Pulse (21 page)

Their daily work continued. So far, Maria Theresia had been presented with a mere sequence of static objects: his concern had been to establish and accustom her to shape, colour, location, distance. Now he decided to introduce the concept of movement, and with it the reality of a human face. Though she was well used to M—’s voice, he had so far always kept out of her lines of perception. Gently, he undid the bandages, asking her immediately to cover her eyes with her hands. Then he came round to face her, placing himself at a distance of a few feet. Telling her to take away her hands, he began slowly turning his head from one profile through to its opposite.

She laughed. And then placed the hands she had removed from her eyes over her mouth. M—’s excitement as a physician overcame his vanity as a man that he should provoke such a reaction in her. Then she took her hands from her mouth, placed them over her eyes, and after a few seconds released them and looked at him again. And laughed again.

‘What is that?’ she asked, pointing.

‘This?’

‘Yes, that.’ She was giggling to herself in a manner which, in other circumstances, he would have judged uncivil.

‘It is a nose.’

‘It is ridiculous.’

‘You are the only person cruel enough to have made that observation,’ he said, pretending to be piqued. ‘Others have found it acceptable, even agreeable.’

‘Are all … noses like that?’

‘There are differences, but, charming Fräulein, I must warn you that this is by no means anything out of the ordinary, as far as noses go.’

‘Then I shall have much cause for laughter. I must tell Zwelferine about noses.’

He decided on an additional experiment. Maria Theresia had always enjoyed the presence, and the affection, of the house dog, a large, amiable beast of uncertain species. Now M— went to the curtained door, opened it slightly, and whistled.

Twenty seconds later, Maria Theresia was saying, ‘Oh, a dog is a much more pleasing sight than a man.’

‘You are, sadly, not alone in that opinion.’

There followed a period when her improving sight led to greater cheerfulness, while her clumsiness and error in the face of this newly discovered world drew her down into melancholy. One evening M— took her outside into the darkened garden and suggested that she tip her head backwards. That night the heavens were blazing. M— briefly found himself thinking: black and white again, though happily much more black than white. But Maria Theresia’s reaction took any anxiety away. She stood there in astonishment, head back, mouth open, turning from time to time, pointing, not saying a word. She ignored his offer to identify the constellations; she did not want words to interfere with her sense of wonder, and continued looking until her neck hurt. From that evening on, visual phenomena of any distinction were automatically compared to a starry sky – and found wanting.

Though each morning M— continued his treatment in exactly the same way, he now did so with a kind of feigned concentration. Within himself he was debating between two lines of thought, and between two parts of his intellectual formation. The doctor of philosophy argued that the universal element which underlay everything had surely now been laid bare in the form of magnetism. The doctor of medicine argued that magnetism had less to do with the patient’s progress than the power of touch, and that even the laying on of hands was merely emblematic, as was the application of magnets and of the wand. What was actually happening was some collaboration or complicity between physician and patient, so that his presence and authority were permitting the patient to cure herself. He did not mention this second explanation to anyone, least of all the patient.

Maria Theresia’s parents were as astonished by the further improvement in their daughter as she was by the starry heavens. As the news spread, friends and well-wishers began to turn up at 261 Landstrasse to witness the miracle. Passers-by often lingered outside the house, hoping to glimpse the famous patient; while letters requesting her physician’s attendance at sickbeds across the city arrived each day. At first M— was happy to allow Maria Theresia to demonstrate her ability to distinguish colours and shapes, even if some of her naming was not yet faultless. But such performances palpably tired her, and he severely restricted the number of visitors. This sudden ruling had the effect of increasing both the rumours of miracle-working and the suspicions harboured by some fellow members of the Faculty of Medicine. The case was also beginning to make the Church uneasy, since the popular understanding was that M— had only to touch the afflicted part of a sick person for the sickness to be healed. That anyone other than Jesus Christ might effect a cure by the laying on of hands struck many of the clergy as blasphemous.

M— was aware of these rumours, but felt confident in the backing of Professor Stoerk, who had come to 261 Landstrasse and been officially impressed by the working of the new cure. What then did it matter if other members of the Faculty muttered against him, or even dropped the slander that his patient’s new-found ability to name colours and objects was in fact due to close training? The conservative, the slowwitted and the envious existed in every profession. In the longer term, once M—’s methods were understood and the number of cures increased, all men of reason would be obliged to believe him.

One day when Maria Theresia’s state of mind was at its calmest, M— invited her parents to attend him that afternoon. He then proposed to his patient that she take up her instrument, unaccompanied and unbandaged. She enthusiastically agreed, and the four of them proceeded to the music room. Chairs were set out for Herr von P— and his wife, while M— took a stool close to the klavier, the better to observe Maria Theresia’s hands, eyes and moral condition. She took several deep breaths and then, after a barely endurable pause, the first notes of a sonata by Haydn fell upon their ears.

It was a disaster. You might have thought the girl a novice and the sonata a piece she had never played. The fingering was inept, the rhythms flawed; all grace and wit and tenderness vanished from the music. When the first movement stumbled to a confused halt, there was a silence during which M— could sense the parents exchanging glances. Then, suddenly, the same music began again, now confidently, brightly, perfectly. He looked across at the parents, but they in turn had eyes only for their daughter. Turning towards the klavier, M— realised the cause of this sudden excellence: the girl had her eyes tightly closed and her chin raised high above the keyboard.

When Maria Theresia reached the end of the movement, she opened her eyes, looked down, and went back to the beginning. The result, again, was chaos, and this time M— thought he guessed the reason: she was following her hands transfixedly. And it seemed that the very act of watching was destroying her skill. Fascinated by her own fingers, and the way they moved across the keyboard, she was unable to bring them under her full control. She observed their disobedience until the end of the movement, then rose and ran to the door.

There was yet another silence.

Eventually, M— said, ‘It is to be expected.’

Herr von P—, red with anger, replied, ‘It is a catastrophe.’

‘It will take time. Every day there will be an improvement.’

‘It is a catastrophe. If news of this gets out, it will be the end of her career.’

Unwisely, M— put the question, ‘Would you rather your daughter could see, or could play?’

Herr von P—, now choleric, was on his feet, with his wife beside him. ‘It was not, sir, a choice I remember you offering when we brought her to you.’

After they left, M— found the girl in a deplorable condition. He sought to reassure her, telling her it was no surprise that the sight of her fingers disconcerted her playing.

‘If it was no surprise, why did you not warn me?’

He reminded her that her sight had been improving on an almost daily basis, and so it was inevitable that her playing would also improve, once she became accustomed to the presence of her fingers on the keys.

‘That is why I played the piece a third time. And it was even worse than the first.’

M— did not argue the point. He knew from his own experience how, in matters of art, the nerves occupied a vital part. If you played badly, your spirits fell; if your spirits were low, you played worse – and so, decliningly, on. Instead, M— pointed to the wider improvement in Maria Theresia’s condition. This did not satisfy her either.

‘In my darkness, music was my entire consolation. To be brought into the light and then lose the ability to play would be cruel justice.’

‘That will not happen. It is not a choice. You must trust me that such will not be the case.’

He looked at her, and followed the development, and the departure, of a frown. Eventually, she replied, ‘Apart from the matter of pain, you have always been worthy of trust. What you have said might happen has happened. Therefore, yes, I trust you.’

In the following days, M— was made aware that his earlier dismissal of the outside world’s opinion had been naive. A proposal arrived from certain members of the Faculty of Medicine that endorsement of the practice of magnetic healing should only be given if M— could reproduce his effects with a new patient, under full lighting and in the presence of six Faculty examiners – conditions which would, M— knew, destroy its effectiveness. Satirical tongues were already asking if in the future all doctors would be equipped with magic wands. More dangerously, some were questioning the moral wisdom of the procedure. Did it help the status and respectability of the profession if one of their number took young women into his household, cloistered them behind drawn curtains, and then laid hands upon them amid jars of magnetised water and to the caterwauling of a glass armonica?

On 29th April 177–, Frau von P— was shown into M—’s study. She was clearly agitated, and refused to sit down.

‘I have come to remove my daughter from you.’

‘Has she indicated that she wishes to cease her treatment?’

‘
Her
wishes … That remark, sir, is an impertinence.
Her
wishes are subordinate to her parents’ wishes.’

M— looked at her camly. ‘Then I shall fetch her.’

‘No. Ring for a servant. I do not care for you to instruct her how to answer.’

‘Very well.’ He rang; Maria Theresia was fetched; she looked anxiously from one to the other.

‘Your mother wishes you to cease treatment and return home.’

‘What is your opinion?’

‘My opinion is that if this is what you wish, then I cannot oppose it.’

‘That was not what I asked. I was asking your medical opinion.’

M— glanced across at the mother. ‘My … medical opinion is that you are still at a precarious stage. I think it very possible that a complete cure may be effected. Equally, it is very possible that any gains made, once lost, could never be recovered.’

‘That is very clear. Then I choose to stay. I wish to stay.’

The mother instantly began a display of stamping and shouting, the like of which M— had never before encountered in the imperial city of V—. It was an outburst far beyond the natural expression of Frau von P—’s Italian blood, and might even have been comical, had not her nervous frenzy set off an answering spasm of convulsion in the daughter.

‘Madam, I must ask you to control yourself,’ he said quietly.

But this enraged the mother even more, and with two sources of provocation in front of her, she continued to denounce her daughter’s insolence, stubbornness and ingratitude. When M— tried to lay a hand on her forearm, Frau von P— turned on Maria Theresia, seized her, and threw her headlong into the wall. Above the women’s screams, M— summoned his staff, who held back the termagant just as she was about to set upon the doctor himself. Suddenly, another voice was added to the bedlam.

‘Return my daughter! Resist me and you die!’

The door was thrown violently open, and Herr von P— himself appeared, a framed figure with sword aloft. Hurling himself into the study, he threatened to cut to pieces anyone who opposed him.

‘Then, sir, you will have to cut me to pieces,’ M— answered firmly. Herr von P— stopped, uncertain whether to attack the doctor, rescue his daughter, or console his wife. Unable to decide, he settled for repeating his threats. The daughter was weeping, the mother screaming, the physician attempting to argue rationally, the father noisily promising mayhem and death. M— remained dispassionate enough to reflect that the young Mozart would have happily set this operatic quartet to music.

Eventually, the father was pacified and then disarmed. He departed with malediction on his tongue, and seeming to forget his wife, who stood for a few moments looking from M— to her daughter and back again, before herself leaving. Immediately, and for the rest of the day, M— sought to calm Maria Theresia. As he did so, he came to conclude that his initial presumption had been confirmed: Maria Theresia’s blindness had certainly been a hysterical reaction to the equally hysterical behaviour of one or both of her parents. That a sensitive, artistic child, in the face of such an emotional assault, might instinctively close herself off from the world seemed reasonable, even inevitable. And the frenzied parents, having been responsible for the girl’s condition in the first place, were now aggravating it.

What could have caused this sudden, destructive outburst? More, surely, than a mere flouting of parental will. M— therefore tried to imagine it from their point of view. A child goes blind, all known cures fail until, after more than a dozen years, a new physician with a novel procedure begins to make her see again. The prognosis is optimistic, and the parents are rewarded at last for their love, wisdom, and medical courage. But then the girl plays, and their world is turned upside down. Before, they had been in charge of a blind virtuoso; now, sight had rendered her mediocre. If she continued playing like that, her career would be over. But even assuming that she rediscovered all her former skill, she would lack the originality of being blind. She would be merely one pianist among many others. And there would be no reason for the Empress to continue her pension. Two hundred gold ducats had made a difference to their lives, And how, without it, would they commission works from leading composers?