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I said nothing in reply. It occurred to me that her recent obtrusion of
herself upon me might have been prompted by the wish to test my power
of detecting some of her secrets; but I let the thought drop again at once:
her motives and her deeds had no interest for me, and whatever pleasures
she might be seeking, I had no wish to baulk her. There was still pity in
my soul for every living thing, and Bertha was living--was surrounded
with possibilities of misery.
Just at this time there occurred an event which roused me somewhat
from my inertia, and gave me an interest in the passing moment that I had
thought impossible for me. It was a visit from Charles Meunier, who had
written me word that he was coming to England for relaxation from too
strenuous labour, and would like too see me. Meunier had now a European
reputation; but his letter to me expressed that keen remembrance of an
early regard, an early debt of sympathy, which is inseparable from nobility
of character: and I too felt as if his presence would be to me like a
transient resurrection into a happier pre-existence.
He came, and as far as possible, I renewed our old pleasure of making
tete-a-tete excursions, though, instead of mountains and glacers and the
wide blue lake, we had to content ourselves with mere slopes and ponds
and artificial plantations. The years had changed us both, but with what
different result! Meunier was now a brilliant figure in society, to whom
elegant women pretended to listen, and whose acquaintance was boasted
of by noblemen ambitious of brains. He repressed with the utmost
delicacy all betrayal of the shock which I am sure he must have received
from our meeting, or of a desire to penetrate into my condition and
circumstances, and sought by the utmost exertion of his charming social
powers to make our reunion agreeable. Bertha was much struck by the
unexpected fascinations of a visitor whom she had expected to find
presentable only on the score of his celebrity, and put forth all her
coquetries and accomplishments. Apparently she succeeded in attracting
his admiration, for his manner towards her was attentive and flattering.
The effect of his presence on me was so benignant, especially in those
renewals of our old tete-a-tete wanderings, when he poured forth to me
wonderful narratives of his professional experience, that more than once,
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when his talk turned on the psychological relations of disease, the thought
crossed my mind that, if his stay with me were long enough, I might
possibly bring myself to tell this man the secrets of my lot. Might there
not lie some remedy for me, too, in his science? Might there not at least
lie some comprehension and sympathy ready for me in his large and
susceptible mind? But the thought only flickered feebly now and then,
and died out before it could become a wish. The horror I had of again
breaking in on the privacy of another soul, made me, by an irrational
instinct, draw the shroud of concealment more closely around my own, as
we automatically perform the gesture we feel to be wanting in another.
When Meunier's visit was approaching its conclusion, there happened
an event which caused some excitement in our household, owing to the
surprisingly strong effect it appeared to produce on Bertha--on Bertha, the
self-possessed, who usually seemed inaccessible to feminine agitations,
and did even her hate in a self-restrained hygienic manner. This event
was the sudden severe illness of her maid, Mrs. Archer. I have reserved
to this moment the mention of a circumstance which had forced itself on
my notice shortly before Meunier's arrival, namely, that there had been
some quarrel between Bertha and this maid, apparently during a visit to a
distant family, in which she had accompanied her mistress. I had
overheard Archer speaking in a tone of bitter insolence, which I should
have thought an adequate reason for immediate dismissal. No dismissal
followed; on the contrary, Bertha seemed to be silently putting up with
personal inconveniences from the exhibitions of this woman's temper. I
was the more astonished to observe that her illness seemed a cause of
strong solicitude to Bertha; that she was at the bedside night and day, and
would allow no one else to officiate as head-nurse. It happened that our
family doctor was out on a holiday, an accident which made Meunier's
presence in the house doubly welcome, and he apparently entered into the
case with an interest which seemed so much stronger than the ordinary
professional feeling, that one day when he had fallen into a long fit of
silence after visiting her, I said to him
"Is this a very peculiar case of disease, Meunier?"
"No," he answered, "it is an attack of peritonitis, which will be fatal,
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but which does not differ physically from many other cases that have
come under my observation. But I'll tell you what I have on my mind.
I want to make an experiment on this woman, if you will give me
permission. It can do her no harm--will give her no pain--for I shall not
make it until life is extinct to all purposes of sensation. I want to try the
effect of transfusing blood into her arteries after the heart has ceased to
beat for some minutes. I have tried the experiment again and again with
animals that have died of this disease, with astounding results, and I want
to try it on a human subject. I have the small tubes necessary, in a case I
have with me, and the rest of the apparatus could be prepared readily. I
should use my own blood--take it from my own arm. This woman won't
live through the night, I'm convinced, and I want you to promise me your
assistance in making the experiment. I can't do without another hand, but
it would perhaps not be well to call in a medical assistant from among
your provincial doctors. A disagreeable foolish version of the thing
might get abroad."
"Have you spoken to my wife on the subject?" I said, "because she
appears to be peculiarly sensitive about this woman: she has been a
favourite maid."
"To tell you the truth," said Meunier, "I don't want her to know about it.
There are always insuperable difficulties with women in these matters, and
the effect on the supposed dead body may be startling. You and I will sit
up together, and be in readiness. When certain symptoms appear I shall
take you in, and at the right moment we must manage to get every one else
out of the room."
I need not give our farther conversation on the subject. He entered
very fully into the details, and overcame my repulsion from them, by
exciting in me a mingled awe and curiosity concerning the possible results
of his experiment.
We prepared everything, and he instructed me in my part as assistant.
He had not told Bertha of his absolute conviction that Archer would not
survive through the night, and endeavoured to persuade her to leave the
patient and take a night's rest. But she was obstinate, suspecting the fact
that death was at hand, and supposing that he wished merely to save her
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nerves. She refused to leave the sick-room. Meunier and I sat up
together in the library, he making frequent visits to the sick-room, and
returning with the information that the case was taking precisely the
course he expected. Once he said to me, "Can you imagine any cause of
ill- feeling this woman has against her mistress, who is so devoted to her?"
"I think there was some misunderstanding between them before her
illness. Why do you ask?"
"Because I have observed for the last five or six hours--since, I fancy,
she has lost all hope of recovery--there seems a strange prompting in her
to say something which pain and failing strength forbid her to utter; and
there is a look of hideous meaning in her eyes, which she turns continually
towards her mistress. In this disease the mind often remains singularly
clear to the last."
"I am not surprised at an indication of malevolent feeling in her," I
said. "She is a woman who has always inspired me with distrust and
dislike, but she managed to insinuate herself into her mistress's favour."
He was silent after this, looking at the fire with an air of absorption, till he
went upstairs again. He stayed away longer than usual, and on returning,
said to me quietly, "Come now."
I followed him to the chamber where death was hovering. The dark
hangings of the large bed made a background that gave a strong relief to
Bertha's pale face as I entered. She started forward as she saw me enter,
and then looked at Meunier with an expression of angry inquiry; but he
lifted up his hand as it to impose silence, while he fixed his glance on the
dying woman and felt her pulse. The face was pinched and ghastly, a cold
perspiration was on the forehead, and the eyelids were lowered so as to
conceal the large dark eyes. After a minute or two, Meunier walked
round to the other side of the bed where Bertha stood, and with his usual
air of gentle politeness towards her begged her to leave the patient under
our care--everything should be done for her--she was no longer in a state
to be conscious of an affectionate presence. Bertha was hesitating,
apparently almost willing to believe his assurance and to comply. She
looked round at the ghastly dying face, as if to read the confirmation of
that assurance, when for a moment the lowered eyelids were raised again,
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and it seemed as if the eyes were looking towards Bertha, but blankly. A
shudder passed through Bertha's frame, and she returned to her station
near the pillow, tacitly implying that she would not leave the room.
The eyelids were lifted no more. Once I looked at Bertha as she
watched the face of the dying one. She wore a rich peignoir, and her
blond hair was half covered by a lace cap: in her attire she was, as
always, an elegant woman, fit to figure in a picture of modern aristocratic
life: but I asked myself how that face of hers could ever have seemed to
me the face of a woman born of woman, with memories of childhood,
capable of pain, needing to be fondled? The features at that moment
seemed so preternaturally sharp, the eyes were so hard and eager--she
looked like a cruel immortal, finding her spiritual feast in the agonies of a
dying race. For across those hard features there came something like a
flash when the last hour had been breathed out, and we all felt that the
dark veil had completely fallen. What secret was there between Bertha
and this woman? I turned my eyes from her with a horrible dread lest my
insight should return, and I should be obliged to see what had been
breeding about two unloving women's hearts. I felt that Bertha had been
watching for the moment of death as the sealing of her secret: I thanked
Heaven it could remain sealed for me.
Meunier said quietly, "She is gone." He then gave his arm to Bertha,
and she submitted to be led out of the room.
I suppose it was at her order that two female attendants came into the
room, and dismissed the younger one who had been present before.
When they entered, Meunier had already opened the artery in the long thin
neck that lay rigid on the pillow, and I dismissed them, ordering them to
remain at a distance till we rang: the doctor, I said, had an operation to
perform--he was not sure about the death. For the next twenty minutes I
forgot everything but Meunier and the experiment in which he was so
absorbed, that I think his senses would have been closed against all sounds
or sights which had no relation to it. It was my task at first to keep up the
artificial respiration in the body after the transfusion had been effected, but
presently Meunier relieved me, and I could see the wondrous slow return
of life; the breast began to heave, the inspirations became stronger, the
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eyelids quivered, and the soul seemed to have returned beneath them.
The artificial respiration was withdrawn: still the breathing continued,
and there was a movement of the lips.
Just then I heard the handle of the door moving: I suppose Bertha
had heard from the women that they had been dismissed: probably a
vague fear had arisen in her mind, for she entered with a look of alarm.
She came to the foot of the bed and gave a stifled cry.
The dead woman's eyes were wide open, and met hers in full
recognition--the recognition of hate. With a sudden strong effort, the
hand that Bertha had thought for ever still was pointed towards her, and
the haggard face moved. The gasping eager voice said-
"You mean to poison your husband . . . the poison is in the black
cabinet . . . I got it for you . . . you laughed at me, and told lies about me
behind my back, to make me disgusting . . . because you were jealous . . .
are you sorry . . . now?"
The lips continued to murmur, but the sounds were no longer distinct.
Soon there was no sound--only a slight movement: the flame had leaped
out, and was being extinguished the faster. The wretched woman's heartstrings
had been set to hatred and vengeance; the spirit of life had swept
the chords for an instant, and was gone again for ever. Great God! Is
this what it is to live again . . . to wake up with our unstilled thirst upon us,
with our unuttered curses rising to our lips, with our muscles ready to act
out their half-committed sins?
Bertha stood pale at the foot of the bed, quivering and helpless,
despairing of devices, like a cunning animal whose hiding-places are
surrounded by swift-advancing flame. Even Meunier looked paralysed;
life for that moment ceased to be a scientific problem to him. As for me,
this scene seemed of one texture with the rest of my existence: horror
was my familiar, and this new revelation was only like an old pain
recurring with new circumstances.
* * *
Since then Bertha and I have lived apart--she in her own
neighbourhood, the mistress of half our wealth, I as a wanderer in foreign
countries, until I came to this Devonshire nest to die. Bertha lives pitied
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and admired; for what had I against that charming woman, whom every
one but myself could have been happy with? There had been no witness
of the scene in the dying room except Meunier, and while Meunier lived
his lips were sealed by a promise to me.
Once or twice, weary of wandering, I rested in a favourite spot, and
my heart went out towards the men and women and children whose faces
were becoming familiar to me; but I was driven away again in terror at the
approach of my old insight--driven away to live continually with the one
Unknown Presence revealed and yet hidden by the moving curtain of the
earth and sky. Till at last disease took hold of me and forced me to rest
here--forced me to live in dependence on my servants. And then the
curse of insight--of my double consciousness, came again, and has never
left me. I know all their narrow thoughts, their feeble regard, their half-
wearied pity.
* * *
It is the 20th of September, 1850. I know these figures I have just
written, as if they were a long familiar inscription. I have seen them on
this pace in my desk unnumbered times, when the scene of my dying
struggle has opened upon me . . .
(1859)
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