Not a Gentleman
by Tintinnabula
Chapter 17
The Shampoo
This chapter is partially from Margaret's point of view, so it has her thoughts regarding the sad events of the previous chapter. Additionally this chapter deals obliquely with sexuality. Although NO sex actually takes place, there is innuendo and the author notes contain a frank discussion of Victorian sexuality. Please let me know any concerns.
The flooding, as Dr. Donaldson so poetically described it, had abated. It was Thursday, and Margaret was feeling much better, physically, than earlier in the week. She was not lying down, however, despite the doctor's explicit instructions that she lie flat and keep herself unoccupied. She'd tried, valiantly, for several days. But each day had stretched ahead of her like yawning chasm. And John's kisses and caresses before leaving for work were not enough to preemptively mitigate the effects of hours of loneliness and contemplation.
The doctor had said that she mustn't burden herself with heavy thoughts. But what light thoughts could she think at a time like this? Should she be thinking of redecorating the house, perhaps? Or of the trousseau she still had not purchased? How could that be possible, when there were was one cold body and another, so tiny, to push all other thoughts aside?
She could not lie flat in bed. Rather, Margaret made her way downstairs in search of the mourning stationery she was sure John had procured from the undertaker. There was little chance of getting caught out: John, his mother and Fanny were at the funeral, and would not be home for some time, and the servants were likely below stairs.
Nonetheless, Margaret listened carefully before proceeding down the hallway to the library. Although she was technically mistress of the house, she had no illusions about who was really in charge. The servants, who loved their tittle-tattle, would tattle with alacrity should they find her out of bed. Margaret hurried into the library and shut the double doors quietly behind her, then scanned John's well-organized desk top for the black-edged papers and envelopes she required. She found a stack of each right away, but quickly realized that the flooding of another kind was nowhere close to ending.
It was funny that she might touch her face and find it completely wet with tears. How could she be so completely unaware that she was weeping? Certainly something so symbolic of death as a black-rimmed envelope might trigger tears, but clearly these had been falling long before that.
John was right. She was in no condition to attend a funeral.
Of course, that morning she had insisted she attend. She felt well enough. And surely her father should have one of his own kin there to pay her respects! But there had been no question of Margaret attending. This was her period of confinement, her mother-in-law had told her in no uncertain terms. There was no shame in mourning her father privately. John had said almost the very same words, hours earlier, although in much gentler tones.
She had broken down in sobs that devolved after a time into jagged breaths and half-hiccups. John held her and soothed her, just as he had at all hours since then. He didn't admonish her or chide her. Perhaps he felt such a display was to be expected. Perhaps it was normal for someone who was grieving. Nonetheless, it was humiliating. She did her best to pull herself together.
Wife chose not to fight husband on the issue of the funeral. Even through her tears Margaret could see how care-worn John looked. And although he'd been a steady comfort to her in the terrible blur of days since her father's passing and her subsequent miscarriage, once the first veil of anguish had lifted from her eyes, Margaret had seen how affected John was by the two events. He did his best not to show his grief in her presence but she caught glimpses, all the same. In moments when he thought she was not looking he dropped his guard and pain filled his eyes, a clear signal that the tears she felt in the fabric of her soul were matched by equal splits in his own.
He wanted her to stay home, so she did. She might have fainted, anyway. The thought of her father's casket being lowered into the ground was enough to make her lightheaded. Now Margaret sank into the desk chair and did her best to put the thought out of her mind.
How could he be gone? It was unfathomable- she loved him too much for that. He should be by her side forever, as should every person who was loved so dearly. And Mama- was she even aware that Papa had passed? Dixon had tried, but the telling had been unsuccessful. Perhaps Mama's dosage was too much, for it had seemed her mother was teetering on the edge of oblivion. If she'd heard Dixon's words she did not acknowledge. And as Margaret was confined, she had been unable to talk to her mother herself.
Well, she would remedy that now. Margaret opened the library's double doors carefully, and once she was sure that no servants were about, crept quickly from the room and headed back upstairs. She found her mother asleep. Dixon sat in a chair next to the bed, her chin to her chest, lightly snoring.
"Mama?" she asked quietly.
But it was Dixon who awoke, with an abrupt and loud snort.
"Why are you out of bed? Is something wrong, Miss Margaret?"
"No, Dixon." Margaret gave her best impression of a smile. "I just wanted to check on Mama. Did you tell her?"
Dixon shook her head. "I tried, again. Honest, I did. This morning. But she needs so much of the laudanum. And once she takes it, she is not aware. It is almost as though she is in a dream. But at noon today, I gave her less." She looked at Margaret with large, bovine eyes. "I am afraid she will wake up in pain."
Margaret patted the faithful servant's hand. "You did not do wrong- she needs to know. And I will tell her. And I have decided that I will write to Frederick, too, to tell him of Papa's passing. I think he would want to know."
"Frederick?" Her mother's eyes opened at her son's name, and she stared at her daughter in confusion. "Is Frederick here? You have brought my beloved son to see me?"
"Mama, it is just Margaret."
Mrs. Hale's face fell.
"But you said you had a surprise for me. Yesterday, at breakfast. Dixon shooed you away." The invalid looked chidingly at her steadfast companion.
Margaret gazed at her mother, first in bewilderment, then distress. She bit back the tears that threatened. She would not tell her, she decided.
"You are confused, Mama," Margaret replied in a voice that was artificially light. "There was no surprise. Do you know where you are?"
Mrs. Hale looked at the blue-green wall paper and brass bedstead and smiled uncertainly. "In Crampton."
"No, Mama. You are here with me and my husband, John Thornton. Do you remember?"
"Mr. Thornton? The cotton tradesman?" Maria Hale's brow wrinkled. "This is not Crampton? But it looks the same."
"We are at the mill, Mama. In the mill house."
"Yes." The invalid closed her eyes and sighed. "I hear the clanking in my dreams. It is so noisy." A tear slid slowly down translucent skin. "Why did he bring us to this infernal place?"
"Mama, John is-"
"It is my fault. I pushed him. I was too ambitious. A country vicarage was not enough for me. I wanted my husband to be a bishop, and for his living to be a cathedral. I thought that would only be fitting for a Beresford. As though I were better than everyone in Helstone. I am so ashamed of myself. I was so unhappy in Helstone, but what I would give to be there now."
"I am glad that you are here with me, Mama." Margaret caressed her mother's face.
In response, Mrs. Hale struggled to sit up in bed. "Where is he? Dixon, please fetch Mr. Hale. I need to speak with him."
"Mama, Papa-" Margaret's voice broke.
Maria regarded her daughter as though seeing her for the first time.
"Why are you crying? What has happened? Margaret, why are you not dressed?"
"He is gone."
"Richard?"
Margaret nodded.
Maria fell back against the cushions and her brow creased in confusion. "But I saw him... yesterday."
"No, Mama."
"Oh." Recognition dawned on the older woman's face, and it crumpled.
"Oh!" she moaned.
Margaret glanced at Dixon, who stood silent, for once, twisting her apron.
"I am alone." Maria Hale's voice was a child's, plaintive and small.
"No, Mama. You have me, and John, and Dixon. We will take care of you."
"You are married. You know what it is to have a husband. I have lost that. I have no one, now." She started to sob. "I did not say goodbye to him. I did not apologize to him." Her sobs escalated in intensity and pitch. "And worse... worse is that I will not say goodbye to my- to my firstborn."
"There, there," interceded Dixon, pushing Margaret aside in her hurry to get to her charge. "It's not so bad." She poured a tumbler of of water and picked up a small blue dropper vial from the bedside table. "I'm sure you are thirsty. Drink this. That's a good girl. Drink it all down."
Margaret stood by idly, unneeded. She left the room silently, and paused outside the door.
One thing was clear to her: her mother desperately wanted to see Frederick, and would likely request that her daughter ask him to come back to England.
Her father's words of just days before came back to Margaret. "I hope that you will remember what I said. About honesty," he had said. And then Papa had reminded her never to let anyone come between herself and John, and to always speak plainly.
Clearly, it was time to tell John about Fred, and to get his advice. Margaret walked slowly down the hall as she considered the best way to tell him.
The young wife was surprised to find John waiting for her when she entered the bedroom. He looked even more melancholy than he had that morning, and had not yet removed his funeral clothes.
"Why are you out of bed?" he asked in a voice that was tinged with concern.
"I am well, John. I needed to tell Mama-"
"How is she?" John folded his wife into his arms and stroked her hair.
"She is confused. She did not know what day it was. I did not tell her about..." Margaret broke away from her husband and moved toward the bed.
"...our child," her husband finished for her. He noticed the black-banded papers in his wife's hand and his brow darkened. "You have been up and about. More than visiting your mother." He breathed a heavy sigh of frustration. "Margaret, you must get well. This is against doctor's orders."
"I have some friends abroad that you did not write to. I thought I might-"
"No, Margaret. Dr. Donaldson explicitly said that you are to be resting at this time. Through Sunday at the minimum."
"It is impossible. I can't stop thinking about Papa, and...the baby." her eyes filled with tears.
"I will write to your friends, just as I wrote to your family in London and your family's friends in Helstone. This is no burden, Margaret. Please allow me to do this for you."
"You don't understand. I need a diversion."
Please." Margaret's voice rose and she began to tremble. She could not bear another day of abject boredom, filled with endless hours of thoughts of death and desolation. It could not be healthy, not when she could be occupying herself. It wasn't that she wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. Those feeling were with her all the time. She simply did not want to drown in them.
He pulled her close again. "Hush," he said soothingly. "I promise Margaret, things will get better. We must trust the doctor."
"I do not trust him. I do not like him."
"You do not have to like him."
"I think that I must like- or at least respect- a person to trust him."
John chuckled. "Trust me, then."
Margaret slumped against her husband. "I will."
John led his wife back to the bed and solicitously tucked her in. "If it is hard to lie still, could you not sleep, instead?" John brushed a stray hair aside before kissing her forehead.
"No," Margaret replied quietly. But ever tenacious, she was not quite done pleading. "I am finished sleeping. Could I at least do needlework, or sit downstairs with your mother or Fanny?"
John sighed.
"You are right, darling. They should be here with you. Fanny and Mother have been too busy with the wedding preparations. I will ask one of them to sit with you." He moved across the room to enter his dressing room. "I'm sorry, but I must get back to the mill. Quarter sessions are next week. And with everything that has been going on this week, I have much to do if I am to be gone from the mill next week."
"I understand, John."
Margaret sank into the pillows and admitted defeat.
But she was mistaken, as an ally arrived in the most unlikely form.
An hour later, Fanny bounded into the room, with a large wooden box in one hand and a book in the other.
"John said you needed company," she began, as she pulled a chair close to the bed. She bit her lip in a show of humility that was quite uncharacteristic. "To be honest, Margaret, I didn't think either of you wanted my company. I said some hateful things to John a few days ago."
Margaret reached out a hand to clasp her sister-in-laws fluttering one.
"Sisters and brothers often say things they don't mean. It can be hard to get along." She craned her neck to inspect the small crate Fanny had set on the floor. "What is in the box?"
"John said you were bored. Well, of course you are! I thought you might help me make favors for the wedding. I do wish you were coming. You will be missed, Margaret."
"What will you do with the dress?" Margaret asked tentatively. She was not sure if this was still a sore subject for the flighty blond.
"Well, it turns out Watson has a second cousin who is about your size. Madame Coleridge let the dress out for her. It will do. Although I will say it would have looked much better on you." Fanny reached into the box and scattered silken leaves onto the bed. "We simply need to make bundles of the leaves and wrap them with this wire. It shouldn't take long. Of course," and with this Fanny gave a wink, "we can take as long as you like."
Margaret thought she had never been happier to be in the presence of the girl. She was happier still when her sister-in-law placed a red-bound volume on the bedside table.
"Oh, and here is a book for you," Fanny said with a conspiratorial grin. "John said you are not to be reading, but I think that is nonsense. I know you are not so familiar with Poe, but I am certain you will find this book diverting. I found myself lost in it for many hours."
Margaret picked up the volume. Stamped in gold on spine were the words,The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. "What is it about?" she asked.
"Read for yourself." Fanny pointed to the title page and Margaret read, "Comprising the details of a mutiny and atrocious butchery on board the American brig Grampus..."
Margaret smiled a real smile for the first time in days. Fanny had unwittingly answered Margaret's question of how to broach the question of Frederick to her husband.
"Thank you, Fanny," she said, as she picked up the first of many silken leaves. "I think today you are my savior."
Quarter sessions were over early on Friday, as a result of the loss of the lead magistrate, Kirk. John left the courthouse with a purpose to his stride and a speed aided by the cold late September rain that misted now, but threatened worse.
Despite some very good news earlier in the day John was worried, but he had always found that a brisk walk helped to clear the mind. Currently far too much was weighing on him. Margaret, of course, was foremost in these concerns.
Thankfully the mill had turned a corner in recent weeks. Demand was up for cotton fabric, and as a result, income exceeded expenses by a wide margin. All of the hands, whether knobsticks or locals were fully trained and producing cloth that met the exacting standards of Marlborough Mills. Business was doing so well, in fact, that he was almost at the point of considering expanding. John had therefore felt confident leaving the mill's operations in the hands of his mother this week, as he sat in quarter sessions.
John tallied the costs and benefits of being a magistrate as he walked away from the courthouse and toward the commercial district. He relished the work, but if he were honest with himself, he relished even more the standing it Milton society it brought with it. He had no qualms in admitting this. It was important to him not only to succeed, but that others knew he was a success. And that he'd done all of it under his own steam.
But with Mr. Hale's death, and Margaret's illness, there had been too much on his plate. And Margaret must come first. She would always come first. With the funeral preparations and Fanny's wedding preparations in addition to his daily work at the mill, he simply had not spent enough time with his wife over the last week.
And what he had seen troubled him.
He had returned home quite late on the day of the funeral, and after a quick supper had headed to bed, with a sheaf of papers under his arm. The work had to be done- there was no getting around it. But at the very least, he could do the work in Margaret's company, and watch over her as she slept.
But she wasn't asleep, despite the late hour. A candle burned, and a book was in her hands.
He'd been angered, and rightly so. And "Fanny gave it to me," was as poor an excuse as the one Eve had used millennia before.
"You said you would rest."
"I could not sleep, John. I told you. Should I lie awake and cry?" Tears began to flow as she spoke, and John immediately regretted his words. He pulled back the bed clothes, and joined her, fully clothed, in the bed.
"How was your day?" Margaret asked.
"Long. Tiring. The mill is doing well." He smiled crookedly, and was rewarded with a small, but perfect kiss.
"I am glad of it. I am not surprised. You work so hard. And your workers follow, of course."
"There may be opportunity to expand. I had heard a rumor, but I will find out more next week at the Quarter Sessions."
"Why there? Was a law broken?"
"Quite a large one. Do you remember Kirk, from the wedding?"
Margaret shook her head. John was not surprised- the man was quite forgettable.
"He is Milton's lead magistrate. Or quite possibly was. His brother has been accused of embezzlement. If it is true, the brother stands to be prosecuted. The business will likely fold, as well, as I believe the brother is a full partner."
"And what is this business?"
"It is a group of several dyeing concerns. After cloth comes from the mills it typically goes to one of Kirk's shops or to one of his competitors for dyeing or printing. Kirk's concern is special in that it not only does the dyeing but also the importing of the dye-stuffs. I am certain their profit margin is much greater than that of their nearest competitor. Which makes the news of his brother's embezzling all the more surprising. This must be a very greedy man."
"What will happen to Kirk?"
"He may stay on as partner, as he appears to have done no wrong, but it is likely that the business will fail as merchants and suppliers will be unwilling to associate with the name. It has been tarnished. And it is also likely he will need to step down as magistrate. There will be a cloud of corruption hanging over him."
Margaret was silent for quite a long time. So long, in fact, that John wondered if she slept, as her eyes were closed. Finally, she spoke.
"And you hope to buy this business?"
"Possibly, or perhaps a portion of it. It would depend on what state it is in. And I would need financing." John sighed. "But the truth is, this may not be the best time for it."
"It sounds like the perfect time for it. There was such a note of excitement in your voice when you spoke just now. And you said the mill is doing better financially."
"Yes, we are close to paying off the investments I made on the new looms."
"Well, then, what is it?"
"I have been neglecting you."
"I am well, John. I just need to be allowed out of this bed. You will see."
John gave up, and changed the subject. "What have you been reading?"
"It is a recommendation from Fanny. Edgar Allen Poe."
John rolled his eyes. "I should have guessed. Is it good?"
"It's a bit bloody."
John quirked an eyebrow. "It's not too much, is it?"
Margaret shook her head. "It's nothing I cannot handle. It's about two boys who stow away. They witness a mutiny. That's the bloody part. Although I should say, I think the author is taking a great deal of artistic license. A mutiny would not necessarily be bloody and violent, would it?"
"Every one I have heard of has been. It rather defines the term."
Margaret frowned. "How so?"
"It is an act of violence against authority, made worse by the fact that there is no legal structure set up to allow the airing of grievances." John paused for a moment, as Margaret digested his words. For a moment she seemed about to reply, but she said nothing. He continued. "Consider the differences between law on the high seas and law in a city. In my mill, I have a certain level of authority. If a worker should choose to disagree with me, I have certain rights that allow me to punish him."
Margaret nodded, although her brow lowered slightly. John regretted his words. Doubtless she was thinking back to the very first time they'd met.
"But if he disagrees with my punishment, he has recourse. At the very least, he can quit and find work elsewhere. On the high seas this is not true. The law of the captain must therefore be absolute and infractions must be dealt with severely."
"I see." But it was clear she did not see, because Margaret quickly grew perturbed. "Therefore the captain's word is law."
"It must be."
"No matter what?" She looked at him wide-eyed, almost disbelieving.
John shrugged.
"And what if he were beating his crew? What then?"
"Margaret, must we bring it back to that day?" John did his best to keep the tension from his voice.
"What day?"
"You know which day I am speaking of, darling."
"This is not about you, John. I am speaking purely hypothetically." Margaret's face reddened and she lifted her chin in that haughty way of hers. Clearly he'd caught her in a lie, but she continued. "What if the mutiny was just?"
"Margaret, there is no such thing as a just mutiny. By definition, there cannot be."
"I disagree." Her color rose further, and her breathing quickened. John saw tears in her eyes, and wondered why exactly this discussion was causing such discontent.
He kept his voice as low and soothing as he was able. "Not only can it not happen, it has not happened, Margaret."
"How would you know?"
"I have followed shipping for years as my business is dependent on imported cotton. I take the Nautical Magazine. Mutinies are described there."
"All of them?" Tears streamed down his wife's face and John had no idea why.
"I have the issues for the past fifteen years. I have not read the details of every mutiny, but I have read through many. And yes, the details are very much the same. Margaret, what is wrong?"
"But you could be wrong?"
"I do not see how."
Margaret took a deep, jagged breath and sighed. She rubbed the tears from her eyes and John saw her jaw set into a dogged expression he knew quite well.
"I am tired," she said then. "You are right. I need to sleep. Good night, John."'
The next day was worse, although John had not thought it possible.
John returned home, again, late, as the needs of the mill were pressing. This time he found his wife in bed, as the doctor ordered. But stacked on and around the bed were thirty bound volumes of the magazine he had mentioned in passing the night before.
Something was clearly wrong. Why would she be focusing so intently on an event that happened in a second-rate novel?
This must be some way to push aside the pain she was feeling, a way to focus on something other than the loss of her father and child.
His poor, darling Margaret.
Should he suffer her delusion?
He decided to. It was doing her no harm.
"You did not go down to the library, did you?" John asked gently, as he moved aside a small stack to make room on the bed.
"Stokes brought them for me. I'm sorry. I lost track of time. I should have asked him to return them before you arrived."
"And what did you find?"
This was the wrong question to ask, he realized, as her eyes filled with tears.
"You were right," she said, and turned away. She sobbed herself to sleep and refused to be comforted.
On his way home from the courthouse, John stopped at the florist and found its owner was only too happy to supply him with some more of the yellow roses that had so delighted Margaret months before. He was even happier to learn that John wanted roses delivered weekly henceforth, only a mere two dozen, but even that was enough to make sure bread stayed on his family's table.
Rain was falling steadily by the time John cut through the cemetery. He took the less-used path the led past his own family's plot, and was not surprised to find his wife there. Somehow, he'd guessed she would be.
She sat on the small bench just below the evergreen magnolia, clad fully in black, a veil covering her bonnet. She did not look up when he approached.
"Margaret?" John sat down beside her and took her leather-clad hand. She did not reply.
He lifted the veil and saw eyes rimmed in red, a face shiny with tears.
She was not wearing a cloak, he noticed. He took off his own frock coat and draped it across her shoulders.
"You are getting soaked, darling. You will become ill."
"There is no stone." She looked across the space to the exposed soil of the grave, now muddy and flowing with small rivulets.
"Not yet, darling. I am having one cut."
"Oh. Thank you. You have done so much, John." She stared again at the overturned earth and silence fell between them again.
"It was a good funeral? I did not ask. Aunt Shaw did not come, did she? Did Edith?"
"No," John replied. "But Henry Lennox did." He suddenly felt a great deal more respect for the man. "And you might be surprised to learn that some of your father's friends from Helstone came, as well."
Margaret turned to him then, her eyebrows raised in surprise. "From Helstone? Yes, you said you had written. That was good of you. Father would have been so pleased to be remembered in such a way. His parishioners meant so much to him." She turned away and was silent again.
"Margaret?" John's shirtsleeves were now soaked through with rain. "We should go."
"I will stay. It is not yet dark."
"You know I cannot allow that."
Tears flowed again and John felt utterly powerless. The only thing he could do was hold her, he realized, so he did that. Presently, she spoke again.
"Did I tell you that I named him?"
"Who?" John said, but then he realized.
"I named him after Papa, as soon as I knew I was with child. I'm sorry. I should have asked. But now it is like he never existed. There was nothing to bury. Or nothing that Dr. Donaldson showed me."
"We will not forget him, Margaret. Our Richard." John pulled his wife close and felt her shivering. "I must insist. We are leaving." She did not object.
When they returned home, he installed Margaret in front of the bedroom fire and had Stokes send for the doctor.
"What is wrong with her?" John asked as he ushered the doctor into his library after the examination. This time he did offer the man a drink. The rain had strengthened and anyone out on such a night deserved the warmth of a glass of brandy.
"Hysteria," was the reply. "Its quite common in women and to be expected in these situations. "The proximal cause is that your wife has suffered two tremendous losses in close succession. Her body is reacting to the shock, particularly to the miscarriage. Her body wanted a child and is in rebellion. That is not the ultimate cause, however. The deaths were merely the agent that precipitated the current crisis."
The doctor stood near the roaring fire as he launched into a monologue. "You must remember that men and women are quite different. A woman's body, and her psyche are dominated by her generative organs. As we do not have this organ it is difficult for us men to understand, but all of a woman's anatomy is intimately tied to this organ. If it is in distress, her entire person will be in distress. Of course, it is not this way for men. It is therefore unfortunate that our society insists on treating women as though they are equivalent, or as though they women have a capacity they have been shown empirically to lack."
John raised an eyebrow but let the man continue.
"My study of hysteria has impressed on me several conclusions. The way in which women are raised by their parents greatly influences whether or not they will develop hysteria as an adult. If a mother, or more likely a father, allows his daughter to think that she is in some way the intellectual or spiritual equal of men she is likely to develop a gross derangement of her generative organs. The reason for this is that her purpose is to bear children, and going against this purpose can only have negative consequences. These may manifest in a variety of ways. She may be unsuitably intellectual, she may be passionate, she may be argumentative. But I am sure you will agree that none of these are feminine characteristics."
The doctor stopped to finish his drink, then held it out for John to refill. His host complied.
"You are saying it is a waste of time to educate women, then."
"Yes, beyond the basics of needlework and music. It will only bring them misery. When she marries, she will be unhappy, and unable to dutifully take up the role allotted to her. Worse, she will be unable to be pleased by her husband."
"I see." Except he didn't. Pleased by her husband? What was the doctor talking about?
"What's more, a woman's husband has a great influence on the development of this disease, as well. If he allows his wife to live in indolence, or gives her too much free rein, she is also likely to develop the disorder. I am not a man to pass judgment-"
John coughed.
"-but when she was Miss Hale I saw your wife, unchaperoned in the streets of Princeton. While I realize this was her father's fault, not your own-"
"You would defile her father's memory a mere week after his funeral?" John rose from his chair, fists clenched. The man actually cowered.
"Do not misunderstand. It is society's fault, not Mr. Hale's. But once one has been advised of the errors of ones ways, surely it is incumbent upon a person to make the changes needed to avoid falling into error again."
"And you are going to advise me, I presume." John's jaw clenched.
"You must tighten the leash."
"She is not a dog!"
"Nor is she your equal. It is obvious that your Mrs. Thornton is a woman who is governed by her passions. These passions will be the end of her. Hysteria is not a disease to take lightly. Have you ever witnessed a hysterical paroxysm?"
John shook his head. "I have heard of it, but no, I have never seen one."
"They can be life threatening, and can leave a patient mentally deficient. Surely you would not want this to happen to your wife."
John's eyes flashed. "Of course not!"
"Yet this is the path she has been set on."
"By my actions, and those of her father."
The doctor said nothing, and John struggled to keep his temper.
"There are treatments," the Dr. Donaldson said after some time.
"Yes?"
"In Austria, Vincenz Preissnitz has developed hydriatic therapy which has been said to be highly effective against hysteria."
"Water therapy? As at Bath?"
"No, not exactly. This involves a high-pressure stream of water directed at the abdominal area. This pressure against the womb has a salutary effect. Of course, it requires travel abroad."
"I'm sure that wouldn't be possible right now."
"There are in-office treatments that could be tried, instead. These are done in the presence of an attendant, such as pelvic shampoo."
"Shampoo? I am not familiar with this word."
"Shampoo is a word that comes from the Turkish baths. It means to knead the flesh with ones hands."
"So this is a kneading of the abdomen, similar to the water therapy?"
The doctor smiled uneasily. "Ah, well, not exactly. But as I said, it is done in the presence of a female attendant. Everything is done with the utmost attention to propriety."
John's pale blue eyes locked on the doctor. "Tell me, exactly what flesh is being kneaded with your hands?"
"Er, a bit lower than the abdomen, I'd say."
John was on him immediately, and the doctor's head made a semi-circular impression in the lath-and-plaster coating of the walls before the man had time to realize what was going on.
"You will elaborate." John held the doctor by the lapels of his frock coat, and the doctor's face was close enough that John could smell the remains of the cigar the man had smoked earlier that evening.
The man stammered out a response. "In h-hysteria, the womb is congested. If this congestion is not cleared in some way, the hysterical p-paroxysm I mentioned will result. Release is required."
"Release." John allowed the word to hang in the air for a moment, as he considered Margaret's words to him earlier that week. She told him, hadn't she? She didn't like the man. She didn't trust the man. And he, her husband, had simply ignored her and assumed she was being over-emotional.
John was livid.
"And how does a womb become congested in the first place?" It seemed his fists were itching to make contact with the doctor's smug mouth. But that mouth stayed shut.
"You will answer me."
"Inadequate sexual congress," was the doctor's reply.
John's fist flew and time slowed down. There was a satisfying crack as the doctor's nose moved out of joint, and John's eyes were able to trace the arc of crimson blood that traveled in the wake of his fist.
He regretted nothing. John moved away from the doctor and opened the room's double doors.
"You will leave here, and not return."
The doctor pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and held it to his nose.
"This is unacceptable," Dr. Donaldson muttered in a clotted voice as John forcibly escorted him to the door. "I will complain to the authorities."
"Do that," John said. "By all means. Go straight to the magistrates. Of course they will want to get all the details of your pelvic shampoos. While you're at it, go straight to the top. See what the lead magistrate thinks." John laughed. To think he'd considered quitting earlier today.
John slammed the front door after his family's former doctor, and dashed upstairs to see his wife. He had two pieces of very good news to share with her. And one apology, as well.
Author notes:
I want to apologize for not posting last week. I had mentioned in the previous week's notes that work has been a bit crazy lately. It still is! This time of year is exceptionally busy at my work. I was supposed to have a four-day weekend this past weekend to make up for having to work New Year's weekend, but due to being short-staffed I ended up having to work all four days. And as I am on salary, I got to work for free. (What a great job!) That meant no time for writing, unfortunately. And I would much, much rather be spending my time doing this. :)
In the comments someone asked me how I find all the background material I am using. I do a lot of research for my day job, so I am pretty adept at using search engines. Even so, it takes me about ten hours each week to do the research for a chapter. I do not mind this at all. In fact, I find it a relaxing way to de-stress after work. I am having a lot of fun going down the rabbit hole of Victorian England. I spread the research out over the course of the week- two hours each week night on research, and then I do an all-nighter Saturday night to actually write the chapter and do some more research, and edit Sunday afternoon.
There is a good chance I will have to work either next weekend or the weekend after (or both!), but after that the schedule should go back to normal. I apologize in advance if you do not see a new chapter next week. I will do my best to make it happen, however.
Thank you again to everyone who takes the time to review. It makes me really, really happy to hear what people think of my writing, and it makes we want to continue, especially when real life is so stressful. I cannot begin to explain how difficult work has been for the past couple of months and how much the reviews here have cheered me up through this time. :)
This chapter is a bit of a homage to one of my favorite short stories, Charlotte Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wallpaper, written in 1892. In it, a woman suffering from postpartum depression (described at that time as "temporary nervous depression - a slight hysterical tendency") is given the standard treatment of the time by her physician husband. The treatment is for her to be completely unoccupied. It slowly, inexorably drives her mad. In this chapter the outcome is different, thankfully (and thanks to John).
Now, for the historical notes.
The more I learn about Victorian England the more surprised I become. Some of what I learned this week floored me. It makes me wonder what people will think of oursociety 175 years from now.
The Nautical Magazine was exactly what it sounds like, a British magazine published during this era that had notices on ship movements, staff promotions, demotions, mutinies, and numerous other bits of information of interest to people in trade.
The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket is Edgar Allen Poe's only completed novel. It was written in 1838. It debuted to mixed reviews, but today it is considered one of the most influential English novels ever written. It hugely influenced Herman Melville's Moby Dickand author Jules Verne actually published a (fan fiction!) sequel to it in 1897.
About the word shampoo: The word "massage," was not used until the 1870s. In the 1850s, the word "shampoo" had the same meaning. Shampoo was originally an Anglo-Indian word from the Hindi "champo", meaning "to press or knead the muscles." Shampoo did not get the meaning of "to wash the hair" until 1860.
Next, a quick primer on hysteria. Today, the word hysterical has two meanings- when we say a joke is hysterical, we mean it is ridiculously funny. And if we say a person is hysterical, we mean they are emotionally overwrought. We've lost sight of the root of the word. The word hysteria comes from the Greek word hystera, for uterus. In the Victorian era, hysteria was a medical diagnosis, and one that was almost exclusively given to women. It was a wide-ranging diagnosis, one that had an amazingly broad spectrum of symptoms. According to the book The Diseases of Woman: their causes and cure familiarly explained, with practical hints for their preservation, and for the preservation of female health, by Frederick Hollick (1849), hysteria was a uterine disease, where the "symptoms comprise... those of nearly every other disease under the sun." In other words, it was a catch-all diagnosis, and one with which approximately 25% of women were diagnosed. It could have symptoms that were similar to epilepsy (where a woman might have a seizure), nymphomania (where a woman might be sexually promiscuous), or more vague feelings such as being too melancholy. One of the things that might occur during hysteria was a hysterical paroxysm. According to this medical text and others, this was a fit, in which the woman might begin by laughing, but soon would feel as though there was some round object moving up through her left side and into her chest and throat until she felt as though she were going to suffocate. In severe cases, a woman having a hysterical paroxysm might faint, or she might go on to have other fits that resembled epilepsy. Once the fit was over, she would have a great deal of gas, and vomiting, and might spend a great deal of time sighing, crying or laughing again. Note that all, some, or none of the array of symptoms described above might be observed, yet doctors would still diagnose women as hysterical.
The causes of hysteria were many. Weak constitution, laziness, city life, poor morals, poor temperament, poor diet, poor habits, over-excitement, constipation, reading romance novels, listening to emotional music, too much education, anger; disagreeable, painful, or sorrowful sights; too many religious feelings, first period, ovulation, sterility, menopause, "deranged" menstruation, inflammation of the womb, miscarriage, widowhood, late marriage, early marriage, too much sex, not enough sex, etc. Just about everything and anything under the sun, in other words. Also, it was communicable- a woman who was around another hysterical woman could easily be infected. Hysteria was undoubtedly caused by the uterus because, as stated in this medical text and others, "The Uterus, it must be remembered, is the most controlling organ in the female body, being the most excitable of all..." The text goes on to say that the uterus is connected by nerves to all other organs of the body (kind of like the brain!) and that therefore it is not surprising that there are so many different symptoms that can be attributed to hysteria. Rather sloppy thinking, in my opinion... And if hysteria is based in the uterus, how do men become hysterical? (Guess.)
More cutting-edge research, such as that seen in the medical journal the London Lancet(1849), places the cause of hysteria as an inflammation of the ovaries, not the uterus. But the causes of this inflammation of the ovaries were the same as those listed above.
Treatment for hysteria is where things begin to get really, really interesting. The first-line treatment was to deal with any acute fit a woman might be having. In this case, the patient was made as comfortable as possible, as one might expect, although a variety of novel treatments might be tried instead, like cold water enemas, leeches, opium poppy heads in various orifices, etc.
But prevention was another issue. Because the uterus was involved, it was very clear to Victorian doctors that something sexual was amiss. However, because moral women were generally not seen as creatures capable of sexual pleasure, there was a bit of a disconnect here. There was a recognition that there was some kind of congestion of the uterus happening, but doctors did not recognize (or were unwilling to verbalize) that sexual release was the antidote, nor did they openly state that quite possibly their patients were sexually frustrated. The first line treatment was more sexual intercourse with the husband, regardless of whether or not these relations were satisfactory to the wife. However, if the patient was not married, intercourse was not possible (and solitary pursuits were forbidden!), so in that case horseback riding, or spending large amount of time in a rocking chair, swing, or hammock were prescribed. There was a recognition that stimulation of a very particular kind was needed, but no admission that said stimulation would be pleasurable to a woman. Additionally, doctors felt that in treating a hysteria it was critical to make sure that the mind was not taxed, either by reading romantic books or listening to music that might lead to excitement, or by simply exercising the mind too much.
Importantly, Hollick and other authors of the time allude to "other practices" that are "resorted to, the character of which betrays a curious opinion as to the nature of the disease!" Hollick continues, "I would, however, caution those who recommend them as to the probable moral consequences afterward, and I assure them that it is seldom or never the case the same good cannot be effected by less objectionable means."
So what were these "other practices" that a doctor might resort to? What Hollick is talking about is most likely pelvic massage, which had been done since antiquity as a treatment for hysteria. In the past, this task had been done by midwives, but during the Victorian era, this task (like childbirth) was sometimes taken over by physicians. There is a question about how often doctors took over this task. For his part, Hollick seems to be suggesting that directly stimulating the pelvic region is just too shameful to contemplate, as it would lead to the inevitable conclusion that women are sexual (and therefore immoral) creatures.
Other doctors rationalized the practice by saying that the purpose of a pelvic shampoo would be to bring on a hysterical paroxysm of the uterus under controlled conditions so that a full-scale hysterical paroxysm (as described above) would be prevented, completely ignoring the huge differences in these two types of "paroxysms."
Apparently it took the average physician over an hour to achieve a hysterical paroxysm in a patient using his hand alone. This probably was due to a profound ignorance of female anatomy. It was not until 1856 that a French doctor, P. Briquet, in his book, Traité Clinique et Thérapeutique de L'Hystérie recommended focusing these massages on one particular area of the female anatomy, with much better success. Despite this helpful redirect, Victorian doctors began to look for technologies that might help speed the process along. (Perhaps they couldn't read French?) In the 1830s, Austrian entrepreneur Vicenz Priessnitz invented a gravity-fed device that directed a steady blast of water at any willing woman's pelvis. A new craze began over the 1830s and 1840s, as women from Britain and across Europe flocked to Austria to take the waters. In the 1860s, the city of Bath installed similar hydrotherapy devices. Then, in 1869, the first steam-driven vibrating device, "The Manipulator" was created to treat pelvic disorders. However, its creator warned that women should be supervised to prevent "overindulgence." Apparently, it was very effective at treating hysteria. And the first battery-operated device was created in 1882. Doctors at the time raved that it cut down the time needed to bring on a hysterical paroxysm from one hour to five or ten minutes. Progress! Profits!
In additional to the texts mentioned above, for the research for this chapter I relied on A Dictionary of Practical Medicine by James Copland(1845) I also referenced the modern book, The Technology of the Orgasm: Hysteria, the Vibrator and Women's Sexual Satisfaction, by Rachel P. Maines (1991). The latter is absolutely fascinating, and amusing. :) However, I question whether the practice was as widespread as she claims. Doctors of the time were concerned about threats of molestation and it may have taken a strong suspension of disbelief to think that what was going on during these massages was not sexual. However, the Victorians had different ideas than we do today about what is considered sex- that is, only traditional intercourse counted as sex (shades of Bill Clinton?). Many people became upset when the speculum was invented, for instance, because they were concerned that its use was too similar to "the sex act" and that it might cause maidens to become wanton. So maybe "pelvic massage" would get a pass, as it was not like intercourse. For his part, Dr. Briquet claims to have "massaged" over 450 patients.
As this story takes place in 1851, our dear creeper Dr. Donaldson would have both Copland's and Hollick's books available to him, but not Briquet's. He also would be aware of Priessnitz's device. Sigh. I really think he deserved what he got. Do you agree?