'Doctor Liebermann,' said Schelling, creating a steeple with his fingers. 'May I be perfectly frank?'
'That would be most helpful.'
'I have always harboured doubts about the poor girl's mental health, right from the very beginning.'
'Oh?'
'She is of such an odd disposition. And her interests – blood, disease – is it not irregular for a woman, particularly a young woman, to be preoccupied with such morbid subjects? I am no psychologist, Herr Doctor, but I am inclined to believe that there is something in Miss Lydgate's character that can only be described as unnatural. She takes no pleasure in those activities that one ordinarily associates with her sex. She would rather attend a lecture at a museum than a ball – or search out a dusty volume in Wieblinger Strasse than go to Habig for a new hat. To tell the truth, within weeks of her arrival I had the most grave concerns.'
Liebermann noticed that, in spite of his age, Schelling's hair and moustache were totally black. He assumed that the man must use some kind of dying agent to achieve the effect.
'My wife reached the same conclusion,' Schelling continued. 'Beatrice – sweet soul that she is – encouraged Amelia to be more outgoing. She even tried to lift her spirits by introducing her to a circle of close friends – they meet here on Wednesday afternoons to play taroc. It was obvious that the girl did not enjoy participating, nor did she appear to derive any pleasure from the conversation of her female peers. Indeed, I gather that she persistently excused herself early, preferring the company of her books and her grandfather's journal to that of people. It cannot be right for a young woman to shut herself away in this manner. Although I am not qualified to comment on such matters, I would guess that too many hours spent in retreat from the world cannot be healthy. Is that not so, Doctor Liebermann?'
'I suppose that rather depends on the individual.'
'Perhaps, but it is my opinion – for what it may be worth – that the isolated mind loses its purchase on reality all too easily and becomes prone to fantasy.'
Schelling looked directly into Liebermann's eyes and held his gaze. He seemed to be expecting the young doctor to say something. Liebermann remained silent and did nothing, apart from noticing the appearance of a pulse at Schelling's temple.
'Is that not so, Herr Doctor?' Schelling insisted. On the mantelpiece the mechanism of a carriage clock whirred and a delicate chime sounded the hour. Schelling turned to look at the clock face and Liebermann noticed that he moved his whole body. The wicker of his chair creaked as he shifted position.
'When did Miss Lydgate's symptoms develop?' asked Liebermann.
Schelling considered the question before answering.
'My wife noticed that she had lost her appetite some time ago. The cough, and that business with her arm . . .'
'The paralysis.'
'Yes, the cough and paralysis came on suddenly. About three weeks ago now.'
'Did anything significant occur,' asked Liebermann, 'around the time when the paralysis first appeared? Let us say, the night before?'
'Significant? What do you mean, significant?'
'Well, did anything happen that might have caused Miss Lydgate distress?'
'Not that I know of.'
'Can you tell me what happened? How you learned of the paralysis?'
'There isn't a great deal to tell. Amelia didn't rise at her usual time and said that she was feeling sick. This in itself wasn't unusual: she often complained of sickness. Weak constitution. She wouldn't open the door, and Beatrice became quite desperate. Eventually, Beatrice demanded that Amelia open the door and was shocked when she entered. The room was in disarray, and the girl was in a dreadful state. Dishevelled, tearful – and coughing. Beatrice suspected that Amelia might have tried to harm herself – there was blood on her scissors.'
'You weren't present?'
'No, I had already left the house. The family doctor was called and he advised that Amelia should be attended by a specialist. Beatrice thought that it would be better for all concerned if Miss Lydgate was treated in hospital. She found Miss Lydgate's appearance very distressing, and she was also worried about the children. She did not want them to see her looking so . . . unwell.'
'Have Miss Lydgate's parents been informed?'
'Of course – I sent a telegram immediately. They asked me whether they should come, and I assured them that this would not be necessary. I explained that, with respect to hysteria, we in Vienna boast the best specialists in the world. Isn't that so, Herr Doctor?'
Liebermann acknowledged the disingenuous compliment with a forced smile. Looking over Schelling's shoulder he pointed to a dull landscape on the wall.
'Is that a Friml, Minister?'
Schelling turned, again moving his whole torso.
'Friml? No, it's a German artist. Frauscher. I have several.'
Feigning interest, Liebermann rose and as he did so he stole a glance down at Schelling's shirt collar, where he glimpsed the edge of what appeared to be a bandage dressing.
'Do you collect, Doctor Liebermann?'
'A little,' Liebermann replied. 'Minor Secessionists, mostly.'
'Really?' said Schelling. 'I'm afraid I cannot claim to be an admirer of their work.'
'Well,' said Liebermann, 'they are an acquired taste. Thank you for your time, Minister.'
'Is that all?' said Schelling, somewhat surprised. He stood. 'I doubt this interview has helped you very much.'
'Oh, it certainly has,' said Liebermann. 'I've learned a great deal.'
The two men shook hands and Schelling escorted Liebermann to the door.
As he left the house, Liebermann was eager to get back to the Hospital. He needed to talk to Stefan Kanner. Kanner and Schelling were very different men but they shared one thing in common. It was a trivial observation, but potentially very significant. In order to test how significant, Liebermann would need Kanner's cooperation with an experiment.
38
LIEBERMANN AND RHEINHARDT had finished their musical evening with a near-faultless performance of Schumann's
After the brandy had been decanted and the freshly cut cigars lit, the two men spoke little and, as was frequently the case, stared silently into the fire. The jaunty melody of the third song in Schumann's cycle lingered in Liebermann's imagination – and particularly the words
Why had that phrase stuck in his mind?
It was, in effect, a description of Clara. Yet there was something unsettling about its persistence.
The music continued to resonate in Liebermann's head, acquiring with each repetition an ironic quality. Gradually the ghostly concert faded beneath the crackle of burning logs and the sound of his manservant Ernst tidying up song books and closing the piano stool.
'Oskar?'
Rheinhardt turned to look at his friend. Unusually, the young doctor was looking somewhat perplexed.
'Oskar, I would like to ask you a personal question, if I may?'
'Of course.'
'I was wondering . . . have you ever . . .' Liebermann paused and winced. 'What I mean to ask is . . . after announcing your engagement, were you entirely sure that you were doing the right thing? In getting married, that is.'
Rheinhardt's expression immediately softened. 'My dear fellow, of course I had doubts. Everyone does.'
Liebermann blew out a cloud of smoke and the tension eased from his shoulders.
'How many weeks has it been now?' Rheinhardt continued. 'Since your proposal?'
