The Birth of Love (16 page)

‘But women have always suffered from the fear of death, as they approached childbirth,’ I said. ‘There have always been grave dangers associated with birthing a child. Does the Bible not say that woman must bring forth children in suffering and affliction, as punishment for the sin of Eve? It is regarded as the natural state of women, to endure this torment in childbirth.’

‘Yes, it is true. And the hospitals were established to end such fear and suffering. Their aims were virtuous. These aims were thwarted by the individuals who came to control them, by the murderers who called themselves doctors.’

He paused once more, and then he said, ‘Let them wash the blood from their own hands.’

And with an angry jerk of his hand, he accidentally spilled the last of the water from the basin onto his lap.

‘My God,’ he said, suddenly fearful. ‘And what shall we do now?’

‘Professor Semmelweis, it is quite all right,’ I said. ‘I will
send for some more water. Do not distress yourself.’

But he was staring in dismay at the empty basin, and he began to mutter, so quietly and rapidly I could not distinguish the words at first. And then I distinctly heard him saying, ‘Behold I am behind thee I am thy mother for ever and ever,’ and he repeated this several times. I was not sure where this derived from, or what it meant. Then he said, ‘The woman who torments me, who comes to me and reveals to me the true nature of my sin, I believe her name was Birgit Vogel.’

‘She was a patient of yours?’

‘Yes, I think it was at a time when I was not quite certain of my theory. I could have been careful and I was not. I did not bother to wash my hands thoroughly, I merely dipped them in the solution and she became very ill with puerperal sepsis and died a few days later. I think it is that … And because of the death of Birgit Vogel, my own mother died.’

‘What do you mean by this?’

‘No sooner had Birgit Vogel died – and she died in horrible agony, and her little baby – a beautiful blond-haired boy – was taken from her as she shivered and screamed, and his wails were drowned out by her own – than I received news from Budapest that my poor mother had died. For the death of Birgit Vogel, I was summoned to account. So in a sense, I am also responsible for the death of my mother.’

This seemed to me highly significant. Not that there was any provable truth in his sense of causality, but rather it was significant because Professor Semmelweis had created his own symbolic universe and in this symbolic universe he was guilty of matricide and therefore he was condemned to eternal suffering. And yet also, he was the wounded god,
rising from the corpse of his mother. He was sinner and divine king, combined into one person, and the confusion of these roles was probably the cause of much of his perceived insanity. For if we regard such mysteries with a literal mind, then they will indeed perplex us, and Professor Semmelweis was a doctor and thereby, originally, an empiricist. No doubt he had resisted, at the time, any sort of symbolic interpretation of the death of his mother, and had instead marked it down to awful timing, fundamental bad luck, and had suppressed his fears and the irrational terror the bereavement had caused him to feel. And it had festered, for years it had festered, even as he was ostracised by his former allies, and indeed I suspect he, in one sense, wanted them to ostracise them. He incited them to annihilate him, so he might atone for the death of his mother and so he might rise reborn, like the Phoenix from the ashes, Christ from the tomb, Osiris from the casket. Professor Semmelweis had become tormented by these suppressed symbolical demons, and all his endeavours had been undermined by the confusion he refused to acknowledge. He had destroyed himself, I was quite sure of that, in order to rid himself of guilt. Yet in so doing, he had burdened himself with a further form of guilt, for all those women he had failed to save. In casting himself and his theory onto the pyre, hoping the flames would be purgatorial, he had dragged thousands of women with him, suttee-like, and it was only now that he realised what he had done.

I was rather revising my theories, as I perceived that it was convenient for Professor Semmelweis to see himself as the innocent victim of a conspiracy, as the genius who had been ignored. Because he had denied the reality of his urges for so
many years, he had persuaded himself – he had been obliged to believe this, for the reality was so much more disturbing – that his colleagues had waged a war against him, and after many years destroyed him. Rather, I was beginning to surmise that in two years, from the death of his mother, which was almost the same time that he developed the theory, to the point that he fled from Vienna – and he was confused about the circumstances of this flight, and could not remember anything after it – he set about ruining himself. As I was able to assemble a sense of chronology, from his words and those earlier of Professor Zurbruck, he had refused for many years to publish on his theory; he had published nothing of significance at all from the late 1840s when he developed the principle of hand-washing until recently when he had finally written his rambling account, an account he hardly thought – I suspected – would convince anyone. He cast off his supporters. He ran back to his native land. He ran back to the motherland, though his mother was no longer there. Everything was in turmoil for this man, who had been taught to believe that reason must prevail. He tried for years to reason through his actions, and because they were driven entirely by the unreasoning elements of the psyche and were unknowable by reason itself, he drove himself into a collapse. His reason had frantically rejected everything it could not assimilate, and he had slipped into a state classified as lunatic. He had placed himself beyond the understanding of his family and friends. He had exiled himself, so he might die alone. Birgit Vogel haunted him through his lunacy, because he had locked her away for so many years, he had confined her to a dusty recess of his thoughts, and now she had burst out and consumed him.
I am meandering once more, Professor Wilson – I fear this will be what you are thinking. To be plain about the matter at hand, to strip it of my theoretical ornamentation, it would seem that Professor Semmelweis developed an idea about the causes of puerperal sepsis and though by proceeding in line with his theory he reduced incidences of the disease significantly, his colleagues did not support him for one reason or another. It may be that they were ashamed of themselves and conspired to destroy him for this reason. Or it may be that he goaded them and goaded them, for his own psychic reasons, and this, combined with their own shame, caused them to reject him. There, that is as simple as I can make it, and now I will leave you to reach your own conclusion.

We had little more conversation, I am sorry to report. I asked him if there was anything I could do to help him, but he shook his head. Sadly and slowly. He was losing energy, that was evident. He had raged luminously, like a star in its final burst of glory, before it is consumed by darkness.

‘Could I not contact your wife? Perhaps she does not know you are here?’ I said.

He did not respond.

‘Are there friends you remember? Could I contact any of them? Surely you would like to leave this place?’

‘Like any prisoner, I dream of liberty. But I do not deserve it,’ he said.

And he would not speak again, and sat there rubbing his hands. I stayed for some considerable time, but I could not rouse him at all. I lingered, even after Herr Meyer slithered along to fetch me. I stood there – under the disapproving
gaze of Herr Meyer – and watched poor Professor Semmelweis muttering to himself or to the shades that accused him. Yet he had his head down and he did not acknowledge me again.

‘Hello, Margaret,’ Patrick was saying to Brigid’s mother.

‘Hi there big guy,’ he said to Calumn, kneeling to kiss him.

‘Did you get delayed in the traffic?’ said Brigid’s mother.

‘It was pretty gruesome, as usual.’

‘Dadadada,’ said Calumn, rubbing Patrick’s face, pressing his cheek to his.

‘Where’s Brigid?’

‘In the garden,’ said Brigid’s mother. She screwed her mouth up and whispered through her teeth, ‘Very bad.’ Then she turned to Calumn with a vivid smile and said, ‘Now, darling, do you want to come and read a book with Grandma?’

Calumn was shaking his head, reaching for his father’s hand. So Patrick took it, like leading a pet monkey, he thought, his adored heir and pet monkey, and they walked together, father and son, through the kitchen.

Naturally it was very bad, he thought. Brigid was in labour. The pain was shocking, he remembered. Last time she raved and talked about her dying father. Would this time be worse? He had been the helpless witness to her agony, dismayed by his impotence and later disturbed – though he never told her – by the viscera, and the violence of it all. He had been impressed by his wife’s endurance, he wondered how she was able to stand it at all. Yet, he had acknowledged – guiltily he had acknowledged the fear he
felt, the sense that reality was being overturned. He didn’t like it. He was moved but he didn’t like it all the same, the bizarre vision of a miniature human emerging from the body of his wife, followed by a stream of blood, as if Brigid was being disembowelled in the process. He had been mesmerised and disturbed, and afterwards he banished it all from his mind, gladly, thinking it might never happen – to them – again.

Patrick walked through the kitchen to the back door, his son trotting alongside him, despite Brigid’s mother’s cries. ‘Oh Calumn darling stay with me, stay with your gran,’ she said, but Calumn went along behind his father anyway.

‘Euuurssschkkkad,’ he said.

‘Yes, absolutely,’ said Patrick. ‘Just today and possibly for the next couple of days, we have to remember that Mummy’s having a bit of a difficult time. She’s very tired because of all the work she’s doing, to make your new brother or sister. You know, she’s been making a new brother or sister for you, and this is the final part, where it gets to be very hard work. It’s not terrible in any way, it’s all good, but it’s hard work. Like running very fast, like when we run in the park. We get tired and we have to sit down. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Mamammam,’ said Calumn, and nodded his head. Who knows what he understands, thought Patrick. They had been trying to prepare him. Reading him appropriate books, at one point they had even tried to interest him in a doll. But how could you really prepare a child for the shock of finding a new baby in his home? For himself, it had been different. He was the last child of three. There had always been others, and he had never – that he could
remember – questioned the presence of his brother and sister. But Calumn, they had always treated Calumn as a miracle child, as if he was the only child Brigid would be able to conceive. When she became pregnant for a second time, they were overjoyed but stunned; they hadn’t expected it at all. Poor kid, you just don’t know what is going on, thought Patrick, looking down at the shuffling sweetness of his son, his chubby hands, his long eyelashes, his unruly hair. An amazing little boy, he thought. My little boy.

Through the window he made out the lumbering form of Brigid. She was standing in the rain, her clothes soaked and clinging to her great belly. She was turning slow circles, holding her belly as if that would help her. Then she would stop and breathe, gulping down air. It was moving to see her there, stooped under the rain, nearly broken with the weight of their child and the pain of labour. All day he had been dogged by a sense of guilt, that he wasn’t with her, that he was indentured and had to stay at his desk. Brigid had told him she would try to cope without him. ‘Perhaps the labour will go on for hours,’ she had said, and he heard the strain in her voice. ‘My mother’s here,’ she said. ‘I can call the midwife. Stay if you have to.’ So he had stayed, but everything was shadowed by this image of her, in pain and waiting for him to return. He had been unable to concentrate. He spoke on the phone, he smiled and shook people by the hand but he could only think of his wife. He had scarcely attended to the talk around him. Now he stood silently for a moment, held by the graveness of her struggle, as if he shouldn’t disturb her. Then he saw she was grimacing as she breathed, and
that made him open the door. Calumn wanted to run outside, but he tried to hold him back. ‘It’s raining sweetie,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to run out in the rain.’ But he couldn’t stop him anyway. So he held his hand and they went slowly down the steps.

‘Brigid,’ he said, more loudly. ‘What should I do?’

She was grimacing horribly and then she saw Calumn. ‘Oh good, you’re here,’ she said, brightly, but it was forced. She was trying to sound matter-of-fact, because Calumn was running towards her. ‘Mamamama,’ Calumn said, squealing his delight, and she smiled down at him. ‘Hello darling boy. Have you been having fun with Grandma?’ Calumn nodded, doubtfully. ‘Good, how good. Well, and now Daddy is here, isn’t that nice?’

‘Dah,’ said Calumn.

Brigid turned away, pulled her lips into a silent howl, tried to breathe, and Calumn stared up at her back, looking uncertain and slightly sad. Naturally he knew something was happening, thought Patrick. He was still a baby, still bound up with Brigid’s emotions, her shifts of mood. And this was far more than a mood shift, it was like colliding with something enormous and unyielding, and this garden was full of pain, and violence scarcely controlled; even Patrick felt it. Calumn made a tentative move towards his mother, patted her leg a little, and she – with a tight smile – leaned towards him and kissed his hair. She said, ‘Darling, Mummy’s very sorry she’s so tired and can’t pick you up. Mummy loves you very much. Daddy’s here now and Daddy is going to get you some juice. Aren’t you
Daddy?’ Then she said, speaking quickly so Calumn wouldn’t understand, ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘You said you’d call if …’

‘I thought you’d come back anyway, once I said …’

‘I didn’t know …’

She smiled again at Calumn, not wanting to disturb him. ‘Never mind,’ she said, firmly. ‘Could you sort out Calumn’s dinner?’

‘Of course,’ said Patrick. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

‘Mum brought some food, speak to her.’

‘Yes.’

‘It must be late. Is it late?’

‘It’s not very late. I’ll ask her if she can stay. She can deal with Calumn while I help you.’

Brigid nodded quickly, and tried to kiss Calumn again, but the attempt was clumsy, hindered by her vastness and her pain, and Calumn was turning back to gaze at her as Patrick drew him inside. ‘It’s all wet,’ he said to his son, aiming to distract him. ‘All wet outside isn’t it? How funny that Mummy is standing in the wet.’

But Calumn was silent, confusion in his eyes; it was impossible to know what he was thinking, impossible even to imagine how his semi-verbal brain marshalled events. Something was wrong, that might have been the thought, had he possessed the words to formulate it. He was uneasy and he clung to Patrick’s hand, following along because he was thirsty and wanted some juice. ‘And then Daddy must get you some dinner,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s dinnertime now isn’t it Calumn? Soon be time for bed.’

Determinedly, Calumn shook his head.

Brigid watched her son and husband going inside, into the ordinary world of the kitchen which had somehow repelled her, so she had fled into the garden. She was an outcast, excluded from normality by the tearing pains within her. She had been raging at Patrick, focusing all her rage on him, and now he was here – she watched him bitterly, as he opened the fridge, and she imagined Calumn below him, too small for her to see, trying to grab at some fruit, or holding out his eager hands for a packet of juice. She felt cast down, by something like mingled concern for her son and the mounting unstoppable pain. Calumn seemed so lost and small and deprived of her – she was troubled by a premonition that this scene would become habitual, once she had a newborn to deal with. Calumn would be the mournful interloper, escorted away from her by helpful adults. And their relationship would never be the same. Brigid was thinking how sad it was, that she and Calumn would no longer be so closely bonded, so nearly sealed off from the rest of the world, when the pain began again and she turned and started walking slowly round the garden, smoothing back her hair, the rain falling hard upon her.

Breathe, breathe, breathe. You must breathe. This new surge of pain was rising within her. The pains began slowly, just a suggestion, a dark promise. They rumbled faintly, and then the progress began, the relentless escalation, until you thought something must break, it should break, but now this pain was growing greater and more violent every second, and every second still stronger, and she gasped and tried to breathe.

Breathe, breathe breathe. Reeeee-lax … Reeeeee-lax.

Reeeeee-lax. That was something she had read. In one of
those cheerful and now redundant pregnancy books. Never mind, that was all it really said. Nothing bad will happen. Reeee-lax. The body responds to thoughts. Think positively. Never mind the pain, never mind. Yet she was compelled to mind. The pain rose and all she thought was pain, pain and I am pierced by pain, and she was rigid with agony and no longer breathing in the advised way, rather holding her breath and far from relaxed, until it broke. The wave broke – she imagined it curdling and frothing onto the shore.

At the door, there was Patrick again.

‘Everything OK?’ she said, tersely.

‘Everything’s fine in here,’ he said. ‘You just worry about yourself.’

She nodded. Grim-faced, thought Patrick. She looked drawn and pale, as if she was shocked all over again. He wanted to hold her, but she looked somehow contained by her state, distinct and apart from him. He couldn’t understand her, so he smiled at her, said, ‘Let me know as soon as you need me,’ and she nodded and turned away. And he went inside and didn’t know what to do. There was Calumn, expectant and uncertain. His son, holding a cup of juice and waiting for his father to reassure him.

‘Sweetie, drink your juice,’ said Patrick.

‘Uuughaughhhhh,’ said Calumn.

‘I agree. That’s absolutely true, but you should still drink it.’

‘Bhaltabish.’

‘Yes, that’s quite right. Your point is well made. Now let’s have a swig. Can Daddy have some juice?’ And Calumn offered him the cup with a baby swing of his
arm.

‘I can make dinner,’ said Brigid’s mother, in the background. She was hovering, in that way she had. ‘Let me help.’

‘Well, if you don’t mind, that would be great,’ said Patrick. ‘Then I could go and give Brigid some support.’

‘Of course. I made some pasta sauce. It just needs heating up. And there’s homemade bread, and soup.’

‘Well that sounds perfect. Of course, have whatever you’d like yourself. There’s white wine in the fridge. Open some red if you’d prefer it.’

‘What about you and Brigid?’

‘I’ll ask Brigid what she wants, if she wants to eat. Don’t worry about me, I’ll eat later.’

‘You should keep your strength up.’

‘Really, I’m fine.’

‘OK little Calumn my darling, we’re going to have a lovely dinner, aren’t we, aren’t we going to have a delicious scrummy dinner?’ said Brigid’s mother.

‘Neaaaar,’ said Calumn, shaking his head.

A mixed blessing, thought Patrick, grabbing a handful of peanuts from a bag in the cupboard. Hiding them from Calumn, who coveted foods he couldn’t have. Yes, Brigid’s mother could make dinner and maybe even put Calumn to bed. But later, what would they do later? Surely she wouldn’t stay to the end? The final gore? Last time Brigid refused even to tell her mother she was in labour. She refused to tell anyone. ‘Our private affair.’ Her private pain. Now her mother was here, in the kitchen. Helpful, of course. Irreproachably helpful. It was unfortunate, but he didn’t want her there. With her, he had to play the part, the
courteous son-in-law. It was quite impossible to relax with her; she was so determinedly remote herself. Remote from him, not from Calumn, and certainly not from Brigid. It was just with him she was so formal and polite. Perhaps he had just never tested her, and she, too, had been trapped in her guise. But he shook his head, because he didn’t want to think about her.

In the garden he stood in front of his wife, and she placed her hands on her hips and leaned forward, so her head was almost touching his chest. He recognised this as a sort of reconciliation. She needed him, however hopeless he was, it was that sort of weary acknowledgement.

‘How bad is it?’ he said, putting his arms around her.

‘Quite bad. It’ll get worse.’

‘How often do they come?’

‘Quite often. But not so I need to count.’

‘Let me know when you want to count.’

‘I will.’

‘I love you. You’re doing brilliantly.’

She didn’t reply. Her face was twisted and he thought another contraction must be starting. She lowered her head and breathed. She breathed like an asthmatic, gasping for air.

For a minute they stood, Brigid drawing in air and Patrick trying to think what it must be like for her. A deep pain in the centre of your body. He had been in pain in his life, but he had no real recollection of it. He once broke his leg skiing and he told everyone that the pain had been monstrous, as if something was gouging a hole in his thigh. Yet he remembered only the words he had
used to describe it, not the pain itself. His body had rejected the real memory of the pain, as soon as he recovered. Just as you couldn’t really remember the precise sensation of sexual ecstasy, once it had passed. You knew you had enjoyed it, acutely, just as you had acutely despised intense pain. But all the real sensation was gone, there was something you couldn’t quite regain.