You Are Now Entering the Human Heart
Janet Frame
I looked at the notice. I wondered if I had time before my train left Philadelphia for Baltimore in one hour. The heart, ceiling high, occupied one corner of the large exhibition hall, and from wherever you stood in the hall, you could hear it beating, thum-thump-thum-thump. It was a popular exhibit, and sometimes, when there were too many children about, the entrance had to be roped off, as the children loved to race up and down the blood vessels and match their cries to the heart’s beating. I could see that the heart had already been punished for the day—the floor of the blood vessel was worn and dusty, the chamber walls were covered with marks, and the notice “You Are Now Taking the Path of a Blood Cell Through the Human Heart” hung askew. I wanted to see more of the Franklin Institute and the Natural Science Museum across the street, but a journey through the human heart would be fascinating. Did I have time?
Later. First, I would go across the street to the Hall of North America, among the bear and the bison, and catch up on American flora and fauna.
2
I made my way to the Hall. More children, sitting in rows on canvas chairs. An elementary class from a city school, under the control of an elderly teacher. A museum attendant holding a basket, and all eyes gazing at the basket.
“Oh,” I said. “Is this a private lesson? Is it all right for me to be here?”
The attendant was brisk. “Surely. We’re having a lesson in snake handling,” he said. “It’s something new. Get the children young and teach them that every snake they meet is not to be killed. People seem to think that every snake has to be knocked on the head. So we’re getting them young and teaching them.”
“May I watch?” I said.
“Surely. This is a common grass snake. No harm, no harm at all. Teach the children to learn the feel of them, to lose their fear.”
He turned to the teacher. “Now, Miss—Mrs.———” he said.
“Miss Aitcheson.”
3
He lowered his voice. “The best way to get through to the children is to start with teacher,” he said to Miss Aitcheson. “If they see you’re not afraid, then they won’t be.”
She must be near retiring age, I thought. A city woman. Never handled a snake in her life. Her face was pale. She just managed to drag the fear from her eyes to some place in their depths, where it lurked like a dark stain. Surely the attendant and the children noticed?
“It’s harmless,” the attendant said. He’d worked with snakes for years.
Miss Aitcheson, I thought again. A city woman born and bred. All snakes were creatures to kill, to be protected from, alike the rattler, the copperhead, king snake, grass snake—venom and victims. Were there not places in the South where you couldn’t go into the streets for fear of the rattlesnakes?
4
Her eyes faced the lighted exit. I saw her fear. The exit light blinked, hooded. The children, none of whom had ever touched a live snake, were sitting hushed, waiting for the drama to begin; one or two looked afraid as the attendant withdrew a green snake about three feet long from the basket and with a swift movement, before the teacher could protest, draped it around her neck and stepped back, admiring and satisfied.
“There,” he said to the class. “Your teacher has a snake around her neck and she’s not afraid.”
Miss Aitcheson stood rigid; she seemed to be holding her breath.
“Teacher’s not afraid, are you?” the attendant persisted. He leaned forward, pronouncing judgment on her, while she suddenly jerked her head and lifted her hands in panic to get rid of the snake. Then, seeing the children watching her, she whispered, “No, I’m not afraid. Of course not.” She looked around her.
“Of course not,” she repeated sharply.