Pianist in the Dark (9 page)

Nevertheless, she was smiling, and even humming. She took endless walks in the garden. She knew its every path, every stone bench. In the pavilion, where she would participate in the magnetism sessions, her new confidence spread to the few patients still residing there despite the malicious rumors as to their famous doctor’s methods.

She had given up playing piano without the blindfold. She herself now tied it around the eyelids and practiced for hours on end with her eyes shut in their prison.

Mesmer listened to her without her knowing, troubled by this new ardor in her playing. He detected a sort of self-assurance, an independence that he had not noticed before. It was as if she had set herself free of him, had swept away her fears, and was preparing to confront her future with equanimity. “She is ready,” thought Mesmer as he listened to her interpret her own compositions or those of her favorite musicians with an authority he had never before noticed. He felt that she had made a decision—but to do what? This temerity with no apparent purpose scared him.

They still spent long nights together. She never tired of staring at the sky, asking him to repeat the names of the stars and planets. She had countless questions about the moon and sun, and always made sure that she could situate the east, west, north, and south. One day she asked Anna to show her the difference between beige and gray. Anna brought her two cushions and Maria Theresia spent a long time comparing them.

Her gestures grew less spontaneous. She gave the impression that she was constantly thinking, filling her brain with annotations the importance of which only she knew. She learned the names of her favorite flowers, the components of certain perfumes, and even the ingredients necessary to make the desserts she liked best. She spent long stretches of time stroking the spaniel and whispering her secrets to him.

Sometimes she sought solace in Nina’s arms.

“I’m filling up my memory,” she would say jokingly.

“Why do you?” a worried Nina would ask. “Are you afraid you’ll forget this house?”

Maria Theresia would then cast a knowing smile and, as if speaking to herself, say:

“My stay here is etched in me. No one will never erase these memories.”

I
T WAS A
W
EDNESDAY. THE GARDEN SMELLED OF FRESHLY
cut grass. Birds were chirping and the sun was heating up the stone benches. Her parents were expected before lunch. Officially, they were taking her to get some fresh air in the country. It had been agreed that she would return to the house on Landstrasse to resume her treatment, although no future date had been set.

Nina had locked the trunks. Anna had made a bouquet of flowers from the garden.

Maria Theresia returned the piano key to its owner, refusing his offer that she keep it as a souvenir. She tried to make light of it.

“When you play this piano, you will fancy you are seeing me.”

He countered her seeming lightness with serious advice.

“Watch out for your nerves. I have left instructions to Nina—”

She cut him off.

“We will never meet again. You know that as well as I. My stay here has been an invaluable learning experience. Thanks to you, I know who I am and what I can expect from life. I’ve taken my future in my own hands. What will happen to me must not worry you. Some will see the mark of fate or destiny ... no matter! You have cured me. I know it. Don’t ever doubt it.”

He wanted to draw her toward him, but she pulled away from his grasp.

“I am returning you to your wife and patients. I know that my presence here has ruined your reputation. I am sorry. Ultimately, both of us will bear traces of this adventure. As for me, I’ve decided to regret nothing.”

The butler came to announce Monsieur von Paradis’s arrival. He then escorted Mesmer and his patient to the front steps.

They bid each other farewell in public, under the teary eyes of Anna and Nina.

Madame von Paradis had not made the trip.

Ill at ease, Joseph Anton tried to persuade Mesmer to accept the velvet purse he was holding out to him.

“It’s only fair to compensate you for the care you gave her and for the staff you employed.”

Mesmer repeated that the cure, undertaken at his own initiative, would remain free of charge and that no contract, not even a verbal one, should ever be changed after the fact.

“I consider that I have fulfilled my mission, albeit imperfectly, because the patient requires another six months’ care.”

“We’ll see to it!” said old Paradis half-heartedly, glancing at his coachman, in a rush to get this over with.

“Take care, Maria Theresia.”

Mesmer bowed solemnly toward her, clasping her hand a moment too long.

“I will never forget you,” she whispered.

The snap of a whip, the banging of hoofs, the carriage in the distance.

On June 8, 1777, a glorious summer day, Mademoiselle Paradis left the home of Franz Anton Mesmer for good.

M
ONSIEUR
P
ARADIS MOVED HIS DAUGHTER TO THE
Bavarian countryside, which at this time of year offered a luxurious palette of yellows and greens. One of his obligors had lent him a property. It was vast and comfortable.

Maria Theresia told her father that Nina alone would tend to her. Mesmer had entrusted the chambermaid with lotions and ointments, as well as some know-how. Maria Theresia was allowed to occupy the children’s guesthouse in the middle of the garden. It became her territory. She had a piano brought in, and she lived there with Nina.

Her reunion with her mother was civil. Maria Theresia vowed not to hold a grudge since their last meeting, and her mother responded with hugging and kissing, all the requisite outpourings and effusions.

Maria Theresia was perfectly amicable, but her behavior was devoid of affection. She had decided to maintain a certain harmony in the family and acted accordingly. Nina sensed quite rightly that this was her mistress’s way of negotiating her independence. She played the role of the perfect daughter; it was she who set the rules, however. Her parents felt too guilty to try to recast the situation in their favor. In their eyes, they had flawlessly extricated themselves from the deadlock with Mesmer. Their daughter was back, her honor saved and her annuity guaranteed—so said the Empress, relieved that the scandal was behind them all.

The day after she moved into the guesthouse, Maria Theresia, claiming that the journey had exhausted her, stayed in bed and refused to see anyone. She even forbade Nina to enter her room, requesting that she leave her meals at the door. She explained that she did not feel strong enough to undergo the slightest treatment. She wanted to sleep and accustom herself to being alone once again.

For over a week no one saw her. She closed the shutters in her bedroom and pulled the curtains in the drawing room, where she played piano every day.

After nine days Nina was so worried that she disobeyed her mistress’s orders and entered her bedroom with her meal on a tray.

Surprised by the noise, Maria Theresia, who had been sitting looking out the window, turned around. Horrified, Nina put her hands to her mouth, dropping the tray to the floor without even noticing. Maria Theresia’s eyes were purple and swollen, the lids burnt by the sun, the skin parched. Her face was beet red.

Nina rushed to pull her chair out of the sunlight. Maria Theresia let out an amused sigh.

“Are you frightened the sun will harm my eyes? It is too late. The damage is done. I put saltwater compresses on my eyes. I did everything I was told not to do for the past six months. Don’t start blaming me. The decision is mine.”

Nina burst into tears, horrified at what her mistress was hinting at.

“You’re harming your eyes? Why do you want to hurt yourself?”

“Ah, dear Nina, you’re mistaken. It’s the opposite. I am putting an end to my suffering.”

“I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

Maria Theresia took her by the hand. Her voice grew softer.

“You understand perfectly well, even if it bothers you. I refuse to become a circus freak. I feel I’m part angel, part demon. I used to be a virtuoso. Now I play less well than the most mediocre concert artist. I used to be blind. Now I can see if I’m in a shaded, quiet place surrounded by kind people—which limits my capabilities.

“I loved a man passionately. He had feelings for me, but he sacrificed me to his career. He offered me the dream of a shared life and then let others destroy that dream. Seeing is a pleasant sensation, but opening my eyes to the truth of the human heart is a spectacle I’d rather forget. Man is more attractive when he is left to the imagination. I’ve seen enough. Instead of living among liars, flatterers, and careerists, I prefer my own world. The one in which each color has its note and each chord its truth. The one in which I am mistress of my own destiny.

“Blind people inspire fear. If they’re talented, this fear turns into respect. This is fine with me. Again mastering my piano is my priority. As I am now losing the last bit of sight left to me, I will soon have regained my skill. The technique will follow. Every day I see less and I play better. Most of all, I have faith. Girls who love Christ become nuns. I love music so much that I will dedicate my life to it. Sight impaired my playing. I give it up with no regrets. It has brought me pipe dreams, no more.”

Nina nodded pensively.

“You intend to become a blind virtuoso, if I understand correctly. But afterwards, what about your future?”

Maria Theresia opened her arms theatrically.

“Travel! I have decided to travel the world. I want to play and sing wherever I am invited. Don’t you see that a world without music is blind? Music is the language of the soul. I want to devote myself to it, so the world will listen to it rather than simply hear it.”

“How will you go about this? You cannot travel by yourself. Voyages are long and costly adventures ...”

“Soon it will be within my means. The annuity that my father started receiving when I turned five will revert to me once I am eighteen. I will see to it.”

She put her hands on her chambermaid’s shoulders.

“I have a proposal for you. If I am able to travel, will you be willing to accompany me, to be my eye, my confidante, my memory?”

She lay her head next to Nina’s.

“Forgive me for having withdrawn into silence. I needed to find my way once again. Now I know my calling. I will keep no more secrets from you.”

The news took two months to reach the capital. Mademoiselle Paradis had totally lost her sight. Joseph Anton explained that his daughter’s state had deteriorated day by day and that her condition was now irreversible.

Critics of magnetism took this as the final proof of what they had always considered a hoax. Rumor had it that Mesmer’s powers were some form of bewitchment. During the weeks that followed, the pavilion patients had returned home. Those who were well hid their health for fear that people would say they were victims of witchcraft.

The faddish doctor, patron of the arts, and charismatic gentleman, was now cursed and reviled. Von Stoerck intended to have him deported from Austria as an “Undesirable Foreigner.”

He’d need not go to this extreme.

In the winter of 1777, one year after having treated Mademoiselle Paradis, Mesmer, forsaken by all, left Vienna for Paris.

Paris, April 27, 1780

Dear Nina,

I am taking the liberty of writing to Maria Theresia with you as my go-between. I am counting on your generosity and goodwill to read this letter to her.

I have let many months go by with no news because I did not know whether Maria Theresia wanted any. Moreover, I did not wish to come forward while in a state of utter despondency.

After I left Vienna, I spent a long time in Switzerland. I have been living in Paris for a year, and after a difficult beginning, I am pleased to announce that the Parisians have welcomed me with open arms and have embraced my cure with great enthusiasm.

The Faculty in Vienna having warned my French colleagues of the so-called “trickery” of my method, I did not initially find here the support of doctors and scientists. Very fortunately, Doctor Charles Deslon, who tends to the Count d’Artois, brother of Louis XVI, has given me a helping hand. Failing to win the support of the Académie de Médecine of which he is a member, his friends at the Court have made a name for me and my success has been remarkable. I have been able to turn the Hôtel Bouillon on Rue Montmartre into a hospital.

Parisians are less conservative than the Viennese. They are interested in philosophy and the occult sciences. They are superstitious and fond of novelties. They are also superficial, attracted by all that glitters, provokes, and disturbs. I was thus forced to add a hefty dose of theater to my treatments and turn the magnetic cure into something more stagey. I have created a luxurious setting that corresponds not to my tastes but to those of my rich, blasé clientele, whom I am obliged to surprise and dazzle in order to make them believe in what I do. You know, dear Nina, how a patient’s belief can aid in the cure. I have to nourish their desire to believe.

You saw the simplicity with which I treated our patient. Allow me to describe the room in which I now practice. Heavy curtains create a crepuscular half-light that is reflected in many mirrors. Tapestries mute the sounds from outside. In the center of the room, like a throne, is a vat, much larger than the one you knew. An assistant demands absolute silence, then orders the circle of patients to touch fingers. From the distance they hear a soothing harpsichord. They become magnetically charged without realizing it, but the intensity of the decorum and the mystique of the atmosphere plunge them into a state of extreme receptiveness. After an hour they are ready to be cured. They wish to be cured. It is at this point that I appear dressed in a full-length tunic with a steel rod in my hand. I go from one patient to another, listening to them describe their ills. I apply my magnetic powers to the part of their bodies responsible for their suffering. Little by little come the sighs and convulsions, sobbing and moaning—and in a fit, each person rids himself of his ill and is cured.

Alas, success has its disadvantages. Mine is that I have become too popular. My fame is harmful to my reputation. The patients who are cured are so enthusiastic that skeptics make fun of them, and thus of me. In Paris, magnetism is now called “mesmerism,” but the word is uttered with as much irony as respect. For some I am a saint, a genius. For others, I am a charlatan who takes advantage of the so-called sick, who supposedly can snap out of their hysteria whenever they feel like it. Some people, for example, make fun of the relaxation rooms where the men and women—mostly women—lie down after the convulsions have weakened them, and where I prefer to keep an eye on them for a few more hours. They jeer at what they think happens between me and these prostrate women. Offensive songs can be heard in the city that speak of the “mesmeromania” that has taken hold of Parisian lady folk. How can you fight against the perversities of fame? Without it, no one is interested in your work. With it, they tend to forget that your work, in fact, works. It is a vicious circle that I am powerless to stop.

I learned from my friend Mozart that he wrote a concerto for Maria Theresia and that she is herself composing. It seems that her playing is better than ever. How has she readapted to her previous state? Is she getting treatment or has she voluntarily given up on seeing, as Mozart seems to have suggested? When I heard this, I thought that it attested to the incredible willpower Maria Theresia has always shown.

I would like to think that her stay at Landstrasse remains for her a positive experience and that she remembers me with fond emotion, neither with bitterness nor regret.

She holds a special place in my heart.

I hope this letter finds you in good health.

Dear Nina, you have all my affection.

Franz Anton Mesmer