The Left-Handed God (13 page)

Augusta agreed that Max was handsome; but for all that she liked Max herself, she did not approve of the way her mother became increasingly attached to him.

Their little maid Elsbeth, who was all of fifteen years old, also fell into a fervent infatuation with Max, following him about and gazing at him with trembling lips.

Only the relationship between Max and Franz, the master of the house, seemed somewhat strained. Franz largely ignored the new servant except for an occasional nod. Augusta ascribed this to Franz’s preoccupation with his new profession. But Max’s behavior defied explanation. He made determined efforts to stay out of her brother’s way, and she had caught an expression of fear and loathing on his face when he looked at Franz.

“Max,” she asked one morning after Franz had brushed past Max on his way out of the house and Max had shrunk against the wall as if he wanted it to swallow him, “are you afraid of my brother? Has he said or done anything to upset you?”

Max flushed. “No, miss. Not at all. He’s always a very polite young gentleman.”

“But I think you’re not comfortable when you’re around him,” Augusta insisted.

Max studied the plate of bread and cheese she set before him. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” he finally said, looking up at her shyly, “it’s just that I’m reminded of the difference. Between him and me, I mean. Our station in life. Someone like me could never measure up to someone like him. Or you.”

Augusta read a fervor in his eyes that made her face grow warm. “Oh, Max,” she exclaimed, “you mustn’t feel that way. We’re ordinary people with little wealth and no position in the world. And besides our Papa raised us to know that respect is due to all those who are kind and good. And you are one of the kindest men I know.” She blushed and saw that he blushed also.

He snatched her hand and kissed it. “Bless you, miss, for the angel you are,” he said and turned to his breakfast. When she left the kitchen, she heard him mutter, “Lord help us, I’m not good enough for her.”

This exchange preoccupied Augusta for days afterward, and she became shy around Max, who seemed equally tongue-tied around her.

But then the pears ripened on the old tree, and Augusta got the small ladder and climbed up to gather an apron full of the luscious, honey-scented fruit. She was just reaching for another, leaning far out to grasp a sun-warmed, smooth, and gently rounded pear in her hand, when she heard Max call out, “Careful, miss! Let me‌—‌,” and slipped.

Max caught her before she took a painful tumble. For a moment, they were both startled and out of breath‌—‌he holding her hard against him, one arm around her waist, the other on her hips‌—‌she clutching his neck‌—‌their faces only inches apart.

Augusta looked from his eyes to his lips. A strange desire to kiss them seized her, and she raised her lips to his.

“That was well done!” boomed a familiar voice.

Augusta pushed away from Max who set her down quickly. Like guilty children, they jumped apart and turned toward Herr Seutter, who stood beaming in the doorway.

“Well done, young man,” he said again to Max as he came toward them, and to Augusta, “My dear girl, you made my poor old heart stop when you came tumbling out of that tree. You look quite flushed still. Come, let us sit on this bench until we catch our breaths again.”

Augusta allowed herself to be led away and sat, with Herr Seutter’s arm supporting her back and her hand in his large, warm one, while he admonished her to take greater care of herself. She felt unaccountably emotional. His kindness brought tears to her eyes, and her hand trembled in his. These days her heart behaved like a team of run-away horses.

Max picked up the pears she had dropped, inspected them for bruises, and then climbed the ladder to gather more. He left a generous pile under the tree and walked away without a glance or word, hanging his head.

She felt she had somehow wronged him and drew away a little from Herr Seutter’s comfortable embrace. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “but you startled me.”

“Forgive me, my dearest girl. I wouldn’t for all the world have seen you injured on account of me.” There was a brief silence, then he asked, “Augusta, who is that fellow? What is he doing here?”

She gave a little laugh. “Oh, Max? He’s one of the poor soldiers back from the war without a home or work. He’s been truly wonderful. He works for so little pay and is grateful for every crumb. You have no idea how many things he has fixed and how devoted he is to Mama.” She was babbling and wished Herr Seutter away so that she could go to her room and calm the strange fluttering in her breast.

“You don’t say.” Herr Seutter looked concerned. “He’s not a local, I think. You know you must be careful these days about the people you ask into your house and family. There are many desperate men about.”

She protested, “Not Max. He’s the soul of gentleness.”

“Is he now? Well, perhaps I’ll ask a few questions to make sure.”

Augusta was appalled. “Oh, no. You mustn’t. It could cause trouble for him and…‌it would shame me.”

Herr Seutter gave her a long, searching look. “Indeed?”

“Dear Herr Seutter,” she begged, “you must trust me in this matter. Please.”

He sighed and patted her hand lightly. “We’re old friends, Augusta,” he said. “Might you not call me by my Christian name?”

She looked at him blankly. “Your Christian name? But I don’t know it.”

He smiled and said, “Jakob.”

“Jakob. If you wish it, but it seems improper.”

“Never improper among friends. And that reminds me. I came to beg another lesson on the pianoforte. It’s been a long time since the last one.”

It had been weeks, but Augusta had been busy setting their new servants to work and had forgotten all about the lessons. Indeed, she wished he would not ask for them now. But gratitude for past kindness made her apologize and promise to come the very next day.

8

Mesmer

We may lay it down as a Maxim, that when a Nation abounds in Physicians it grows thin of People.

Joseph Addison,
Spectator
, 1711

W
hen Franz took up the study of law under Stiebel’s guidance, his days became even longer, but he found moments of pure happiness again. Most of these concerned his legal work, but when Stiebel responded with genuine interest to the mysterious letter, Franz felt a great affection for his employer.

“People do change their names and titles with indecent frequency these days,” Stiebel said, turning the envelope this way and that. His nose quivered with curiosity. “Perhaps we should open it?”

“Oh, n-no!” Franz was shocked. “S-surely n-not, sir. Not s-such a letter between s-son and father. N-not his f-final words.”

Stiebel rubbed his nose. “Hmm, yes, I see your point. It could be a little indelicate. I tell you what: Mannheim is the seat of the elector now, but it used to be in Heidelberg. Chances are this family has followed the court to Mannheim. I still have friends in Heidelberg who may find the von Loe name in old records. Allow me to write to them.”

“Oh, th-that would serve very well. Th-thank you. W-will you be s-so good as to t-take charge of the letter? I’m n-notoriously careless, and our house is f-full of new s-servants who s-seem to t-take a great interest in my p-papers.”

Stiebel chuckled and locked the troublesome letter up in his strongbox.

With this off his mind, Franz began to look at his future more hopefully, but the dreams still haunted him every night, and his guilt weighed on him every day.

He also feared thunderstorms. He could not control the attacks of panic, no matter how hard he tried. Eventually he learned to cover up his defect. At the first sound of thunder, he would go off by himself so that he could cower in a corner, shaking in abject terror until the storm passed. But often sudden loud noises caught him unawares and his reaction made people stare. Rumors of his madness resurfaced.

One morning that summer, when the chestnut trees had scattered their red and white blossoms on the cobbles outside, and the farmers were making hay in the fields, cutting the tall grass, raking it into rows and turning it to dry in the hot sun, Stiebel greeted Franz with great excitement.

“We’re going to see a famous doctor,” he announced. “I’ve ordered a post chaise. It’s a fine day for a trip.” He rubbed his hands in glee and cackled at Franz’s astonishment. “We’ll close chambers. Breakfast’s waiting and the chaise will be here any moment.”

Stiebel never did anything without careful forethought and hated upsetting his domestic and professional routine. Franz stammered, “Wh-what d-doctor?”

“Mesmer himself!” Stiebel cried in a tone of triumph. When the name did not produce much reaction, he added, “Only the most brilliant man in the world. And what do you suppose? He’s your fellow countryman. Born and raised in Iznang on the lake, son of the forester to the Bishop of Konstanz. Studied philosophy at the University of Dillingen, theology at Ingolstadt, took his doctorate in medicine in Vienna, and is not thirty yet. He’s the great man in Vienna, known for remarkable cures‌—‌but it’s all good science as he will tell you himself.” Stiebel slapped his head and raised a cloud of powder. “What am I doing? We’re wasting time. Come.” He took Franz’s arm and drew him into the dining room, where the usual breakfast waited, evidently ordered an hour before its customary time. “Eat, while I tell you.”

Franz obeyed, listening with astonishment and a good deal of emotion. Stiebel had taken Franz’s cure for his personal task and made inquiries. When he heard that Mesmer had returned for a brief visit to his parents, he had right away ordered the post chaise to take them to Iznang.

Franz did not believe in a cure, but he had not the heart to talk Stiebel out of his plans. The chaise arrived, a cheerful yellow two-wheeled vehicle with a postilion perched in back and the driver astride one of the horses. The black top was folded down.

They traveled under a cloudless sky. The lake glistened to their left, the sweet smell of hay was in the air, and the steeples or onion domes of churches, the half-timbered houses, the vine-clad castles rose before them, passed, and rapidly disappeared behind as if by magic.

Franz looked at Stiebel beside him, a friendly gnome from some ancient fairy tale, as he chattered about animal magnetism, healing hands, and the miraculous cures this strange doctor had performed in Vienna. Stiebel’s finery heightened the other-worldly effect. He had tied on the gold-trimmed hat with the gray ostrich feather, but the breeze blew small clouds of powder from his periwig. His buckled shoes swung with the swaying chaise, and his white-gloved hands gesticulated like a pair of fluttering doves.

To Franz, Stiebel was a greater miracle than anything Mesmer could perform. Why does he take such care of me, he wondered. How have I deserved so much love from this man who is neither my father nor my brother‌—‌I who am the least worthy of men? What can he possibly hope to gain by taking such trouble with someone like me?

But this love was not given with an ulterior motive, and Franz felt humbled in its presence. The eccentric Stiebel became very dear to him.

The idea of revealing his scars, his weakness, his repulsive deformity to yet another doctor‌—‌to be prodded at, frowned over, and made a fool of‌—‌sickened him. But he would allow it to happen. It would be hellish, but he could do no less in the face of such love.

They stopped for a meal in Konstanz. Roasted meats, fricassees, and fine wines appeared and disappeared, but Franz hardly knew what he ate.

Their arrival in Iznang caused a small sensation. People gaped at the chaise and horses, at the postilion who jumped down and held the door for his passengers, at the strangers who had come to see the local genius.

Mesmer was young, not yet thirty, dapper and elegant, of middling height, clean-shaven, and energetic. His blue velvet suit was of the most recent cut, and the lace of his jabot and wristbands was very white and very rich. His brocade vest bore silver embroideries. But when Franz raised his eyes from the clothes and past the man’s incipient double chin, he met a sharp and penetrating glance from the brown eyes.

Mesmer was clearly not impressed by their appearance, but perhaps he welcomed a scientific challenge. Franz let Stiebel do the talking and bore the doctor’s frequent scrutiny with some resentment. When Stiebel mentioned the nightmares, Mesmer’s interest peaked.

“Such dreams are often symptoms of a more deeply seated illness,” he said in a more animated voice. “I suspect this is the case here. You may have heard of the remarkable work of Father Gassner?”

Stiebel clapped his hands. “Yes, of course. The famous exorcist. Do you then think that the illness is in the soul?”

The discussion was taking an unpleasantly religious direction. Even his love for the kind Stiebel would not make Franz submit to an exorcism. Mesmer, as he knew from Stiebel’s account, was a Catholic and had studied theology with the Jesuits before taking up medicine. He said sharply, “I’m n-not p-possessed!”

Mesmer laughed heartily. “Of course you’re not. Father Gassner’s work resembles in some ways my own treatments, but he puts quite another interpretation on his healings. No, indeed, science does not deal in evil spirits; rather, it searches for the physical causes of disease.”

That sounded better, and Franz subsided with a nod.

“Because you dream,” Mesmer continued, “you have particular insights into the nature of your illness. It will be a simple matter to heal the wounds of the mind‌—‌or soul, if you permit the word‌—‌once we heal those of the body.”

“B-but my wounds have h-healed.”

“Some patients carry the invisible marks of their wounds with them for years after they are seemingly healed.”

That sounded reasonable to Franz. Indeed, now that he thought about it, both the nightmares and his reactions to thunder were related to what had happened during the battle. But this did not explain his speech defect.

Mesmer questioned him about the injuries he had received, had him roll his knee breeches up and his stockings down, and felt the scar tissue on both legs. Franz cringed, but he submitted for Stiebel’s sake.