The Book of Madness and Cures
Page 20
It was the only place I went. Lorenzo, who also accompanied me each day, waited outside the hall on a bench, for they didn’t permit him to enter. Sometimes he whittled, always diligent about pocketing his shavings, much to Olmina’s vexation when she washed his clothes. He guarded his pieces from inquisitive eyes as much as he could, though once a gentleman asked him, “What are you carving there, my good man?”
“Oh, barnyard animals for my granddaughter at home. This here’s one of your furry Highland cattle.” The man smiled then and left him in peace.
“I wish you did have a granddaughter,” I said spontaneously, and immediately I regretted it.
“Mmh,” he grunted, and he frowned down at the wooden animals, his whole body clenched against the past. He placed them in a worn handkerchief that he folded up and tucked into his jacket pocket.
I struggled to apologize. We’d never spoken of their baby that died, nor of the others that never came. But then he turned to me and said, “Maybe you’ll have a girl of your own one day, and I can count her as granddaughter.”
I didn’t say a word. I’d thoughtlessly opened old sorrow for him, and in turn he stung me with hope. Somewhere within me, a vision sprang forth of that little girl from Tübingen, her curious expression, curls, and wayward hoop. I did want a child, and this unexpected longing flung me open, like a room of windows unlatched by wind.
I stood at the tall table fronting the literature shelves, with one foot up on the footrest, beginning to read from Petrarch’s Epistolae familiares, a selection I’d come to by randomly opening the book. It was a letter describing his ascent of Mount Ventosum. So many men have written on this subject, I thought. And so few women have penned a perspective. Hadn’t Olmina and I traversed Passo Rolle and the Dolomiti? What about the shepherdesses there tending flocks high in the shimmering air of those mountains? But no woman, perhaps, had climbed deliberately to a peak. Someday I wanted to ascend and descend with purpose, just for the sake of the mountain. And so I returned to Petrarch. I liked the ending of his Mount Ventosum letter, not so much for the edification as for the arrival by moonlight.
How earnestly should we strive, not to stand on mountain-tops, but to trample beneath us those appetites which spring from earthly impulses.
With no consciousness of the difficulties of the way, amidst these preoccupations which I have so frankly revealed, we came, long after dark, but with the full moon lending us its friendly light, to the little inn which we had left that morning before dawn.
The friendly light, the little inn. The moon lending. They shone somewhere in my mind. So I wasn’t particularly present when Hamish came up behind me and asked, “How are you, dear lady?” He pointed to the manuscript as if he were discussing Petrarch, so as to avoid rumors from his fellows, of whom there were several in the library at that moment, reading, discussing topics among themselves. A couple of them were watching us.
He looked over my shoulder and recited:
To-day I made the ascent of the highest mountain in this region, which is not improperly called Ventosum. My only motive was the wish to see what so great an elevation had to offer. I have had the expedition in mind for many years; for, as you know, I have lived in this region from infancy, having been cast here by that fate which determines the affairs of men. Consequently the mountain, which is visible from a great distance, was ever before my eyes, and I conceived the plan of some time doing what I have at last accomplished to-day.
“Thank you,” I said simply. The sound of Hamish’s rich voice anchored me, a welcome weight even as he read about a light, windy mountain.
A tall, austere young gentleman came up beside us. He pulled Petrarch’s Sonnets from the shelf, tugging the book on its rope as far away from us as he could go, presumably to give us some privacy. Or was it repugnance at being close to a woman? I received my answer when he glanced at me derisively.
The young man, who clearly resented my presence, occupied far more than his space with the pressure of unspoken warning. He tapped slowly, loudly, on the slanted table as he read aloud. I could see no good of confronting him, though I felt the urge building in Hamish. So I linked my arm through his and said, “I’m ready to leave.”
He smiled down at me, fierce and yet willingly calmed.
Strolling away from the library between the two men, Lorenzo and Hamish, on a rare sunny noon, I felt content. If indeed my father had disappeared, and The Book of Diseases had vanished with him, then I would dedicate myself to the book’s completion. Though I lacked his full experience, I knew I could make up for it in time—with the added vision of a woman.
AROMATIC WATER OF RUE:
For Augury
Though rue may be employed internally as a remedy for many ailments, among them headache, colic, and women’s lunar pains, and externally for gout, chilblains, and bruises, the water of rue is marvelous for sight and second sight. Writers, engravers, and artists relish the fresh herb with watercress and brown bread. Dabble the water around the eyes to settle murky vision and to summon foreknowledge in all things. The herb of sorrow is thus also the herb of grace, for the future already repents its errors. Some also claim that rue repels plague, biting chiggers, and curses. The evil eye squints from the scent of rue.
CHAPTER 16
To Make Way for the New
“I’m your firstfooter!” hooted Hamish on New Year’s Eve.
He had invited us to join a few friends at the table of Dr. Baldino just after midnight. But when he came by to collect us, he stood at our threshold, his eyes darting from one to the other of us with some hidden foolery.
“Won’t you come in a moment?” Olmina asked as we took some time to gather our cloaks and hats.
That’s when he made his announcement and stepped ceremoniously into our sitting room. He was handsomely attired in deep red velvet breeches, jerkin, and doublet, verdant hose, and a coat, and his maroon hat was adorned with a sleek black feather. “The first one to enter your home brings good luck all year,” he announced. Then he produced a bottle of sweet wine, which Lorenzo gladly uncorked and emptied into four thick blue glasses that Olmina brought from the kitchen, for us to toast all round.
“To the New Year, then, the year of our Lord 1591!” I cried, delighted to be celebrating after the somber affair that was Christmas. I’d yearned for the lively colors of Venetia, and now Hamish had brought revelry to our door.
“Ah, so it would be on the Continent! But here in Scotland we’re still in 1590, according to the Anglican Church. It won’t be the New Year’s Day till March 25, the Feast of the Annunciation of Mary. But I see no reason we still can’t celebrate!”
“To our signorina, then, and her father,” called out Olmina.
“To my dear Olmina and Lorenzo,” I answered back, and then I added, “To Dr. Hamish Urquhart and his many gifts!”
The wine tasted of abundant, melodious happiness, and it sustained us after we left our rooms and walked slowly arm in arm, so as not to tumble into the slick streets. Hamish and I, and Lorenzo and Olmina, maneuvered our way through a light snow to Dr. Baldino’s house. Many others were out as well, dancing and singing raucously.
“The church will have a hard time arresting so many people,” Hamish said, laughing, as a man cavorted by us, stuffing his face with a forbidden holiday bun, full of currants, almonds, spices, and whiskey.
When we neared Dr. Baldino’s home, the stone building stood transformed, flickering with warm amber candles in all the windows. “They are lit for strangers to find a way through the night,” explained Hamish. He looked down at me warmly. “For travelers.”
The pungent scent of yew greens and holly freshened the door as we entered, and the cold room we’d passed by on our first visit now blazed with a boisterous fire. The large house thrummed with lute music and affable voices coming from the sitting room on the first floor. It pulsed with conversations and laughter, and hummed with Dr. Baldino’s steady, drawn-out words, as he held forth on some subject while le
aning back in a broad gold-brocaded chair. A young manservant, his beardless face marked by a stray eye that scanned the entire scene as well as the individual, carried our coats away to a side closet and drew Olmina and Lorenzo upstairs to sit in the warm kitchen.
Hamish and I had barely begun to navigate our way through introductions and toward Dr. Baldino when Isabella of the long braid, now wound in a silver plait at her nape for the occasion, glided through the rooms with a small bell calling us to supper on the second floor. She wore a black gown with a high bodice and fine ruff and a sheer linen cap, giving her fully the appearance of a lady of the house. She and I were among a handful of women present, though I felt entirely comfortable there in the rooms thick with books, globes, maps, and various cabinets of curiosities. It seemed that along with his study of memory, Dr. Baldino possessed a passion for collecting the things of this world, whether they were natural or human crafted, perhaps so as not to forget the varieties of encounters that could be organized in the great theater of the mind. Chimerical fish and animals (those rogue taxidermies that delight many a collector—who knew if they were real or concocted?), catalogues, libraries, and clusters of things like bones, pressed leaves, shells, and minerals abounded, and Hamish had to pull me along out of the room of shells to come to dinner.
Kind Dr. Baldino sat at the head of the table, frothy white hair combed into some semblance of style. He motioned for me to sit next to him at the long improvised table that spanned one dark red room, made an L-turn, and entered another great room, so that guests were both visible and invisible, the latter’s conversations chiming from the other room like disembodied voices from the past. It wasn’t until a little later that I recognized Lorenzo’s quick remarks and Olmina’s throaty laughter and realized that the other room held the servants, with Isabella presiding (for so Olmina informed me later).
I was glad to be seated between Hamish and Dr. Baldino.
“Tell us, Dr. Mondini, what do you do in your fair city of Venetia to bring in the New Year?” asked the latter, his eyes weepy with contentment.
“Ah.” I thought for a moment, looking down and noticing Hamish’s hand touching a fold of my yellow velvet skirt, which fell over the edge of the chair. “There is always wonderful feasting, but what I most recall are the bonfires and the music.” I glanced from Dr. Baldino to Hamish and back again. “Even if snow and the tramontano winds fall upon the city, muffled men and women bring out their old goods—tables broken beyond repair, rotten curtains, broken cioppini, split wooden ladles, old love letters, though never books! We love our books too dearly, even if they’re brittle and smudged with mold.” It was hard to watch Hamish now, the dusky light kindling in his eyes. “Then we set fire to the old to make way for the new, in all the campi of our city. The fires are cast back by the mirrors of the canals, though I admit sometimes in wilder weather they sputter out. Still, it’s a wonderful sight, fire multiplied by water. Often people shout and throw things out the window and you have to watch your head.”
“Ah yes, I remember!” Dr. Baldino began to laugh. “It’s been many years, but I remember people tossing odds and ends out the window in Salerno. Things crashing down all night long! Once, my brother, Giacomo, flung a marvelous pack of cards out the window on New Year’s, accusing me of cheating because he was losing to me, as he often did. For I could keep the images of the cards he showed clearly in my mind for a long time—laid out as if upon a table. I was furious and ran down to collect as many as I could, before the bonfire consumed them.”
“That must be the original source of enthusiasm for your field of study,” joked Hamish.
“You’re right, dear fellow. It was the university or the gaming tables, and I believe I made the proper choice, don’t you think?”
“Ha, I don’t think so, Orazio,” cried a Spanish gentleman across the table, who’d introduced himself as Melchor de Ecija Zayas, a merchant of fine olive oil. “I wish you’d chosen the tables and come to Genoa with me, or Venetia, your fortunate city, Dr. Mondini.” He nodded at me with a large smile.
I frowned, feigning disapproval in good sport.
Dr. Baldino replied, “Then I might not have made it to ninety-three, eh, Melchor? Someone might have abducted me for my talent or slit my throat at the earliest opportunity. Still, I wouldn’t mind a card game of thirty-one after dinner tonight, if you are prepared to lose.”
“I’d be happy to offer charity to an old man,” Melchor replied, and he rapped the table with his knuckles, imitating the call to lay down cards in the game.
“Oh, and you believe seventy is young?”
“In your distinguished company.” Melchor grinned mischievously, his eyes glinting from the creases of his plump lids.
Dr. Baldino gave a dry chuckle, then turned back to me once more, saying, “The music then, Dr. Mondini, tell us about the music.”
“Sometimes the Fabrianis—have you heard of them?—sing out to one another from rooftops all across Venetia, making a harmonic instrument of the whole city, playing its corridors and muted canals with echoes that ring through open doors and windows, then vibrate in our bodies. The candles multiplied by glass and tides, the scents of Constantinopolis and Mytilene, the platters of fried squid and fish—all were infused with music. I enjoyed nocturnal walks with my servants and friends then, at the turning of the year, viewing the scenes of lit casements and the inhabitants within, listening to the diverse instruments and clear voices.”
I turned my head toward the other room, where, invisible to me, Lorenzo and Olmina, those two who were most dear to me now, conversed with boisterous joy. He laughed and the whole table trembled. She joined in and the sea shook far off in its bed.
“By contrast, Edenburg is a hushed place, wouldn’t you say, gentlemen?” Hamish declared. “No other cities mingle in its air, unless you count the sweets shop managed by the woman from Provins. I must take you there, Gabriella.” He regarded me expectantly.
The two elderly men stared at me, as if suddenly trying to discern the nature of our connection. Was it friendship, collegiality, or something more? I wasn’t sure myself. But I replied in an even tone, “Yes, I’d like that. We could bring back some honeyed fruit or pignolet for the good doctor here.”
“Delightful suggestion,” squealed Dr. Baldino, a small child for a moment. Then he commented, “Dr. Mondini, I also hear that you’re making good use of our library, compiling a wonderful encyclopedia begun by your father.”
“Yes, thank you, by the generosity of the university and, of course, my friend Hamish.”
“I hope that we may see some of the pages before you depart our city?”
“Yes, as long as you promise,” I teased, “not to submit them to your art of memory and claim them as your own.”
“Ah, my dear, I no longer write, and the theater of mnemonics has faded for me now. It is only the rooms of the present I wish to inhabit. In fact there are days when I feel my collections have reached their limit, their linkages burdened to the point of rupture. Sometimes I wish I could wake up to an empty house.”
“That’s when you’ll be dead.” Melchor laughed, obviously a close enough friend to say such a thing.
“Ha! Or completely happy,” Dr. Baldino said with a sigh.
Our conversation soon subsided as plates of boiled salmon, maced conger eels, oysters, periwinkles, mussels boiled with claret and cinnamon, special wheaten bread, and burdock root salad with dried herbs filled our table. Isabella served Dr. Baldino separately, his food mashed or cut into many tiny pieces. Her tender restraint seemed to me the perfect manner of a doctor. There, I thought, that woman has a gift and no one knows it. But then I believed Dr. Baldino did know, for he watched her leave the room with a kind of reverence.
Later, after a dessert of ginger rice pudding and sweet malmsey wine, and more good conversation, we walked toward home, all four of us hanging on to one another, dazed with the night’s merriment. We paused for a moment to look upward. The snowfall had stopped.
The clouds broke and offered us a glimpse of night sky bristling with keen bright stars.
By February, I frequented the library only two or three times a week, since I’d acquired patients through the goodwill of Hamish and Dr. Baldino, who referred Scottish ladies to my care. I was glad to earn our keep. I had my rounds back, in a small way. The company of women also provided another window into the life here. One lady in particular kept a garden of medicinals, and though her plants lay dormant, I was glad to discuss the properties of the simples with her, though I spoke to no one of this, cautious and fearful of the witch hunts that cast a disquieting torpor on the winter city. I didn’t want to provoke suspicion in my pursuits of the art of physick.
More than anything, I found I distrusted happiness, besieged as I was by the memory of the curses my mother flung at me when she fell into her lowest moments: “Your father was too fond of you—that’s why he left!” Or “Your father was jealous of you! Now he’s fled in the name of this so-called”—and here she spat out the words—“Book of Diseases, and I’m left with no husband. You were meant to be his helper, not his peer.” At this distance from my mother, I wished I’d done something other than walk away from her. But I was too shocked and hurt. What else could I have done? Perhaps say, I am sorry that you don’t have a husband. She was cornered by old expectations in that great, sumptuous island prison. She was alone. I hadn’t thought much about it then. And I unwittingly goaded her loneliness.
Still, the words stung as they returned to me at the end of February in the library, where I settled among rare books of anatomy, astronomy, philosophy, the splendid books of the hours, and the materia medicas, which I pored over with a kind of passion. How studious the other doctors thought me, yet there were times I read the same passage over and over until the words moved upon the page like insects. Perhaps I needed the cure Theodorus Priscianus recommended for painful thoughts: “If a loadstone be held upon the head it will draw out hidden pain, and the same effect may be obtained by rubbing over the forehead a swallow’s nest thoroughly mixed with vinegar.”