How strange that I’d just been writing to you. “What madness is this?”
“He speaks to me. Don’t you see? That is why I sent for you. Christoph has come back.”
“Shall I call a nurse?”
“No! Brahm, he comes to me, talks to me. You wonder where these scratches are from? Don’t you see? They come from him.”
I threw open the door. What blasphemy! I shouted into the empty hall. “Nurse! Somebody fetch the superintendent.”
She grabbed my coat. “Please listen to me.”
No matter how I twisted and turned, she wouldn’t let go. A nurse arrived and pried her from me. When I left, she was on her bed, mewling like a hungry kitten.
There is a sharp chill within these halls, a draught that pierces my clothing. I must meet with Hastings to discuss your mother’s behavior.
Later—
It is lovely outside, even in the winter. Oak, aspen, evergreen and ash flourish on the rolling hills. Deer browse the snow unafraid. And the air here is so clean, so invigorating. How could this not be the best place for your mother?
Hastings and I talked at great length. He assured me that it’s not unusual for someone in Gerta’s condition to hear voices. It is part of her madness; Dementia Praecox.
You laugh. You say I should know this. But in matters of the family, all cognition is an elusive wisp of smoke.
Hastings is an intelligent man. He put me at ease over brandy and cigars, and convinced me of something I’ve known all along; that I should treat Gerta with gentleness, rather than vehemence. He suggested I play along with her delusions. Act as if her ravings are fact. Perhaps then she’ll recognize the paradox and see that what she takes to be real is merely a trick of the mind.
It is evening now, and I must go to your mother’s room.
Later—
She entered the room shivering and wet shortly after I arrived. I asked her where she’d been.
“Talking with Christoph,” she said.
“Out in the snow?”
“Don’t mock me.”
“Why not talk to Christoph here?”
“Please, Brahm — “
“No — Gerta — forgive me,” I said. “I want to know what you and he talk about.”
Her suspicion faded with a smile. “He tells me such wonderful things. He asks about you often.”
“Does he?”
“Oh, yes.” She touched my arm, and then hugged me tightly. “I’m so glad you came.” She kissed my cheek. “He wants to come back.”
“Come back?”
She trembled. “He needs your help.”
“Bring him here, now, so that I can talk with him,” I whispered.
“We must go to him.”
“Then take me to him at once.”
“Tomorrow night,” she said.
“I wish to see him now.”
She let go of me and backed away. “No. Not tonight.” Her shoulders slumped, and her face fell slack with exhaustion. She peeled off her wet clothes and slid into bed.
Now I, too, must sleep.
January 15, 1898
My Dearest Christoph:
She is in good spirits today, as if a great weight has been lifted from her. We lunched with the other patients in a large dining room, a bright and cheery place with large windows overlooking the snowy grounds. Hastings joined us for a dessert of apple pie, and he was proud to point out that the apples were grown on the property.
Your mother sleeps now. How she enjoys her post-dinner naps! A subtle light enters her room such as in Vermeer’s The Milkmaid. You remember the one?
When she wakes, she will take me to meet you. It is hard to write such a thing without throwing my hands in the air with contempt and frustration, but I shall do my part as the superintendent wishes. I will try to gently back her into a corner of her own mad logic. But I question the point of it all, for if the truth at last shines upon her, will not a half-dozen more delusions creep into her mind like a thick fog?
Later—
Hastings arrived while your mother slept, and inquired if all was well. I assured him it was. He invited me to accompany him on his rounds, and I eagerly accepted. Why is it that the ill fortune and madness of others fascinate me so?
We started in the women’s wing. Hastings introduced me to his patients as a visiting doctor — a slight deception, yes, but at the same time, very true. I kept quiet and stood out of his way as much as possible in order to keep the patients from becoming upset or over-excited at the presence of a stranger. But the doctor’s easy manner and congeniality never failed to put the female patients at ease. Some of the women actually fawned over him, touching him as if a pet.
A strange thing, Christoph; during the course of our rounds, I crossed paths with a female who had a large tumor protruding from the front of her neck. It was the size of a grapefruit. My instincts as a doctor took over, and I tried to question her about the growth, but she refused to talk. She covered her face and hurried away, as if ashamed. But what was most odd, was that as she turned a corner, the tumor appeared to pulse.
Hastings informed me it was a recent growth that will likely soon kill her. I felt sorry for the poor soul.
We soon passed through a central rotunda and into the men’s wing. Hastings pulled two cigars from his shirt pocket and offered me one. I accepted, but as he lit my cigar, a troubling thought jumped into my head like a hungry flea. I paused mid-puff and put my hand to my forehead.
Hastings noticed my sudden change of mood. “Yes?” he asked.
“May I ask you something?” I asked. “It is a question of delicacy, but I wish an honest answer.”
He squinted through a cloud of cigar smoke. “Of course.”
“With the freedom here — the men and the women — do they…” My heart beat rapidly, my face grew hot. “What I mean, has Gerta — “ I searched for the proper words.
Hastings sucked on the end of his cigar and blew out a ring of smoke. He said, “With the liberties the patients enjoy here, there are of course occasional, shall we say, flings.” He smiled. “But Gerta, I assure you, has been steadfastly chaste.”
Now, Christoph — again, I will be honest. Your mother is fourteen years my junior, yet she is no longer as viable and lovely as when we first met, before her madness set in. Wrinkles cross her face like cracks in bread crust. The skin of her neck sags, and her hair runs with streaks of silver. But I caught something in the superintendent’s eye, in his tone of voice, and I knew at once he lied. Lied to protect my feelings, my honor — of this I have no doubt. But nonetheless — my insides felt like a rag squeezed tight.
Does your mother have lovers here? Can I blame her? It is the essence of nature, is it not?
I must stop torturing myself with these thoughts.
While in the men’s wing, we came to the room of a patient named Branagh. Before entering, Hastings informed me that Branagh had been the one responsible for digging the caves.
He sat in a chair, his wrists restrained by rope.
Hastings introduced me, but before I could say anything, Branagh asked in a thick Irish brogue, “Are you one of Satan’s imps?” His muscles flexed beneath a tight black shirt.
I looked at Hastings, then back at Branagh. “I assure you, I am not.”
“Then why do you converse with him?”
Hastings shrugged. “Mr. Branagh believes himself to be the Son of God.”
I asked, “You’re the one in charge of digging the caves? They’re quite ingenious.”
Mr. Branagh’s thick hands relaxed on the arms of his chair. His face brightened and became at once youthful.
It was fascinating, Christoph, as he explained in detail the logistics of such an undertaking. Amazing how one so delusional can also be so intelligent, so gifted.