VII (2/2)

von Wilkie Collins

“Just wait here with me for another half hour, sir!” Monsieur Rubelle insisted.

“I will,” I replied.

We returned to the sitting room, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk to the agent or to let him talk to me. Instead, I pulled out the papers the Count had given me and began to read the chilling account of the conspiracy from the man who had orchestrated it.

THE STORY CONTINUED BY ISIDOR, OTTAVIO, BALDASSARE FOSCO

(Count of the Holy Roman Empire, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Brazen Crown, Perpetual Arch-Master of the Rosicrucian Masons of Mesopotamia; Honorary Member of Musical, Medical, Philosophical, and General Benevolent Societies throughout Europe; etc. etc. etc.)

THE COUNT’S NARRATIVE

In the summer of 1850, I arrived in England on a sensitive political mission from abroad. I was accompanied by several confidential associates, including Monsieur and Madame Rubelle, whom I was authorized to direct. Before I officially began my duties, I had a few weeks of free time, which I decided to spend in the suburbs of London.

Curiosity might wonder about the nature of my mission, and I completely understand that. However, diplomatic protocol prevents me from sharing those details.

I chose to spend this initial period of rest in the grand home of my late friend, Sir Percival Glyde. He had just returned from the Continent with his wife, and I had arrived from the same direction with mine. England is known for its domestic bliss—how fitting that we entered it under such domestic circumstances!

The bond of friendship between Percival and me was deepened by a shared predicament: we were both in desperate need of money. A universal struggle! Is there anyone in civilized society who doesn’t empathize with us? How heartless must one be, or how wealthy!

I won’t delve into the sordid details of our financial troubles. I prefer to keep that aspect of our lives at arm's length. With a Roman-like dignity, I present my empty wallet alongside Percival’s to the public eye. Let’s acknowledge this unfortunate reality and move on.

We were welcomed at the mansion by the magnificent woman I hold dear as “Marian,” known in the more formal circles as “Miss Halcombe.”

Oh, how quickly I fell in love with her! Even at sixty, I adored her with the fiery passion of an eighteen-year-old. All the richness of my heart was hopelessly laid at her feet. My wife—bless her—who loves me, received only the small change. Such is life, such is humanity, such is love. What are we, I wonder, but puppets in a grand performance? Oh, mighty Fate, guide our strings gently! Lead us mercifully off this miserable little stage!

The preceding thoughts, if understood correctly, reveal a complete philosophy. It is mine.

I continue.

The domestic situation at the start of our time at Blackwater Park has been described with remarkable accuracy and insight by Marian herself. (I feel a delightful familiarity in referring to her by her first name.) Thanks to my secret access to her journal—a precious memory—I’ll steer clear of topics she has already covered.

The stakes—immense and urgent!—that I’m involved with began with the unfortunate news of Marian’s illness.

At that moment, the situation was dire. Percival needed a significant amount of money by a certain deadline (and I had my own financial needs to consider), with the only source being his wife’s fortune, which he couldn’t touch until her death. That was troubling enough, but it got worse. My dear friend had his own private issues, which I felt too close to him to pry into. All I knew was that a woman named Anne Catherick was hiding nearby, in contact with Lady Glyde, and that revealing a secret could spell disaster for Percival. He had confided in me that he was a lost man unless he could silence his wife and find Anne Catherick. If he was lost, what would happen to our financial interests? Despite my natural courage, the thought terrified me!

I focused all my energy on finding Anne Catherick. Our financial issues, as pressing as they were, could wait. But locating her was urgent. I only had a description of her, noting her striking resemblance to Lady Glyde. This intriguing detail, meant to help me identify her, combined with the fact that Anne had escaped from a mental institution, sparked a groundbreaking idea in my mind—one that would lead to astonishing consequences. This idea was nothing less than the complete swapping of two identities. Lady Glyde and Anne Catherick would exchange names, places, and fates, with the monumental implications of this switch being a gain of thirty thousand pounds and the preservation of Sir Percival’s secret.

My instincts, which rarely failed me, suggested that our elusive Anne would eventually return to the boathouse by Blackwater Lake. I stationed myself there, letting Mrs. Michelson, the housekeeper, know that I would be found in that quiet spot, deep in thought. I’ve always believed in being straightforward and avoiding unnecessary mysteries. Mrs. Michelson trusted me completely from the start. This refined woman, the widow of a Protestant minister, was filled with unwavering faith. Her abundant trust touched me deeply, and I opened myself up to absorb it.

My vigil at the lake was rewarded, not by Anne Catherick herself, but by the woman who cared for her. This caregiver also radiated simple faith, which I absorbed just as I had with Mrs. Michelson. I’ll leave it to her to recount the details of how she introduced me to the woman she looked after. When I first laid eyes on Anne Catherick, she was asleep. I was struck by the resemblance between this troubled woman and Lady Glyde. The grand plan that had only taken shape in my mind until then crystallized into a masterful vision at the sight of her sleeping face. At the same time, my heart, always open to compassion, filled with tears at the sight of her suffering. I immediately set out to help her. In other words, I provided the necessary support to prepare Anne Catherick for the journey to London.

I had spent the best years of my life passionately studying medicine and chemistry. Chemistry, in particular, had always fascinated me with its immense, limitless power. I firmly believe that chemists could, if they chose, influence the course of humanity. Let me clarify this before I continue.

They say the mind rules the world. But what governs the mind? The body, which is at the mercy of the most powerful of all rulers—the Chemist. Give me—Fosco—chemistry, and when Shakespeare has conceived Hamlet and sits down to write, with just a few grains of powder mixed into his food, I could dull his mind, so that his pen would produce the most ridiculous nonsense ever to disgrace a page. In similar circumstances, bring back the great Newton. I guarantee that when he sees the apple fall, he will EAT IT instead of discovering the principle of gravity. Nero’s meal could turn him into the gentlest of men before he finishes digesting it, and Alexander the Great’s morning drink could make him flee at the first sight of an enemy that same afternoon. I swear, it’s fortunate for society that modern chemists are, by some incredible stroke of luck, the most harmless people on earth. Most are devoted family men running shops. A few are philosophers lost in admiration for their own lectures, dreamers who waste their lives on impossible fantasies, or charlatans whose ambitions barely rise above treating corns. Thus, society remains safe, and the boundless power of chemistry is wasted on trivial and insignificant pursuits.

Why this outburst? Why this passionate declaration?

My actions have been twisted, and my intentions completely misunderstood. People seem to think I used my extensive knowledge of chemistry against Anne Catherick, and that I would have done the same to the remarkable Marian. Such accusations are utterly repugnant! In truth, all my efforts were focused on saving Anne Catherick’s life. My worries were entirely about rescuing Marian from the incompetent doctor who was supposed to care for her, a man whose opinions were only confirmed by the physician from London.

There were only two occasions when I called upon my chemical expertise, and both were harmless to the individuals involved. The first instance occurred after I had followed Marian to the inn at Blackwater. Hidden behind a convenient wagon, I observed the grace of her movements as she walked. I enlisted the help of my devoted wife to copy one letter and intercept another that Marian had given to a former maid. The letters were tucked into the girl’s dress, so Madame Fosco had to open them, read them, follow my instructions, seal them, and return them—all with a little help from a half-ounce bottle of my concoction. The second time I used my skills was when Lady Glyde arrived in London, a situation I will explain soon. At no other time did I rely on my scientific knowledge; in every other challenge, my natural ability to handle situations on my own proved more than sufficient. I stand by the intelligence of that ability. I defend the man, not the chemist.

Please respect this outpouring of righteous indignation; it has lifted a weight off my chest. Now, let’s move on.

I suggested to Mrs. Clement (or Clements; I can’t quite recall) that the best way to keep Anne away from Percival was to take her to London. When she eagerly accepted my proposal, I set a date to meet them at the station to see them off. With that arranged, I returned home to tackle the remaining challenges.

My first step was to rely on the unwavering devotion of my wife. I had coordinated with Mrs. Clements to ensure she would share her London address with Lady Glyde for Anne’s sake. But that alone wouldn’t suffice. There was a risk that someone might undermine Mrs. Clements’ trust in my absence, and she might not write after all. Who could I trust to travel to London on the same train and discreetly escort her home? The answer was clear—Madame Fosco.

Once I decided on my wife’s mission to London, I made sure the trip would serve a dual purpose. I needed a nurse for the ailing Marian, someone equally devoted to both her and me. Luckily, one of the most capable and trustworthy women I knew was available—Madame Rubelle. I sent her a letter at her London address through my wife.

On the appointed day, Mrs. Clements and Anne Catherick met me at the station. I politely saw them off, and then I saw Madame Fosco off on the same train. Late that night, my wife returned to Blackwater, having followed her instructions flawlessly. She brought back Madame Rubelle with her and handed me the London address of Mrs. Clements. As it turned out, this last precaution was unnecessary; Mrs. Clements had already informed Lady Glyde of her whereabouts. Still, I kept the letter, just in case.

That same day, I had a brief meeting with the doctor, where I expressed my concerns about his treatment of Marian. He was rude, as ignorant people often are. I didn’t show any anger; I decided to hold off on confronting him until it was truly necessary. My next step was to leave Blackwater myself. I needed to secure my residence in London in anticipation of what was to come, and I also had some personal business to attend to with Mr. Frederick Fairlie. I found the house I wanted in St. John’s Wood and located Mr. Fairlie at Limmeridge in Cumberland.

My previous knowledge of Marian's letters had already clued me in on her plan to write to Mr. Fairlie. She suggested that, to help Lady Glyde with her marital troubles, she would take her for a visit to her uncle in Cumberland. I had wisely allowed that letter to reach its destination, believing it could do no harm and might actually help.

Now, I stood before Mr. Fairlie to support Marian's proposal, with a few necessary adjustments that her illness had made unavoidable. It was essential for Lady Glyde to leave Blackwater alone, invited by her uncle, and to spend a night on the way at her aunt’s house in St. John’s Wood, as her uncle had advised. My goal was to secure an invitation note that Lady Glyde could see.

Mr. Fairlie was a man who was both mentally and physically weak, and I unleashed the full force of my character on him. I came, I saw, and I conquered Fairlie.

When I returned to Blackwater Park with the invitation letter, I discovered that the doctor’s inept treatment of Marian had led to alarming consequences. The fever had developed into typhus. On the day I got back, Lady Glyde attempted to force her way into the room to care for her sister. We shared no bond of sympathy—she had insulted me by calling me a spy, and she was a hindrance to both me and Percival. Yet, my sense of decency prevented me from putting her at risk of infection myself. At the same time, I didn’t stop her from putting herself in danger. If she had succeeded, the complicated situation I was carefully navigating could have unraveled. Fortunately, the doctor intervened and kept her out of the room.

I had previously suggested seeking advice from London, and that course had now been taken. When the physician arrived, he confirmed my assessment of the situation. The crisis was serious, but we had hope for our lovely patient by the fifth day after the onset of typhus. I was only absent from Blackwater once during this time, taking the morning train to London to finalize arrangements at my house in St. John’s Wood, check that Mrs. Clements hadn’t moved, and settle a couple of preliminary matters with Madame Rubelle’s husband. I returned that night. Five days later, the physician declared Marian to be out of danger and in need of only careful nursing. This was the moment I had been waiting for. With medical attention no longer essential, I made my first move in the game by asserting myself against the doctor. He was just one of many obstacles I needed to remove.

A lively argument ensued between us, during which Percival, who I had prepped beforehand, refused to step in. I unleashed a torrent of indignation on the poor man and swept him out of the house.

Next, I needed to deal with the servants. I once again instructed Percival, whose moral courage needed constant boosting, and Mrs. Michelson was astonished one day to hear from her master that the household was to be disbanded. We managed to clear the house of all the servants except for one, who remained for basic domestic tasks and whose dull-wittedness we could trust to avoid any awkward discoveries. Once they were gone, all that was left was to send Mrs. Michelson away to find lodgings for her mistress at the seaside.

The situation was now exactly as it needed to be. Lady Glyde was confined to her room due to nervous illness, and the dim-witted housemaid (I can’t recall her name) was shut in there at night to attend to her mistress. Marian, while recovering, still remained in bed with Mrs. Rubelle as her nurse. The only other people in the house were my wife, myself, and Percival. With all these factors in our favor, I faced the next challenge and made my second move in the game.

The goal of our second move was to convince Lady Glyde to leave Blackwater without her sister. If we couldn’t persuade her that Marian had already gone on to Cumberland, there was no way we could get her to leave the house willingly. To set this plan in motion, we hid our ailing Marian in one of the empty bedrooms at Blackwater.

In the dead of night, Madame Fosco, Madame Rubelle, and I—Percival was too anxious to be trusted—managed the concealment. The scene was nothing short of dramatic, filled with mystery and tension. Following my instructions, we had prepared the bed on a sturdy, movable frame. This allowed us to lift the frame gently at both ends and transport our patient wherever we needed, without disturbing her or her bed. No drugs were necessary; Marian lay in a deep, healing sleep. We lit candles and opened doors in advance. I took the head of the frame, while my wife and Madame Rubelle took the foot. I carried that precious burden with a tenderness that felt almost paternal.

Where is the modern Rembrandt who could capture our midnight procession? Alas, such artistry seems lost to us now.

The next morning, my wife and I set off for London, leaving Marian hidden in the heart of the house under Madame Rubelle’s watchful care. She had kindly agreed to stay with our patient for a few days. Before we left, I handed Percival Mr. Fairlie’s letter of invitation to his niece, instructing him to show it to Lady Glyde once he heard from me. I also got from him the address of the asylum where Anne Catherick had been held, along with a letter to the proprietor, announcing the return of his runaway patient.

I had arranged, during my last trip to the city, for our modest home to be ready for our arrival on the early train. Thanks to this foresight, we were able to execute the next move in our plan: securing Anne Catherick.

Dates matter here. I possess the unique blend of being both sentimental and business-minded, and I have all the important dates at my fingertips.

On Wednesday, July 24, 1850, I sent my wife in a cab to get Mrs. Clements out of the way first. A fabricated message from Lady Glyde in London was enough to achieve this. Mrs. Clements was taken away in the cab and left there while my wife, pretending to shop, slipped away and returned to await her expected visitor at our home in St. John’s Wood. It hardly needs saying that the visitor had been described to the staff as “Lady Glyde.”

Meanwhile, I followed in another cab with a note for Anne Catherick, simply stating that Lady Glyde wanted Mrs. Clements to spend the day with her and that Anne should join them under the care of the kind gentleman waiting outside—who had already helped her avoid discovery by Sir Percival in Hampshire. The “good gentleman” sent the note in with a street boy and waited a couple of doors down for the outcome. Just as Anne appeared at the door and closed it, he had the cab door open, ready for her, quickly ushering her inside before driving off.

(How fascinating this all is!)

On the way to Forest Road, my companion showed no fear. I can be paternal—no one more so—when I choose, and I was intensely paternal this time. I had reasons for her trust: I had mixed the medicine that had helped her, and I had warned her about the danger posed by Sir Percival. Perhaps I relied too much on these reasons; perhaps I underestimated the instincts of someone with a fragile mind. I certainly failed to prepare her for the disappointment of entering my home.

When I brought her into the drawing-room and she saw only Madame Fosco, a stranger to her, her agitation was immediate and intense. If she had sensed danger in the air, her reaction couldn’t have been more sudden or more unfounded. I tried to intervene, but while I might have calmed her fears, the serious heart condition she suffered from was beyond the reach of any comforting words. To my utter horror, she was suddenly seized by convulsions—a shock to her system that could have left her lifeless at our feet in an instant.

The nearest doctor was called, informed that “Lady Glyde” needed his immediate attention. To my immense relief, he turned out to be a competent man. I described my visitor as someone with a fragile mind, prone to delusions, and arranged for no one but my wife to watch over her in the sickroom. The unfortunate woman was too ill to raise any concerns about what she might say. My only fear now was that the false Lady Glyde might die before the true Lady Glyde arrived in London.

That morning, I had written a note to Madame Rubelle, asking her to meet me at her husband’s house on the evening of Friday the 26th. I also sent a warning to Percival, instructing him to show his wife her uncle’s letter of invitation, to claim that Marian had gone ahead of her, and to send her to town on the midday train on the 26th as well. Given Anne Catherick’s deteriorating health, I felt the urgency to speed things up and have Lady Glyde available sooner than I had originally planned. What new instructions could I give in the terrifying uncertainty of my situation? All I could do was rely on chance and the doctor. My emotions spilled over in desperate outbursts, which I managed to temper, in front of others, by mentioning “Lady Glyde.” In every other respect, on that fateful day, Fosco was a shadow of himself.

She had a rough night and woke up exhausted, but as the day went on, she surprisingly began to improve. My spirits lifted along with hers. I wouldn’t hear back from Percival and Madame Rubelle until the morning of the 26th. Anticipating that they would follow my instructions—barring any accidents—I arranged for a carriage to pick up Lady Glyde from the train, scheduling it to arrive at my house at two o’clock on the 26th. After confirming the order, I moved on to finalize details with Monsieur Rubelle. I also enlisted the help of two gentlemen who could provide the necessary certificates of lunacy. One was someone I knew personally; the other was known to Monsieur Rubelle. Both were men of strong intellect, unburdened by narrow scruples, both facing temporary difficulties, and both believed in me.

I returned from these tasks after five o’clock in the afternoon. When I got back, Anne Catherick was dead. Dead on the 25th, and Lady Glyde wouldn’t arrive in London until the 26th!

I was in shock. Just think about that. Fosco, in shock!

It was too late to turn back. Before I returned, the doctor had taken it upon himself to register the death, writing it down with his own hand on the date it occurred. My grand plan, which had seemed foolproof until now, had a critical flaw—no amount of effort on my part could change the grim reality of the 25th. I steeled myself for the future. With both Percival’s interests and mine still at stake, I had no choice but to see this through to the end. I summoned my usual calm and played my part.

On the morning of the 26th, I received Percival’s letter announcing his wife’s arrival on the midday train. Madame Rubelle also wrote to say she would follow in the evening. I set off in the carriage, leaving the false Lady Glyde dead in the house, ready to greet the true Lady Glyde when she arrived by train at three o’clock. Hidden under the seat of the carriage were the clothes Anne Catherick had worn when she came to my house—these would play a crucial role in the resurrection of the woman who was dead in the guise of the woman who was alive. What a situation! I would suggest it to the up-and-coming romance writers of England. I offer it, as something entirely new, to the weary dramatists of France.

Lady Glyde was at the station. There was a chaotic crowd, and I faced more delays than I would have liked (in case any of her acquaintances happened to be around) in retrieving her luggage. As we drove off, her first questions were about her sister. I fabricated the most reassuring news, telling her that she was about to see her sister at my house. For this occasion, my house was located near Leicester Square and was occupied by Monsieur Rubelle, who greeted us in the hallway.

I led my guest upstairs to a back room, where the two doctors were waiting on the floor below to see the patient and provide me with their certificates. After calming Lady Glyde with the necessary reassurances about her sister, I introduced my friends to her one by one. They completed the formalities quickly, intelligently, and with care. I re-entered the room as soon as they left and immediately set events in motion by referring to “Miss Halcombe’s” alarming state of health.

The results unfolded just as I had expected. Lady Glyde grew frightened and fainted. For the second and final time, I called upon Science to help. A medicated glass of water and a bottle of smelling salts eased her embarrassment and fear. Later that evening, additional applications granted her the invaluable gift of a good night’s sleep.

Madame Rubelle arrived just in time to oversee Lady Glyde’s care. Each night, her own clothes were taken away, and in the morning, she was dressed in Anne Catherick’s attire, all done with the utmost propriety by the capable hands of Madame Rubelle. Throughout the day, I kept our patient in a state of semi-consciousness until the skilled assistance of my medical colleagues allowed me to secure the necessary order sooner than I had dared to hope.

That evening, the 27th, Madame Rubelle and I took our revived “Anne Catherick” to the Asylum. She was received with surprise but without suspicion, thanks to the order and certificates, Percival’s letter, the resemblance, the clothing, and the patient’s own confused mental state at that moment. I returned immediately to help Madame Fosco prepare for the burial of the false “Lady Glyde,” carrying with me the clothes and belongings of the true “Lady Glyde.” These were later sent to Cumberland along with the funeral transport. I attended the funeral, dressed in the deepest mourning, maintaining a demeanor of appropriate dignity.

My account of these extraordinary events, written under equally extraordinary circumstances, ends here. The minor precautions I took in communicating with Limmeridge House are already known, as is the remarkable success of my endeavor and the substantial financial results that followed. I must assert, with all the conviction I possess, that the one flaw in my plan would never have been discovered if the one flaw in my heart hadn’t been revealed first. My fatal admiration for Marian kept me from stepping in to save myself when she orchestrated her sister’s escape. I took the risk, trusting in the complete obliteration of Lady Glyde’s identity. If either Marian or Mr. Hartright tried to assert that identity, they would expose themselves to accusations of maintaining a blatant deception, which would lead to their distrust and discredit, rendering them powerless to jeopardize my interests or Percival’s secret.

I made one mistake by relying on such a blind gamble of chances. I made another when Percival, having paid the price for his own stubbornness and aggression, granted Lady Glyde a second reprieve from the asylum and allowed Mr. Hartright another opportunity to escape me. In short, at this critical moment, Fosco was untrue to himself. A deplorable and uncharacteristic fault! Look at the cause, in my heart—look at Marian Halcombe, the first and last weakness of Fosco’s life!

At the age of sixty, I make this unparalleled confession. Young people! I seek your sympathy. Maidens! I ask for your tears.

One more word, and the reader’s rapt attention on me shall be released.

I know that three inevitable questions will arise in the minds of those who are curious. I will state them—and I will answer.

First question: What is the secret behind Madame Fosco’s unwavering devotion to fulfilling my boldest wishes and supporting my deepest plans? I could answer this simply by pointing to my own character and asking, in turn, where in the history of the world has a man of my standing ever been found without a woman in the background, sacrificing herself for his life? But I remember that I am writing in England, that I was married in England, and I ask whether a woman’s marital obligations in this country allow for her personal opinion of her husband’s principles? No! They require her to love, honor, and obey him without reservation. That is precisely what my wife has done. I stand here on a moral high ground, asserting her faithful fulfillment of her marital duties. Silence, Calumny! Wives of England, show your sympathy for Madame Fosco!

Second question: If Anne Catherick had not died when she did, what would I have done? In that case, I would have assisted worn-out Nature in finding permanent peace. I would have opened the doors of the Prison of Life and offered the captive—who was incurably afflicted in mind and body—a happy release.

As I reflect on everything that has happened, I can’t help but ask myself: Is my behavior truly deserving of serious criticism? Absolutely not! I’ve gone to great lengths to avoid the shame of committing a senseless crime. With my extensive knowledge of chemistry, I could have easily taken Lady Glyde’s life. Instead, I made a significant personal sacrifice, choosing to take her identity instead.

Consider what I could have done. In comparison, my actions seem almost innocent, even virtuous in their indirectness.

I stated at the outset that this narrative would be something remarkable, and it has certainly lived up to my expectations. So here are these passionate words—my final gift to the country I am leaving behind. They are fitting for this moment and worthy of FOSCO.

THE STORY CONCLUDED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT