Through a glass darkly, p.14
Through a Glass, Darkly, page 14
‘Would anyone in the world carry on such a trick for over a year just to torment poor Faustina?’
‘No normal person would do such a thing.’
‘Would even an abnormal person have such a sad, industrious sense of humour?’
Basil smiled. ‘The abnormal is in essence the unpredictable. Besides – what else could it be?’
There was a touch of whimsicality in Gisela’s answering smile. ‘In everything you say, you are assuming that this thing must be a trick. Will you – just for a moment – consider the possibility that there might be such a thing as an immaterial image of a living person, temporarily visible to other people? And that Faustina is one of the rare few who project such a human mirage unconsciously?’
‘You’ve been talking to Mrs Lightfoot!’
‘Yes, I have. And why not? She is a remarkably intelligent woman. Forget science and ask yourself if her hypothesis is not the only one that covers every point in Faustina’s story without stretching or contriving?’
‘Does it?’ His smile was still sceptical.
But Gisela was in earnest now. ‘It explains all the stories about Faustina at Maidstone and Brereton. And it explains Alice Aitchison’s death. At Maidstone, she may have believed that the thing was a trick contrived by Faustina or someone else. When she found Faustina at Brereton, she wasn’t tattletale enough to run to Mrs Lightfoot with the Maidstone story, but she treated Faustina with the mocking contempt a girl like Alice would feel for an hysteric or a trickster. Then Alice came face to face with an image of Faustina in broad daylight when Alice knew I was talking to the real Faustina on the telephone and the shock made her trip and fall. In that case, you see, little Beth Chase would be telling the truth. She saw exactly what happened.’
‘Beth said that Faustina put out her hand toward Alice and pushed her.’
‘That would make the shock to Alice all the greater if the image wasn’t real.’
‘Or if Alice thought it wasn’t real,’ amended Basil.
‘You see?’ Gisela laughed. ‘You cannot surrender your mind to the idea that there might be such a thing! It’s easier for me because I was brought up in Europe. An old civilization like ours is sceptical of all beliefs – even those modern, scientific beliefs for which you Americans have an almost religious reverence. We don’t because our civilization has lived through so many intellectual revolutions. Again and again we have seen the science of one generation become the mythology of the next. We remember that the whole science of electricity is only about two hundred years old. And that, only ten years ago, reputable physicists were saying it would be impossible to split the atom. We know so well that saddest of old sayings: This, too, will pass . . .
‘And the past is always with us, over there. In our customs and our homes, as well as our books. An ancient castle or fortress isn’t just a place we’ve read about – often it’s a place where people we know are still living. Strange things do happen in very old dwelling-places, like Wasserleonburg and Glamis. People who live in such places become so used to the unexplained that they lose all fear and even interest. You would be compelled to deny or investigate. We simply smile and shrug and say: This, too, will pass . . .’
‘Are you asking me to believe that you would not be frightened if you came face to face with whatever Alice Aitchison saw? When you wrote me that first letter about Faustina you were not so bold!’
‘That was before I knew what it was all about. The unknown is always terrifying. But now I do know – why should I fear any manifestation of a shy, harmless personality like Faustina Crayle’s? If such things do exist, they are all part of nature for, of course, there is no such thing as the “super-natural”. Whatever happens is natural, whether it’s acceptable to science or not. Only dogmatic sceptics like Alice feel shock in such circumstances – the awful shock of a sudden cleavage between what you believe and what you see. I would not feel that shock because I have known other cases very like this one.’
‘Have you ever had personal experience of such a thing?’
‘Not I. But a great-aunt of mine – a Frenchwoman, Amalie de Boissy – had personal knowledge of something very like this. When her father was with the French Embassy in Russia, she was sent to school at a place called Volmar in Livonia.’
Basil looked up sharply. ‘The Neuwelcke School?’
‘You’ve heard of it?’
‘I’ve heard of Emilie Sagée and the things that happened there. After all, psychiatry is my profession and every phase of abnormal psychology has a particular interest for me. Why haven’t you mentioned Emilie Sagée before?’
‘Do you recall the first time we talked about Faustina? That evening at the Crane Club? And how I told you I had an elusive memory of something similar? That was the Sagée story. I heard it long ago, when I was a very small girl. I suppose that’s why it took me so long to remember it, though the Goethe incident should have reminded me. When Aunt Amalie first told me about Emilie Sagée she said something similar had happened once to the poet Goethe and she gave me her French edition of his Memoirs where he recounts the experience himself. As I recall the Sagée story, it was very like Faustina’s except for one detail – Mademoiselle Sagée was illegitimate.’
Basil hesitated. Then, because he trusted Gisela as he trusted no one else, he went on: ‘So was Faustina. But please don’t mention that to anyone, ever. She is not supposed to know.’
‘Oh – poor Faustina . . .’ Gisela was moved. ‘That explains why she always seemed so rootless and alone!’
‘Her mother was notorious in Paris at the turn of the century. Under another name, not Crayle, her real name, which she gave to Faustina.’
‘I have heard the professional name of such a woman recently. Just a few days ago . . . Why . . .’ As recollection grew, Gisela became tense. ‘It was Alice Aitchison who mentioned it to Faustina in my presence.’
‘And the name?’
‘Rosa Diamond. I’ve heard of her all my life as the queen of polite vice in Paris in 1900.’
Basil nodded. Rosa Diamond . . . The odd name seemed to reverberate through corridors of memory, waking long-dead echoes. ‘Was she co-respondent in a celebrated divorce case in 1912?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then that’s something I must find out tomorrow. That and the name of the man in the case – if Rosa Diamond really was Faustina’s mother.’
‘If? She must have been. For only that would explain what Alice said. How cruel!’
‘What did Alice say?’
‘It was the day Faustina left Brereton for good. We were discussing a design Faustina had made for Medea’s dress in the Greek play. Alice said Faustina had chosen a colour the Athenians reserved for prostitutes. Faustina protested that she hadn’t known that. Alice laughed and said Faustina must know quite a lot about the traditions of prostitutes. And then Alice asked Faustina if she had ever heard of Rosa Diamond.’
‘Think back before you answer this,’ said Basil. ‘And think carefully: did Faustina look as if she recognized the name Rosa Diamond?’
Gisela bent her head, pressing fingertips to either temple. At last she dropped her hands and looked up once more with baffled eyes. ‘I honestly can’t say. Everything Alice said that afternoon seemed to hurt Faustina. Does she know her mother’s history?’
‘Her lawyer says she knows nothing, but he may be mistaken. I’m afraid I shall have to ask Faustina herself about it.’
‘How could Alice know about Faustina’s mother?’
‘That’s something else I’ll have to find out. How did your aunt know that Mademoiselle Sagée was illegitimate?’
‘She didn’t know; that side of the story was published long afterward by Flammarion and I read it there.’
‘Did your aunt know Julie von Guldenstubbe?’
‘No. You see my aunt went there thirteen years later – in 1858. None of the pupils who had been there with Mademoiselle Sagée were left. A few of the older servants who had known her remained. And the story was well known among the peasants of the neighbourhood at that time. It had become a tradition of the school. The sort of thing that girls whisper in dormitories, late at night, over a cup of chocolate brewed secretly when they’re supposed to be in bed and asleep.’
Basil couldn’t restrain a smile. ‘Hardly the best method of arriving at the facts with absolute scientific accuracy!’
‘I suppose not.’ She answered his smile ruefully. ‘But there’s one detail that impressed me vividly when my aunt repeated the story to me, years later. The Sagée double appeared so often at Neuwelcke that, toward the end, the younger girls lost all fear of it.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s not uncommon. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. And it’s especially apt to happen with children. They don’t believe they’re seeing the impossible because they have so little knowledge of what is considered possible. According to tradition, one little girl became bold enough to touch the double of Emilie Sagée.’
‘And she felt . . .?’
‘Some say something filmy like chiffon. Some say nothing. You can’t touch a mirage or a reflection, however plainly you may see it.’
‘I should like to have known that little girl,’ remarked Basil. ‘She had the scientific spirit, and true courage.’
‘Why should she fear something that always appeared silently and briefly, that never hurt anyone in any way? These shadowy things don’t ever harm people. It’s the people who harm themselves by their own superstitious fears!’
‘How can you be sure?’ retorted Basil. ‘If such things could exist, it would all be undiscovered country. Anything could happen there. Remember, according to Beth Chase, it was when the double put out its hand that Alice Aitchison fell – to her death.’
Gisela lost a little of her assurance. Her dark eyes grew wide and troubled.
But Basil went on inexorably: ‘You’ve just told me that Alice taunted Faustina with her mother’s name. If Faustina understood that allusion, she must have had a hatred for Alice that was almost murderous . . .’
‘Oh, no!’
‘You know the chief accusation brought against witches in the Middle Ages?’
Gisela nodded miserably. ‘The power to kill at a distance, invisibly? But I don’t believe that!’
‘Why not? You seem ready to believe things equally strange! Is only the pleasant aspect of such a thing believable? You’ve been speaking of the old world and its traditions. One you forget: thou shalt not suffer a witch to live . . . Myth and mystery always seem to end in cruelty and violence, Gilles de Rais and Torquemada. That may be one reason we of the new world offer such vehement resistance to any revival of these pre-scientific beliefs. We have racial memories of the torture chamber and the stake – the act of faith, the dark, still night desecrated by flames and the screams of the burning while the glassy eyes of believers reflect the red light of the fire . . .’
‘You make it sound horrible.’
‘It was horrible.’
‘Your modern science burned thousands at Rotterdam and Coventry and Hiroshima while the Middle Ages only burned a few hundreds.’
‘Does one crime excuse another?’
‘Would you deny a thing you believed true because once, in the past, it had led to violence?’
‘No more than I would deny science because men who were not scientists have misused it.’
The headwaiter was coming toward their table. He stopped with a smile. ‘Dr Willing? A telephone call . . .’
Basil came back from the booth frowning. ‘This is the very devil. Emergency meeting of the board at the hospital. The emergency is financial, so I’ll have to go. They want figures that only I can supply. Estimated costs of new equipment for the psychiatric clinic. It would have to be this evening. There’s always something . . .’
‘Don’t look so wretched! You’re not going off to Japan this time.’
‘I might as well be, for all the chance I have to see you now I’m back. At least, let me put you on the train to Brereton.’
‘But I’m not going by train. For once, I have a car. Borrowed from another teacher. And I have a much better idea. Let me drive you to the hospital.’
It was only ten blocks. They both wished it had been farther. As he left the car, he bent his head to kiss the ungloved hand on the steering wheel – a tantalization. On the pavement, he turned to wave to her before he ran up the steps and through the double doors.
She sat still, the long evening stretching before her, empty as a desert. That emotional vacuum must be filled somehow . . . Don’t bother to call me . . . Just come any time you can . . . Friday or Saturday . . . Abruptly, she spun the wheel and turned into a cross street, driving toward Fifth Avenue, where she recalled seeing a filling station.
A spatter of raindrops beaded the windshield. Even then she did not hesitate. Action was restoring her equilibrium. This was adventure. She would surprise Basil Willing. She might even force a breach in his indurated scepticism. And there was nothing to fear . . . Everything that happened was natural. It had to be or it couldn’t happen.
A sleepy man in oil-stained overalls came through the garish light to the petrol pumps.
‘Oil, too, please,’ said Gisela. ‘Have you a road map of New Jersey?’
‘Sure. Any particular place?’
‘I’m going to a little village by the ocean. It’s called Brightsea.’
Chapter Thirteen
As if your fed sarcophagus
Spared flesh and skin,
You came back face to face with us,
The same Faustine.
The windshield wipers began their staccato ballet – one-two-three-kick – a pair of dancers, one-legged, abstract, moving in perfect unison. Through half-moons of clear glass, polished by their dancing, Gisela saw a blurred reflection of street lamps in the shimmering film of water that washed the black roadway. Inside the car she was in a small dry world of her own. The monotonous rhythm of the windshield wipers and the steady hum of the engine were having an almost hypnotic effect on eye and ear, lulling her to drowsiness . . .
Out of the blackness flashed a lighted signboard: YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE VILLAGE OF BRIGHTSEA. The main highway was becoming the principal street of the village. The only lights came from a drugstore and a filling station. Gisela pulled into the filling station and stopped.
‘Miss Crayle’s cottage?’ He was a lank countryman in jeans and jersey, more farmer than mechanic. He was looking at her curiously. ‘Three miles beyond the village. Between the pine woods and the sea. Keep on this road another mile. Then take the fork to the right and you’ll come to it. It’s the only house on that road.’
The last house of the village stood at the crossroads. When she turned off the highway another car passed her, swinging out of the side road as she entered it. She caught a flash of its rain-spattered windshield and a placard that read taxi. Then it was gone toward the village, its lights and the light of the highway rolling away behind her. Now she was on a rough, winding track, hardly more than a trail with no light but her own headlamps to guide her. The little woods walled her in on both sides. Pine needles covered the ground, smothering undergrowth, leaving the slender tree trunks sheer as organ pipes with the wind singing through them. Already she could hear the deep mutter of the surf, like the purr of a good-humoured lion. She might have been a thousand miles from New York.
The trail dipped suddenly as she rounded a curve. Her headlights picked out a woman alone, walking blindly into the glare on the left side of the road. A tall, slim figure in dark hat and light coat – a long, black shadow that dwindled with sickening rapidity as the car shot forward.
Gisela stamped on the brake. The tyres lost traction. Like something in a dizzy nightmare, she felt the car lurch and skid out of control. She freed the brake and fought the wheel, which seemed to have a crazy will of its own. The car slewed around in a complete half-circle. Headlights raked the wall of pine trees and swept over a startled face, white as the dead, blotted out by an arm thrown up in self-protection. It was instantaneous and indelible as something seen in a flash of lightning: the parted lips, the stricken eyes that looked directly into hers. Then the car shuddered to a stop and the headlights went out.
Gisela sat still, trembling. After a moment, she found her voice. ‘Faustina. Are you hurt?’
No answer. She tried to turn on the headlights. They no longer responded to the switch. She groped for a possible flashlight in the glove compartment. There was one. It worked. She crawled out of the car and turned the little spotlight on the road, dreading what she was about to see. But there was no one in sight.
‘Faustina! Where are you?’
Again no answer – no sounds at all but the song of the wind, the whisper of the rain, the mutter of the surf.
Yet she had seen Faustina’s face in that dreadful instant before the headlights went out. She had seen Faustina’s blue covert coat and brown felt hat. Was Faustina knocked off the road by that shuddering impact? Lying in a ditch, unconscious or dead?
Gisela turned the flashlight down, moving its spot of light slowly over the roadway around the car. This dip in the road formed a muddy hollow. Already the rain was washing away the tracks her tyres had printed in the wet clay. There were no other tracks now – no footprints at all.
She climbed the shoulder of the road, turned her flashlight on the pine needles below. They glistened brown in the rain. They were close-packed, solid, slippery as ice. Apparently they had lain there undisturbed for years.
She no longer called Faustina’s name aloud. She did walk several feet in either direction along both sides of the road. Still, there was nothing. No mark in the mud. No sign of blood. No dropped glove or wrenched heel – nothing.
