The Devil's Making (46 page)

‘Meanwhile the magnetic treatments continued and they were very stirring – in my intimate female parts, although he was only making passes in the air and never actually touched me. So after a while I, who had abjured men, was in a perfect state of emotional and sexual crisis about this man whom I did not find handsome or cultivated and whom in fact I found vulgar. Not that I should ever have embarked on an “affaire” with him…' Aemilia seemed lost for words.

‘But,' I said, to make it easier for her, ‘what about “magnetation”, “male continence”, and so forth?'

‘Did he do that with everyone?' Aemilia looked horrified.

‘I don't know. They are practices which originate in the Oneida Community in New York, where McCrory spent some time. A Christian Communist sect – so called “perfectionists”'.

‘How vile. Yes. He told me of an aspect of possible treatment which would surely assuage my tensions and “hysterical symptoms”. I would undress and lie under a sheet with my eyes closed and he would, without lifting the sheet in such a way as to expose me, insert his – “self” was how he put it. Shielded by a lambskin membrane (I had never heard of such things) which would prevent any accidental conception. Not that the aim of this treatment was his own pleasure! He swore it would not entail much movement on his part and certainly not a “spending”, if you know what I mean. Also the membrane would prevent contact of our skins directly and thus preserve the propriety and the medical nature of the treatment. It was
not,
he assured me, an act of lust or even love that he had in mind – although of course he liked and respected me. It was a way for the universal fluid, through this conduit as it were, to establish its balance. The coupling of two organisms, he said, served its purpose in lust and in love, in marriage and in procreation; but it had another function, which was to establish a magnetic equilibrium, through the opposition of the male and female poles: this function I might benefit from without the perils of an illicit relation with a man … And so on! I think I tell you all his suave glozings and explanations in a way to excuse myself.'

‘It's not necessary.'

‘Because of course I gave in! As Byron put it in the poem: “and saying she would ne'er consent, consented.” And the experience was something as he said, in that he held to his end of the bargain, as it were, and went no further – never,
so far as I could tell,
did he experience pleasure or ecstasy for himself. Unless he did so stealthily, like a snake within that cursed sheath which was – you know – strangely cool, as if all warmth to it came from me. Uggh! But my melancholia did abate, and the aches and pains. I wonder if it was merely that I had something to fill my life, and a sense of doing something unconventional, and of occult power, on my visits to him.

‘Then something happened on his part. He began to want to see me more often. For the treatment, you understand. And then when in a treatment he suddenly leaned forward and took me in his arms! I shrieked and pushed him away, and of course he apologized. He said he was falling in love with me! Well, the scales fell from my eyes and I saw him for what he was: a man like all the others. This of course was what his superhuman, as it seemed, control of himself in the treatments had made him
not
seem.

‘So I stopped the treatments, and felt no worse for it, although a little wiser in the ways of the world, and self-disgusted at having let myself be used. Yet he had begun coming to the farm on Sundays as a family friend, and this continued. I teased him and ribbed him in front of others and he took it in good part, so I ended up not exactly disliking him. We used to take little walks together around the house. He liked getting
out,
even under an umbrella in the winter rain, and so do I. He would confide in me even about his patients, although not usually mentioning their names, as if wanting me to see him as an ordinary struggling human, not as the magician he had wanted me to see at first. In a moment of candour I once told him he was no better than a prostitute. I said “you are nothing more than the masculine equivalent of a fricatrice.” Nasty word that, fricatrice, with its implications of rubbing, and I wanted to hurt him. “But”, I said, “when a woman is a fricatrice she knows it: only a man would deceive himself that he was a healer or a daring pioneer of science, while being a fricatrice…” And he said – lyrically – that perhaps he was prostituting himself, but healing required sacrifices: the doctor had no hope of a cure unless he gave something of himself…'

‘And your mother?'

‘Mamma! I have only this week found out
exactly
what was going on – by dint of the most appalling screaming matches between us. She is in a state of
terror
that you or someone else will find out about her and McCrory and that this will come to the ears of Mr Quattrini who is worth hundreds of thousands and a Catholic and views her as a saint! Orchard Farm has been an inferno this past week!

‘Of course I shouldn't tell you about Mamma but I shall, because it bears on my case. In a word: she was McCrory's mistress, almost from the beginning. No nonsense about “treatments” and lambskin sheaths. She is past child-bearing, and although ten to fifteen years older than he, it would seem she was an avid and greedy partner in … You see? My mother whose reverence for my father, for ‘what he would have thought of the betrayal' if I had gone back to my Indian because my animal lusts had been awakened! Mamma calls a spade a spade “en famille” I assure you, in spite of the smelling salts and flutters…' Aemilia's voice trailed off, and she looked so upset that I decided to change the subject.

‘You must tell me everything you know about George Beaumont.'

Aemilia's eyes widened. ‘Is it he? Is it really he?

‘I think so. What do you know?'

‘Very little. He met McCrory here. They became thick, would see each other often. Poor George had some kind of affliction … Oh Lord! Chad, must I be honest? I'm sounding like a woman of the street. McCrory told me of course, mentioning George by name. George could not become excited, in the physical sense. When he lay with a woman he became angry. McCrory was even afraid that one day George would
kill
a woman! So he wanted to cure George, and last time we talked he said he had a
plan
for George. He said one other odd thing. I had asked him about his visit to Cormorant Point and I had, I'm afraid, teased him about being “my spy”. He laughed and said he didn't mind being a spy, since he too had a spy – “our friend George”, he said. But he would say no more. He liked to be mysterious, of course.'

‘You know nothing else?'

‘Nothing. Conversations about George were usually tempered by the fact that he was nearby paying court to Letitia.'

‘And Firbanks? You know about his…? I stopped, out of discretion or fed upness.

‘Yes. His … what I believe the French call ‘chaude-pisse' – I read that in a book. McCrory told me to make sure the little rat did not get
really
close to Cordelia – of which of course there was no chance.'

‘Aemilia. Why did you … I mean why did we do what we did yesterday?'

‘It was not
really
part of the plan. But once I saw you had a horse and could get back to town quickly, I knew there was no other way I could keep you. And I wanted to do it. I still sort of want to, though as before it might not work, and I hardly dare…'

‘Why – hardly dare?' I felt choked with an emotion I could not understand, as if I could love Aemilia after all.

‘I knew you had been with Lukswaas. By the way it was me whom you met…'

‘I know. Young man in straw hat.'

‘I was going to Cormorant Point because of our talk the day before. I had realized that you had lost confidence in finding the murderer, and poor Wiladzap would be dead before long. At first a certain part of me was glad he had been arrested. ‘See how the mighty are brought low', sort of thing. And honestly I had a sort of hope for you. I liked you and I thought if any man could understand my story and forgive, you might. You're such a prig, but honest and good-hearted. Though I don't love you. You don't love me?'

‘Something very like it, but not it.'

‘We should marry, you know. We'd be very well suited. We don't love each other. But perhaps that doesn't matter in marriage. And we've had a similar experience with – with them. I think yesterday for a moment I had the idea: Chad and I can make love and escape from
them
– escape all that violence and danger. But we couldn't. You can't escape from Lukswaas, now, anymore than I can escape from Wiladzap. And maybe that's as it should be. They are both
good
people!'

‘Lukswaas. You were telling me that you went to see her.'

‘Yes, because I knew that if nothing was done to get Wil out of jail he'd be hanged as soon as nothing. I had provoked you into admitting it. At one point I had thought I would be glad to be rid of him. But when you really admitted it would be the end for him, I knew I had to do what I could to get him out. So I thought of the obvious scheme. Nothing is unknown in Victoria. The story of Seeds the Jailer's wife running off with a miner is an old one. And I guessed he would be tempted. And whisky would keep the prisoners quiet. So it was my scheme. I arrived at the camp, having seen you, and was told Lukswaas was ill. She had just got back from being with you and was desperate. I tried to explain to her that if you had known she was a virgin you would
never
have put a finger on her, and on the other hand you must have felt terrible being involved with another man's wife. She agreed you felt terrible about something. But she said she would never want to see you again. All right. We made our plan. That's all. I'm sorry you got back in time – unless you
do
get the murderer. But if it's poor George!'

‘Why
poor
George?'

‘Well, he
is
poor George. If he killed McCrory he must have been driven beyond endurance.'

‘Why did you say earlier that many people might have killed McCrory? From your account, everybody liked him. He could get away with anything. Even you, although you said earlier that it was an ugly story, seem to have ended up on the best of terms with him. You asked me earlier to tell you what I think. I think it's amazing that you could allow that relation with McCrory to happen…'

‘Don't judge me, Chad. And don't be jealous: I know you don't love me but I can see from your face that you're angry, in that way men feel when a woman they are attached to doesn't see through another man. But how could I have seen through McCrory? He had an answer to every objection, he was so suave … but I'm excusing myself. Yes, it was my fault. What happened between us was
evil
– more so by far than if we'd had a real sexual affaire! That shocks you … But it was evil to have a sexual congress which was so stealthy, so unconsummated. I think I put up with him afterward because he had exposed to me an evil part of myself: we were like conspirators. After all, if he had deceived himself that his lust for me was really a medical treatment, I had deceived myself in the same way. But it was even worse: we each must have
known
we were deceiving ourselves. At moments I knew clear as day that, treatment or no treatment, I just wanted a man in my … I was using him too! But God how I loathed him as I did so. Then I used him as a spy on the Tsalak. Which was equally vile…'

‘Don't torment yourself about it. After what you went through…'

‘No, I must accept that I was vile. As he was vile. You, for example, are a prig. I mean it kindly: you are, for a man, over-concerned with virtue. But a man like McCrory exudes a sort of false virtue no matter what he does. You could not cheat people, or lie to them, or promise falsely and betray them, and at the same time be convinced of your own virtue. McCrory could. Perhaps it's the Yankee in him: I don't even believe he was from Virginia – more likely New England or New York. You know the Yankee attitude: whatever a man does is not judged in itself, or by how it makes him feel in his heart, but by its success. McCrory's treatments were a success in his estimation, so they were beyond question. I once asked him, as I thought nastily, whether he really
believed
in the animal magnetism. ‘Of course I do', he said. ‘Because I know it
works.
' I think there is something evil in that. Because I have a point of comparison: Wiladzap. Wiladzap did not ‘believe' in the breath of life, he
lived
it. And he would never touch someone he was asked to heal unless he had gone into a kind of retreat, for hours at least and I believe at times for days, and purified himself by washing scrupulously, and fasting; and if he did not receive the answer to the problem in the form of a song – what we might call a poem containing a magical formula – he would not try to cure it. He did not, like McCrory, have an answer to everything.'

‘Do you still love him?'

‘You're a goose, Chad. Of course I “love” him. Whether I could possibly go with him is another question. I might be ready after all this. A while ago I still would not have been. I distrusted my memories – after all, I was only fifteen when I last saw him! – although they are as clear as day. And although I say he is “good” he is in some ways an
awful
man. Ruthless…'

‘I know. He yelled at Lukswaas to kill me – I'm sure of it. She was standing behind me with a knife ready to plunge it in. He was quite puzzled when she didn't.'

‘As well he might have been. You have caught that girl. But then she has caught you too. We are both caught, you and I. By them. We are doomed. But so are they.'

‘I hope none of us is doomed.'