The Thirteenth Tale

THE EXPERIMENT

The day of the medical examination came, and Dr. Maudsley presented himself at the house. As usual Charlie was not there to welcome the visitor. Hester had informed him of the doctor's visit in her usual way (a letter left outside his rooms on a tray), and having heard no more about it, assumed quite correctly that he took no interest in the matter.

The patient was in one of her sullen but unresisting moods. She allowed herself to be led into the room where the examination took place, and submitted to being poked and prodded. Invited to open her mouth and stick out her tongue, she would not, but at least when the doctor stuck his fingers in her mouth and physically separated upper from lower jaw to peer in, she did not bite him. Her eyes slid away from him and his instruments; she seemed scarcely aware of him and his examination. She could not be induced to speak a single word.

Dr. Maudsley found his patient to be underweight and to have lice; otherwise she was physically healthy in every respect. Her psychological state, however, was more difficult to determine. Was the child, as John-the-dig implied, mentally deficient? Or was the girl's behavior caused by parental neglect and lack of discipline? This was the view of the Missus, who, publicly at least, was inclined always to absolve the twins.

These were not the only opinions the doctor had in mind when he examined the wild twin. The previous night in his own house, pipe in mouth, hand on fireplace, he had been musing aloud about the case (he enjoyed having his wife listen to him; it inspired him to greater eloquence), enumerating the instances of misbehavior he had heard of. There had been the thieving from villagers' cottages, the destruction of the topiary garden, the violence wrought upon Emmeline, the fascination with matches. He had been pondering the possible explanations when the soft voice of his wife broke in. "You don't think she is simply wicked?"

For a moment he was too surprised at being interrupted to answer.

"It's only a suggestion," she said with a wave of her hand, as if to discount her words. She had spoken mildly, but that hardly mattered. The fact that she had spoken at all was enough to give her words an edge.

And then there was Hester.

"What you must bear in mind," she had told him, "is that in the absence of any strong parental attachment, and with no strong guidance from any other quarter, the child's development to date has been wholly shaped by the experience of twinness. Her sister is the one fixed and permanent point in her consciousness; therefore her entire worldview will have been formed through the prism of their relationship."

She was quite right, of course. He had no idea what book she had got it out of, but she must have read it closely, for she elaborated on the idea very sensibly. As he listened, he had been rather struck by her queer little voice. Despite its distinctively feminine pitch it had more than a little masculine authority about it. She was articulate. She had an amusing habit of expressing views of her own with the same measured command as when she was explaining a theory by some authority she had read. And when she paused for breath at the end of a sentence, she would give him a quick look-he had found it disconcerting the first time, though now he thought it rather droll-to let him know whether he was allowed to speak or whether she intended to go on speaking herself.

"I must do some more research," he told Hester when they met to discuss the patient after the examination. "And I shall certainly look very closely at the significance of her being a twin."

Hester nodded. "The way I look at it is this," she said. "In a number of ways, you could view the twins as having divided a set of characteristics between them. Where an ordinary, healthy person will feel a whole range of different emotions, display a great variety of behaviors, the twins, you might say, have divided the range of emotions and behaviors into two and taken one set each. One twin is wild and given to physical rages; the other is indolent and passive. One prefers cleanliness; the other craves dirt. One has an endless appetite for food, the other can starve herself for days. Now, if this polarity-we can argue later about how consciously it has been adopted-is crucial to Adeline's sense of identity, it is unsurprising, is it not, if she suppresses within herself everything that in her view falls on Emmeline 's side of the boundary?" The question was rhetorical; she did not indicate to the doctor that he might speak, but drew in a measured breath and continued. "Now, consider the qualities in the girl in the mist. She listens to stories, is capable of understanding and being moved by a language that is not twin language. This suggests a willingness to engage with other people. But of the twins, which is it who has been allocated the job of engaging with others? Emmeline! And so Adeline must repress this part of her humanity."

Hester turned her head to the doctor and gave him the look that meant it was his turn to speak.

"It's a curious idea," he answered cautiously. "I should have thought the opposite, wouldn't you? That you could expect them to be more alike than dissimilar?"

"But we know from observation that that isn't the case," she countered briskly.

"Hmm."

She did not speak but let him consider. He stared at the empty wall, deep in thought, while she cast anxious glances in his direction, trying to divine the reception of her theory from his face. Then he was ready to make his pronouncement.

"While this idea of yours is an interesting one"-he put on a sympathetic smile to soften the effect of his discouragement-"I don't recall ever reading about such a division of character between twins in any of the authorities."

She ignored the smile and met his eyes levelly. "It isn't in the authorities, no. If it was going to be anywhere it would be in Lawson, and it isn't."

"You have read Lawson?"

"Of course. I would not dream of pronouncing an opinion on any subject without being sure of my references first." "Oh." "There is a reference to the Peruvian boy twins in Harwood that is suggestive, though he stops short of the full conclusion that might be drawn."

"I remember the example you mean… " He gave a little start. "Oh! I see the connection! Well, I wonder whether the Brasenby case study is of any relevance? "

"I haven't been able to obtain the full study. Can you lend it to me?"

So it began.

Impressed by the acuity of Hester's observations, the doctor lent her the Brasenby case study. When she returned it, there was a sheet of pithily expressed notes and questions attached. He, in the meantime, had obtained a number of other books and articles to complete his library on twins, recently published pieces, copies of work in progress from various specialists, foreign works. He found after a week or two that he could save himself time by passing these to Hester first, and reading for himself just the concise and intelligent summaries she produced. When between them they had read everything it was possible to read, they returned to their own observations. Both of them had compiled notes, his medical, hers psychological; there were copious annotations in his handwriting in the margins of her manuscript, but she had made even more notes on his, and sometimes attached her own cogent essays on separate pieces of paper.

They read; they thought; they wrote; they met; they discussed. This went on until they knew everything there was to know about twins, but there was still one thing they did not know, and it was the one thing that mattered.

"All this work," the doctor said one evening in the library, "all this paper. And we are still no nearer." He ran his hand through his hair in an agitated manner. He had told his wife he would be back by half past seven, and he was going to be late. "Is it because of Emmeline that Adeline represses the girl in the mist? I think the answer to that question lies outside the bounds of current knowledge." He sighed and tossed his pencil onto the desk, half annoyed, half resigned.

"You are quite right. It does." You could forgive her for sounding testy-it had taken him four weeks to reach the conclusion she could have given him at the beginning if he had only been willing to listen.

He turned to her.

"There is only one way to find out," she said quietly.

He raised an eyebrow.

"My experience and observations have led me to believe that there is scope for an original research project here. Of course, as a mere governess, I would have difficulty in persuading the appropriate journal to publish anything I produced. They would take one look at my qualifications and think I was nothing but a silly woman with ideas beyond her competence." She shrugged and cast her eyes down. "Perhaps they are right, and I am. All the same"-slyly she glanced up again-"for a man with the right background and knowledge, I am sure there is a meaty project there."

The doctor looked at first surprised, then his eyes turned misty. Original research! The idea was not so very preposterous. It struck him that at this moment, at the culmination of all the reading he had done in recent months, he must surely be the best-read doctor in the country on the subject of twins! Who else knew what he knew? And more to the point, who else had the perfect case study under his nose? Original research? Whyever not?

She let him indulge himself for a few minutes, and when she saw that her suggestion had taken root in his heart, murmured, "Of course, if you needed an assistant, I'd be glad to help in any way I could."

"Very kind of you." He nodded. "Of course, you've worked with the girls… Practical experience… Invaluable… Quite invaluable." He left the house and floated home on a cloud, where he failed to notice that his dinner was cold and his wife bad-tempered.

Hester gathered up the papers from the desk and left the room; her neat footsteps and firm closing of the door had the ring of satisfaction about them.

The library seemed empty, but it wasn't. Lying full-length on top of the bookcases, a girl was biting her nails and thinking. Original research.

Is it becauseofEmmeline that Adeline represses thegirl in the mist?

Didn't take a genius to figure out what was going to happen next.

They did it at night.

Emmeline never stirred as they lifted her from her bed. She must have felt herself safe in Hester's arms; perhaps she recognized the smell of soap in her sleep as she was carried out of the room and along the corridor. Whatever the reason, she didn't realize that night what was happening. Her awakening to the truth was hours away.

It was different for Adeline. Quick and sharp, she awoke at once to her sister's absence. Darted to the door but found it locked already by Hester's swift hand. In a flash she knew it all, felt it all. Severance. She didn't shriek, she didn't fling her fists against the door, she didn't claw at the lock with her nails. All the fight went out of her. She sank to the floor, collapsed into a little heap against the door, and that is where she stayed all night. The bare boards bit into her jutting bones, but she didn't feel the pain. There was no fire and her nightdress was thin, but she didn't feel the cold. She felt nothing. She was broken.

When they came for her the next morning, she was deaf to the key in the lock, didn't react when the opening door shunted her out of its way. Her eyes were dead, her skin bloodless. How cold she was. She might have been a corpse, if it had not been for her lips that twitched ceaselessly, repeating a silent mantra that might have been Emmeline, Emmeline, Emmeline.

Hester lifted Adeline in her arms. Not difficult. The child was fourteen now, but she was skin and bones. All her strength was in her will, and when that was gone, the rest was insubstantial. They carried her down the stairs as easily as if she were a feather pillow going to be aired.

John drove. Silent. Approving, disapproving, it hardly mattered. Hester did the decision making.

They told Adeline she was going to see Emmeline; a lie they needn't have bothered with; they could have taken Adeline anywhere and she 'd not have fought them. She was lost. Absent from herself. Without her sister, she was nothing and she was no one. It was just the shell of a person they took to the doctor's house. They left her there.

Back at home, they moved Emmeline from the bed in Hester's room back into her own without waking her. She slept for another hour, and when she did open her eyes was mildly surprised to find her sister gone. As the morning drew on, her surprise grew, turning to anxiety in the afternoon. She searched the house. She searched the gardens. She went as far as she dared in the woods, the village.

At teatime Hester found her at the road's edge, staring in the direction that would have taken her, if she had followed it, to the door of the doctor's house. She had not dared follow it. Hester put a hand on Emmeline 's shoulder and drew her close, then led her back to the house. From time to time, Emmeline stopped, hesitant, wanting to turn back, but Hester took her hand and guided her firmly in the direction of home. Emmeline followed with obedient but puzzled steps. After tea she stood by the window and looked out. She grew fearful as the light faded, but it was not until Hester locked the doors and began the routine of putting Emmeline to bed that she became distraught.

All night long she cried. Lonely sobs that seemed to go on forever. What had snapped in an instant in Adeline took an agonizing twenty-four hours to break in Emmeline. But when dawn came, she was quiet. She had wept and shuddered herself into oblivion.

The separation of twins is no ordinary separation. Imagine surviving an earthquake. When you come to, you find the world unrecognizable. The horizon is in a different place. The sun has changed color. Nothing remains of the terrain you know. As for you, you are alive. But it's not the same as living. It's no wonder the survivors of such disasters so often wish they had perished with the others.

Miss Winter sat staring into space. Her famous copper tint had faded to a tender apricot. She had abandoned her hairspray and the solid coils and twists had given way to a soft, shapeless tangle. But her face was set hard and she held herself rigid, as though girding herself against a biting wind that only she could feel. Slowly she turned her eyes to mine. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Judith says you don't eat very much."

"I've always been like that."

"But you look pale."

"A bit tired, maybe."

We finished early. Neither of us, I think, felt up to carrying on.