The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [86]
“Yes,” Miss Howard answered, “it does.”
“And it is,” the Doctor added. “My apologies, Detective Sergeant. But, as Sara said to me, look at the paradoxical examples young girls are offered when growing up—they are taught, on the one hand, that theirs is the pacific, nurturing sex. No outlet is provided for their feelings of anger and aggression. Yet they are human—it is, as Sara says, no more than stupidity to believe that they don’t experience anger, hatred, feelings of hostility. And as they do, they also hear different sorts of stories, from oblique sources—mythology, history, legend—of cruel goddesses and wanton queens, whose very creative or supreme power permits them to indulge-in rage, revenge, and destruction. What lesson would you take from it all?”
There was a break in the talk, and then Lucius said, very softly, “The iron fist in the velvet glove …”
“Detective Sergeant,” the Doctor said good-naturedly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you come so close to poetry. An excellent image, truly—is it your own?”
“Oh. No, I”—Lucius squirmed a bit—“I think I heard it somewhere.”
“Well, it fits admirably,” the Doctor said. “Deadly anger, hidden behind a veil that approximates as closely as possible our society’s notion of ideal, or at least acceptable, feminine behavior.”
“That’s very neat,” Mr. Moore said impatiently. “But it still doesn’t answer the question: Why, if you’re feeling all this shrouded anger, do you decide to go out and be a mother, or a natal nurse, or kidnap somebody else’s kid to take care of it like it’s your own? Doesn’t sound very angry to me.”
“We’re not suggesting that it is, John,” Miss Howard said. “Not at that stage. Taking care of the child is the manifestation of the first half of the character—the one that’s acceptable, the one that’s responding to the constant statement that women are supposed to be nurturing, and aren’t fulfilling their basic role if they’re not. That’s when the transference of ego occurs.”
“Okay,” Mr. Moore said, now pounding one foot on the step of the carriage so that the whole thing shook. “So where the hell does all this ‘evil goddess’ garbage come in?!”
“Let me put a case to you, John,” the Doctor said. “You are such a woman. You have perhaps had your own children, but lost them—through disease, mishap, any number of misfortunes that may or may not have been your fault, but have certainly left you feeling that your own most basic role in life and in society has been taken away. You’ve been left to feel utterly worthless, even to yourself. So you find other ways to care for children. You become a nurse. But something happens—something that threatens your renewed ability to fulfill your primeval function. Something that enrages you so that you feel—to use Marcus’s term—entitled to become the wrathful, primitive goddess, the taker as well as the giver of life.”
“And what is that something?” Mr. Moore asked anxiously, suspecting, now, that an answer was close.
We’d reached Twenty-third Street, and were passing, on the northwest corner, the old, decaying Grand Opera House. Bolted to its Eighth Avenue side was a huge, ugly sign composed of electrical light bulbs what spelled out the hall’s current entertainment staple: VAUDEVILLE.
I heard the Doctor say, “Ah, the old Grand,” in a voice that made me wonder if he was truly recalling fond memories or was just tormenting Mr. Moore. “There used to be some marvelous productions in there …”
“Kreizler!” Mr. Moore was reaching his limit. “What is that something?”
The Doctor’s voice stayed quiet: “Sara?”
“There’s really only one possibility,” Miss Howard said. “The children don’t cooperate. At least, from her point of view they don’t. She tries to nurture, but they don’t accept it. They cry. Develop health, problems. Reject her attention and her care, no matter how much effort she puts into it. She tells herself it’s their fault. She has to. Because the alternative—”
Mr. Moore finally picked it up: “The alternative—is to admit that she has no nurturing skills.” He let out a low whistle. “My God … do you mean