Pianist in the Dark (2 page)

The Empress also asked for medical opinions from doctors she respected: the Baron Anton von Stoerck, her private physician; Professor Gustav Barth, a cataract specialist; and even the Baron de Wenzel, a famed Parisian optometrist then living in Vienna. At her request they all examined the child in full and they all concluded that Mademoiselle von Paradis was incurably blind.

They all also agreed on another point, one that categorically contradicted their earlier diagnoses: The child suffered from amaurosis, a form of blindness that appears suddenly without any malfunctioning of the optical system. Its onset is either toxic, congenital, or nervous.

All three physicians were quick to zero in on the third possibility. The search was on, and each of them wanted to find the answer before the others. Thus, what had happened the evening before Maria Theresia woke up blind? What had she seen or heard that affected her so violently as to make her lose her sight?

Having already submitted to barbarous treatments, Maria Theresia was now being harassed by an onslaught of indiscreet questions. Having let them probe her brain and eyes, should she now bare her soul and allow them to rifle through her memories? There was a way out: All she had to do was lie, or at least hide the truth—which is what she did.

Confronted with her silence, doctors and parents gave up questioning her but remained persuaded that something had necessarily occurred—a noise, a murmur, an incident in the doorway—to shock her into lifelong blindness.

Yes, she kept quiet, but what would she have said, had she wished to open up? Nothing had happened. Nothing out of the ordinary. In the middle of the night doors were slammed and voices raised, cries of innocence on the one hand and agonized sobs on the other. At three and a half one doesn’t understand the meaning of the words, but one gets the gist of them: Love had disappeared from this house. Over the course of the years, she would learn about her father’s anger, his violence as well. As for her mother, she was prone to a rampant hysteria that made her nervous, unpredictable, sometimes scary. Maria Theresia learned not to trust them.

She had the impression that her illness brought everything to the fore. Her blindness was at once the principal cause of their fighting—her parents were far from being of the same mind as to what treatments to try—and the underlying foundation of their union, as if besides her, they had nothing in common. Nothing but the love they bore her—a love that was suffocating, oppressive, even blinding.

She felt that being blind was the only power she had over them. She was the object of their obsession, the subject of their confrontations, but without her, her blindness, they would have nothing to discuss. Her handicap freed her from her parents and at the same time enabled the three of them to remain a family.

H
E DOESN’T KNOW FRUSTRATION OR THE BITTERNESS
of failure. His life has always been forged by good fortune. Son of a reputed huntsman, he catches, during an outing, the attention of the Archbishop of Constance, who decides to have him schooled. Ziegler, the Kapellmeister, teaches him recorder, cello, and organ. From the Jesuits of Dillingen he learns mathematics and physics. Raised at one with nature, he shows talent as a water diviner and a healer. He arrives in Vienna at the age of thirty-three already a doctor in theology, philosophy, and law. But he intends to devote himself to medicine, which he studies under the aegis of, among others, Professor Stoerk, the Empress’s personal physician.

Taking up an interest in the occult sciences, he writes his doctoral thesis on “The Influence of the Planets on the Human Body” and becomes a Freemason, thus securing himself a network of influential acquaintances.

In 1768, at the age of thirty-four, he holds many diplomas and has proven his musical talent. He has great presence. A full head taller than most of his contemporaries, he possesses a certain elegance, entrancing light blue eyes, and a soft voice. He exudes calm and goodwill. Men seek out his company. He is pleasing to women. Everyone praises his kindliness, his wit—sharp but never biting—and gallantry, his good upbringing. In short, he is a man out of the ordinary, cultivated, and excellent company.

In reality, Franz Anton Mesmer is all of the above, only less appealingly so. He is detached rather than enthusiastic, tenacious rather than enterprising. More ambitious than his careful display of modesty suggests. His low birth branded him for life, and excess of pride has weakened him. He has convictions—passions, even—but he expects them to be both recognized and lucrative. His sincerity is diminished by his unquenchable desire to be recognized and admitted into Viennese high society. For that he will do almost anything. His quest for social status is his Achilles’ heel.

Franz Anton Mesmer gave up on love the day he married Maria Anna von Eulenschenk, widow of a former Secretary of Finance, Baron von Bosch. She is one of the richest women in the capital. She is ten years older than Mesmer and has a teenage son. Sophisticated and still beautiful, she appreciates the arts and music. She admires Mesmer for the breadth of his accomplishments and his numerous talents. He is exhilarated by the interest she shows him, and he truly believes that the pleasure each takes in the other’s company will be enough to create a lasting bond. He finds her physically graceful and elegant. He values the image they shape as a couple, his height a perfect match for her daintiness. They make a striking pair. He likes that.

Sex doesn’t interest him. Having rebuffed the advances of several priests in his youth, he never felt, with the women enamored of him, enough pleasure to trigger an insatiable desire to repeat the experience again and again. He enjoys the power that he feels during the sexual act more than he does the act itself. In truth, he is indifferent to physical love, and Maria Anna is not herself overly preoccupied with what the Jesuits call the “devils of the flesh.” Their alliance is Mesmer’s triumph, the finishing touch on an edifice carefully constructed over the years. The poor boy from Germany destined for the priesthood has become a person routinely received in Court, one of the city’s most powerful men and envied figures.

Now that he is rich, Mesmer can give free rein to philanthropic pursuits. He expresses his sincere curiosity in regard to the arts and artists with pomp. His address—261 Landstrasse, the imposing home of the late Secretary of Finance—has become a hub of Viennese intellectual and cultural life. A sort of small Versailles on the Danube, the sumptuous property offers two guesthouses overlooking a garden. You can walk down shaded paths lined with antique statues and fountains. On the far side of a grove are a dovecote and an aviary. And if you venture further, you reach a gazebo that overlooks the Prater and affords an unobstructed view of the city. But what delights Mesmer most is an enchanting open-air theater with a bandstand on each side. Actors and musicians, professional and amateur, perform on the outdoor stage. Mesmer himself often plays in the orchestra. His entertaining and eloquent dinner conversation is as popular as the shows and the concerts. He fascinates and intrigues the aristocracy. He has quickly become all the rage.

It was at this small theater on October 1, 1768, that Mozart, who had just been refused a commission on which his father Leopold was counting, first performed
Bastien and Bastienne,
which Mesmer had sponsored.

As the story goes, at the end of the performance, a nine-year-old blind pianist offered the composer a bouquet of flowers. There was only a three-year age difference between them. They would become friends—he would later dedicate a concerto to her. That evening, unbeknownst to both of them, Mesmer and Maria Theresia crossed paths without meeting.

H
ER FATHER HAD PROMISED TO PUT AN END TO ALL
attempts to cure her. It was on May 15, 1776, the day she turned seventeen. She was fiddling with the gift he had placed on her napkin during lunch: a small sack, silky and rough like her heavy bedroom curtains—a material called velvet. She felt its weight without undoing the drawstring. She guessed what might be inside: a ring, a broach, a pair of earrings, a necklace—one of those gifts she called “selfish presents”: finery that is pleasing to the eye, for those who can see. Her father’s way of showing his daughter off and compensating for the handicap that so distressed him. She took no pleasure in bedecking herself with these objects designed to make those who wear them sparkle. Why shine a light on a young woman whose eyes are dead to the world? She would have preferred a bouquet of peonies with their intoxicating smell, or a pair of thin gloves for her constantly cold fingertips, or even a fur muff.

She could sense her father’s impatience by his breathing, which always grew heavier when he tried to contain himself.

She put down the sack without attempting to open it.

“Thank you for the generous gift. I’ll open it when I’m alone. I can best appreciate things in silence and solitude.”

She paused to let her mother try, unsuccessfully, to restrain an exasperated sigh. Then turning to her father, she picked up where she had left off.

“The gift I want most won’t cost you a thing. On the contrary, it will allow you to cut back on the enormous expenses my health has caused you. What I wish more than anything is to stop having to see all these different specialists. Not one of them has been able to explain what stopped my eyes from seeing. But instead of admitting defeat, they’ve taken it out on my body. They’ve assaulted my brain and left me a bundle of nerves. Incessant migraines; burning eyelids, as if salt’s been thrown on them; eczema gnawing at my scalp, making me lash out like a pony shaking off flies—the doctors have brought illness upon illness on me but have never treated the one they were originally called in for. So I’ll say it once and for all: I am satisfied with my lot. I enjoy flattering you by wearing the jewelry you’ve chosen for me. But I beg of you: Think of me and not yourself.”

A silver platter crashed to the floor, startling them and interrupting a tirade embarrassing for her parents but not for her. The noise brought a smile to Maria Theresia’s lips. Dear Nina, trying as always to restore peace and to keep up the appearances of a festive lunch. A quartet of violinists were waiting in the kitchen, preparing to celebrate the birthday joyfully. Maria Theresia heard them tuning their instruments and thought she could make out the overture to
Le donne letterate,
the opera buffa by Salieri, her singing and composition professor. She raised her glass of white wine in their direction as they were walking across the immense living room to the podium set up under the crystal chandelier.

“To the peace of my body and mind!”

She then took her father by his hand when he came to stroke hers. She squeezed it with all her strength until he murmured:

“You have my word.”

A
FEW WEEKS LATER THE THREE OF THEM ATTENDED
a concert at the house in the Landstrasse. In June Franz Anton Mesmer had acquired a little-known instrument composed of glass bowls that were filled to various levels with water and with which musical tones were created by means of friction. He excelled at playing his glass-harmonica, which was considered one of the most beautiful of its kind. The word spread like wildfire in the capital: One simply had to hear the sound that Mesmer called “the source of harmony among men.” The Viennese prided themselves on their ear for music, and Mesmer’s solo variations became the must-see show of the summer.

Although perfectly devoid of any artistic curiosity herself, Nina was thrilled that Maria Theresia was going. For the host of the evening inspired in Nina the kind of irrational admiration that a celebrity can in someone pure of heart. Simply because a man is handsome and basks in the flattering glow of his era, people project onto him qualities that he does not necessarily possess but which nonetheless justify the superlatives used to describe him. So Nina saw to it that her mistress’s low bun softened the sliver of her profile, that the mauve in her dress enhanced her pearl-white complexion and the bodice accented her slim waist, and that her feet were perfectly arched. It was like playing with dolls, creating a woman able to attract a man of Mesmer’s caliber. Nina was not worried about Maria Theresia’s blindness. As she explained to her mistress, a woman’s vulnerabilities render her all the more attractive. That evening Maria Theresia started to grasp some of the nuances of the word “femininity.”

The Paradises were not accustomed to visiting Mesmer’s house. Over the years their host had established his reputation as musician/patron of the arts to such an extent that Mozart, before setting off for Paris, had asked him for a letter of introduction to Marie Antoinette, and Mesmer had mentioned this request to Joseph Anton, whose amicable relationship with the Empress Maria Theresia was well-known. The two men thus began to meet. The doctor never missed an opportunity to ask about the Secretary’s daughter. At first it was to flatter Paradis by showing interest in the person most dear to him. But by dint of questioning him about the treatments his daughter was receiving and learning of their harmful effects on her physical and mental health, Mesmer ended up offering to treat her himself.

Mesmer had recently succeeded in strengthening his reputation as a visionary in the field of medicine thanks to the care he had administered to a twenty-seven-year-old woman, a friend of his wife’s. Franziska von Osterlin suffered from various ills, ranging from violent vomiting to spells of paralysis that variously affected her limbs. She sojourned frequently with the Mesmers. The doctor identified approximately fifteen ills afflicting her and, over the years, managed to cure her of all of them. Gossipmongers claimed that her case interested him only because he hoped to marry her to his wife’s son, whom he wanted out of the house. But facts were facts: Fraülein Franziska claimed she was cured, and rumor had it that a happy event would bring her cure to completion.

Since advancing his thesis on celestial bodies, Mesmer had become convinced that a mutual influence existed among the stars, the earth, and human beings. According to him, this influence was transmitted via a fluid that restored the nerves to health.