a shadow descends upon me, eclipsing the pale moon. My himation is rent away and my body lays vulnerable upon the white sand. The shadow mounts me with an insistent hunger, driving the plush of her loins astride my own and spreading her wings as if to herald the moon haloing her crested head. Her spine arches, her large breasts press outward, toward me, and her talons grip me, bleeding me as she beats a frenzied rhythm of carnality upon me, pelvis to pelvis— lips to stem, core to root. My wife, the Duchess, shrieks in both anger and pleasure and possession, her feathered head turned upward, mouth agape, eyes wide.
She screeches, flapping her wings furiously, her feathers ruffled from wingtip to shoulder and even unto the crested mantle of her head where her golden feathers are as a cowl over her squawking face. Her breasts— bare of feathers—hang large and heavy, nipples erect like cherries swollen near to burst. Curiously, my hands press against her swollen breasts and I feel my blood stir hotly. Desire wakes, if only for a moment, and as she tears my flesh with her beak and talons I exult in knowing once more the gratification of carnality conferred.
Yes! At long last! What I have missed for eons it seems! Ardor! Passion! Sublimity! Her talons tear at my chest while she spreads her wings, rocking to a hedonistic rhythm that awakens my heart like a locomotive’s cold engine aflame once more as it lurches upon its tracks! The quickening of pulse! The excitement of flesh! How it enlivens me while she plunges her beak into my surging heart. I see, now, her appetite, twin-beaked as it is, and it must be satisfied. Yes! I long to satisfy it, for in its terrible throes will I find passions rekindled! My love! My wife! We must exult in Sublimity, even unto a final breath. Morpheus and Thanatos are of the same lineage, root to stem. Cronos and Aphrodite likewise, as violence unto rapture! I welcome the transcendence of the flesh! I welcome the ardor of finality! Take your fill, my love, with both beaks digging deep! The metamorphosis becomes you! The phantasia becomes me…

Consequences

“Consequences follow, my dear,” Lady Thatcher said. “They are the most faithful of hounds.”
“If only men were so faithful,” Lady Fairsdale said, fanning herself with her little oriental fan. “Then I would not fret so much over Henry’s time abroad.”
The two ladies exchanged mischievous, knowing smiles.
“The stray cannot remain away for long,” her elder friend returned. “Perhaps you should seek consequences of your own in the meantime.”
“I have enough dogs in the kettle,” Lady Fairsdale said, tucking a stray tress of russet hair behind her dainty pale ear. Her ear was tinged a faint cherry at the topmost curve, as were her cheeks and the flat of her chest above her bodice-bound bosom. “And of dogs and men and consequences I have tolerated enough. They all make such a terrible ruckus.”
Lady Thatcher sipped at her tea, a glint of mischief enlivening her otherwise dull brown eyes. “In my day the ruckus was what made dogs and men and consequences, my dear. A good ruckus makes the world go round.”
The pool of shade plunged from their broad parasol and soaked the two Ladies in its cool depths while the lustrous sun rose to peep over the treetops, burning the cool mists into fairy-fire that disappeared in the crisp dazzle of the dawn. The two Ladies chatted away, and gazed upon a young man and his happy father by the hedgerow. Lively petal lips found compensatory fare in conversation, though younger petals longed to quiver in other diversions.
“A man’s task is to prove himself worthy of a Lady’s affections,” Lady Thatcher said. “A Lady’s task is to prove him wrong. If she fails, then he has met his match. If he succeeds, she has failed herself.”
“You speak as if no man is worthy of a woman.”
“A wealthy geriatric may be,” she said. “Provided he has the decency of an imminent grave.”
Lady Thatcher was herself mottled with age, and yet like a well-kept antique she yet clung to a certain luster and fine figure which had possessed the hearts of many susceptible men when in her youthful bloom. And she still spoke as if fresh from the bud, in full array of her colors and her fragrance.
“That said,” she added, “a poor servant may be worthy, too, for a while. At least insomuch as he proves adept at the task given by his Mistress.”
The faint cherry of her young companion’s cheeks bloomed into a scarlet blush that no high breeding could conceal. She fanned herself fervently, and gazed out upon the lawn. The gardener and his son trimmed at the hedgerow. The old man stood with a bent back and a sweaty forehead, pointing and directing his son. The latter—in his prime years—worked the sheers assiduously, scissoring away the offensive leaves from the otherwise squarish greenery. Distantly, the dogs in the kettle barked with incessant insistence.
“When is Lord Fairsdale to return?” Lady Thatcher asked absently.
“However long he requires in Venice,” Lady Fairsdale said, disinterested. “Two months? Three? He has been gone already for two months.”
“So you have time, at the least, for more consequences,” Lady Thatcher remarked meaningfully. “A Lady in her youth, such as yourself, should always seek the fulfillment of such idle time in whatever means are natural to you.”
The young man glanced at the young lady from the distance, smiling to himself. His father took no note, but the young Lady did. Lady Fairsdale noted the young man’s large, strong hands, watching them flex and relax, her green eyes traveling up his thick forearms to the folded sleeves and up his broad shoulders to the slight slit of his white shirt, the cleft of his chest, the straight neck and square chin, dark eyes and dark hair. He was a strong buck, she knew, and yet the doe led him on like a dutiful fawn. Lady Thatcher watched Lady Fairsdale watch the young man, and smiled with vicarious pleasure. Lady Fairsdale’s bosom heaved, crowded with frustrated breath and its own largess within her bodice.
The dogs continued to bark, but both Ladies ignored them.
“It is needful work,” Lady Thatcher said.
“What is?” Fairsdale said, entirely dazzled and distracted by sunlight on a labour’s dew.
“Caring for gardens,” she said. “There are consequences in failing to attend them. They can grow positively riotous if unchecked.” She smiled. “And there is so little ruckus heard when one’s husband is away. The dogs can yap all they please, but none will mind them.”
“I should mind them,” a voice said near at hand, startling the two Ladies. “The temper of a dog is only equaled by faith to his Master, and he will bite those whom his Master mislikes.”
The gentleman loomed, a shadow with the sun at his back. Cradled in his arm, like a newborn babe, was a rifle that gleamed blackly in the forenoon sun.
“Henry!” Lady Fairsdale gasped. “I thought you were yet in Venice!” She cleared her throat, and calmed her heaving chest with the flat of her hand. “Has the venture been a failure?”
“To the contrary,” Mr. Fairsdale said, his tone casual between grinning yellow teeth. “The venture went rather well. So well, in fact, that I sent Howard to manage its conclusion while I returned home to see to…other affairs.”
He abruptly stepped around the table and headed toward the gardener and his son.
“Henry!” Lady Fairsdale exclaimed, close to fainting.
Lord Fairsdale halted and turned about, still grinning. He looked cheery and cheeky, ear to ear, though the thin wisps of gray hair at his temples— in their disheveled state—lent an air of uncouthness to his overall visage; as though frayed by some wayward tempest. An unhealthy sweat bedewed his reddish forehead, trickling over wrinkle and pox scar alike. Yet, his features otherwise were cast in a mold of hard-chiseled amicability.
“What is the matter, my dear wife?”
Before she could speak, a group of men— likewise cradling rifles—stepped forth together. Mrs. Fairsdale, attempted to contain her heaving breast and the hammering heart within. These men were her husband’s friends. Lords, one and all.
“Hunting today?” she said, glancing to Lady Thatcher.
“Of course,” her husband said, still grinning. “It is a lovely day for it.”
“Must you?” she asked, feeling frantic and febrile. “It does not seem a good day for it. Looks like rain.”
There were dark clouds converging on the horizon.
“A quick hunt will not take long,” he countered, still grinning. “It is my land, my wife. I will do as I please. The rain will not keep me off from it, however sadly it falls.”
The dogs in the kettle barked in a great clamour as the group of men converged on the gardener and his son. Lady Fairsdale watched them unblinkingly, feeling powerless and faint. Her hand instinctively sought the hand of her elder companion, tremulous at the clutch.
“Do not fret, Ellen,” Lady Thatcher said. “He suspects nothing.”
“He never smiles so dreadfully much,” Lady Fairsdale said, breathing labouriously. “Not ever on our wedding day, or the next morning.”
“You fear overmuch,” Lady Thatcher said. “Your husband is like most English husbands. Thinks himself lord of his lands, but is ever asleep on the throne. All is quite safe. No need to faint at phantoms, my dear.”
“But the hounds…” Lady Fairsdale said, trembling. “What a terrible noise!”
“Oh, they are beasts without reason,” the older woman said. “As are most cuckolded men.” She giggled softly. “You did well by marrying a man twice married before and twice your age. He is likely, thus, twice certain to be abloom within a meetly season. And then, my dear, your true life will begin.”
“I will not marry again,” Lady Fairsdale vowed. “I wish only to serve myself.”
“And so you should,” Lady Thatcher said. “Just keep plenty of comely youths in service. It has done wonders for my woeful years of widowhood.”
Lady Thatcher’s sly smile encouraged Lady Fairsdale’s to debut. It was a most winsome smile, charming both man and lad and lord and pauper, and had won her many an invitation to London’s most prestigiously exclusive soirees. Her smile suddenly vanished, for she could hear, at a distance, the conversation between her husband and the gardener’s son.
“I have never hunted before,” the young man said. “Perhaps you would rather I serve as a beater?”
“Nonsense,” said Lord Fairsdale blithely. “You are a hunter after my own heart. This I know to be entirely true.”
The young man’s father admonished his son to acquiesce to the Lord’s proposal. The dogs barked ever more loudly.
“It will be my first time using a rifle, sir,” the young man said.
“I think you will have much luck in it,” Lord Fairsale remarked. “The Devil’s Luck, I dare say, and a happy disposition toward it. All young men do. Just aim to the heart.”
The young man looked to his father and, sheepishly— almost shamefully— glanced to Lady Fairsdale. She shook her head only slightly, her eyes wide.
“I insist,” said Lord Fairsdale.
The young man was handed a rifle and shuffled away with the hunting party. Lady Fairsdale watched as the group of men walked down the sun-gilded field, toward the dark arbor of the forest; divided as day from night. Lady Fairsdale sighed. All cherry tinge had drained from her cheeks and ears, her face a pallid mask of bloodless fear as the men vanished within the woods.
“My dear,” Lady Thatcher said, “you mustn’t fret over such things. There is a proper order in society, and the English are known for following decorum among their peers. No harm will come of it to anyone of importance. Least of all to you.”
A shot rang out vengefully, like the crackling thunder of an old, angry god. Lady Fairsdale’s heart leapt as if to burst. The dogs’ clamour died at once to a deathly silence. The rain began to weep along the horizon.

Hysteria (Part Two)

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It was approximately midnight when I heard the scream. I hurried outside and ran toward Virginia’s cottage. The moon was bright, illuminating the treacherous path uphill. I heard a hissing voice hush her, but she would not be silenced. Shadows struggled in the candle-lit interior of her cottage. I rushed forward and the door was thrown open. A figure ran toward me, her long fair hair trailing after her. Behind her came a hobbling figure too slow to overtake her. Within the span of a breath she had cowered behind me, pointing at the hobbling man.
“He is trying to kill me!” she cried.
“I donna’ wanna’ kill her!” Henry said, his knife glinting in the moonlight. “Just her wanderin’ womb! It needs to cease its dreamin’ before it start’s wakin’! Will tol’ me so!”
The man had lost his senses. His eyes were wild with madness.
“Stop, Henry!” I said.
He did not stop, but raised the knife. I rushed to meet him, grabbing the arm with the thirsty blade. His eyes glowed with moonlight, and madness, and his cheeks glistened with tears.
“You donna’ understand!” he cried as we struggled. “I have to silence her screams! I have to silence the blasphemy of her wanderin’ womb!”
His mouth reeked of beer and his words rang with lunacy. “The wanderin’ womb!”.
“Get a grip on yourself!” I said. “Stop this! Drop the knife! William paid you to watch over her, not slay her!”
“You donna’ know the price!” he sobbed. “You donna’ know what he done to satisfy the Pact!”
I was taller than him, and had two good legs, but his madness lent him strength. Gradually, however, his crippled leg betrayed him, giving way as we both tumbled to the ground, the knife between us. I felt a splash of wetness, and the seaman shook as if suffering from a spasm of the spine. The struggle went out of him and he lay among the gorse, clutching the knife buried in his side. The blood was black by moonlight, like the shadowy cowl of Death himself.
“I meant her no harm,” he sobbed. “Only to free her. To free her from the wanderin’ womb!”
I rose to my feet, breathless and shaken. Virginia clung to me, looking down upon the madman. His breath shallowed, thinning and softening as the dark pall of Death spread wider.
“Ye’ donna’ un’erstand,” he gasped. “It’s an abomination. That…wanderin’…womb…”
They were his final words. He lay still then; dead as the face of the moon.
“Virginia!” I said, turning her away from the corpse. “Did he harm you?” I pulled her toward her cottage. “Come. I must check you for wounds.”
We entered her cottage. A candle burned by the window, but the writing desk was overturned, its contents spilled upon the floor. I used the candle to light an oil lamp, its fiery light further banishing the shadows. Virginia watched me with untroubled eyes, and I wondered, momentarily, if she would relapse into her catatonia. Instead, she let slip her white gown and stood denuded before me, her pale skin immaculate in that livid light. I was beside myself with astonishment.
“You said you would inspect me for wounds,” she said.
“At once!” I said, rallying my faculties against my astounded wonderment. “Of course, of course!”
Immediately, I surveyed her body most closely, holding the oil lamp near to reveal any lacerations or bruises that might need tending. Finding none, I told Virginia she was most fortunate and that she could clothe herself once again. She did not. Instead, she sat down upon her bed and stared at me— or perhaps stared at something beyond me. At length, she spoke.
“My husband assigned him to me,” she said plainly.
“Yes,” I said. “But certainly not to harm you. William would never…”
She tossed her fair hair impassively.
“What would you say if I told you that I almost welcomed his blade? What would you say if I told you I am tempted, even now, to withdraw that knife and thrust it into my heart? In truth, I am not even sure why I screamed. An old, animal instinct, perhaps.”
“You are suffering from your illness,” I told her. “You just need more treatment and more time to recover.”
She scoffed. “Time? Time is exactly what I do not need, nor have.” She smirked at the door. “That man was not so wicked as you might conjecture,” she said. “He refused to use his knife unless I absolved him of the sin with my forgiveness. Is that madness? I wonder…”
“Religiosity is a certain madness,” I said, trying to keep my eyes upon her face.
She appeared amused. “Have you ever been touched by a god, Dr. Grace?”
“By a god, Mrs. Worthington?” I said, not understanding. “Do you mean touched by God? As in a religious conversion?”
“By either, then,” she said, sardonically crossing her bare arms across her bare breasts.
“I am not of a religious inclination, Mrs. Worthington.”
She laughed softly, and I feared that this latest encounter had indeed damaged her wits. No sane woman would be inclined toward mirth after nearly dying.
“I would have suspected not,” she said. “No, once you are touched by a god, everything changes. You are awakened in ways you cannot comprehend, and so, to reconcile yourself, you become as if asleep to the rest of the world. Turned off, like an oil lamp.”
I turned off the oil lamp, thinking she was implying a need for greater privacy from the light. Her nakedness glowed within the room with its lunar luminescence.
“I am speaking of my catatonia,” she said. “I may have appeared unresponsive, but that was because I was like a wagon overburdened with weight. Too much upon my mind and so I could not budge beneath those panoramic revelations. Or were they pandemonic?” She reached out her hand and touched mine, ever so lightly. “But you fetched me back from those overwhelming sensations. With this hand. This hand beckoned me away from the pandemonium. I was too awake, Robert. I was catatonic because I was too awake.”
Without thinking, I clasped her hand in mine.
“What truly ails you, Mrs. Worthington?” I asked. “Please help me to understand. I feel as if I have been groping in darkness since first I saw you.”
She slipped her hand from mine and stood up, walking past me and looking out her cottage window. Her pale hip brushed against me and I quivered involuntarily.
“I am ever upon a bridge of sighs,” she said, “and I know not which way to go. Left or right. Up or down. Perhaps down, then up.” She shook her head. “No, no. Someone such as myself would not ascend. Too great a sin weighs upon me, ever growing, and I know not how I can expunge it without committing yet another sin in its stead.”
I needed to leave her cottage. I realized this with much affright, for I felt myself drawn to her as she stood, steeped starkly in the luminosity of her nakedness, and feared I might breach that gulf between patient and doctor.
“I need to fetch some men to remove the body,” I said. “You should rest. If you have difficulties sleeping I will bring some wine…”
She turned upon me, pressing against me with her belly and breasts. She kissed me, and her kiss dispelled all thoughts from my head.
“I will be fine,” she said as she withdrew. “Good night, doctor.”
She lay down to bed and I— in my bewilderment— fumbled with the door. Stumbling out into the night, I walked as if a somnambulist in want of smelling salts. So overtaken was I that I tripped over the dead seaman’s body as I stumbled through the moonlight. The tumble roused me to my senses, reminding me of the cliffs always hemming the moors, and so I picked myself up and, with a sober mind, I woke a few Cornish men, including George Friggs, and we saw to the disposal of the body.
I had thought we would bury the man, but George infromed me that the Cornish earth was not kind to shovels nor to the backs using them. Instead, they chose to wrap him in cloth and weigh him down with rocks. They then took him in a small boat and dropped him into the Celtic Sea.
“Is a proper sailor’s burial anyhow,” George reassured me. “The bastard might have been mad, but he will find his peace in the hereafter.”
It was the only prayer uttered that night. Everyone was eager to return to bed. Yet, I lingered upon the shore, listening to the hiss and hush of the tides. My mind went, naturally, to Virginia, but I turned it aside and thought instead of Henry O’ Toole. He had not seemed a violent man. He was mad, to be sure. The glint of flint in his eyes must have soon given itself to a great fire upon the brain. Yet, I had not believed him capable of violence. He seemed a reluctant assassin prompted by as much concern for Virginia as for the world. And Virginia’s account cautioned an overly violent characterization. True, he wished to harm her, but it seemed an act of fear or desperation rather than wrath or lust or any other such fiery emotion. He had ultimately begged for forgiveness, she said, and that, more than likely, was what bought her chance at escape.
I recalled his final words, too, for a clue. He had spoken of a “wanderin’ womb”. The phrase struck me as familiar, though I could not place its reference. Thinking upon it, I returned to my cottage. Once there, I sought my books. Throughout the witching hours I read by oil lamp the various passages I had marked concerning ancient beliefs concerning the womb. It was as the rosy blush of dawn came stealing out of the East that I found a relevant passage concerning the womb. It was in Plato’s works, of all people’s, and that imbecile had, as usual, much of nothing to say about anything that struck his fancy. He believed the womb to be a wandering creature that moved about in the woman’s body. I could not think that Henry O’ Toole was familiar with Plato, nor such antiquated notions as the womb being a separate creature living within Woman. So, what was it that the hobbled seaman actually meant? Surely there was reason in his madness, however disproportional.
It was a mystery, and I was too exhausted for mysteries. As I lay myself to bed my fatigued mind went wandering itself. I remembered what my father had said to me about my plans to become a doctor focused primarily upon women. He had been chagrined, and moreover, furious.
“My own son a degenerate!” he had exclaimed. “It should not surprise me that others should follow this Age of Reason with such abandon, but my own flesh and blood?! You must understand, boy! They are epicureans, one and all! Hedonists with intellectual pretenses. They feed themselves with libraries full of absurd immoralities to justify their perversions. Man’s sinfulness will inevitably corrupt every human enterprise, including Medicine. You will be damned, my son!”
“Knowledge is a blessing, father,” I told him. “And there is no happier knowledge than that of the creatures with whom Man is so intimately entwined.”
“I have lived with women enough to know the faults of them,” my father said. “And there is no remedying them, anymore than remedying a single man’s soul. Think back to when Adam sought to remedy Eve’s discontent and know the fruit of humanity’s sins. That is why they suffer in childbirth. That is why the bed holds no pleasures for them. Original Sin.”
“Certain women of Asia have enjoyed the marriage bed for centuries,” I had said. “There is no reason why they should be the only ones. And to understand women would be to improve their health. Is that not what we should aspire to do as doctors? So much could be learned in conjunction with women. Imagine what I could learn if I were to travel to the Orient. Perhaps I could even learn the means for safer birthing…”
“So you learn to practice Medicine from women now, do you?” my father had countered. “And savages at that.” He had scoffed. “But I suppose Asian savages are vogue in London. Perhaps you should import some into your service. Why bother with midwives of the English stock when you might have more exotic flavors at your disposal?”
“Father,” I said patiently, “what is it that you are implying of me?”
“That you have always had a keen interest in women,” he said. “Which I would normally encourage if the woman was of means and breeding. But to have a keen interest in all women…well, I am sure it is lucrative, but it is affords others much in the way of gossip.”
“I do not care for gossip,” I said. “It impoverishes our species. I only wish to elucidate what is sorely lacking in human knowledge. Women are yet a mystery to us. Half the world is in shadow. We need to know more about them so we can properly treat them for their maladies. And I believe that much of their suffering is from extraneous inhibitions and needless oppression. Why not work to eliminate the causes of these hysteria symptoms? For instance, if husbands would only tend to their wives’ needs in the marriage bed…”
“A woman’s pleasure in the marriage bed comes in her husband’s pleasure!” my father snapped. “Nothing more within it. Her personal pleasures lie beyond it, in her children and in the upkeep of the household. There is no personal pleasure in the marriage bed for proper ladies, as every married man in England can attest.”
“I contest it,” I had said vehemently. “It cannot be so. If you could only see how transformed these women are after a proper treatment…”
“Enough!” my father had said, nearly screaming. “What would your mother say? What would she say, having given her life so that you might live? And for what? To seek the bestial pleasures of these…these…bacchantes?! There is only one treatment for women: to read the Bible and forsake all other indulgences. Even chocolate is a thing of diabolic design.”
“Father, how can you say such things?” I said. “You have been a doctor your whole life. You have been a man of Science and Natural remedy!”
“And what has it given me? A son dedicating his life to perversions, like all among his ignoble generation. You seek to not only eat of the Forbidden Fruit, but to plant its seeds and make an Eden of your own; a manmade blasphemous thing that is a blight to the eyes of God.”
“We are only helping our fellow people,” I said.
“Helping your fellow people at the cost of the Master that made you,” he said. “Goodly works of God are being reduced to Natural trivialities, like ancient mountains mined for gold. This is the price of so-called Progress.”
“We must learn, though,” I argued. “Regardless of what it does to the superstitions that we hold dear, and indeed because of what it does to those superstitions. We must yoke ourselves to Progress.”
My father had shaken his head slowly, ruefully. “But you will not like what you find, son. It will be like gutting a flower to see how its petals bloom. All you will be left with is rot.”
Ignorance, for me, was a blasphemy. And I had no use for gods of any kind. My own birth had slain my mother. What sort of god demanded such a terrible price with so much infinite power and wisdom at his disposal? To me, if there was a god then he was a cruel tyrant, for his very breath was a great storm at sea that sank ships and widowed women and orphaned children upon his unfeeling whim. He was an elemental creature beyond Reason, and so beyond Empathy for the creations he had forged through eons of bloody Natural Selection. His very breath soured the world.
And I vowed I would dedicate my whole life to casting just a sliver of light upon his shadowy depths, if only so he had less darkness wherein to dwell, unseen, like the monster that he was.
Now, of course, I truly regret glimpsing god, for it is one of many of the horrors I must take with me to the grave, burdened as I am with hideous revelations.

***

My ghosts clung stubbornly to me throughout the night. Their cumbrous, clammy touch inspired frets and fatigue without relief. My father’s ghost bickered and demeaned me while the faceless ghost of my mother blamed me for her death. When I attempted to speak— to apologize to my mother and tell her my intention to atone for murdering her with my birth into this world— I had no tongue. I had no voice. I had no breath. The ghosts of my parents sat upon my chest and I could only roll my head about, powerless against their condemnations.

***

I woke late in the afternoon the next day. Charlotte had asssumed liberty in sitting next to my bed, in a ladderback chair.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“You were sleepin’ awfully long, sir,” she said. “I feared you might be sick.”
“I could not sleep well,” I said. “There was an incident last night, of which I should like to inform you and your sisters. It may affect Mrs. Worthington’s convalescence here.”
“As you say, sir,” she said, rising from the chair. She lingered by the bedside, her face a silent seal of concern and apprehension. Her presence vexed me.
“Is there anything else, Charlotte?” I asked impatiently.
“No, sir,” she said, curtsying. She hesitated. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I only wondered if there were anything I might do for you.”
“Yes,” I said, with admittedly waspish irritation. “Your chores. That is what I pay you for.”
She curtsied once again and left to join her sisters. I was suffering too much from a headache to be pestered at that moment by Cornish girls with their silly peculiarities. I rose from bed, groggily, and prepared myself for another day. As I often did upon rising, I searched for the velvet pouch with which William had secured his wife’s safekeeping. Its heft of wealth was reassuring. There were enough jewels, pearls, and gold to buy a manor house further inland and live the rest of my days in comfort. And perhaps I would do that. Perhaps, I fancied, I would invite the Worthingtons to winter there.
Perhaps William would be too preoccupied with business and Mrs. Worthington would come alone.
It was an ignoble fancy, but it gave haste to my movements despite my fatigue. I hurried to don my clothes and to start the day, heading directly to Virginia’s cottage. She was already upon the moor, walking through the gorse. Her whitely golden hair streamed in the briny breeze— tumbling with the shamelessness of a Greek nymph. She turned to me, as if expecting me, and smiled.
“It is high time you had risen,” she said in her husky, yet melodic, voice. “I was beginning to fear that the madman had not been so dead as thought and had taken you with him.”
“He cannot harm you now,” I said, “nor anyone.”
“Thanks to you,” she said, smiling openly as the sea winds blew her long fair hair about her face. She looked like an elfin queen behind that wilderness of flaxen hair. My heart leapt in anticipation of becoming lost in its caress. I was quite lost in such unbecoming fancies. “You are my knight now,” she said. “I shall dub thee Lancelot, though I dare say it is an ill-omened title.”
“I would gladly be your Lancelot,” I said.
She took my hands in her own. “And would you kill a dragon for me, if I asked it of you?”
“Anything you wished,” I said, grinning at what seemed a childish jest.
“And if the dragon was a part of me,” she said, “and would mean my own death to free me, would you do it?”
All mirth vanished in the instant, blown away by the faint stench of rot upon the winds.
“I do not like this conjecture,” I said.
She smiled and let go of my hands. “It is just a fancy of mine, is all,” she said. “Come now. Let us walk away this angst. Give our demons a jaunt, as a kettle master would his dogs.”
We walked for much of the day upon the moors and the heathland. The sun was radiant and the flowers further inland were ebullient with its light. It was an idyllic stroll. We said little except to comment upon a certain flower, or the refreshing air, or the sparkle of the sea. Eventually we came to a granite outcropping near an old ruin of a building. Well-worn ruts formed a crude road leading away to a shore nearby shore. I had never been so far from my clinic. It was exhilarating in its own way, and keenly I was pleased with having Virginia by my side. Nor did I fail to understand the scandalous nature of my emotions. I was dancing upon a steep and slippery precipice.
“This must have been a mine once upon a time,” I remarked. “Copper or tin, I should think. Maybe even iron. I do not know.”
“It contrasts greatly with the heath,” Virginia said. “Indeed, it is most foul in appearance, like a ruin where once it was likely beautiful.”
“Pardon me,” I said, “but did not your family’s fortune come from mines?”
“Yes,” she said. “But they have been barren for a long time.”
“And so you married William,” I said, the implications distasteful. “I presume to understand that his newfound wealth has been a result of mines in America.” I thought again of the strange creamy white gold and oddly coloured jewels that resided in the velvet pouch in my bedcamber. “Gold mines, if I am not mistaken. Is that so?”
“He has found wealth in America,” she said quietly.
“So,” I said, hoping that I did not inquire too clumsily into this rather personal business, “how did he acquire such opportunities? Did he buy a teat off that Golden Calf? What has he traded for such wealth?”
Virginia was quiet a very long time. “Something not so near and dear to his heart as gold,” she said, her long fair hair blowing around her like an aureola.
“I see,” I said, not at all seeing what she meant.
Virginia continued to gaze at the plundered earth with its open wounds of blasted turf and rent rock. There was a wrathfulness in her countenance. Combined with her beauty, it made her appear like an avenging angel.
“What a creature Man is,” she said. “When Man looks upon something, he must either control it or destroy it. Whether it be animals or land or Woman, he must control or destroy it. But soon there will come things that Man cannot control; things which he will despair of ever destroying. It will be as a new hell for Man, then; one that Man will not be capable of reconciling himself with, but like a fly against a window pane he will slam himself again and again in the futile effort to break free. Whereas Woman…well, Woman has learned to deal with such hells since her creation and will, through her strength, endure yet another glass cage no different than the one before.”
She trembled as she spoke, but whether wroth or ill I could not tell. I know now that her tremors were born of simultaneous sources.
“Are you well, Virginia?” I asked, touching her wrist.
She drew away from me, and there came a momentary flare of hatred in her eyes. But she shook her head and sighed. “I am sorry, Robert,” she said, warily. “It has been a long walk and I should like to return to the cottage.”
“As you wish,” I said. “Let us go.”
We returned to the village. Charlotte, Emily, and Anne were in the field, affecting to pick flowers. When I approached the three sisters, only Anne and Emily hailed us. Charlotte turned away, as if lost in her own thoughts.
“It is good to see you out of bed, sir,” Anne said. She eyed Virginia with a sidelong glance that I disliked. “And our one and only patient is doing well, too, it seems.”
“Yes,” I said, “though the ruffian I dispatched last night merely had her in his grasp.”
The sisters’ demeanors changed upon the instant from smoldering resentment to startled apoplexy.
“Indeed, Dr. Grace?!” Emily said, her mouth a moue of surprise. “What happened?”
“It does not matter,” I said, wanting to spare Virginia the recollection. “It is enough to know that I have slain the deluded fool with his own blade. Now you no longer need fear any trespassers.”
The revelation overawed the three sisters and I, to my great shame, took pride in being a hero of my own story, especially since it involved saving the life of the beautiful Virginia Worthington. I exulted in it, truly, and blinded myself to my own folly.
I sent the three sisters home early once again, after they had made an early supper for Virginia, and then I set myself down to the tavern once again, hoping to speak to George about last night’s bloody business. In truth, I wanted to regale the Cornish men— to whom I was considered little more than a London dandy— with my heroic encounter with violence the night before.

***

As Fate would have it, I would not be able to confer upon the Cornish flock my grand tale of valor. Instead, I greeted George at the bar to order another modest meal of mutton and potatoes and was served, instead, with a sobering bit of news.
“Dr. Grace,” he said, “I received a letter today from a lad working a merchant ship. We were to deliver it to you at once, but your midwives said you were resting. Later, they said you had gone for a stroll. I am sorry for the tardiness of its delivery, but here it is, swift as bad luck could have it.”
He handed to me an envelope with William’s seal upon it. I sat down, then, next to a candle and opened the letter, reading its contents. It had not been written by William, nor did it claim to be. Rather, it was written by the captain of his trade ship. It reported—in a succinct, clinical hand—that William had taken his own life in the captain’s quarters. My childhood friend left no testimony behind, and gave no forewarning to his self-destructive state of mind. The captain had sent the letter ashore with the lad and then continued North, having too much cargo to tarry for formalities. Since I was Virginia’s caretaker it was incumbent upon me to inform her of the tragedy. In the meantime, the captain would oversee William’s trade ventures, as had been a contractual stipulation previously agreed upon in the event of misfortune.
I was shocked. William had been a lifelong friend, and now his life was at an end. Simultaneously, I felt a quickening rush of relief and, moreover, joy. Virginia was now a widow, and as such was available to court. True, there had to be a sufficient period of mourning, but afterwards she would yet remain in my care and, so, be free to wed me as she undoubtedly desired. Yes, fool as I was— and, moreover, a repugnant opportunist, it seemed—I had no doubts as to her attachment to me; no more doubts than as to my attachment to her.
I thanked George and left the tavern, walking uphill toward the seaside moor. The moon was full as I approached Virginia’s cottage. I rapped at the door once, and it at once opened.
“Robert?” she said. “Is something the matter?”
“I am afraid so,” I said, affecting proper solemnity for the message. “Please, be seated. This will come as quite the shock.”
She did not sit, but stood by the window, turning away from me. Her petticoats seemed swollen with an errant wind through the window. She did not turn away from the window, but stared out at sea. I wondered, perhaps, if she was looking for William somewhere beyond the horizon, or if she was looking for something else.
“I have terrible news,” I said.
“Did William kill an Albatross?” she asked, her voice flippant.
“No,” I said. “It saddens me to say it, but it appears he has…taken his own life.”
I expected female frailty, and so rushed to her should she be faint. But in the stead of a swooning woman I found an unmoved statue of icy scorn.
“A coward’s end, then,” she remarked. “I knew he had not the stomach to endure what he had begotten upon the world. Begotten with his scheming and conniving. How ironic that I should have the stomach to see it through to the end.” She turned away from the window, then, and I saw how beautifully icy her blue eyes were. “Tell me, doctor, since you have the privilege of being both a man and a doctor that treats women, what do you think of that trite epithet, ‘the fairer sex’?”
I knew not how to answer her, for I knew not the purpose in such a question. Before I could stammer a response, she took my hand and led me toward her bed. The lunar luminescence of her face outshone the moon itself, her skin seemingly glowing in the shadows.
“I am ready for another treatment, Robert,” she said. “For I wish to be reminded of how a woman should feel before it is too late to feel anything human. But I do not want you to treat me as you would any other patient. I do not wish for you to treat me as a doctor should. Rather, I want you to rut upon me as a man would a woman, naturally, without these pretenses of Medicine. Be as a beast upon me, and let me be as a beast upon you.”
Whether it was dread or exultation that silenced me, I do not know. But I did as she commanded.
She undid her petticoats and stepped out from that frilled garment, slick with her nudity. Her belly was protuberant and hung upon her solidly, and yet it did not repulse me. Her breasts, too, were swollen, and her nipples dark and engorged, the tips damp already with excited milk. I will not omit that I did take her, then, as she wished it, and she took me, in turns, straddling me as her milk trickled upon me. The excitement I felt was as a new awakening, very much akin to those that I gave to my patients in the clinic. For who was I to fool myself into believing that what I practiced was clinical medicine? What I did for my female patients was as Hedonistic as my father avowed, and was all the more therapeutic because of its Natural basis in human pleasures. It was simply animal instinct sanctified by the pretense of Medicine.
And yet, even in the euphoria of our mutual paroxysm, I felt dawn a fear akin to religious terror. As my hands cupped her breasts and I gazed up at her, I saw the climactic triumph in her eyes, and yet I was drawn in my attentions to the rotund swell of her belly and the strange, overabundant movement that writhed there, deep in the mysterious womb of Woman.

***

What was it that lured my heart to these iniquities? Idleness, perhaps, and indolence, too. Perhaps it was the idle hours that tempted my mind ever toward my singular patient. Singular, also, was the vice, for had I more patients in my care such fixations would not have diverted and vexed me so strongly within the lecherous lap of so much leisure. Indeed, idle hands are the devil’s playthings, and I had idle hands in want of work. Wanting work, I exercised them, and my heart, upon the newly widowed Virginia Worthington. It was a passionate, shameless enterprise.
We dropped all pretenses as to doctor and patient. Instead, the treatment cottage became as a rutting grot of amorous delights. The sisters inquired after us only once, happening upon us in our mutual pleasures, and they fled in appalled fright. This encroachment only catalyzed our passions. Seeing Charlotte’s heart break awoke in me a Sadist I had never known. This demonic twin reveled in debauchery and its gremlin familiar, gossip.
Again and again Virginia and I sought each other’s flesh. Moreover, we walked like husband and wife through town. The Cornish people were aghast at our impropriety. Yet, it delighted us to no end. We relished our shared flesh and shared sin. We took our supper in the tavern, much to George’s horror, and that he did not refuse my coin only made it the more enjoyable experience. For weeks we cleaved to one another. It was not Love, nor was it wholly Lust. Indeed, it was more of an act of ruination upon society, and civilization. Like animals we were, slighting the conventions of modern civilization by savaging ourselves with every bedroom taboo that willed itself upon us in our ardour. We were as unashamed as Adam and Eve, and as corrupt as the Serpent, yet no one dared to burn our Garden down.
But a certain melancholia would clutch Virginia intermittently, like a hawk upon a hare, and she would turn wan and swoon away after the paroxysms had at last left her. In these moments of lethargy she would beg me, with a wanton’s sincerity, to end her life.
“You do not know the agonies I know,” she said. “You do not know the horrors visited upon me by the shadows of this world.”
I explained to her the absurdity of this fixation and vowed that I was forbidden from harming another. I had taken the Hippocratic oath, and the first vow was to do no harm. Yet, even then I knew I was deluding myself. By refusing to end her life, and thus aborting the creature growing within her womb, I had done unto the world a greater harm beyond all reckoning.
Gradually, Virginia’s belly swelled all the more with child, and yet my desire for her only increased. My mind turned ever toward her, even as I slept at night, lost in the nightmares that visited me in my vulnerable hours of sleep. I saw, yet again, the Great Flood that subsumed the continents. I stood upon the ridged spine of the earth, surrounded by endless ocean to either side. I saw the island rise with its terrible countenance. I saw the dark, indifferent eyes and the maw thrashing its ropy appendages upon the water. I saw Virginia entwined within its writhing tendrils.
When I heard her screams, I did not know if they were screams of joy or of agony. Perhaps they were both.

***

The sisters never returned to my employment. The Cornish people avoided me, except whenever wealth held sway, and even then they acknowledged me with a begrudging taciturnity. I pondered the notion of selling the cottages and taking the jewels and gold and gems that William had given me and moving inland. Thinking it would please Virginia, I told her of my plans while abed in the aftermath of our passions. Contrary to my expectations, she succumbed to a rage.
“And I suppose you think I will leave with you?!” she cried. “You suppose you and I will live happily ever after, growing old together like true loves in a ridiculous French novel? That is absurd, Robert, and you know it!”
“What is errant in the idea?” I demanded, becoming angry. “Do you not wish to escape to some private place where we might live in happiness? An estate in the country, perhaps? Or do you wish to return to London? I would be willing to live in London, but you must know that there will be gossip. Gossip of which we would be powerless to silence.”
She sat up in bed, her belly swollen to a full rotundness and her breasts almost always trickling milk now— so much so that it ruined the sheets, though I had long foregone frets upon such things. Even the unnatural writhing of her womb did not give me pause or halt my breath with terror. She looked upon me with her blue-eyed scorn, and it both withered me and excited me. I loved when she so loathed me with a single look.
“Powerless?” she said, her hysteria taking hold of her. “Powerless? Is that what you fear? Well, perhaps you should. Man has never known the powerlessness inherent in being born Woman. Man does not know the rough indifference of a rutting beast mounting him against his protestations, being taken body and soul by the indifferent whim of another. But he will know it. That time will come soon enough.”
“I only wish that we live as husband and wife,” I said, feeling an angry possessiveness overtake me. Her hysterical fits always provoked me, for I still understood little of their nature. “I am your doctor, after all, and I know what is best for you.”
She stood up, quivering with rage. She did not bother to don her clothes, but left her cottage without clothes or shame. I hastened to clothe myself and follow her, lest great anger would lead to great folly.
There were no sane men or women out of doors that night in Cornwall. A tempest was blowing in upon the Celtic Sea, like a raging dragon crashing aground in its wrath. The sea-borne gales blew and bellowed, as if the Atlantic itself was warring with the continents. I could not walk long without nearly toppling over with their belligerent wails. It was a black night illuminated only in flashes of lightning. All was hidden and revealed in spasmodic intervals, light and darkness frenetic in their struggle. Fearing that Virginia would lose herself in such a night, I called for her and hastened my own tentative tread, all the while frightened of the treacherous cliffs that dropped dizzily toward the throe-thrown sea.
I found Virginia soon enough. She swayed at the edge of the cliff. Jagged rocks gaped like a maw below her, as if she was a worm upon a hook. I called to her, pleading that she come away from that airy threshold. The winds howled in elemental rage, and the lightning flashed.
“I will never be powerless again!” she screamed beneath the tumult of the winds. “Neither Man nor God nor Devil will own me!”
I pleaded with her to step away from the cliff. I begged and shouted and sobbed for her return.
“If I am to die,” she cried, “then I shall decide when and how! No Man or Devil or God will decide it so! Only myself! I was not allowed to choose my life, but I will choose my death! I will have autonomy with my final breath!”
“Virginia!” I shouted, rushing toward her.
A wink of darkness and then a flash of lightning and she was no longer upon the cliff. I ran to the place of her disappearance and gazed down below at the terrible crags. There, sprawled limply, as if she had only recently been treated by hysterical paroxysm, Virginia Worthington lay broken and bloodied upon the teeth of the sea. I stared on in horror as the rain fell. Lightning flashed and crackled in triumph, its epileptic illumination brightening her body. I saw, then, that her belly undulated as if in unnatural contractions. Uncertain of my own eyes, I watched as there expelled from her body a mass neither human nor animal. It glistened, as if with scales, and crawled in agony with webbed fingers and coiling tendrils. Soon it slipped into the crashing surf and was carried out to the depths as if within a foamy cradle. Another flash and my eyes beheld something gigantic within the sea; something my mind could not comprehend and so merely blurred its form with a rush of panic. I staggered back from the cliff and ran headlong down the hill toward the village; toward any manmade dwelling wherein I could escape that terrible image and the maddening elements.

***

I proposed to Charlotte the next day, bitter with tears and fears and steeped in my own folly. She was repulsed and she vehemently declined my offer. In time she would marry a Cornish tradesman of relatively good financial standing and has never answered any of the letters I have sent her, nor have her sisters answered to my ink. Unable to abide the sea since that tragic night, I moved further inland, relocating to London. I never married and instead directed my life to plying my profession. I was therefore separate from Woman even as I treated Woman for her hysterical maladies. I became as a device used to exorcize excessive sexual retention. I later read the works of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung and the other psychoanalysts who pioneered the strange realm of Woman in all of its exotic terrors. It elucidated no more for me than the anatomical reactions evident in my patients. But perhaps it was willful misunderstanding on my part that led me to my continuing mystification in that realm. To dare true enlightenment seemed to me to be not unlike flinging myself from a cliff headlong into unknown crags and indifferent tides. Woman’s sexuality is as frightening, if not more so, than anything else the Sciences might reveal. Indeed, I thought of Freud as some pagan shaman summoning disturbing creatures from the depths of the psyche, and so, after a time, cloyed of his works, turning my attention solely to the pragmatic applications of my profession rather than extrapolating an overarching theory or revelations from collated findings. The latter was the road to madness, I realized, as was any memory associated with Virginia.
I still read literature from women in the East. Despite the insistence by so many in the West that they were barbarians, I could not help admiring their honesty and the pure, personal romanticism of their stories. It seemed to me that their view on Woman’s sexuality was both healthy and practical. Indeed, I never read once a translation indicating that they ever suffered from hysteria. Then again, had such a perspective been adopted by the West I would not have had a vocation nor have been steeped as I was in such lucrative petticoats.
Yet, as all things do, even this vocation came to an end. Nor did it end from retirement or the needfulness of my wanting health. In truth, I could have retired when returning from Cornwall, such were my finances. Yet, I remained devoted to Medicine because it gave to me a sense of purpose, and justified contact with Woman. And I walways wished to be of service to the fairer sex. It eased my soul knowing I helped Woman after Woman died birthing me.
But then a day came when a nervous husband brought his wife to the clinic, seeking la titillation du clitoris. She was no beauty, nor was she homely, yet there was in her complexion a familiar luminescence that staggered me with its lambency. I treated her for her catatonia, with some effort, and wished to think her glow an illusion of my failing eyes. Then came another woman, escorted to my clinic while suffering the same stupor and lunar luminescence. And another. And yet another. With each new patient my health waned and my mind became haunted with the same images that rose again and again within the realm of sleep. At last I could suffer it no longer and told these distraught husbands to bring their wives to someone else. I did not care whom, even if Dr. Severan was still practicing his butchery. I would have no part in it, either way. I merely wanted peace and solitude away from Man, Woman, God, Devil, and Sea.
And so now, as Death readies himself for his final visit, I only wish to unburden myself of what I have come to know, and what is soon to come. I do not believe the tide can be turned about, nor the infestation stymied. There is no cure for the Wandering Womb.

Hysteria (Part One)

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“Then when Lust has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and when sin is accomplished it bring forth death.” (James 1:14)

Testimonial of Dr. Robert Grace. March 8th, 1908

The tired adage stating that youth is impulsive and lacks discretion is, I have found, contrary to reality insomuch as material gain is concerned, and indeed, youth restrains itself in matters potentially detrimental to an enterprise if the consequences are sufficient to foil the ambitions therein proffered. This is why I have, to my great shame, kept this abominable secret hidden for decades, clutching its monstrous revelations to my bosom until old age has rendered all other considerations irrelevant as I stand eye to eye with Death at long last. Having retired from my medical practice, I need not fear the incredulity which this account will invariably afford and which, regardless of the solemnity with which it is presented, will lend ridicule unto my previous practice and, ultimately, discredit my woefully sound mind. And I assure you my mind is sound. It is the world that is mad, though I fear it is too late to rectify it in any meaningful manner.
The Worthington family had always prided themselves on their breeding. All the English gentry do, of course, but the Worthingtons have always been of extraordinary descent. As a consequence, their long line practiced rigorous exclusivity of admittance until its final termination. When considering, then, the privilege of my family’s acquaintance with their illustrious family, I must admit privilege of social acquaintance. Not all can claim a social circle boasting their radius. Indeed, Johnathan Worthington employed my father as his physician throughout the entirety of his long life, as did his father my grandfather, and so our families had been allies against sickness for generations. Naturally, his son William had sought my medical advice concerning his wife and her illness those many decades ago. Of course, I must state that he had not sought my advice in the past, for I was not considered as respectable in my medical practice as my father and grandfather were, for I was a doctor that even they thought of dismissively, and, indeed, they so vehemently opposed in my chosen field of study that my father refused to speak to me even unto his death. I suppose it is ironic, then, that I feared so much the reification of medical business since it was, in the eyes of most British citizenry, a farcical field of medicine, even if it was lucrative.
I was, in short, a doctor dedicated to treating hysteria in women.
As I stated, it was very lucrative and I soon established myself in a rather large clinic in a seaside village in beautiful Cornwall. This clinic was more of a rambling assortment of thatch-and-stone cottages built long before my arrival. Using the money I acquired in London from my burgeoning practice, I moved thereto and renovated and repurposed those buildings. They were inexpensive to purchase, when compared to similar dwellings on the rural outskirts of London, and so I gladly claimed them.
Since we were so far South on the tip of Britain, many of our patients came and stayed with us for months. Their stay benefitted them not only with treatments, but with scenery and the fresh seaside air. Wealthy widows even wintered there, so greatly did the la titillation improve their physical and spiritual health during those frigid, snowy months. I was delighted by my work, of course, not withstanding the drudgery of it, and I particularly enjoyed seeing the betterment of my patients, which was ofttimes amply evident within the first treatment. Japes and snide remarks aside, I was very contented in that seaside village and would, in my free hours, go walking about the beaches and moors for exercise and to clear my mind. My life seemed idyllic, insomuch as a mortal man’s might be.
I was enjoying one such walk when I saw a ship with a familiar flag gently rocking toward the narrow beach. It dropped anchor soon enough and a small boat cast off from its bosom, carrying three figures which I could not discern at the distance. They rowed toward the beach up from which the seaside village was strewn among its shrub greenery, shouldered on either side by the rising hills. Realizing that the flag belonged to none other than the Worthington family, I set off at once downhill, hurrying through the winding streets of the village and down onto the beach. My attentions were rewarded by the grave smile of my childhood friend, William, as he and a servant unloaded the boat of its belongings, including his beautiful, yet strangely catatonic, wife, Virginia.
I hailed him and immediately lent my assistance in unburdening the small craft. We spoke as we carried the luggage ashore.
“This is fortuitous, Will,” I said, “to be here to greet you upon your arrival.”
“Fortuitous, indeed,” he replied, “even if in unfortunate circumstances.”
“What ails?” I asked, unable to prevent my eyes from wandering to his unresponsive wife. “Does the trade go well in the Americas?”
“Very well,” William said. “Dickens was wise to milk the Golden Calf. Following his example, I have gold enough now to profit in even a back-alley enterprise.”
“Does the Gold Rush persist, then?” I asked, having read in a newspaper an article chronicling the American obsession with gold in California. They swarmed that region, it seemed, like ants to honey, and many found themselves therein stuck.
“It is a Gold Rush of a different kind,” he said, bleakly, “and of a different coast. But, yes, I have struck gold, so to speak, and the enterprise turns more profit than I could dare dream of. Yet, I did not come to Cornwall to speak of base material things. Rather, I came to seek your assistance in a personal matter.”
“I shall help in any way I may,” I said.
“I hope so,” he said.
We had finished unloading the boat, except for its silent passenger.
William climbed aboard and gently raised his wife to her feet, guiding her from the boat as the servant and I steadied the boat athwart the puckish waves of the sea. The married couple stepped down onto the sand and William held his wife’s unfeeling hand. He turned to me.
“My wife, Virginia, is stricken with some unknown malady. I have gone to every creditable London doctor I could find, yet none prevailed in effecting a cure. Remembering your modest clinic here, at the tip of England, I thought it wise to seek your aid.”
“Perhaps you ought to have taken her to the Ivory Coast,” I jested. “My practice is in such ill repute that witch doctors are said to offer better counsel.”
William did not laugh, nor even smile. I realized, for the first time, that my friend was considerably pale and gaunt. I attributed this, at the time, to sea sickness. Yet, even so, I could not help but notice how ashen his face was and how hollow his eyes. Even his mustache was grayed, as if he had aged ten years in the two since I had last spoken to him. Moreover, he was balding, the spate of his head opening like the tonsure of a monk. His remaining brown hair had lost its composure and seemed to be unraveling in the Atlantic wind.
His wife, too, was pale, but it seemed that she was so pale that she had a glow about her, not unlike the Cornwall moon as it steered close to the Celtic Sea. What her blue eyes saw, in their vacant expression, I could not guess, but it was not the cliff-walled coastline or the green hills or the sloped beach, nor any personage within her immediate scope.
“Come,” I said. “Let me take you to my clinic. If your manservant will remain, I will send some of my employees down to help fetch the luggage.”
“Excellent idea,” William said.
We walked up the shore, its sand gradually giving way to shingle and rock and finally scrab grass, then to the heath that covered most of the hills and moors with its gorse and flowers. I was anxious that I take my friend and his wife to one of my cottages as quickly as possible. I feared they might require rest, for they both appeared so sickly. I obliged Mrs. Worthington, and William, in aiding her in the ascent to the village, thus unburdening one sickly personage of another. Contrary to her vacant expression and ill pallor, I could feel warmth emanating from Mrs. Worthington where I had expected to discover pneumatic clamminess. Indeed, the glow upon her was as much a trick of sensation as much as of light. Women often complained of being chilled, often owing to their fairer natures, yet I had known during the course of administering treatments that a woman’s temperature could easily rise to such ferocities as any overworked farmer in his field. And so it seemed now that Mrs. Worthington was ever in such a heat as those goatish labourers.
“I fear it will rain soon,” I said. “But that is bound to happen in Cornwall at some time or other.”
As expected, Mrs. Worthington said nothing in reply, her emptied eyes surveying the cobbled streets and cottages with as much recognition as they did the seaside cliffs. William, on the other hand, seemed to grow anxious.
“I fear a squall is to come,” he said. Then, more to himself than to me, he muttered, “It will likely chase us toward America once again. Or will it remain here in Cornwall? It knows all. Of course it will remain.”
Before I could inquire as to his particular reference, I saw three of my midwives carrying various supplies back to the house. They had went to see the baker, the butcher, and the local farmers. A consequence of so many boarders was a great need of food. Being that my patients paid well for their stay, I always granted my diligent employees the liberties of indulging in victuals if they were so compelled and the prices were reasonable. Since I deferred to their womanly instinct for fair prices, I had saved tremendously in terms of scatch-of-straw savings, and it inspirited them with affable usefulness. I hailed them as we crossed paths.
“Emily, Charlotte, Ann. If you are not otherwise preoccupied, please deliver what you must to the clinic and then hasten to the shore. There you will find a manservant with sizeable luggage in need of relocation to the unoccupied cottage.”
“Of course, Dr. Grace,” they said as one.
The three midwives curtsied and did as I bade them, joining my escort to the clinic and then returning downhill toward the shore to see to Lady Worthington’s effects.
Newly arrived at the clinic, I guided William and Lady Worthington to her personal cottage among the cluster. It was, I must say, much like the other cottages, albeit nearer to the sea cliff than the others. It was modest and cozy, warm and comfortable. There was a bed in one corner, a writing desk, various papers and a quill for inking such correspondence as might be needed, and an oil lamp. The hearth was not aflame, as it was midsummer and no want of fire was evident in the sea-blown winds. The windows were open, rather, and afforded a wonderful view of the greenish-blue hued ocean as it sang its lovely song across the moors.
“Are these accommodations adequate?” I asked.
“They are quite adequate,” William said with little more than a glance across the interior.
“Should I close the windows?” I asked. “I never know the preference of a lady, but I suppose neither do such ladies until they have been here long enough to appreciate the briny breath of the sea.”
“Opened. Closed. You are the doctor” My friend’s attitude was impatience bordering upon petulance. He seemed quite ready to leave. “I must away soon,” he said, stroking his mustache as if in vexation. “I should like to view a treatment, however, before I consign Virginia to your care.”
“As you wish,” I said. “But I must first inquire as to whether the lady has imbibed sufficiently today.”
“Water? Wine? Does it matter?” he said, growing perceivably agitated.
“Water would be preferable,” I said. “The treatment can tax a woman’s bodily fluids.”
“She has enough water in her,” William said. “Now. Please. Treat her.”
I acquiesced to his hasty request, thinking it would possibly reassure William and thus restore his health alongside his wife’s. I took him and his wife to the most isolated cottage among those I owned— my treatment cottage. By then, Anne, Charlotte, and Emily had returned and I requested that they prepare his wife. I always used this most isolated cottage for treatments because it was farthest from any neighbor whose sensibilities might be upset by the conclusion of a treatment. Indeed, one never knew how clamorous a treatment might be, especially in newly arrived patients whose reactions have not been properly gauged.
While William and I waited for the midwife to prepare his wife, I casually queried him about his wife’s condition and her former behavior prior to her current symptoms.
“Normally Virginia is a very prominent member of London society,” he said, trembling as he spoke. “She is a darling of many a drawing room and the heartbeat of every soiree she attends. I have heard many a well-bred lady remark that without Virginia in attendance a ball is a dead affair without a pulse. She has always had ample energies to pursue whatever aim was her intent, and she turned this innate vivacity toward endeavors beyond what was strictly a woman’s sphere. Often, whenever I would leave home to tend to business she would accompany me. The most recent adventure, however, brought us to America. Though it was a long, arduous journey, Virginia committed to it in earnest and soldiered through it rather impressively. But gradually the business itself debilitated her and soon she succumbed to her current quiescence. At first, it was mere ‘vapours’ and lethargy. The American doctors, while brutes in their manners, used the available London treatments as well as they could. Smelling salts. Bleedings. Opium and other various medications which I cannot recall. The same treatments achieved no better in London. Soon her fatigue gave over to malaise and then lassitude. Finally, she vacated herself and has been hollow ever since. She eats but little and does not respond to speech.”
I nodded to my friend’s concise history on his wife’s deterioration. “While some of these symptoms are certainly signposts for hysteria, I must administer a treatment and measure the results of the reaction to verify such a diagnosis.
“Thank you, Robert,” he said. “I only ask that you cure my wife, and do so with discretion.”
“Discretion is crucial, indeed,” I agreed. “In hearts, arts, and professions.”
It should be said that this cottage on the outskirts of the village was of a unique discretion in and of itself. To afford my patients privacy during our sessions the windows were covered by heavy drapes that allowed neither sunlight nor the scrutiny of curious eyes to penetrate the inner secrecy of the cottage. In place of natural light I employed candlelight which, even then, glowed in subdued illumination as Mrs. Worthington was denuded. My patients’ seemed to prefer this ambiance. It contributed positively to their therapies. Having inquired as to whether they might prefer more natural light, my patients all confirmed that the dim haloes of candlelight was more than sufficient and, verily, increased the effectiveness of their treatments. The only deviancy in fondness for this methodology was that my patients occasionally requested a nightly administration with the windows open, should the stars and the moon be bright enough in their illuminations so that the darkness not hinder my capacity to work.
The midwife aided Mrs. Worthington in donning the patient gown that all of my patients wore during their treatments. It was a thin white linen garment spun seemingly of gossamers. Its touch, I had been informed by my patients, was very pleasing and conducive to their treatment and subsequent rehabilitation.
It must be said that I often delegated the more menial labours of the treatment to the many midwives I employed. Yet, since this was my friend’s wife, and since he was present to observe the treatment, I felt it incumbent upon myself to reassure him of the treatment’s efficacy, as well as my professional pursuance of proper procedure and diligent care in regard to the patient. Thus, once Virginia had been laid comfortably upon the medical bed, I directed her legs apart and applied an olive oil from Greece—which had no known negative reactions—and, in occupational manner similar to the hundreds of other female patients I had serviced through the years, stimulated the petaled womb.
The reaction was immediate. Virginia’s breathing increased in rapidity and depth. Her eyes regained focus, her attention returning once again to her immediate surroundings and, in particular, her body. There even seemed to appear, in the corners of her lips, a smile that evoked not only presence of mind, but intense cognizance. Had I the boastfulness unknown to my character, I might have complimented myself on the change being akin to Lazarus waking from death.
Despite my attentive care and the positive reaction from Mrs. Worthingon, William turned away and refused to watch the remainder of the treatment. It upset him, I supposed, as it likely did all British husbands who viewed their wives as composed matriarchs of the household. The moans and the groans that accompanied such treatments were, for such men, irreconcilable with the notion of an angelic female presence premised to be of heavenly spheres. I had never been so susceptible to such prejudices myself, even in the beginnings of my journey into medicine. Rather, I assumed what was good for the Gander was good for the Goose, and, so, such so-called “secret pollutions” needed to be conducted so as to retain the sanity and the dignity of the matriarch in question.
At length, I brought Virginia to the culmination of her hysterical paroxysm— or as the French deem it, du titillation du clitoris—and she underwent the usual strong reaction, albeit much stronger than the usual patient. So strong were these spasms that she nearly threw herself from the bed. Anne and Charlotte had to restrain her until her gyrations and flailing subsided. When the spasms had ceased, she lay panting upon the medical bed, staring up at me with an expression of not only awareness, but of extreme gratitude.
And yet, like the tides at full moon, she gradually ebbed away, her presence retreating into.dormancy and unresponsiveness.
“It may take several treatments,” I confided to my friend.
“I suspected as much,” William said gruffly. “That is why I brought her things. She is to stay here with you while I am away in America. My business ventures are too important to neglect, even for the sake of my wife.”
William’s words seemed not only callous, but his tone was gruff and terse, as if he was suffering a moment of lockjaw. His mustache seemed to bristle with each word.
“You said you took her to several doctors?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “They tried bleeding, tonics, elixirs, laudanum, cocaine, and even sunshine. To no avail. If this…treatment…does not yield results then I shall have to seek a surgeon to exact the change. There is a surgeon in London who does such work. Dr. David Severan. Perhaps you have heard of him?”
I had indeed heard of Dr. Severan. He was a butcher of women. A savage with a knife. He believed that to cure hysteria, the female genitals needed to be removed. In particular, the clitoris. The barbarian had savaged many a lady, and yet, not surprisingly, he was held in high esteem among the medical practitioners of London, whereas I, in my minimal reputation, was largely derided as a charlatan and witch doctor. Much of this criticism seemed to me to be resentment toward not only the efficacy of my methods, but the affluence of my clinic. My patients enthusiastically endorsed my clinic among their confidential circles, so whereas my reputation was singularly repudiation among my colleagues, it burgeoned prosperously among my patients.
“It is best that you do not seek his…treatment,” I said, carefully. “Virginia has a greater chance of recovery here. More importantly, she has a greater chance of recovery intact.”
“I hope you are right,” he said. “There are some pioneers that would say that sacrifice is all that can attain certain results.”
I did not wish to imagine Virginia’s moans of relief rising to screams of agony as there passed along her womanhood not a warm, nudging hand, but a cold, cruel blade.
“Now,” William said, “your pay.”
Before I could protest, William brusquely shoved a rather hefty pouch into my hand. It was the size of a human heart and astonishingly heavy.
“It is not a conventional payment,” he told me. “But it is copious. This I assure you.” Without a further word, he headed toward the door as if he was in dire need of fresh air. He opened the door and stepped out of the dark cottage and into the blanching sunlight. His face was all sneering agony as he shielded his eyes. I followed after him, wanting to ask him a few more questions regarding Virginia’s condition.
“William!” I called. “Wait a moment!”
But by the time I had exited the cottage he had disappeared down a cobbled path around the cottages. His stride had been fiercely adamant and I had no doubt that he had heard me, but was willfully affecting ignorance. Discouraged, I let him go upon his way, turning my attention instead to the pouch still clutched in my hand. The pouch itself was of a rich velvet that glistened in the midday sun, like newly pressed veldt. Pulling at the drawstring, the pouch opened its mouth to reveal uncanny marvels and curios that astounded me. I do not write this lightly, for I had been party to many transactions that profited me greatly and which afforded me the keyhole to the vaults of some of the wealthiest Brits in the world. Yet, the contents of this pouch outshone all previous payments. There were opalescent pearls glinting within a clutter of strange green jewels neither like emeralds or diamonds, but hued as if like green ice. Looking at the former, I bethought to see bubbles frozen within that solidified liquid. Stranger than this were the ingots of gold. The ingots were strange of shape, spiraled and smooth like stems of coral, and their golden gleam was milky white, like honeyed cream rather than yellow yolk. A cursory glance revealed this, and I quickly drew the drawstring tight once again, suddenly suspecting my Cornish neighbors of covetous treachery.
Returning indoors, I found Anne and Charlotte were helping Virginia to stand from the bed. Emily was preparing Virginia’s bath. I was pleased to see some colour visible in Virginia’s face now, even in the dim candlelight, and thanked my midwives for what was, I thought to have been, an excellent treatment. This done, I went to my own private cottage to put away so much exotic wealth that had been so unceremoniously thrust into my possession.

***

After the midwives had dried and dressed Virginia, I took her to her room and sat her down on her bed.
“Rest, if you like,” I told her. “I will have Anne or Charlotte bring some food and water for you very soon. Later, you will dine with me and the rest of my patients this evening.”
Remembering William’s request for discretion, and realizing that several of my other patients were doubtlessly inclined toward gossip, I corrected my error.
“To the contrary,” I said. “Perhaps it would be best if you dined in your cottage tonight. Gossip is an infectious disease for which there is no cure.”
I turned toward the door, but heard what seemed a muttered word among the cooing wind. Glancing back to Virginia, I observed that she seemed to be watching me— that she seemed to see me for the first time— but just as soon as this recognition appeared, it left her, and what was left were the most beautiful blue eyes devoid of soul that I had ever seen.

Coming again to the treatment cottage, I overheard my midwives feeding the air with their gossip.
“And his eyes never blinked!” Anne said. “Not e’en once!”
“Aye’ and what a stink he had to ‘im,” Charlotte said. “Like a mackerel left out all day in the sun.”
“His skin was what chilled me most to me bones,” Emily remarked. “No man should glisten green in daylight like that.”
“And the bulges of his neck!” Anne remarked. “Like he swallowed a chicken halfway down and it was tryin’ to climb out!”
They giggled like silly geese, but upon my opening the door they immediately tightened their tongues and went about changing the sheets of the bed and lighting incense to cleanse the air. No amount of incense could ever cleanse air tainted by mean words, as they well knew. I had had to lecture them many times on the needful discretion of my practice. They were industrious girls, much to their credit, but I have heard that siblings have always been loose of lips amongst themselves. Being a single child I would not know from personal experience, though, as I have said, William and I were as brothers when children.
“Of whom are you speaking?” I demanded, eyeing them all in turn. “It is most uncharitable, this characterization.”
“Pardon us, Dr. Grace,” Anne said. “It’s just that we dinna’ think it nat’ral is all. That man of his.”
“Mr. Worthington?” I asked, sternly.
“No, sir!” Emily exclaimed with a rolling sigh. “We mean only his manservant. He was a strange one, if e’er there were!”
“Speak no more of it,” I said. “William has been a friend of mine since childhood. Our families have been interwoven throughout history. If he has hired a manservant of strange aspect, then it is due to the generosity of his heart, and not because of whatever it is you are implying.”
“We meant nothing scandalous, sir!” Charlotte said. “And we’re sorry to offend. It just that he seemed strange, is all.”
“Is all!” agreed Anne.
I had no informed opinion on the matter, frankly, for I paid little attention to William’s manservant. Yet, if William employed him, then he must have been a man of some integrity and virtue, therefore I would not have him bandied about by the vicious winds of womanly gossip.
“Charlotte,” I said. “Prepare some small meal for Mrs. Worthington. Cheese and bread and some vegetables, perhaps. And bring her water. I doubt she has had enough liquids to compensate for the treatment.”
Charlotte curtsied and went to see to Virginia. Anne and Emily remained behind, preparing the treatment cottage for the next patient.

***

That evening was windy and warm and so I suspected a storm later in the night. Presently, I had already taken my seat at the dinner table and Anne and Charlotte were serving the food they had prepared. It is something to be said that while my midwives suffered from a vice of chattiness, they were possessed of other virtues that distinguished them brightly from the normal rabble of Cornish laymen. They were as diligent as the others, but they also knew how to please women of higher rank, whether it was their talents for cooking, their deferential manners, or their adroitness in applying my techniques during therapy sessions. Much to my satisfaction, there were some patients that preferred Anne, Emily, or Charlotte to administer their treatments. Charlotte, being the most youthful of expression—as well as years—and the prettiest among the three sisters, was a particular favorite among these discerning patients. I often compensated the three of them in generous measure, which assured their continued service to my clinic.
I had, at that time, four patients in my keeping, including Mrs. Worthington. Three of them joined me for dinner, whereas I sent Charlotte to bring Virginia’s dinner to her cottage and remain there, feeding her as much as she might. Earlier, when she had brought that poor woman’s food and water she said that the unfortunate patient had not eaten much, though she had drank when the cup was proffered to her lips. Her appetite was, thus, wanting.
It was, therefore, a great surprise when— as my three patients and I began our supper—that we heard a door open and the hurried rush of steps into the dining room. There appeared Charlotte, looking flustered. Behind her, Virginia followed, stepping in from the threshold’s shadows.
“Mrs. Worthington is feeling much better,” Charlotte said by way of explanation, “and should like to join you for dinner.”
“Excellent!” I nearly cried, rising from the table in my eagerness to make measure of her transformation. “Excellent! Prepare for her a place at the table at once!”
Charlotte guided Virginia to an open place at the table, next to the Widow Carter and across from Lady Falswell. I watched Virginia take her seat, studying her with a doctor’s meticulous eye. There had indeed been a remarkable transformation in her presence. Her walk, her gaze, her every movement was marked with cognizant deliberation. No longer was she an empty doll guided about by a changing escort; now she was inhabiting herself with volition and intention. It was marvelous and gratifying to me as both a doctor and as the lifelong friend of her husband.
Yet, there seemed to be in Mrs. Worthington a certain presence of self that was out of measure with the modest reserve of most women of her rank. How can I circumscribe my meaning when it is, by its very nature, beyond articulation by either word or image? She seemed a wine goblet brimming overmuch. She was a pagan vision. Her fair hair was loose upon her shoulders, unkempt like a farmer’s daughter, and she wore only a simple gown that belied her husband’s apparent fortune. While Mrs. Carter and Ms. Atwood tolerated Mrs. Worthington’s remiss sense of etiquette, Lady Falswell was quite obviously displeased, for not only had she gone through great strains to prepare herself for dinner, but having gone through such great strains proved futile in the struggle with Virginia’s natural beauty, however slovenly and negligent in aspect and presentation.
“Mrs. Worthington,” I said, resuming my seat, “it is a delight to see such a stark change. And after your first treatment!”
“It is as if I have woken from a dream,” she said, her voice a husky cadence that was not at all displeasing. It reminded me of an opera singer I had once heard in London whose notes did not so much twitter, but bloomed resonant and full in the ear.
“We must talk about it at length after dinner,” I said, “if it is not too taxing on you.”
“Of course,” she said, “but I doubt much revelation will come of it. I remember little after arriving in America. It seems like ages ago, and, if not for your kind Charlotte, I would have likely suffered an acute attack of the nerves upon coming to myself.”
Charlotte had, at the moment, been laying Mrs. Worthington’s plate before her, and she smiled obligingly. I resolved in that moment that I should increase Charlotte’s wages. I paid all three sisters well for their work, but I knew, by light of Virginia’s praise, that they deserved yet more than had been their recompense.
“It is no wonder your nerves should suffer,” Mrs. Carter remarked. “Such far travel would wreck my soul. Why, my journey from London nearly jostled me unto a frayed spool. I liked to have thought my seams had come undone! I could only imagine the hourly frights upon a vessel tossed by the capricious sea.”
“It was a frightening journey,” Virginia said. “We had thought ourselves taken by storms on more than one occasion. That we do not people the bottom of the sea is a miracle, I suppose.”
“I would have rather sunk to the bottom of the sea,” Mrs. Falswell opined, “than set foot in that barbarian land of Yankees. Who knows what setting foot upon such a savage shore could do to your soul? Would very likely work an uncouthness upon you and render you a savage yourself.” She eyed Mrs. Worthington’s long hair and minimal dress as she thus spoke. As tight as Mrs. Falswell’s braids were— pulling her high forehead yet higher—her frown was yet tighter with displeasure and disapproval.
“Pardon my saying so,” Virginia said casually, “but however uncouth I might be, I certainly know the etiquette of prayer and its preference to pugnacity. Indeed, it is particularly important at the dinner table where we have spread before us so much for which we should show our appreciation. Even the barbarians of America enjoy this insight.”
“And how do you pray, Mrs. Worthington?” Mrs. Falwell said, her scorn as evident as the wrinkles ringing her eyes.
“In like manner to yourself,” Virginia said. “As you pray in your innermost heart while having your treatments. For that is why you are here, too, is it not? Because you cannot pray. Because the thrill of speaking your Lord’s name in Church is not half so exuberant as when your loins are being manipulated . How many times do you call your god then? I should think the quantity of invocation and the quality are drastically superior in one situation rather than the other.”
Mrs. Falswell blushed deeply, her mouth and eyes gaping as if struck dumb. She balefully eyed Virginia throughout the remainder of dinner. Mrs. Carter and Ms. Atwood remained silent also, their eyes affixed sheepishly to their plates as they ate, daring not even a wayward glance in Virginia’s direction. As a doctor I was mortified to witness so much strife and trauma among my patients, but as a man I was so taken with Virginia’s refreshing candour that I could not but exhilarate in the combative exchange. It was quite promising, if not invigorating.

***

After dinner, the patients retired to their cottages. I took it upon myself to personally escort Mrs. Worthington to her cottage so that I might ensure that her recovery was lasting. I would have been aghast had she fell to a swoon as the rest of us blithely retired to bed, leaving the poor woman abandoned to the elements. The sun had nearly sunk into the sea and the moon rode high, proclaiming its dominion in the darkening sky. A ring around the moon prophesied rain.
“I enjoy nightly walks,” Virginia remarked. “Often I will take several turns about the courtyard when at home. Alone. Beneath the starry vaults of heaven.”
“Oh yes,” I said, remembering fondly the courtyard at the Worthington estate. William and I had learned archery within its columns “It is a lovely expanse of gardens.”
“Indeed,” she said. “Ideal for solitary moonlit walks.”
“I would suggest not taking such moonlit walks here,” I said. “For the land and the sea become as bandits at night, laying in wait to ambush any unwary perambulator. They can easily trick the eye, given sufficient shadows. The cliffs are particularly treacherous. There was a boy who went running out at night to seek an escaped goat, and the misbegotten venture resulted in tragedy. He fell from one of the highest cliffs. It took days before the family found his body.”
“A tragedy, surely,” Virginia said, “but I wonder if the boy did not feel like he was flying in that fleeting moment of suspension. Had he no point of reference, it must have been as if he had been taken suddenly from the ground and ascended into the dark chasm of night. That would have been a strange thrill. Do you not think so?”
“A thrill, perhaps,” I allowed, “until the fall reached its conclusion.”
“Yes, but the death must have been upon the instant, which means there was no lingering life with which agony might rake its talons. Pure oblivion ensued. He was freed from the suffering of this world at the moment of contact with the ground, like a sleeper upon a pillow. It is similar to your treatments, I should think, or so near as my limited knowledge might compare. There is an acute acceleration of sensation, culminating in a terminal catharsis, and then an obliterating cessation of all residual life. What remains is a hollow husk freed from its own nerves.”
“There is no thrill in plummeting to one’s death,” I said firmly, even as I admired Virginia’s eloquence. “Nor was it a ‘thrill’ for his parents to have to fetch his remains upon the shoreline and bury him in his terrible state.”
“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Worthington said. “As you say. But it cannot be denied that there is pleasure in it. Much more pleasure than in living a full life as someone else’s resource and means. And after oblivion…well, who knows? A new life? The afterlife? Is that where I am now? This afterlife without William or his infernal machinations…”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Of course not,” she said. “You are of Man. I am of Woman. It is impossible for you to understand.”
“And what of the consequences?” I pressed on. “The boy is dead. The family grieves.”
“Are you saying my husband will grieve me because of these treatments? Does the worm mourn the apple?”
“Your metaphors are too enigmatic for me,” I confessed.
“What I will say,” she said, pausing at her cottage door, “and what will become more apparent as weeks pass and you achieve a certain clarity— and a certain prominence, as will I— is that the consequences of doing what one likes and doing what someone else likes are drastically different. But I suppose if I had done what I preferred, I would have never married William, and thus would never have been at the mercy of what he most wanted.”
This riddle given, Mrs. Worthington bid me good night and retired to her cottage. The admission shames me, but I lingered by her door for some time before finally retiring to my own bed. That night I could see nothing in my dreams but her bright blue eyes.

***

The coming days were filled with treatments. All four of my patients prospered. In particular, Mrs. Worthington improved considerably, though there were times when she seemed quite listless and I found her standing near the cliffs, gazing vacantly out to sea. She remained pale, and retained what I deemed to be her “lunar luminescence”, even when flush with her treatments. Occasionally, I had to employ the midwives in keeping Mrs. Worthington and Lady Falswell apart, for any interactions between the two would unerringly result in conflict. Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Atwood found no fault in Mrs. Worthington, but I did notice their reluctance to converse with her. I attributed this to Mrs. Worthington’s general aloofness, and occasional forthrightness.
The other patients never deigned to dine with me again, not so long as Virginia was afforded a place at the table. I could not understand it well, then, and dimissed it as feminine envy since she was the prettiest among all of the patients. Indeed, at times I wondered if she was not the prettiest woman in all of Cornwall. My present opinion on the matter, however, is that the other patients, being women, understood more keenly than I could what was so terribly wrong with Virginia, and so they shunned her; not in protest to her presence, but in abhorrence to her presence. Virginia seemed to take pleasure in the abhorrence she garnered about her person, and I wondered if what she said was true or was merely to achieve such a response.
She engaged me quite willingly in conversation, which I thought only natural since I was her husband’s friend. It was pleasant to converse with her, for she was a wit, truly, and a flavourful change from the common Cornish stock. Her blue eyes were beguiling as she spoke and I found myself quite carried away by her presence and personality. She was well-read, and opinionated in a very agreeable manner, even when she was being disagreeable.
“It never ceases to amaze me,” she said quietly, after a treatment, “how jaded Man is concerning his own sexual capacities, and yet how bewildered he can be at the slightest glimpse into Woman’s capacities for carnal pleasures.”
“I am not one of those men,” I said, checking her heart rate for any stumbling rhythms. “I pride myself on my extensive library and its works by Woman.”
“Such as?” she said.
“Scheherazade’s tales captivate me,” I said, “not for their fantastical elements, but for their revelations about Woman. And, indeed, Sei Shonagon pleases me, too, with her brief confessions, as does Murasaki Shikibu’s extended tale of her beloved ‘shining lord’. To be perfectly honest, I prefer to read works written by Woman to better understand Woman and what she most cherishes. For, it seems to me, that when a writer sets pen to paper, she is sacrificing life itself— moment to moment— to impart upon a feeble sheet so easily destroyed by rain, fire, or even a careless hand, and so, knowing this, she commits her most cherished thoughts, feelings, and revelations.”
“Do you believe writing to be a means of therapy?” she asked.
“Many do,” I said. “It is how Man, and Woman, copes with chaotic life.”
“And so you would think that poetry is a rein upon the world?”
“Or upon the heart to keep it from bucking wildly.”
“From horror,” she said. It was not a question, and her tone broached no argument.

***

Unlike the other patients, Virginia took treatment every day, sometimes twice a day. Nor did she ever seem to suffer the menstruations that prevented my other patients from taking treatments every one week in four. Virginia seemed such an immaculate creature in the this regard, and in many other aspects, that I marveled that she should be so untouched by the crucibles of Womanhood.
“I would prefer you administered my treatments,” she said, her pink lips curling ever so slightly upwards. “As I do believe you would prefer it, as well.”

Not many weeks passed until, one by one, my other patients departed unexpectantly from Cornwall, claiming to have had regained themselves miraculously from their bout of hysteria. At that time I was dumbfounded as to their precipitous exodus. On the other hand, I am ashamed to confess my pride complicit in dismissing their departures as a result of my improving methodology, for I was enamored of my own skills and deluded myself with my own efficacy.
I fancied no complaint when they left. The truth was that William had given to surfeit in his payment and could have likely bought my exclusive services for years to come, and the whole village itself. This situation also allowed my total divestment of all concerns except his lovely wife. This proved both enlightening and problematic, for she was a strange creature and had notions wildly divergent from most London ladies.
And yet the storms brewed on, even in the absence of my previous patients. Soon my midwives, Charlotte, Anne, and Emily all conspired to suggest something disagreeable about Mrs. Worthington.
“There’s something strange in her airs,” Emily said to me one day, while I was overseeing their chores around the cottages, “and I donna’ mean how freely she wags her tongue. Most uppity ladies speak to impress, even if it means being salacious, but she’s not speakin’ for sake of twistin’ knickers. She jus donna’ care a’ tall!”
To my chagrin, I must admit that I was more concerned with studying the widwives at that moment than I was their insinuations. Nor was my attentiveness in any way obscene or lecherous. The truth was that I was having another epiphany concerning the world of Woman. You see, I had always suspected that the corset, and indeed all such fashion, had much to do with the “vapours” that had hitherto beset the ladies of high society. The poor never seemed to suffer these noble illnesses inherent in the female sex, or else they abided it in silence as they did all other burdens they had been born to. Perhaps, then, it had as much to do with attire as it did with gentle breeding.
“Dr. Grace?” Charlotte said.
I realized that I had been studying the unencumbered bent in her abdomen as she stooped over the wash basin and cleaned some undergarments upon the washboard. Had she a corset she would have been too constricted and breathless to perform such strenuous labours.
“I am sorry, Charlotte,” I said. “I was lost in thought.”
Emily whispered something to Anne, upon which the latter giggled. Charlotte smiled broadly at me and I could not help thinking that I was the center of some jest. But Cornish women have always been given to delighting in jests.
“Perhaps you ought to assist Charlotte in her work,” Emily said, snickering.
“Hush, Emily!” Charlotte hissed.
“Aye,” said Anne, “she is getting her dress all wet! Dr. Grace could hold back her bloom!”
Anne and Emily burst into laughter and Charlotte brightened red, swearing worse than a Yankee sailor.
“Do you need additional assistance, Charlotte?” I asked. “I could afford to hire another midwife, if necessary. Perhaps you have a cousin in need of work?”
The three sisters became silent and wide-eyed upon the instant, but soon all three gave over to laughter again, leaving me feeling quite confused. I must confess that, even now, having aged with lifelong study, Woman is an enigma beyond my understanding.
I left them to their chores, their laughter growing louder as I closed the door. I heard Charlotte swear at her two sisters, and so I lingered by the window, listening to them speak.
“We know he knows what to do already,” Emily said. “Or as much as we know what to do. Why donna’ you see if he knows the rest?”
“He’s our employer,” Charlotte said. “And it would be improper. He’s a doctor, besides, and what would he want with a low working girl like me self?”
“You are too harsh on yourself,” Anne said. “He looks on you fondly enough, I think.”
“Not so often enough now,” Charlotte said, her tone suddenly reluctant. “Not so since she arrived.”
“Ack!” retorted Emily. “She’s no matter to mind. She’s married, anyhow, and so is no fair game. The strange witch.”
“You got to make ‘im see you more, Charlotte,” Anne said. “Donna’ let ‘im forget how pretty you are, too.”
Charlotte sighed sadly. “I donna’ know how.”
At that moment I saw Virginia walking along the heath. She wore nothing but her white undergarments. They billowed about her body as the wind blew around her. She seemed to pause in her wandering, and cast a distant look at me. Divining that she wished me to accompany her, I went to her forthwith.
“A beautiful day,” I said.
“It is,” she said.
“Are you in need of a treatment today?”
“Later,” she said. “Perhaps after dinner.”
“The sisters will be too preoccupied to assist me, then,” I said.
“I do not doubt that you can handle the treatment alone,” she said. “And the truth is I would rather they not be in the room when I am receiving my treatments. That Charlotte girl carries a petulant expression throughout, and it only distracts me from enjoying the treatment.”
“If it is your request, then I will happily oblige,” I said. “As a doctor I must ensure that my patients are at ease if it is to work. I did fancy observing a reluctance in your previous treatments. If such conditions advance the efficacy, then I submit to them full heartedly.”
She looked out upon the sea, her hair fair like cirrus clouds touched by dawn. The wind caused it to stir and ripple around her, glinting in sunlight like an aureole.
“I think I am a poet,” she said. “Like Sappho, but not in her affections for her fellow Woman.”
“I deduced that from your having married William,” I said.
Her smile was thin and wry with amusement. “Nor do I speak of William, or of Man. But that is neither here nor there. Your treatments have helped me, but they will not save me. It is no matter. All true poets live short lives. Keats. Shelley. I shall live a lifetime’s worth of feeling within the span of a year.”
I did not understand what she meant, nor did she give me time enough to ponder it. She walked straight toward the cliff and I feared, momentarily, that she should fall into the sea below. I rushed to seize her, but she paused and she stood at the brink, staring out at the glimmering green-blue sea. She then recited some small fragment of poetry:
“When fruit hangs before Woman’s eyes
and a snake slithers toward her budding thighs,
the restless fangs are both sharp and sweet,
clutching forbidden fruit to eat.”
This spoken, she turned toward me. “Do you know who wrote that?” she asked, her blue eyes mirthless even while her rosebud lips smiled.
“I am unfamiliar with it,” I said.
“What do you think of it? Enlighten me as to your opinion.”
I scratched my head in a look of abject incomprehension, and she laughed.
“Did you not like it?” she pressed me.
“Oh, it has imagery,” I said. “It is just so…suggestive. I am unaccustomed to such poetry.”
“Indeed,” she said, “and to think it was composed by a woman. Who would have thought a woman could be so suggestive?”
“When was it written?” I inquired.
“Just now,” she said. “In the light of a new sun.” She smiled again, and there was a genuine sparkle of mirth in her eyes now. “Are you surprised?”
“It is quite evocative,” I said.
“No more than what you do,” she said. “And much less shameful than what most men do when they believe no one else is looking.”
Her smile disappeared and she headed toward her cottage. I tarried a moment longer, unsure how I should feel about Virginia’s “poetry”. She was a strange, marvelous creature, and reminded me of the Oriental women whose literature I had read to better understand the myriad minds of Woman. Yet, she was of decidedly British stock, replete with fair hair and blue eyes. What a strange dichotomy! She did not conform to the dominant paradigm. She was a singular variable among the great British experiment, and she fascinated my analytical mind.
This baffled me, however. Why would William abandon such a woman? I gazed out upon the vast sea and wondered where on earth he might have been and what was so urgent that he was forced to put the Atlantic between himself and his intriguing wife?
I was turning away from the cliff when my eye chanced upon something unusual in the sea. Even in the warm Summer air I felt a chill take hold in my bones. Momentarily, my heart seized upon itself. Squinting, I peered down at the rippling green expanse, attempting to discern what had so unsettled me. Seastacks rose from among tossing waves like the granite pillars of some forgotten kingdom. As my eyes lingered upon them I thought I beheld a great appendage encircling one of the rock pillars. It was in semblance similar to the boneless limb of a Kraken or some other infernal creature of the depths. The entwining limb had to be massive, for the seastack it encoiled was of a titan’s height.
Fearing for my sanity, I rubbed my eyes forcibly to clear away the ostensible illusion. When I glanced again, shielding my eyes from the misleading sun, I saw but granite stone jutting as a primordial pillar—ancient, silent, and glistening with a fetid slime.

***

The Cornish village offered much of Nature’s delights, yet it was bereft of Man’s conveniences. There were no modern accommodations— no plumbing nor that fanciful novelty, electricity— yet my patients bore these comparatively barbarian conditions without complaint. As for myself, so long as I had my work, and my library, I was contented. Gladly did I enjoy Cornwall’s natural splendor as well, and the quietude offered by its walks. Walks in London had always proven stressful to me, for it was a fetid place of squalor and crowded unease among its cluttered streets. Nor did I care to happen upon colleagues, for it inevitably led to conversations that always proved contentious in spirit, even if they appeared outwardly cordial and courteous. I was, in the medical circles, something of a pariah.
Virginia’s health improved greatly in the coming weeks. I noticed that she gained a healthy fullness to her figure and her “lunar luminescence” intensified in such a complimentary way that that I doubted there was ever a debutante in soiree, ball, or court that glowed so radiantly. Her odd aloofness remained, and when she was not talking to me or being treated, she wrote copious poetry which she insisted I read. Gladly did I read her works, for they elucidated much for me upon two fronts: one as a doctor ever needing to understand his patients, and one as a man exulting in the ever-surprising mysteries of Woman’s inner depths. If only my father could have read Virginia’s poetry. It might have dissuaded him, and the rest of England, from their antiquated notions concerning female sexuality. I suspected that she wished me to somehow promote her works— perhaps with a former academic friend that I knew in London who was involved in a newspaper—but I did not think that such rapid bursts of creativity were signs of any stress deriving from sickness. Rather, Cornwall seemed to me to be the perfect location for those moody aeshetes whose genius thrived upon atmosphere.

***

It was as I was enjoying an early morning walk that I heard Emily’s scream. I rushed toward the direction of her issuance, the echoes of it deceptive in the strange acoustics of the bluff-valley Cornish coast. My sense of direction has always been wanting, but fortunately she found me and fetched me toward Mrs. Worthington’s cottage.
“It was a man peepin’ in on Mrs. Worthington!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide to the whites. “When he saw me, he went hobblin’ away! I thought him a seaman, for he limped so!”
We hurried to Virginia’s cottage, finding it absent of any suspicious men. Virginia had emerged by then, roused by the ruckus, yet she did not appear agitated. Rather, she looked almost amused.
“Virginia!” I called. “Have you been harmed?”
“Of course not, Dr. Grace,” she said, an easy smile upon her face. “The ruffian only fancied a glance, and I accommodated him.”
Emily’s astonishment gave way to fury. “A most improper vixen, you are! Where is yer sense of decency? I’ve known coquettes with better sense for modesty!”
“Emily, that is quite enough!” I said, firmly. “Return to your sisters. I am sure there are chores to be done.”
Emily did as I bid her, though she cast a dark scowl in Virginia’s direction.
“You will have to excuse Emily,” I said, turning to Virginia. “It is just that you do not seem upset about the occurrence.” Indeed, I seemed more upset than Virginia had.
“A man wanted a glimpse,” she said, casually. “Why does it matter? What is Woman’s flesh, after all, but gift to Man?”
I went to her, taking her hand and entwining her waist with my arm. I escorted her toward the treatment cottage. “I believe your sense of self-preservation has been addled,” I said. “You must take treatment.”
“As you say,” she remarked. “Perhaps that man would care for a peek into that secrecy as well.”
As we went to the treatment cottage I could not help casting my eyes about the village, the moor, the cliffs, and the sea. I saw no trace of that hobbled man that had encroached upon Virginia’s privacy, but I swore to exact punishment if I should ever spot him.
The treatment went well and Virginia’s hysteria was once again purged through my pragmatic methods. As I worked the treatment upon her, however, I could not help noticing that, beneath her treatment gown, Virginia’s belly had swollen to a pronounced protuberance. At first I mistook this protuberance for a healthy appetite. Yet, I deemed it of medical interest and so dared trespass my hand upon that swell, finding it firmer than most fatty tissues tended to be.
“Virginia,” I said, “are you with child?”
Virginia luxuriated upon the treatment bed, her eyes like the eyes of a cat having satisfied itself upon cream.
“Of course, Dr. Grace,” she said. “Why do you think William abandoned me here?”
I was taken aback, yet felt I had to reassure her to the contrary. “He has not abandoned you, Mrs. Worthington. He would not do that to his wife, or to his child.”
Virginia’s smile reigned laxly upon her face, but her blue eyes were mirthless in the candlelight. “And why, pray tell, did you conclude it to be his child?”
I was so disturbed by her question, and its implication, that I could only gawk like an imbecile. She remained upon the treatment bed, reclined gently in her self-righteous obscenity. She seemed all the more beautiful through her self-deprecation; like Aphrodite steeped in the foamy wash of her father’s loins. She savored my stunned silence for some time before speaking once again.
“I must intimate something to you,” she said. “My family has become very much like the Cornish mines they own,” she said. “Barren of yield after too many eons of mining. Do you know who I was before marrying William? My maiden name is Harlow. My family was once very prosperous here in Cornwall. But sooner or later, as all things do, it went to rot. The copper mines ceased producing and we had only our ancestral name to boast of. But since a family cannot sup on name alone, it was decided that I should marry a wealthy Londoner, and so I was spirited away to London to hunt for a husband. Your friend proved amicable, if a little trite, and I proved accommodating to his presence in the laudable circles of London, if not ingratiating. I had always possessed a natural knack for endearing myself to dull people, if need be. And so I embosomed myself in your friend’s esteem. It was more of a business transaction, our marriage, as most are, and we found it a largely agreeable arrangement. I was his guiding angel in society, and I was his mare in the breeding stables. Yet, he did not ride me so often as you might have thought. William never has been an attentive husband. Whether in society, the household, or the marriage bed. He was utterly negligent and indifferent to me. Oh, I tried to sway him, but it was for nought. Business was all that mattered to him, whether it was business in America or business in the plebeian alleyways of London.”
“You do not mean that he…?” I could not bring myself to say it.
“The business of working women has always had his heart,” she said, a wry smile upon her face. “And the truth is that though I was young when we first wed I was not so young as he often desires when he walks those dirty alleys in search of comfort. His passions are quite particular, my dear Robert.”
I wished to muster the words in defense of my friend, but Virginia’s eyes arrested me with their openness and their candour. All I could say was an offhand remark pertaining to William’s business affairs. Even as I spoke I knew it was from cowardice. I wished only to steer this conversation in some other direction; a direction of less sordid roads. Virginia, being so shrewd, and yet being quite tactful, observed and allowed this course change, though the mockery in her husky voice lost none of its sardonic edge.
“Despite William’s obsession with business,” she said. “He is not possessed of the acumen for business. His fleet of trade ships are impressive, but without cargo they were like a revered name without means: materially meaningless.”
“He eventually gained substantive trade, though,” I said. “Did he not?”
“He did,” she allowed. “Though I doubt he, as a self-proclaimed gentleman, would ever admit to trade of such a detestable nature.”
“Detestable?” I was utterly shocked. “Do you mean to imply an illegal trade? To what degree illegal?”
“To the degree of illegality as determined by most prevailing laws except, perhaps, by those of Hell.”
I could not deduce what trade she might be implying, nor could I bring myself to ask of its particulars. I could only look away from her, lest her gaze entrap me within the tethers of my own complex being.
She seemed pleased by my agitation. “Imagine the irony of seeking wealth in London only for it to bring me round again to the poverty of Cornwall. Life is a slippery staircase which you climb only to slip and fall down again. The higher you climb, the farther you fall.”
“But your husband is prospering,” I said, recalling the strange gems and jewels and gold hidden away in my bedchamber. “And he will return for you. I have known William throughout our childhood. He is the same honorable person he has always been.”
A wry smile played again upon her lips. She sat up, at last, and stretched toward me, raising her pale hand and cupping my cheek. She drew me to look at her, eye to eye; unguarded.
“You knew William when he was yet wealthy,” she said. “You did not know him wracked by financial strains. He was a different person. Or perhaps he had always been that person, but was too appeased by wealth to free his ignoble creature from its cage.”
Her hand slipped from my face, and I was ashamed to think how pleasant a thing to have it placed there once more.
“It is difficult for me to accept this characterization,” I said, with some strain to foster my thoughts as a cohesive whole.
“Of course it is,” she said, laying back once again in a suggestive sprawl upon the bed. “Every person upon this earthly sphere has a creature upon his or her peripheries, and we fight to prevent ourselves from seeing it in others lest we see it, too, within ourselves. Man and Woman rarely indulge it, but when they do it can overtake them.”
“I believe your condition has rendered you melancholic,” I said.
“No,” she said. “Only philosophic. Even you, my dear doctor, are not immune to the inheritance of Man, or his inner beast. There is a part of you, I am certain that delights in this occupation, and not solely for the sake of your patients.”
“What do you mean to imply, Mrs. Worthington?” I asked, warily.
“That you are a man of Man, and so surely take interest in Woman that is not purely of a medical nature.”
“My profession is the only Mistress I court,” I said, alarmed by Virginia’s insinuations. “She is a demanding Mistress with many faces. And as for other ‘beasts’, I am sufficient with techniques to tame them.”
“But there is no especial face among the multitude you fancy?” she said. “Is there not a young woman’s heart you have been hunting?” She smiled slyly, knowingly. “That envy-eyed Charlotte, perhaps?”
“No,” I said. “I am afraid that apart from my patients and my employees there are no women I interact with enough to intimate myself into their acquaintance without a proper distance of professionalism between us.”
“And yet women are your expertise,” she remarked with a coy smile. “And your world, it would seem.”
“True,” I said. “But of personal relationships with women, I have none. Nor have I many friends in men, either. My mother died in the birthing process, and my father considers me dead since I took up my present profession.”
She rolled to one side, luxuriating in my embarrassment.
“Is there something wrong with Cornwall that prevents you from acquiring acquaintances?”
“It is less varied in its personages than London, to be sure, but I find these seaside people to be rather agreeable. True, they lack the refinement of their city superiors, but they compensate for this with open-heartedness and serene countenances. There is nothing like hard work to inspire gratitude and joviality in life. Of course, I am sure the lovely landscape aids their moods and tempers considerably. It has bettered my own.”
She sat up and leaned forward, her hands clasped together and her elbows resting on the bedside table. I was embarrassed to find that her bosom exposed itself from within the hanging fabric of her gown, and had she not been a well-bred, innocent lady I would have presumed the display of a licentious intention. Truth be told, her coquettish smile undermined my presumptions of her innocence.
“I cannot help but think that your other patients should become smitten with you,” she said. “A handsome doctor with good breeding and ample means would be the talk of many a lady’s boudoir, and a comforting dream on the pillow of every cold marriage bed.”
I cleared my throat, and my chagrin, with a discreet cough.
“That is the rub, Mrs. Worthington,” I said, once I had cleared my throat.. “That the majority of my patients are married, or have been widowed. True, they frequent my clinic often in pursuit of my treatments, but it is purely in the intention of remedying their prevailing maladies. It is of no personal affection toward myself.”
“And so none of your clients have confessed any secret attachment in regard to your person?”
I became anxious. This was not a conversation that was appropriate for a doctor and his patient, and indeed it was unpleasant to me, as it should have been to any decent lady of breeding. Yet, Mrs. Worthington’s blue eyes sparkled with curiosity and intrigue and, despite my loathing the topic, I admitted to some repercussions from the treatments that smacked woefully of emotional attachment. Even as I was chagrined by my confession, and indeed horrified at the rupture of patient confidentiality, I was too taken by her eyes to restrain myself.
“There was a widow whose attachment to my treatment succumbed to emotional investment,” I confessed. “She was of a considerable age, but handsome enough in her own right, and not so deteriorated by age to not be a viable wife for any man seeking a wife among his peers. When she was roughly your age she had married a man of means who was of disproportionate years. Though such gossip displeases me, I must confess knowing that she had married him for his wealth and his age, thinking that the latter would grant her rapid access to the former. Yet, he lived much longer than her designs presupposed, and so by the time he had passed on, she had progressed in age to an extent that she would likely remain a widow for the remainder of her life. This did not fret her as much as spinsters half her age, for she had inherited a comfortable life with freedom to pursue any lover she desired. These lovers, however, were of the kind that knew how to hunt the societies of London, and knew how to dress down what they succeeded in trapping for themselves. Game was theirs for the taking, yet, as with real hunters, there was no pleasure to be had in it for the prey themselves.”
It shames me to admit it now, but I rather prided myself on this play of words, and particularly delighted in Mrs. Worthington’s approving giggle.
“Thus, she suffered her own form of hysteria, like so many women at her age, and found herself restless and irritable and desirous of what could not be named nor accepted in the minds of so many doctors among the Empire. She came here every two or three months, seeking treatment. Truthfully, I worried that she was spending all of her means in treating her hysteria. Then one day, after a particularly enthusiastic treatment, she begged me to marry her. This I could not do. It was inappropriate enough that she refused to allow any of the midwives to perform the ministrations, always insisting that I be personally involved in the procedure, but then she began to insist on further improprieties.”
“And what were those?” Mrs. Worthington asked, her mouth a perky moue of expectation.
I took a deep breath and silently debated whether I should indulge the account further. “She wished that I should kiss her. And touch her elsewhere, beyond the region of customary stimulation.”
Virginia’s expression was vulpine. “Such as?”
I hesitated, but her eyes, and her bosom, propelled me onward. “Her breasts,” I said. “And her anus. These things I refused, telling her that I would not mock my profession with perversions. She left the next day, sobbing, and has not returned for treatment since.”
“You sound as if in remorse,” she remarked.
“I regret only that she was a patient that needed aid,” I said, “but because of her confused emotions and personal traumas she had to forego that which rectified her illness.”
“Why do you believe she wished you to touch her breasts and anus?” Virginia asked.
To hear such words uttered by a lady like Mrs. Worthington not only baffled me, but horrified me. I immediately stammered some clinical response about a neurosis in the older woman, stating the predominat medical beliefs in regard to the breasts and the anus: that they were purely functional and of no secondary purposes— such as a means of carnal catharsis.
“You do not really believe that,” she stated, leaning away from the table and letting her gown shelter her bosom more conservatively. “Have you Men never thought to question what areas of a body pleases a Woman?”
“I only relate what I have read and implemented,” I said, deferentially.
“But you do not believe it,” she said firmly, “do you?”
I fancied a glance at the clock. “I believe it is time that I should have my tea,” I said. “If you will pardon me, Mrs. Worthington.” I stood up, bowed, and headed toward the door.
She called to me as I opened the door. I turned and she stood, the sunset flaring across the gossamers of her gown, her body silhouetted within the fabric.
“Sleep well, tonight,” she said. “Say a prayer for me. You will be in mine, comforting my pillow.”

***

That night I was visited by a nightmare. I had never before then been a man at the mercy of his dreams, though I have since then spent many restless nights comforting my haunted imagination with laudanum and insipid mantras of Reason.
I dreamt of a great flood in Cornwall. The rivers brimmed and broke over the land, and yet the rain continued to fall, drowning whatever land lay left except for the highest cliffs of the Cornish Coast. These, too, were steeped in the rising sea. I stood there, upon that drowned ridge, the waters hemming me in on all sides. It seemed that all the continents of the earth should be drowned in the rising tides. The moon was full in the night sky and ten times its reasonable size, like the great skull of a dead god leering garishly over the submerged earth. Soon only the ridge upon which I stood remained. The rest of Cornwall, and seemingly the world, had submerged in the gluttonous sea.
Beneath the moon, where its light glossed waxenly upon the turbulent waters, I saw a vast surge of water, as if something cresting along the Celtic Sea. A terrible fetor subsumed the salty air, and it reeked of stagnant life and profuse death. The thing that rose was as broad and high as Carn Marth rising from the Cornish countryside. I trembled to behold it and, as its ghastly head emerged, I screamed for the mercy of silence and oblivion and death. And though I wished to wake, I remained upon the crooked spine of a drown world.
I awoke with a start, sitting up in bed and drenched in sweat. The moon shone through the window, its roundish face half-concealed. It was not so large as it had been in my dream, but its illumination was ghostly within my bedchamber. I stood, then, and walked about the room, attempting to becalm my thunderous heart. Sweat, and tears, too, had taken to my face, and these I wiped scornfully upon my sleeve.
I did not return to sleep that night, and it was well into the morning before I banished the image of that island-sized head rising from the brine. It was fortunate that I had only one patient to treat, for I was too exhausted and haunted throughout the day to adequately treat any others. Nor was I the only victim of a stormy-headed night. The three sisters appeared taxed by restless nights. Even the pretty-faced Charlotte was pale and trembling throughout the day.
“Charlotte,” I said. “Are you and your sisters not feeling well?”
Her eyes darted about the treatment cottage as she and her sisters cleaned it after another treatment for Mrs. Worthington. Charlotte, and her two sisters, looked about them as if expecting demons to come clambering out of every shadow-pooled corner.
“Pardon my saying so, Dr. Grace,” she said, “but we donna’ feel ya’ shou’ ‘av taken that woman in.”
Whenever the sisters were under great duress, their accents became emboldened. I had attempted to correct such failings, but I was helpless to rectify it under present circumstances.
“You have a problem with Mrs. Worthington?” I asked.
Charlotte looked to her sisters, all of whom were as flighty in expression as bewildered does.
“Yes, doctor,” she said, casting her eyes upon the floor. “There’s some’ing terrible wrong ‘bout her, sir. She’s chased away yer oth’r patients ‘n put in ‘heir stead terrible dreams.”
“And she’s no’ right!” Emily said, coming forward to support her sister. “The winds donna’ sound the same since she come! The waves move strangely. Even the clouds are all wrong!”
“And the dogs bark at night!” Anne said. “They but rarely did afore, but now ‘ey bark all night as if keepin’ the Devil ah’ bay! An ill wind passes wit’ ‘er.”
“And ‘he dreams!” Emily said, rallying with great feeling. “We all ‘ave ‘he same wicke’ dream come flown to us from ‘cross an evil land! The Great Flood, wit’ Noah on its crest, and somethin’ risin’ from out o’ the waters! Leviathan perhaps!”
“Or Satan ‘imself!” Charlotte said. “Come new ‘pon the world!”
I did not care to hear my own fears voiced in plaintive, womanly notes, nor the plainly superstitious absurdity of it in my ear, particularly since it renewed resonant feelings from the night before. My susceptibility to their panic infuriated me.
“All of you come here,” I commanded. “Come and abide me a while, for I fear I must lecture this nonsense away lest it grow more beyond measure.”
I waited for the three of them to line up in front of me, their heads bowed, and their hands crossed before them, as if covering their Eden nakedness beneath their humble gowns.
“Mrs. Worthington is our patient,” I said, reproachfully. “She is to be treated with kindness, civility, and all of the attentiveness that conforms to the professionalism of our work. You are not to speak of her in belittling tones, nor through gossip, nor even salacious suggestion. Our work depends upon utter confidentiality. A wayward wag of the tongue could destroy the whole enterprise.” I took a deep breath and calmed myself, softening my tone. “You are each an excellent worker that I am proud to have in my service, but if you persist in feeding each other’s fears with whatever fancies take hold in your heads, I will have to reconsider your employment. Do you understand?”
“Yes, doctor,” they said together, their tone a collapse of dejection.
“Now,” I continued. “Finish cleaning and then retire home early to clear your heads and rest. Tomorrow I expect you to return without such fanciful shadows clinging to your eyes.”
Their accents lessened, reassuming genteel annunciations.
“And supper, sir?”
“There is food left enough for Mrs. Worthington from today’s lunch,” I said, “and I shall seek the tavern for a meal. It has been a long time since I attempted to acquaint myself with my Cornish neighbors. It seems as fit an occasion to condescend as any.”

***

Virginia requested another treatment before taking her supper. I acquiesced, knowing the sisters would return early next morning to clean. As for myself and retaining my own cleanliness, I had methods and tools available that minimized my own involvement in such treatments and their untidiness. To spare my hands menial labour, and subsequent cramps, I not only employed the three midwives regularly in treating patients, but also various devices that quickened the conclusion of a treatment while also sparing my hand. The truth was that after a lady’s hysterical paroxysm, I found that my hands were rather soiled with the natural scents of the lady. Not in all cases was this undesirable, for the brimming tides that came with the excitation were not altogether unpleasant, but there were those select women from whom the odors were rather displeasing and, moreover, clung long after a treatment, despite repeated ablutions. Thus, I employed the phalllic constructions depicted in the more obscure ancient Greek relics of art, and more recently in Oriental cultures. Had I the modern conveniences of plumbing I would have used douches as well, for I had read about their widespread use in France and it seemed not only beneficial to the patients, but to the doctors. Streaming water would have spared my hands and meanwhile cleansed a lady of her impurities.
“An excellent treatment, Dr. Grace,” Virginia said, panting as she lay sprawled upon the treatment bed. “That is a curious device you have created. I have no doubt that you modeled it after the natural design.”
“Indeed,” I said, “but I cannot take credit for its creation. It has existed for many centuries prior in the Orient.”
“Then I must say that Oriental women are more fortunate than Occidental women.” Her smile was small in measure, but large in suggestion. “I wonder, however, why you do not simply forego such medical pretenses and utilize what Nature has given you.”
“I am afraid I do not apprehend your meaning,” I said, wiping the device clean with alcohol and then setting it upon a shelf to dry.
“It is no matter,” she said. “Those naturally inclined will surrender in time.”
Only Mrs. Worthington could be provocative even as she demurred on a subject.
“How are you enjoying our accommodations?” I asked, hoping she approved. “Are they adequate?”
“Completely contenting,” she said, remaining sprawled about the bed. She gave no indication that she was ready to leave the treatment cottage.
“Do you miss London? It’s society? I have come to understand that you were a personage as respected as the queen herself within certain circles.”
“I was,” she said, “but I do not believe I could endure crowds now.” Her gown was still spread apart most immodestly and I wondered if she was quite conscious as to her unladylike position. Granted, most women seemed to forget propriety after a successful paroxysm, but they gradually realized their lapse in bearing and remedied it quickly. Virginia seemed quite aware and yet unconcerned. “And you? Do you miss the peopled streets and the breathless air?”
“Even while I lived there I tended to avoid crowds,” I said, turning away from her. “I prefer quiet contemplation and solitude, such as is afforded here in this village.”
“You enjoy being steeped in yourself,” she said, “like Narcissus at his pool, transfixed by his own reflection.”
I could not help but laugh. “Indeed? And who is my Echo, abandoned and forlorn?”
“Charlotte, of course,” she said, standing up from the bed. “You pay her no mind at all except in how she tends to me. That poor girl longs to please you.”
“If I am Narcissus, “I said, “and Charlotte is Echo, then whom might you be?”
Her smile withered like a rosebud in hoarfrost. “Of my twin there are many,” she said. “Galatea, Leda, Ariadne. Countless others, I am sure.”
“All women with unhappy fates,” I remarked grimly.
“Because all women have unhappy fates,” she said. “There is nothing unique or aberrant in such stories for women. Rather, the story of Woman has always been one with an unhappy fate.”
“To be mortal, you mean?”
“Partly,” she said. “But mostly by simply being of Woman. By being bearers of the wombs of the world.”
She did not bother to don her clothes, but returned to her cottage wearing only the treatment gown. The indecency of the action did not seem to bother her in the least. I escorted her to her cottage, fearing that some rake might observe her unconcern for propriety as an invitation toward mischief. When I asked if she should desire her supper, she asked only for a wheel of cheese. I inquired how much and she said, quite decidedly that she desired the entire wheel. I acquiesced to her request, fetching a wheel of cheese, but I also took the liberty of bringing a half-loaf of bread and two apples. These she graciously accepted and bid me a good night.
The sun was setting into the sea, gilding the green waves and blending shadows across the moorland. Fearful that I might miss my supper, I hurried downhill toward the tavern where many of the local Cornish men gathered to drink and talk after a long day of work. The tavern was a stalwart building with a thatched roof, its walls constructed of solidly stacked stone. It was the only building made of stone in the village that I had not purchased for my medical practice. Besides the church, of course. The majority of the other houses were wattle and daub.
I entered the dim establishment and went immediately to the owner manning the bar. George Friggs was the man’s name and he was as portly as he was friendly, especially to paying customers.
“What might a man hope to eat this evening?” I asked him.
“The best tasting mutton this side of the Celtic Sea,” George said. “And some potatoes, if you should care for them.”
“I shall have that with whatever your best drink happens to be,” I said.
“Just a stout, Dr. Grace,” he said. “Unless you thirst for an Irish or Scottish Whisky. We also have rum, though I donna’ think you would like it much. Better for those already swaying upon the sea. We landlubbers are too accustomed to the flat earth, I should think.”
“Give me a stout, then,” I said. I paid him for the food and the drink, then slipped him another coin and leaned over the bar, my back to the rest of the men in the tavern. “Perhaps you have heard of a seaman lost at sea. Or, rather, lost from the sea. He has a hobble and two eyes that roam where they should not.”
George rubbed his bald pate, thinking. “There are many sailors that come and go here, Dr. Grace. But if you’re talkin’ about one who’s got word out about him, then I would suggest you wait a while here and watch that corner over there.” He pointed to an empty table in the corner near the window. No candles were lit there, and it was farthest from the heat of the hearth, so only moonlight through the window lit its murky spaces. “I’ll get me wife to make you a plate. In the meantime, here’s your drink. Wait a while and you’ll see a man that sure is jumpy as if he been lookin’ where he was’n supposed to.”
I took my mug of beer, thanked George and waited by the bar, watching the door for the agitated seaman to appear. George knew his business: many sailors frequented his bar. It was the only place for miles where they might drink their sorrows and sea sickness away. Many men came and went, sharing drinks and stories and smiles and scowls. There was a bout of fisticuffs at one point and the two warring men were thrown out by their own compatriots. Blood may have been thicker than wine, but it was not so thick as warm beer spilt upon a wasteful floor.
It was as I had finished eating my meal that the lowly seaman came staggering in. I knew at once that it was he, for his unkempt beard and agitated eyes bespoke of mischief. He was a bedraggled specimen of knave. I could discern by his hobble that he was a seaman. He had the bowed hobble of a man that had spent more of his life on a tottering deck than on the still land.
Having witnessed the previous two men being thrown out, I knew better than to engage the man in a physical struggle. Nor was I a man predisposed to brutish means. That said, I could have easily handled him, however, since he was so much smaller than myself and was, moreover, crippled in one leg. His gait was so contorted by his pained leg that I wondered how he was managing to walk at all. A grimace of pain betrayed his hindrance with every step.
“Ale,” he said to George. “Your strongest.” George poured the man his ale, and had the sense of mind not to look to me until after the seaman had retired to his dark, solitary corner.
“That the man?” I whispered.
George only nodded.
I slid another coin across the bar, which disappeared in George’s large hand. Thereafter, the empty plate disappeared and I ordered two more ales, both of which I held, one to a hand, as I approached the seaman in the corner. They say that it is easier to catch flies with honey, and so I followed that adage toward whatever wisdom it might deign to offer me.
“Hello,” I said to the man. “Do you mind if I join you?”
The man looked up at me shrewdly, his eyes darting from my face to the beers in my hands.
“If one of those drinks is mine, you can join me twice,” the seaman said. He took the mug I handed to him, and watched me in amusement as I sat down. His amusement became a smile as I slid the other ale to him. I had decided that more honey could not hurt. “You must be wantin’ to loosen my tongue,” he said. “There hasn’t been a man handin’ out unsolicited drinks lest he wanted to cure a case of the lockjaw in his fellow man. What do the gentlemen say? In vino veritas?”
I was taken aback by his keen perception of me. Clearly he was no fool, even if he was a knavish cripple. Having no pretense to shield me, I decided toward candour to cope for this disastrous encounter.
“Yes, I suppose I am seeking truth from wine,” I said.
He grinned and took a swig of his mug, sighing in a contrite fashion. “Then it is a good thing I am only drinking ale. I do not believe you would want the truth you are seekin’. No, I believe you would come to lament it, as I certainly do.”
“Why were you peeking on my patient?” I demanded. “Why were you looking in through the window?”
I expected him to deny it, or to grow furious and threaten me, but my expectations were promptly dismantled by this strange seaman.
“I am a man of the Crow’s Nest,” he said. “On account of me bad leg, you see? Can’t be tying no nautical knots or mopping the deck when your leg’s all sideways. It may seem like an easy duty, but watchin’ out for the storms loomin’ on the horizon is always more difficult than most realize. Every crew member dreads the Crow’s Nest. It swings you about like a child her doll. Being such as it is, it’s the job no one wants, and being a cripple that no one really needs, I am the one told to climb myself up there and look out for trouble. All these years of it and my stomach still sloshes back and forth upon steady land, so used to the sickening sway of the sea.”
He rolled his shrewd eyes through the memories, his eyebrows eventually lifting as if in surprise at having found himself here.
“Even now I do no different,” he said, draining his mug. “I’m on the lookout for a storm. But this storm is already ashore. It’s made landfall and we are all in the middle of it. I promise you.”
“I do not understand,” I said. “Are you to be a lighthouse keeper?”
He appraised me with a frown, obviously unimpressed with my ability to follow his ranting. “I know who you are, Dr. Grace,” he said. “I know you have been lookin’ after Virginia Worthington. There’s no need for for alarm, though. What we are doin’ is the same. I’m lookin’ after her, too, as William asked me to.”
“You are one of William’s men?” I said, astonished.
“Yessir,” he said. “Name’s Henry O’ Toole. William asked me to make sure Virginia was seen to. I told him I may be a crooked man, but I’m no crook. I’ll see to what needs doin’, when the time’s right. Better than being stuck up in that Crow’s Nest for another season.”
“What is it that you are supposed to do?” I asked. “And why did William not tell me of your presence?”
“William did’n want to worry you,” Henry said. “He wanted you to put your time and effort into makin’ Virginia feel comfortable. Before he returns.”
I had expected a confrontation. I had expected a man of perversions in need of punishment. Yet, this antagonist that had provoked Charlotte’s scream seemed to be charged with a similar duty as myself. Nonetheless, his nervous mannerisms disturbed me. He appeared a man beset with his own neurosis. I rationalized it as a consequence of his occupation in the Crow’s Nest and his debilitation.
“What is this ‘storm’ that you speak of?” I demanded. “What has it to do with Virginia and Will? Can you not speak more frankly?”
Henry O’Toole leveled his eyes at me, even while his shoulders rocked slowly side to side with seaward memories.
“I’ve been a sailor me whole life,” he said. “Seen many strange things in the sea, but nothing so startlin’ as what was on land. Often we were allowed freedom of the cities we visited when we did trade. But Mr. Worthington did not let us stretch our legs too much in America. Least not when we were some of those more questionable docks. Not that I’d of wanted to. Strange noises you could hear at night there. Like a bunch of bloated frogs and fish splashin’ ‘bout in the water. We are hardy men, and never you mind how mean, but even we kept our breath shallow when he heard ‘em things roamin’ about the ship. Devil’s Reef is not place for a Lady. I couldna’ understand why Mr. Worthington brought his pretty wife there, but when he returned you could see the mischief it had worked on her. Silent as the grave, that wretched woman was. You’ve done her some good, it may as much seem, but I wonder for how long. And I wonder if she might’n’ ought been better off with her soul closed in a clamshell rather than brought to the ravin’ light.”
He perplexed me to no end. “Elaborate. Please. I cannot follow your meaning.” I slipped another coin across the table. It disappeared as a cloud passed over the moon, darkening the table for an instant with its doubt. The seaman sighed heavily. He took a swig of beer and snorted.
“While we huddled and shivered in our quarters, Mrs. Worthington accompanied her husband ashore on a night of a great tempest.” His eyes jittered in his sunken sockets, flitting here and there like nervous flies. “Such screams we heard amidst that storm. But whether in agony or joy I could not rightly say. Perhaps it were both.” He took a deep breath, and a deeper drink, his hand trembling and spilling the pungent liqour down his beard. “I hear those screams in my dreams at times, and I wish them to cease. Sometimes I wonder if they will ever be silent so long as that bedeviled womb stirs in its sleep.”
“Womb?” I said. The word struck me eerily and I felt the world slipping beneath amniotic waters. “What does that mean?”
“I can’t knowingly say,” he stuttered, trembling all over. “It’s just such a thing that no man can rightly understand. Like the sea itself. We can read the signs, but that don’t mean she isn’t plotting our destruction below the waves, or far out over the horizon. She’s a perilous lover. You make no mistake.”

***

I left the tavern feeling estranged from the earth. My adoptive motherland, Cornwall, menaced me with moonlight and shadows and countless mysteries whispered upon the leaf-tongued winds. It was an affliction of frayed nerves and a frenzy of half-fancied phantoms. There crouched in every nook and nestled within every root of a tree a thing best left unseen. Behind the moon and beneath the Atlantic waves there lurked what would undo me to witness its existence.
Returning to my living quarters, I wondered at the gulfs of ignorance surrounded Man, and in the immeasurable bosom of that darkness the horrors. Perhaps the seaman’s madness had caught in me. He had brains addled by too many storms at sea, and I had too many beers and too little sleep to fend off the apparitions of another man’s mind. So, hurrying home, I retired to bed and let the aqueous realm of sleep carry me whichever way their waves willed.

Teacups, Collars, And Petticoats

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Disclaimer: This story is rife with sordid things meant for an adult mind…and likely a puerile mind, too.  Manners are herein detailed, as well as etiquette, and many a Victorian pretense.  And nudity.  There is nudity, both textual and illustrated, though mostly for comedic effect.  This is a short story concerning juxtaposition and contrasts between overt behavior and latent compulsion.  Consequently, it is a story about Freudian suppression and the “return of the repressed”.

The rain fell heavy and the Thames breathed its fog in heady sighs through the glistening gaslight murk of London. Despite the dark, misty labyrinthine streets, her red dress and overtopping hat exploded with colorful distinction like a crimson carnation bountiful with bloom in a wet grotto. She was a walking fire embodied and emboldened by her own self-regard. The rain itself struck her umbrella but apologetically. Perhaps it knew better than to provoke the grudge of Jane Augusta Petticue. Most Londoners seemed to know such things.

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Jane entered the restaurant with her hoopskirt swishing left and right, such was her haste to meet Sarah at the dining table. Brusquely, she shoved her small umbrella into the unprepared arms of the nearest waiter, ignoring the waiter’s protests and bounding buoyantly toward the usual corner of the restaurant where she and Sarah exchanged their fruitful gossip. Her demoness stood upon her shoulder; a small, impish pinkish creature with a large-lipped mouth, always puckered in relish of wry mischief. At that moment the demoness was wringing her taloned hands in excitement, eagerly eyeing Sarah as Jane navigated the other tables in the crowded restaurant— tables clustered with patrons and their own demons— and sat down in her habitual chair. Her cup of tea awaited her obediently, its steam swaying as if a cobra mesmerized by the piping of a flute.
Jane’s eyes, and the eyes of her demoness, glimmered with glee. A very fine, thin, and long silken thread laced the demoness’s neck, tying her to Jane. Diamonds gleamed there, studded like stars.
“You will never guess what mayhem I have accomplished today,” Jane said, sipping from her tea. She was an older woman, and graying, whereas Sarah, sitting across the table from her, was to her a protege—young, pretty, unmarried as Jane once was.

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“Do tell me it was of the provincial sort,” Sarah said, eyes sparkling in near equal sheen to her idol’s. Her demoness was sitting upon the floor beside her chair, chained to the garter high upon her thigh. Her demoness was voluptuous and tempting, as if following the precedent that was herself, despite horns and naked disregard for convention; which is to say, a literal naked disregard for the convention of clothing. As men glanced toward Sarah, her demoness spread her legs in a most vulgar display while tugging at the lacy hem of Sarah’s petticoats as if to invite them in for a grand show. Several men looked away, talking amongst themselves at their table, yet their own demons sported priapic extravagances, standing in a circle around the table to compare and measure the most manly among the present competition.

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“It is mayhem of the lordly sort,” Jane said, smiling broadly with deep satisfaction.
Sarah gasped in pleasant shock. “You do not mean Lord Clovenhill?”
“The very same,” Jane said, her smirk so taut it could hang a man in its noose. “It will come out soon enough, but for now there are only four individuals who are aware of his great misfortune. Him, myself, yourself, and the young lady Anna Lynn Maywell.”
Sarah’s eyes were agape. Even her demoness ceased spreading legs and sat up, listening intently.
“Have you spoiled that courtship through…bold means?” she asked. “I should have liked portion of such a delicious endeavor. Lord Clovenhill, for all of his stuffy and stiff bearing, is a handsome man, and I do not doubt, when coaxed sweetly enough, a beast abed.”
“No, it is not a carnal matter of drama,” Jane said, shaking her head and thinking her protege too hedonistic in some ways to be proficient at true sin. Her graying ringlets brushed against her demoness, who was too pleased with their accomplishments to notice.
“Then did you induce him to take liberties with Lady Maywell? Surely not. The innocent little creature keeps her demoness in a canary cage, feeding it on crackers, instead of vice, and teaching it choir songs. It is the cutest of things, for a demoness, and so…unfailingly harmless. Why, it is almost as small as your demoness, Jane.”

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Jane nodded only once, but did not afford her own demoness an appraising glance, knowing the smile on her small face the selfsame smile upon her own.
“Nor is it in that particular area of interest,” Jane said, “though the broad topic is keen to the happenings I have devised and set into motion.”
Before she elaborated she raised a gloved hand, signaling a waiter hereto.
“A bit of crumb cake, please,” she said to the waiter. His demon’s head was bowed, but muttered discourtesies and insolence toward all of the patrons in the room. When the young man turned to inquire after Sarah’s wants, however, and upon seeing the bulging bosom heaving up and down within her bodice, his demon sprouted his own absurd priapism.

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“And the young lady?” he said, blushing.
“Nothing so delicious yet, dear sir,” she crooned with a coy smile.

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The waiter hesitantly went to fetch the cake. Jane’s demon, taking umbrage at the waiter’s choice of distinguishing Sarah with the pretense “young” and not herself, whispered in Jane’s ear. Jane smiled, less pleasantly than before, and waited until the waiter returned with a plate of her cake, and a fork. She accepted it with a broad, beaming smile and inquired after his name.
“Jonathan, ma’am,” he said.
She nodded, once, dismissing Jonathan from the table, yet her small mouse-sized demoness glared balefully after him until he receded to the other side of the restaurant. Jane began to vengefully eat at the cake, cutting it spitefully with her fork and chewing as if relishing her own vexation.
“Why would you seek such ploys to undermine a pillar of London society?” Sarah asked, hoping to press Jane toward unforthcoming details. “Why, Lord Clovenhill is praised every day for his charities. There has yet to be a philanthropist in measure to him. And the legislation he has put forth in the House of Lords is famous for its social reforms. Truly, even I know of their commendable nature, though I find politics exceedingly tiresome and banal. Moreover, he is neither arrogant nor a boor. I have met him upon multiple occasions, in balls and soirees and such, and never had a disagreeable word with him. True, he is, as I have stated, stiff in his manner, but so are many young men of his rank. He is…”
Sarah fell to a sudden, embarrassed silence, noticing at last Jane’s icy smile of patience, which, like ice, could crack and dunk the unwary traveler at a moment’s glance. Jane set her fork down, next to the half-eaten cake, took a deep breath through her nose and exhaled.
“But that is the precise reason for my plot,” Jane said quietly. “He is praised for so many superficial services to society, and to the Crown, but I know his embosomed secret. I know what poison grows in the bloom of his heart.”
Sarah leaned forward, rapt. Her demoness stood beside her, leaning forward, too, their bosoms swelling against the edge of the table. “Do enlighten me, Jane.”
Jane glanced about the room, seeing that they were unattended by unwanted ear or eye from the overcrowded restaurant. There were too many conversations for eavesdroppers. Even the rain was speaking to itself as it splattered loudly against the windowpane, chatting away in inane elemental jabberwocky. When Jane was satisfied that the dining hall was too clamorous to overhear her, she spoke. Her eyes glittered like a wildfire happily betaken to woodland.
“Lord Clovenhill is beholden to a massive personage,” she said. “Indeed, his demon is positively gargantuan. It is the ugliest, foulest, most infernal creature I have ever seen. Jack the Ripper would give pause to witness it. It is so dangerous in its appetites that he has partitioned half of his countryside estate to imprison it.”

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Sarah gawped in incredulity for the longest moment. The men at the nearest table grinned to one another, to see such an expression upon her visage, and their demons scrambled to satisfy themselves to the wanton image.
“But he seems such a fine gentleman!” Sarah remarked. “How does he retain servants in his manor if such a creature resides there?”
“They seem to not fear it,” Jane said with a lax shrug that made her demoness sway indifferently. “I suppose they are foolish enough to believe he can contain it forever, and I suppose they can somehow separate the man they know from the demon they should rightly fear. But I saw in it the truth. However strong the shackles placed upon it, it exists, and so the man is owed needful comeuppance.”
“And how did you manage such divine retribution?”
“By simply calling on him,” she said, her smile broadening again, “while in the company of Lady Maywell.”
Sarah gasped. “Surely you did not.”
“Surely I did. I could see it chafed Lord Clovenhill considerably, that breach of etiquette, but moreover I could see the fear behind his stoic mask while he hastily bid his servants to ‘prepare the house for guests’. As if any preparations could be made to spirit away his unsightly secret! My delight was devilish and deserved, especially when—in the Lord’s fleeting absence to see to a domestic matter—I led Lady Maywell to the secret he so feared in its discovery. The poor delicate girl was a crumpled pile of fright by the time Lord Clovenhill retrieved us. He attempted to console her, and chastise me, but the revelation proved beyond his powers of excuse or explanation. It was a triumphant hour, and my greatest pleasure. All of London knows he has long been courting Lady Maywell in the hopes of ascertaining the childish-minded girl as his bride. She has no fortune, but she has infinite prospects to resettle her to her advantage. After all, where wealth is wanting, beauty and obedience may suffice. Now she will assume the worthier bond of another attachment and all will be happier for it. Except Mr. Clovenhill, of course.”
“Pardon me, Jane,” Sarah said, “but they have been the talk of town of late. The men all wish to be Lord Clovenhill and the women all envy her natural, innocent charms. Nor is he bereft in endowments. She will not overcome the attachment easily. It was only a month ago that he startled the Wickfield Circle by holding Lady Maywell’s demoness in his hands, stroking it affectionately as no one ever has another’s demon. The darling little imp purred in his care. As a cat. No one has ever seen the like!”

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“Yes,” Jane said irritably, “but had his demon been there I assure you he would have devoured her little imp, the Lady herself, and all among that presumptuous gathering. Forgive me, Sarah, but you are ignorant of his truer nature. You have never seen his demon. And I would not allow him the pleasure of parading about, lauded by everyone, while he hides his demon from the light of day.”
“But Jane, even you leash your creature,” Sarah observed. The scowl rewarding this observation was twofold— madam and demoness, both— and Sarah cringed, but yoked her tongue to truth. “I only mean to say that is it not commendable that he should take such precautions? Is that not what we all do?” She lifted the golden chain that bound her demon to her garter. “That his demon is so large and frightful, as you say, should he not be applauded for countering its potential transgressions with such elaborate means? Sometimes to acknowledge one’s foibles is as divine as not possessing them in the first, for you may remedy them with greater exercises of volition.”
“That it exists at all is proof enough of his wickedness,” Jane said, snorting in contempt. “But even so, I should have done as I have done were he not beholden to such a large demon. It passes the time, you know, in this widowed age. Errors and etiquette can only do so much to entertain me in my waning years. At times it requires a bit of mischief to embolden the flavors of life.” She reached down under her petticoat and produced a flask, the contents of which she poured into her tea. The aroma of liquor wafted across the table. “The milk of human kindness cannot spice my tea. It only dulls and dilutes, and produces in me a most awful stomachache.”
She set her teacup down on the saucer abruptly, porcelain biting on porcelain sharply, like teeth clamping shut upon bone. She lifted the plate upon which her half-eaten crumb cake sat.
“Excuse me, Sarah,” she said. “I must do something about this cake. It is…too sweet.”
Rising from the table, she walked the length of the restaurant, navigating the crowded tables with her hoopskirt. The other patrons in the restaurant naturally avoided her gaze, and inched their chairs away from her expansive garments. She came, briskly, to the manager of the restaurant. He was an older gentleman, his demon sitting upon his shoulders, one leg to either side of his head, in piggyback fashion, while its protuberant belly pressed down upon his nape, bowing his head forward under the unwieldy weight of its appetite.
“Sir,” Jane said.
“Mrs. Petticue,” the proprietor said, bowing lower while steadying himself with a hand on a window sill. He always stood next to the window, commanding a view of both his restaurant and the bustling London streets. “How is your evening seeing you?”
“Most inhospitably,” she said, tucking a curly tress behind her hair with the affectation of unrest. She set the cake down “Indeed, one of your waiters has been uncharitable in his service. When I asked him for a slice of cake he saw it a happy mischief to bring me but a small, worn morsel of which he had taken liberty to satisfy his own stomach. As you can well see, there is scarcely a mouthful left.”
The old man reddened instantly upon the charge, his eyes flaring spitefully as if to catch his white whiskers aflame.
“I see,” he said, in a tone belying his ire. “Do tell me the scoundrel’s name.”
“Jonathan,” she said.
The old man nodded once, then took the proffered plate of half-eaten cake from Mrs. Petticue. “I will have a fresher slice brought out to you, my dear, of more generous portions. And Jonathan will be brought out, as well. He shall be made to apologize.”
“Oh no, no!” Jane said, affecting a flight of swooning. “I cannot abide the sight of him, even were he groveling to me as Judas to Christ. He has already abused my good nature with his supercilious airs. When I asked him, begging his forgiveness, what happened to the cake he assumed a derisive tone and told me…” She affected to wipe away a tear. “…told me I was of figure not in want for cake.”
“This is an outrage!” the old gentleman said. “I shall have him flogged through the streets!”
“No, I shan’t have his bruises on my heart,” she said. “Just…just show him to the streets, if you could be so kind, and in the Christian fashion. I should like to forgive him, in time.”
The old man nodded fervently. “You are a dear sweet lady, Mrs. Petticue,” he said. “Such sweetness is rare in this world.”
“Indeed, sir,” she said. “As rare as cake, but not so easily crumbled when engaged.”
He escorted her back to her table, sending another waiter to fetch a larger piece of cake, untouched, and two waiters to fetch Jonathan. Jane sat and ate her new slice of cake silently, relishing the sweetness and the view as she watched the old gentleman reprimand a perplexed Jonathan by the door, shortly before shoving him beyond its threshold and out into the misty, cold, dark London street. Jane’s demoness waved goodbye, a serrated grin between her lips. Sarah, whose back was turned to the whole incident, asked Jane if the cake was truly so good as to have second servings.

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“Absolutely, Sarah,” Jane said. “And a third serving, and a fourth, and endless until my time is done and my eyes, and mouth, close forever.”
A tremor abruptly shook the restaurant, rattling plates and teacups and constitutions. In the ensuing silence the patrons at the restaurant gawped toward one another for an explanation, only for another tremor to seize that fine establishment. After its echoing tremble, all visages were nervous, quivery, their demons jumping up and down like disquieted apes in a zoo. Only Jane sat still, and her demoness, too, a self-satisfied smile slowly spreading across her face and giving it dimples such as she had not donned since a young woman.
“No doubt lightning,” the proprietor of the restaurant said, chuckling nervously. His demon nearly tore his whiskers out at the roots in fear.
Another tremor and several patrons stood.
The proprietor raised his hands, trying to calm his patrons. “Just a disgruntled storm,” he tried to reassure them. Another tremor shook him and he steadied himself with a hand on a chair. “My, but they do seem to strike close, do they not?”
The tremors followed one another in rapid succession, drawing closer to the street. The rain had stopped and the windowpanes were rattling themselves dry in the quakes. A decisive concussion to the earth caused the lights in the restaurant to flicker, blinking ominously. Another tremor struck, stronger than the others, and rattled teacups and teeth alike, echoing through the restaurant and the patrons. A few patrons rushed to the door in a frantic crush of struggling bodies, shoving and scrambling out into the misty tumult of night. Others looked to one another, oscillating in indecision and the demands of properly comported etiquette.
“My word,” Sarah whispered. “What is that?”
Jane’s eyebrows arched as the corner of her mouth twisted with wry humor.
“Why, Jane, I do believe that is the true Mr. Clovenhill come to call.”
A roar, like that of a tempest’s gale, rent the uneasy silence, deafening the cries of panic as the patrons in the restaurant fled to the door, crushing together in a struggle to exit and flee down the street. Another tremor shook the clog loose at the door, and so the trickle of patrons became as a gush. Even the waiters and the proprietor joined the exodus. Only Jane and Sarah remained, Jane clutching her demoness in her lap as she watched through their corner’s window, seeing a river of people hastening helter-skelter down the street.
“Do not fret, Sarah,” Jane said calmly. “He would never condescend to visit this establishment. It is, as you know, beneath him.”
The gigantic demon stomped down the street, roaring and rattling the bones of London. It was only as it passed by the window that Sarah realized that there was a bewailing tone to the creature’s roar; as if it was in great pain.
“The poor creature is wounded,” Sarah remarked.
“Quite,” Jane said. “And perhaps it is a mortal wound, though I dare say I would rather it live on, enthralled to its suffering.”
As the demon stomped and moaned, buildings and streets crumbled around it. It was as if another terrible fire was destroying London.

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“What devastation!” Sarah said, her face a paler shade than any French makeup could ever accomplish. “What mayhem!”
“Thank you, my dear,” Jane said quietly. “Being the busy socialite that I am, it is my greatest pleasure to introduce London to the true Lord of Philanthropy in his most esteemed form. Mark how destructive he is. Mark how self-conceited with his woes. What an utterly bestial personage. What catastrophe in his wake. What a monstrous demon with which to share a heart.”
But as Sarah looked from the clamorous devastation beyond the windowpane to the quiet satisfaction on Jane’s face—and the selfsame smile imprinted upon her imp—she marveled at how so much mischief and mayhem could be wrought by such a small, petty demon.

Lesser Known Horror Classics

Halloween is approaching and there are lots of horror classics that people read for the sake of indulging the season.  As for myself, while I often revisit horror stories that have pleased me in the past, I really enjoy discovering horror stories that I have not read, particularly older stories that are largely neglected in this era of Stephen Kings and Clive Barkers (thought there is nothing wrong with either of those gentlemen).  For the sake of alleviating my own guilt at long neglecting the writers below, I have compiled a short list of short stories that are, for my tastes, in equal merit to the more celebrated icons of Horror. Many of these are in public domain, so you can read them online for free.  That said, there is nothing better than holding an actual book in your hand in the Witching Hours and reading by candlelight (or lamplight, if you must).

“The Phantom Rickshaw”, By Rudyard Kipling

A horror story and simultaneously a black comedy, this tale concerns a man who abused a young woman’s affections for ungentlemanly ends, after which he abandons her— rather callously— so that she dies of a broken heart. Just when the narrator believes his life is changing for the better (with a new fiancee), he becomes haunted by a rickshaw and the young woman who had only recently pined away. The story is at turns funny and tragic. While Kipling has become more well known for The Jungle Book, I am of a mind that he should be equally regarded for his other works, including his horror stories. He was, in terms of skill and imagination, equal to Poe, utilizing his understanding of human psychology and society to concoct excellent stories to please the most jaded reader.

“Strange Event In The Life Of Schalken The Painter”, By Sheridan Le Fanu

While many people are aware of Sheridan Le Fanu’s seminal work “Carmilla” because of its themes of lesbian eroticism and vampirism, Le Fanu wrote several works of equally interesting topics, as well as macabre atmosphere. The abovementioned story is perhaps my favorite horror story that Le Fanu wrote. It is masterfully told, of course, with all of its lyrical writing, but what is most impressive about this morbid story is what it implies throughout the tale. Le Fanu was an expert of exactitude and could write so as to provide the reader with the scantiest clues to circumscribe what is happening within the story without forthrightly stating it. And the story is all the more powerful for what it withholds as much as for what it explicitly reveals.

“Toby Squire’s Will”, By Sheridan Le Fanu

A moral tale that is neither ham-fisted or tedious, “Toby Squire’s Will” is a story about morality (or the lack thereof) among several unpleasant characters. The cast of people are so unlikeable that the reader finds it difficult to favor any one side over the other among the contentious factions. The story is told very skillfully and with proper pacing that is never sluggish or bogged down in its own prose. As with all of Le Fanu’s works, it excels as an experience when read in silent solitude or spoken aloud.

 
“A Madman’s Manuscript”, By Charles Dickens

Perhaps the most well-known horror story penned by Charles Dickens (besides A Christmas Carol) is “The Signal Man”. Yet, “A Madman’s Manuscript” deserves more attention than it currently receives among the laudable literature of Dickens. It is written from the perspective of a man obsessed with a woman. Any reader with even a little bit of familiarity with the double-life that Dickens lived will wonder immediately if the narrator is not some wry caricature of Dickens’s own darker desires and latent madman. Even if it is not a fantastic story, it is interesting for its insights into Dickens’s brilliant, and neurotic, mind.

“The Ash Tree”, By M.R. James

While M.R. James is still read today by a large audience— more so than most other classic Horror writers except Lovecraft, Poe, and Stoker—the mention of his timeless stories is nonetheless justified. This is by far my favorite among his many excellent yarns, for it weaves together a story born of supernatural conceit and scientific rationalization. It is for the reader to decide which explanation best suits the misadventure of the subject in this story. Perfectly written with an excellent eye for detail, an ear for rhythm, and a discernment of diction, this story is both brief and bountiful in its atmosphere. It is a masterwork and deserves credit not only as a flight of fancy, but, contrarily, a pointed tale compelling with its plausibility.

 
“The Mezzotint”, By M.R. James

Although “Whistle And I’ll Come To You, My Lad” is James’s most often celebrated story (or, at least, the most remarked upon), “The Mezzotint” is one deserving more recognition as well. Without saying too much, it is hard to believe the memorable Night Gallery episode “The Cemetery” would exist without this tale, for it is likely the inspiration of that excellent television episode. While not an actual page-to-screen adaptation, it is undoubtedly the thematic basis for that episode, at least in conceit.

“Twilight”, By Marjorie Bowen

I only recently discovered this lush, disturbing story by Marjorie Bowen. It is a beautifully written short story that is as decadent as Lucrecia Borgia herself (insomuch as the story is concerned). And like Borgia, the story takes a very eerie, nightmarish turn toward its final act, hinting at all of the debauchery which Borgia was accused of in her life (whether deservedly so or not). Bowen’s command of language and imagery has motivated me to seek her other stories wherever I might find them. Why she is not celebrated more, I do not understand.

“The House Of The Nightmare”, By Edward Lucas White

Despite its admittedly generic title, this horror story is memorable for many reasons. Oddly, while it is explicitly a ghost story, its truly horrific implications could categorize it loosely as Body Horror, much like his other, more famous story “Lukundoo”. A fear of pigs has never been more justified.

“The Kennel”, By Maurice Level

Written in a more Modern vein, and with a wry Black Humor slant on extramarital affairs that only a Frenchman could conceive and achieve without coming off as Melodrama, this story is full of sound and fury, but without signifying nothing. Atmospheric, briskly paced, and sly, there is no supernatural element in its design: only basic human nature and all of its darkening complications.

“Gavon’s Eve”, By E.F. Benson
An adroitly painted vista of Scotland folklore mixed with horror, this tale combines old mythical motifs with modern sensibilities for storytelling. Excellent descriptive passages. Excellent atmosphere. Benson is another unsung hero of literature.

“The Case of Lady Sannot”, by Arthur Conan Doyle

Widely known for his Sherlock Holmes stories, Doyle also dabbled in other genres. This story combines his love of the macabre with his love of human trickery and crime. A revenge story without a whiff of the supernatural, it excels on the merits of its narrative and its devilish ending. Like Maurice Level’s story, this one is concerned with human nature and the demons inside our hearts. Simultaneously, it is a case that would have pleased Holmes, if only in its criminal machinations.

“The Giant Wisteria”, By Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Gilman is best known for her psychological allegory “The Yellow Wallpaper”, which concerned itself with injustice toward Women. I must be in the minority because although I acknowledge “The Yellow Wallpaper” as a superior work, her story “The Giant Wisteria” is, in my estimation, a superior story. It is, of course, well-written, but not only well-written in its sense of craft, but its sense of restraint. Gilman does not reveal overmuch, nor wallow in melodrama. If anything, there is a sense of detached condemnation in the story rather than an explicitly vociferous pursuit of a message. Like the characters in the story, the writer pieces together the past events to reveal an act of terror as if a historian recounting a period of history. It certainly reflects on the suffering of Women throughout history, but does so subtly, without impairing the narrative.

Additionally, I would recommend anything by Lafcadio Hearn. The traditional Japanese tales he recorded for the sake of posterity are all excellent stories in and of themselves, but are also keen portals into the culture of Japan (if you happen to enjoy Japanese culture, as I do).