A gemlike novel set in a Parisian asylum in 1885 about two women – one deemed mad, the other sane – who find their salvation at The Mad Women's Ball.
3 March 1885
‘LOUISE. IT IS TIME.’
With one hand, Geneviève pulls back the blanket that hides the sleeping figure of the girl. Curled up in a foetal position on the narrow mattress, her mass of thick, dark hair covers the pillow and part of her face. Lips parted, Louise is snoring softly. She cannot hear the other women, who are already awake and bustling about the dormitory. Between the rows of iron bedsteads, the women stretch, pin their hair up into chignons, button their ebony gowns over their translucent nightshifts, then trudge wearily towards the refectory under the watchful eye of the nurses. Timorous rays of sunshine steal through the misted windows.
Louise is the last to get up. Every morning, an intern or one of the other patients has to rouse her from sleep. The adolescent greets the twilight with relief, and allows the night to plummet her into a sleep so deep she does not dream. Sleep makes it possible not to fret over what is past, not to worry about what is to come. Sleep has been her only respite since the events of three years ago that led her to be in this place.
‘Up we get, Louise. Everyone is waiting.’
Geneviève takes the girl’s arm and shakes it until, finally, she opens one eye. For a moment, she is startled to see the woman the inmates call the Old Lady standing at the foot of her bed, then she cries out:
‘I have a lecture!’
‘Then get yourself ready, you’ve had enough sleep.’
‘Yes.’
The girl leaps out of bed and grabs her black woollen robe from the chair. Geneviève steps aside and watches. Her eye lingers on the panicked gestures, the vague jerks of the head, the rapid breathing. Louise had a fit last night; there can be no question of her having another before today’s lecture.
The girl quickly buttons the collar of her gown and turns to the matron. She feels intimidated by Geneviève, who stands ramrod straight in her white uniform, blonde hair pinned into a chignon. Over the years, Louise has had to learn to adapt to the woman’s stern demeanour. Not that Geneviève could be accused of being unfair or spiteful; she simply does not inspire affection.
‘Like this, Madame Geneviève?’
‘Leave your hair down. The doctor prefers it that way.’
Louise raises her plump hands to her hastily made chignon and unpins it. She is a young woman in spite of herself – even at sixteen, she retains a childlike enthusiasm. Her body matured too quickly, and by the age of twelve her bosom and her hips had developed without warning her of the consequences of this sudden voluptuousness. Her eyes have lost some of their innocence, but not all; this is why it is still possible to hope for the best.
‘I’m nervous.’
‘Just let it happen and everything will be fine.’
‘Yes.’
“Geneviève studies the audience. Some of the faces are familiar; she recognizes doctors, writers, journalists, interns, political figures, artists, every one of them curious, convinced or sceptical.”
THE TWO WOMEN HEAD DOWN THE HOSPITAL CORRIDOR. The light of this March morning streams through the windows and shimmers against the tiles – a soft light that heralds spring and the costumed ball held in the middle of Lent, a light that prompts a smile, and the hope that soon it might be possible to leave this place.
Geneviève senses that Louise is anxious. The girl walks with her head bowed, her arms hanging limply by her sides, her breathing laboured. The girls are always nervous about meeting Charcot in person – especially when they have been chosen to participate in one of his lectures. It is a responsibility they find overwhelming, a scrutiny they find troubling, an attention so unfamiliar to these women, whom life has never pushed to the forefront, that it can almost unhinge them. Again.
Several corridors and swing doors later, the women step into the vestibule next to the lecture theatre. A handful of doctors and male interns are waiting. Notebooks and pens in hand, moustaches tickling their upper lips, bodies cinched into their black suits and white coats, they turn as one to gaze at the subject of today’s lesson. With their medical eye, they scrutinize Louise: they seem to peer right through her robe. This voyeuristic gaze forces the young woman to lower her eyes.
Only one face is familiar: Babinski, the doctor’s assistant, steps towards Geneviève.
‘The hall is almost full. We shall begin in ten minutes.’
‘Do you need anything in particular for Louise?’
Babinski looks the patient up and down.
‘She will do as she is.’
Geneviève nods and makes to leave. Louise takes an anxious step towards her.
‘You will come back to fetch me, won’t you, Madame Geneviève?’
‘As I always do, Louise.’
From the wings, Geneviève looks out over the auditorium. A rumble of bass voices from the wooden benches fills the hall, which looks less like a hospital lecture theatre and more like a museum, or a cabinet of curiosities. The walls and the ceiling are decked with paintings and engravings in which one can marvel at anatomical drawings, bodies, scenes of anonymous figures, clothed or naked, alarmed or lost; next to the benches there are large glass-fronted wooden cabinets, warped and cracked by time, and within them are displayed all the things a hospital might choose to preserve: skulls and other bones, tibias, humeri, pelvises, dozens of specimen jars, marble busts and a jumble of medical instruments. Already, by its outward trappings, this auditorium promises the spectator a singular experience.
Geneviève studies the audience. Some of the faces are familiar; she recognizes doctors, writers, journalists, interns, political figures, artists, every one of them curious, convinced or sceptical. She feels proud. Proud that there is but one man in all of Paris who commands such intrigue that he can fill this auditorium every week. And here he is, stepping on to the stage. The vast hall falls silent. With his imposing stature and serious expression, Charcot has little difficulty commanding the attention of this rapt audience. The tall figure evokes the elegance and dignity of a Greek statue. He has the penetrating yet inscrutable gaze of a doctor who, for years, has been studying women at their most vulnerable, women who have been rejected by their families and by society. He knows the hope he occasions in his patients. He knows that all Paris knows his name. Authority has been conferred on him, an authority he wields in the belief that he has been given it for one reason: so that his talent might further the cause of medicine.
“In the three years since her arrival at La Salpêtrière, we have documented more than two hundred attacks of hysteria.”
‘Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for attending. What will follow is a demonstration of hypnosis on a patient afflicted with acute hysteria. She is sixteen years old. In the three years since her arrival at La Salpêtrière, we have documented more than two hundred attacks of hysteria. By means of hypnosis, we can recreate these crises and study the symptoms. In turn, these symptoms will teach us something about the physiological process of hysteria. It is thanks to patients like Louise that science and medicine are able to progress.’
Geneviève gives a half-smile. Every time she watches the doctor address an audience of spectators eager for the coming demonstration, she remembers his early days at the hospital. She has seen him study, observe, heal, research, discover things that no one before him had discovered, think as no one before him has thought. Charcot is the living embodiment of medicine in all its integrity, its truth, its utility. Why worship gods when men such as Charcot exist? No, that is not quite right: no other men such as Charcot exist. She feels proud, yes, proud and privileged to have spent almost twenty years contributing to the work and progress of the most renowned neurologist in Paris.
Babinski ushers Louise on to the stage. Though overcome by nerves ten minutes earlier, the girl now adopts a different air: as she steps out to face her waiting audience, she thrusts her shoulders back, her bosom forward, holds her head high. She is no longer afraid: this is the moment of glory, or recognition. For her, and for the master.
Geneviève knows every phase of this ritual. First, the pendulum set slowly swinging before Louise’s face, her motionless blue eyes, a tuning fork struck once, the girl falling backwards, her limp body caught just in time by two interns. Eyes closed now, Louise responds to the slightest request, at first executing simple movements, raising her arm, turning around, bending a leg, an obedient tin soldier. Then she poses as she is bidden: folds her hands in prayer, lifts her face to beseech heaven, adopts the attitude of crucifixion. Gradually, what seemed to be a simple demonstration of hypnosis evolves into a grand spectacle, ‘the phase of great movement’, Charcot announces. Louise now lies on the ground; there are no further instructions. Alone, she judders, twists her arms, her legs, pitches her body to left and right, turns on to her back, on to her belly, her hands and feet contract and become utterly still, the expressions on her face veer from ecstasy to pain, her contortions punctuated by guttural breaths. Those of a superstitious bent might think her possessed by some demon; indeed, some of the men in the audience discreetly make the sign of the cross. One last spasm leaves her sprawled on her back. Pressing her head and her bare feet against the floor, she arches her body, creating a perfect arc that extends from throat to knee. Her dark hair brushes the dust of the stage, her vaulted back creaks with the strain. At length, having suffered this paroxysm imposed on her, she collapses with a dull thud before the dumbstruck spectators.
It is thanks to patients like Louise that medicine and science can progress.”
‘In this darkly delightful Gothic treasure, Mas explores grief, trauma
and sisterhood behind the walls of Paris' infamous Salpetriere hospital.’
Paula Hawkins, bestselling author of A Slow Fire Burning and The Girl on the Train
Extracts from The Mad Women’s Ball, out now.
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by Victoria Mas
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