Hysteria

[The following is correspondence between Miss Lucie Shepherd and Sister Rose of the Order of Charity, collected for The Women’s Museum of Australia’s exhibition Hysteria Over The Centuries.]

 

R – 

I am so sick of feathers. Now I am seventeen, Mother insists on ambushing me every time we leave the house, armed with feathers and ribbons and pearls. She tried poking some of the cursed things into my hair this morning. They tickled horribly, and I looked a fright. 

Yesterday was a terrible affair; I am glad you weren’t there for it. The Whitmores hosted another dinner, and it was in honour of their wedding anniversary, this time. It seemed uncouth, somehow, celebrating so soon after Father. It’s only been two weeks, R.   

While we’re on the topic of last night, I feel I must inform you of The Incident, as Mother has already begun calling it.

I never meant to be snappish. It’s only — Mother was fussing over me again, poking and prodding and trying to fix my dress, my hair ribbons, my gloves, and constantly pointing fingers at all the most eligible bachelors in the room. (She will not hear a word of it when I tell her I will never marry, even now.)

Unfortunately, my quarrel with Mother occurred very much out in the open, and most everyone you and I know watched me spill red wine over her dress. I tried to console her by pointing out that she was wearing black, and not white, as she is in fact in mourning. 

Sometimes I don’t think she understands that Father has died. She never speaks of it. She only speaks of seeing me wed, and no one but me takes issue with it. Not even my brothers. I am starting to believe they want me out of the house, too. After The Incident, I overheard James and Alfred whispering about sending me to that institution on the coast. The treatment facility, for hysteria and the like. 

I fear they may be serious. 

You remember my moods. You must, from school. I don’t think they are any worse, since Father, but — well. Somehow, I am not surprised that we ended up here.

I trust you will enclose every little detail about your life in the convent. I hope everyone is treating you well, or else I will have to visit to wreak absolute havoc. (Again.)

I can still hardly believe you chose a convent over me. Unthinkable. What does God have that I do not? (Sorry. I am not usually blasphemous, only missing you terribly. Pray for my mortal soul, R.)

Yours, as always,

– L

***

Dearest Lucie,

I pity you, truly. How terrible it must be, to be showered in pearls and ribbons and feathers.

It is a shame you have not taken to it.   

In all seriousness, I’m sorry to hear about your mother, and your brothers. And dinner with the Whitmores, too; it sounds unbearable. As for your altercation, I’m certain there will be other, far greater scandals very soon. Do you remember last year, when Anne Sutherland and the youngest Mr. Brown walked into church with their clothes all rumpled, and leaves in their hair? You couldn’t stop laughing for weeks. You will survive this, I’m sure.   

One thing I must ask: Are you certain you’re alright? With your moods, I mean. Your ups-and-downs; I know they get worse with change. I’m worried. 

I’m sorry about your father. I wish I knew what to say.

Very little to report on my end. The sisters are in fact very dull, as I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear. They treat me well, though, most of the time, so there is no need for you to come here and raise hell. (Pun intended, I’m afraid. Don’t tell the other sisters.)

I should add: I forgive you for your blasphemy. I shall write a letter to God, and persuade him to absolve all your sins. (Of which I do remember there are many.) 

I miss you. 

Rose

***

R –

First of all, I would like to express my disappointment in the length of your report from the convent. I asked for details, R! There must be something; I am absolutely starved of gossip.

Thank you for your concern. Really. It is appreciated, more than you know. 

As for my news, I am sure you have already noticed the address on this letter. I told you: my brothers don’t joke. They are not capable of it, and it is my eternal torment. 

James told me I would only be staying for a month. According to him, the treatment here is especially modern, so I won’t need any longer. He spoke of bed rest, diet, and electricity, too, though I don’t know what he meant.

I’m frightened, R. 

What if I’m not for this place? What if I’m not for any of it? Do you feel like that, sometimes? Like you’re so out of step with everything it is as though you will burst? (Tell me you do.)

I am looking out over the trees, now. There is a tiny window in my room, and I can see the woods from it, I can hear the ocean. I have never seen as many stars as I can from here; I have never seen such an expanse of sky. It’s a marvel. Do you ever wonder what it would be like to step out over the horizon, R? It must be like flying. 

Maybe I have been here too long already. 

Like always, I miss you terribly, although I wouldn’t ask you to visit even if you could. Maybe I should simply escape; maybe I should run away to build a cottage in the woods. Wouldn’t that be fun? You could come live there, too.

Tell me more about the other novices. I won’t forgive you if you don’t.

Yours, yours, yours,

– L

***

Dearest Lucie,

I am yearning to say some very un-Christian things about your brothers at the moment. I hope you understand the sentiment. 

I’m worried about you. I know I said it the last time, but I’ve never seen you write like that before. I don’t like the idea of you in such a place, even if it’s only for a month.

Don’t be frightened. I don’t know what else to say, but please, don’t be frightened.

As for my lack of news, I assure I only report little because very little seems to happen here. My only piece of gossip is this: Sister Katherine fainted suddenly during mass today. She has frequent bouts of dizziness, apparently, on account of a medical condition she will not elaborate on. Very scandalous, I know.

Life is very dull indeed without you.

Please, take care of yourself.

Yours truly,

Rose

***

R – 

I once again thank you very much for your concern, but I am perfectly fine. Perfectly. I have taken to singing up at the ceiling; I have taken to humming like a bird.

I wish I were a bird.

They won’t let me leave, R! You should see what they have done to me. I lie and lie and lie in bed, still as a corpse. I am a pig on a spit roast; they have been oiling me up for weeks. There is nothing like it in the world, nothing at all. This is rebirth, this is terrible.

Everything I used to worry about seems so inconsequential now.

They cannot reach me now. I am sitting in an open window, a book on my lap. The curtains keep billowing in the draft, wrapping loosely around my back, and nobody has found me yet. I wish I were a bird. I wish I were a bird. I wish I were a bird.

I can see the kitchen garden from this perch. I want to sing. Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Do you remember that one? Remember me to the one who lives there, for once he was a true love of mine. 

There’s larksong in the trees. I haven’t seen the sky in days. It’s very ghostly, here. Very eldritch. Very still, every hour of the day. Everything here is an apparition. Everything feels like feathers.

I wish I were a bird. 

 

[Correspondence ends.]