Three Women in a Mirror (39 page)

Sébastien Meus, who had just tucked into a plate of stew, put down his fork and greeted the young woman whom he had treated twice, first after the fire then after the hanging.

Although Ida told him she had not come for that purpose, she allowed him to examine the results of his work, and she complimented him on reducing her pain and discomfort. The doctor was delighted—except with regard to the skin on her legs, which was drying out too much—then he asked, “So why have you come to see me?”

“We have rats at the béguinage. Enormous rats. I have been charged with ensuring the cleanliness of the cellars and pantries. And I've reached the end of my wits. Blocking their holes or running after them with a broom has not convinced them to move elsewhere. And more than once I even hurt myself because with only one eye I bump into things as soon as I start to hurry.”

“Don't you have any cats?”

“They are mousers, they don't chase rats. Given their size, if there were to be a hunt, it's the rats who would go after the cats.”

He nodded, hesitated for a moment, then glancing at the pitiful invalid he made his decision:

“I will help you. You can place a few drops of poison on a rind of cheese or a rotten apple. The rats will die very quickly. Be careful, Ida: whatever can kill a big rat can also kill a human being. Never touch the solution with your fingers, wash your hands immediately afterwards, and don't get it anywhere near your nose. Do you swear?”

“Oh thank you, I swear.”

He went off and came back with a jar, which he handed to her. Then, thinking again of the burned woman's calves, he asked her to sit down again, the time it would take for him to combine two remedies she must apply every day.

He went back to his laboratory.

When she heard him grinding seeds with the help of a pestle, she opened the jar and poured some poison into the doctor's plate. As she knew she must not touch it, she took a twig from the supply of kindling by the fireplace and stirred the food to erase any trace of what she had done, then threw the twig into the embers.

The doctor came back with an earthenware container covered with a cotton cloth.

“Keep this well closed.”

Ida thanked him as gracefully as she could. Before leaving the room, she suddenly turned around and asked, “Do you think I am pretty?”

“Pardon?”

“I wonder if you are pleased with what you have made of me.”

The doctor nodded slowly.

“Yes, I am pleased.”

Ida thought,
So you are pleased you have made to me into a monster whom the children call a witch. May you die for your pains!
She gave him a brief curtsey then quickly walked out. She did not want to be there to hear the doctor's cries of agony.

She walked quickly with her head down so no one would see her, hiding the drugs she was carrying in her shawl, and returned to the béguinage.

When she saw Anne meditating underneath the linden tree she shivered with pleasure. Clearly luck was on her side.

When she was in the house, she picked the lock on her cousin's writing desk, took out the green vial, emptied half of it onto an old cloth, put the rat poison in its place, reinserted the cork, and shook the vial to mix the two liquids.

As discreetly as possible she disposed of the cloth in the canal and went back to her work.

That day she listened out for every sound, hoping to hear that her plan had succeeded.

At angelus, the gates to the béguinage were closed. Ida was languishing.

She shared a frugal meal with Anne, after she returned from her visit to the elderly aristocrat.

In the middle of the night they heard the cries. Anne and Ida got up and ran toward them: the Grande Demoiselle had just passed away, after terrible suffering.

Since they knew that no help could come anymore from outside, the beguines gathered around the dead body and prayed until morning for the salvation and peace of her soul.

At dawn when the gates were opened they were able to go to bed. While Ida fell asleep, Anne remained kneeling, thinking about the honorable lady to whom she owed her position as a beguine.

When Ida awoke she found Anne in the same position as when she had left her. The only difference was that Anne had wept a great deal.

This immodest love for another person triggered a new fit of spite in Ida. Beside herself, she decided it was time to mete out a fitting punishment.

Ida grabbed her cloak, because the leaden sky blocked the sun, and hiding beneath the hood she rushed off to the streets of Bruges.

On meeting two town guards, she called to them and told them what she had on her mind.

Terrified, they led her to the competent officials.

 

Not long thereafter, as the bells of Bruges were ringing noon, some men knocked at Anne's door.

When she came to open, they seized her roughly.

The lieutenant in charge of legal proceedings informed her why she was being arrested. The warrants against her contained three allegations: witchcraft, impiety, and murder by poisoning.

April 7, 1912

 

Gretchen,
The years have gone by.
Oh, my childhood friend, I think of you often. I love revisiting our past, where I can embrace you still. Will we let life fade away without ever seeing one another again? Sometimes I dream of having news from you, of finding out where your Werner is working, and what your sons are doing.

What happened?

I recall that, officially, we fell out.

But I cannot remember why.

My memory of that time is confused; the era itself was confused. I was finishing my psychoanalysis, separating from Franz, leaving Vienna. Perhaps I felt the need for a clean slate, and you suffered as a result? Was I too radical? In hindsight, I wonder if I wasn't unfair . . .

For I have forgotten what I reproached you with. That worries me and fills my heart with a bitter sense of guilt.

Oh, Gretchen, I want to write to you the way I used to, I want to hear your wise replies, I want our precious friendship to endure. Is that what you want, too?

Since the time of our absurd falling out, my life has changed a great deal. Although there are still some dark areas, I am happy with my life. Better still, it is enchanting.

Where should I begin?

I lived in Vienna like a bird in a cage, a pretty parakeet with shimmering feathers; my male owner loved to put me on display. I knew nothing about happiness, even though I believed I was happy; as a result, I constantly complained that I did not know how to appreciate it.

My psychoanalysis began to liberate me. I was one of Calgari's first patients—although I only found this out later—and he had come up with a treatment that made me aware of my neurosis.

My marriage to Franz was successful in appearance only. Although he was young, I looked on my husband as a father, a patriarch who taught me how to behave, who taught me the customs of society and the duties of a wife. I did not love him, I revered him. Whether in bed or in society, I obeyed him.

But this docility was not allowing me to blossom.

Thanks to Calgari I became aware of my intense sexual frustration. One day I tried in my clumsy fashion to use him in order to rid myself of that frustration, and I did not realize that this was a transference, a normal stage in the treatment when it is nearing its end.

I hardly remember what I did but it must have seemed like an aggression. In the end it doesn't matter. Calgari did not hold it against me, because during my last weeks in Vienna he resumed his work with me and completed the treatment.

At the same time, I experienced something exceptional, marvelous, and tragic.

I don't think I told you about it, because I was very prudish. Nowadays, because I am no longer afraid of any subject, I will describe it in a few words.

A chain of chance events led me into the arms of an individual who took me to his house. To my utmost surprise, this boy I knew nothing about and who knew nothing about me brought me ecstasy while we were making love.

Can you believe it? Prior to this I had not suspected the existence of such a thing, nor had I even come anywhere near it. My sensual romps with Franz had been limited to the garden of our house, a well-kept garden; we had never ventured into the forest, I had never gone beyond the limits, I was totally unaware of the power that wild nature has invested in us.

I was completely flabbergasted by this revelation of the senses, but for all that I did not try to see the stranger again. I looked for another.

And another.

And I don't know how many more.

Every time, I reached the summit of pleasure.

Are you shocked?

I was.

The contours of this strange discovery were becoming more precise: if my lover knew my name, my background, my concerns and preoccupations, I could no longer let myself go, could no longer find that sense of abandon. Too many words, too many thoughts, and too many ideas formed a wall that was impossible to climb.

I understood my power and its limits: I can reach orgasm, but only in anonymity.

To verify this hypothesis—because I did not accept it—I tried to revive my carnal relation with Franz. I threw myself at him, tried to stimulate myself by reproducing the energy and immodesty and spirit I showed my lovers of a day. It was pointless. Either because my will was too overbearing and prevented me from leaving myself behind, or because Franz went on behaving as Franz von Waldberg, I failed to take flight. Very quickly I felt like laughing, because our contortions seemed so ridiculous.

I shared this detail with Calgari. While my confession did not disconcert him, he tried to provide me with an explanation. As was usual with him, he examined everything in my past that was preventing me from finding satisfaction with a man I liked. To no avail. Rather than question his methods, he concluded I must be withholding some childhood secrets.

At the time I didn't know what to think.

I shared none of this with Aunt Vivi. Although we were close, and understood each other well, I was afraid she would not understand the oddity of my behavior. Unlike me, Vivi gave herself to men whom she knew, men who had courted her for a long time and on whom she had imposed endless strolls and numerous dinners. Clearly Aunt Vivi remained herself, in chosen company, when she attained the “dazzling moment.” So I was afraid she would disapprove if she learned of the strange nature of my case.

For several months I led this double life.

Double? The more time went by, the more the disproportion between the two expanded. One life belonged to a hypocritical ritual, the existence of Frau von Waldberg; the other gave me the opportunity to explore the inexhaustible generosity of nature. Two lives, yes, a false one and a true one. The reflection and the original.

One evening I went up to Franz as he was reading in the library.

“Franz, do not be angry with me—I am leaving you.”

He burst out laughing, thinking I was teasing him. Not batting an eyelash, I waited for his mirth to subside and then I continued, “I regret I must inflict this sorrow upon you, because you are a good, tender, intelligent man.”

He suddenly realized that I was serious.

“Hanna, what has come over you?”

“I can't explain it. It's my fault. I should never have agreed to marry you. I had always supposed that I was not meant for marriage, but there, too, I buried my scruples. Now I am sure of it. My departure has nothing to do with you, do not feel guilty, you have behaved perfectly. In fact your remarkable behavior has shown me that I have no place in such a life.”

I won't go into a description of the scene that followed. Franz cried, argued, raged, screamed, and sobbed again. I lost none of my cold self-control, for although I did not lie, I refused to provide any details about the truth. My calm resolution and silence ended up exasperating him. He went out of the house, slamming the door.

An hour later he came back with Teitelman and Nikisch, the family doctor and his colleague. He had convinced them that I had completely lost my mind. To them I was able to explain my desire to leave quite easily, because unlike poor Franz they listened to me without suffering.

When they conveyed to him that I was not a sick woman but rather a woman who wanted a divorce, Franz let out a terrible cry. It was both the pain of a wounded animal and the suffering of a child. His screams filled me with remorse. Did Franz really love me so much?

At that moment, trembling, I decided that since I could not console him I would give him everything I owned.

The next day I went to the art dealers from whom I had compiled my collection; I asked them to come and appraise my pieces and make me an offer.

Would you believe it? Those bungling idiots had made me squander a fortune and they did not even trouble themselves to come, despite my repeated requests. One of them, after I had begged him over and over, condescended to show up, and he offered a ridiculous amount, one thousandth the amount the paperweights had cost me.

I ordered the servants to show him the door.

This episode filled me with loathing. Loathing for these crooks, loathing for myself for having been so naïve, loathing for these objects whose significance had just burst like a bubble.

What did I do?

If you go down to the Danube, under the Radetzky Bridge, and you have the right equipment, you can swim along the bottom of the river, and on the riverbed among the trout and the pike you will find the most baroque flora anyone has ever seen: growing there are flowers of glass, crystal prairies, a colorful mineral vegetation that a jeweler divinity with Italian taste might have delighted in planting.

Several nights in a row, well after midnight, I poured out everything I called “my treasures.”

Farewell, Vienna. I left all my belongings to Franz, the tiny amount that remained in my personal account, the millions I shared with him as a couple. Without asking him his opinion. And counter to Schönderfer's.