Mesmerised (9 page)

The scientist

May 8th

‘If the physician clearly perceives what is to be cured in diseases, that is to say, in every individual case of disease (knowledge of disease, indication), if he clearly perceives what is curative in medicine (knowledge of medicinal powers) … then he understands how to treat judiciously and rationally, and he is a true practitioner of the healing art.’

Samuel Hahnemann
, The Organon of Medicine.

In Café Riche, with its sponged walls that look like marble, and luscious plants and candles on all tables, I read
l’Avenir Nationale
.
Waiting for Georges, I am overjoyed to see a small piece about cholera. A Doctor Quin of London reports the mortality rate in 1854 at the London Homeopathic hospital as 16%, compared with 59.2% in the nearby Middlesex hospital. He asks why more doctors are not studying the healing art. Why indeed?

I do not think such a small column in the back pages of a newspaper will change anyone’s thoughts; it only serves to remind me of my own frustration. Nevertheless, it is heartening to witness those figures in print. I flick through, but there are no articles about o
ur forthcoming exhibition and I close the paper.

‘You don’t
appear too enamoured with today’s rag.’

I look up. Bowler-
hatted and carrying an ebony cane, Georges has arrived.

‘I was hoping for a mention about the Salon des
Refusés, even something derogatory. We can do with the publicity to bring in the crowds. Anyway, I won’t be disheartened, at least Napoleon has sanctioned that our works have a right to be shown.’ I fold the newspaper to expose the homeopathy article and place it in front of Georges.

‘Good for homeopathy,’ he says.

‘How was Romania?’ I ask. I clasp Georges’ hand and rise to kiss him on both cheeks.

‘It was a duty. I had to attend a family occasion. One of those members who you only vaguely know exists until they send you an invitation. Still, I suppose, one has to do something to be worthy of one’s keep.’

‘I came to visit,’ he continues. ‘They were queuing up for you like they do for Sarah Bernhardt,
and
it appears, you were wanted by the police.’

‘
It was a mild cholera-type epidemic. The allopaths were floundering and I administered
Podophyllum
to a small boy. It cured him. Word of mouth got about and brought the droves to my door. The concierge called the police. I was accused of causing a political uprising.’

‘An adventure – that’s why I am here
. It’s what motivates me to practise homeopathy and live in Paris.’

‘I have something exciting,’ I say, taking a vial of
Phosphorus 30c out of my pocket and placing it on the table before us.

A waitress appears
. Looking the other way, one hand on her hip, tray under her arm, she says, ‘It’s busy, what can I get you?’

‘A coffee,’ says Georges.

‘No,’ I intervene. ‘He’ll have water, the same as me.’

‘We have it from a spring
, it is slightly effervescent.’

‘No
… .’ Georges starts to say.

‘That’s fine. That’s fine,’ I wave her away.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks.

‘We’re going to conduct a homeopathic proving.’

‘I didn’t consent to this.’

‘Hahnemann says in the
Organon
that in order to understand the nature of substances, the earnest physician will test them upon himself.’

‘I should sacrifice myself for mankind. Tell me, have you used
yourself as a human instrument before?’

‘Of course, m
any times. Take it three times a day for three days and keep a diary,’ I say pushing the bottle towards him. ‘No alcohol, caffeine, mint or garlic. Live simply. I propose we meet up again in five days, to compare notes. Same time, same place.’

‘And I owe this noble gesture of yours to what?’ he says, pouring a globule from the bottle into the cork’s indent and then throwing it into his mouth. He pours another one for me
, and watches intently as I take it. The waitress returns with a brown glazed pitcher. She pours water into two glasses.

‘To the desire for advancement in our
ourselves as physicians,’ Georges says.

‘A santé, to greater health and understanding,’ I say
, lifting my water. Georges chinks his glass against mine and takes a reverential sip as if tasting the world’s finest cognac.

‘Actually,’ he says, ‘
it’s very good.’

I look up
. Camille, and his mother Rachel are coming through the doorway. They come over to our table. Camille stands before me in a huge brown great coat, making a cradle with his hands and rocking back and forth on his toes. His mother holds an embroidered handkerchief to her thin lips. Her eyes are narrow, red-rimmed and puffy.

‘Paul, forgive me, I’ve been all over Paris asking where you are. It’s Alfred, my
brother. He is dying of no one-knows-what. I was at Courbet’s studio and he reminded me about your genius. Doctor de Bellio,’ he adds, turning to Georges with a slight bow.

‘I’ll come, of course. Georges, forgive me,’ I say
, rising and retrieving my hat and coat from a peg on an oak column. ‘In five days, here, same time,’ I remind him.

Alfred lies as still as a corpse in the small guest bedroom in Rachel Pissaro’s apartment. Heavy oak furniture is set against claret walls. The curtains are drawn. I ask for light and Rachel brings me a small lamp. I place it on the bedside table and survey the room.

‘No daylight or windows open, is this at the patient’s request?’ I
ask.

No one
answers. Eventually, Camille prompts his mother.

‘
Maman, you must reply.’

‘
Er yes,’ she says.

‘Did he say why?’

‘The draught,’ she says ‘aggravates the pain and so does the light.’

‘Alfred, I’m Paul Gachet, the doctor, and I need to ask some questions. Are you able to talk?’

Alfred opens his eyes. ‘Hurts to talk,’ he croaks, grabbing hold of his throat.

‘Is there anything which helps the pain
, makes it feel better?’             

‘Stay still.’

He closes his eyes. His skin is dry, very pale. His cough has a hollow sound and makes him bring his hand to his chest. Sitting on the edge of his bed, I place my case on my knees and open it. Bryonia cures pathological states where the symptoms are better for stillness and pressure and worse for any disturbance. Standing over Alfred, I ask him to open his mouth and place one pillule of Bryonia 200c between his gum and lower lip. I give the vial to Madame Pissaro and ask her to administer the remedy every four hours until my return. If there is a marked improvement she should reduce the dose radically.

‘To what?’ she asks. ‘Reduce it to what?’

‘To one every 6-8 hours,’ I say. ‘Excuse me, I have to get to the hospital for an afternoon session. I can see myself out.’

Camille catches me in the hall as I am leaving. His large frame is cumbersome.

‘Paul, let me pay you, please. My mother can well afford it.’

‘I’d rather a painting.’

‘If Alfred gets better you can have both. In the meantime, take the money,’ he says thrusting a one hundred franc note into my palm. To refuse would be an insult.

The Lover

May 14th

‘I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.’

Charles Baudelaire

It’s that Thursday already, the date of Madame Manet’s soirée
. I have been invited and Blanche has been requested to play the violin. The days have passed by like pedestrians along the Champs Elysees. The effect of this on my life is shocking. But there is reprieve. I sit in a wickerwork chair in the corner of Blanche’s bedroom, wearing black trousers, a frock coat and very soft slip-on shoes. The clothing feels unusual, uncomfortable and unnatural. I make a spire with my fingers and peer over the top to watch my love get dressed. Her movements are slow and definite. At the moment, she is wearing ivory silk pantalettes and a matching corset that I helped her to tie. Unselfconsciously, she approaches her mirrored dressing table and lifts a velvet choker to her throat. A silver locket dangles against her skin. She lowers her chin to her breastbone, fastens the button at the back and swiftly lifts her head as if she is enjoying her long flowing hair. She sits down to pin her freedom up into a chignon. Her petticoats and lace dress are like coverlets for the bed. I feel the warmth of our intimate memories and see pictures of us naked reeling through my mind.

‘I won’t be long,’ she says.

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘We’re early. Take your time.’

There is a spray at the window behind me and I look around to see splashes of rain sparkling against the glass like stars.

‘But you’ll get bored sitting there waiting.’

I take my hands apart in a submissive gesture.

‘I owe you a good deed,’ she says.

I cannot hide my smile.

‘You’re laughing at me.’

‘Honestly I am not.’

‘Well, what are you thinking, then?’

She faces me, hands on tilted hips, one leg thrust forward, knee bent accusingly.

‘That I could not be more entertained.’

Madame Manet’s Soiree

‘
The truth is on the march and nothing will stop it.’

             
Emile Zola

We are late. We walk quickly and our voices do a jig. When we arrive at the impressive four storey building in rue des Petits-Augustins and walk through the stone portal into a large courtyard, Blanche says, ‘I thought all your artist friends were struggling to survive.’

‘Most of us are lucky that our fathers were born before us.
Edouard especially. His mother, Eugenie, hosts a dinner almost every Thursday evening and now that Edouard’s father’s passed away, most of the guests are Edouard’s friends, at least so I hear.’

‘You’ve never been to one before?’

‘Never – and only invited this time because Edouard was quite taken with you.’

‘Is that true?’ she says with a sidelong glance.

‘Quite true.’ In spite of myself I smile.

‘Really Paul,’ she tells me. ‘I can’t trust anything you say these days.’

The apartment is large. Thick wool rugs lie on parquet floors. High floral walls frame gilt-edged painted doors whilst delicate furniture poses under cut-glass chandeliers. The rooms appear fragile.

‘Does Madame Manet think she is Napoleon the third?’ Blanche asks as we walk in the door. H
er lips are feathers at my ear.

In the main room, guests stand in small groups whilst waiters hand out food and drinks on silver platters. Blanche carries her violin case protectively in her arms
. I catch sight of Edouard on the other side of the room. He is in conversation with a woman, but someone is standing in front of her and I can’t see who she is. The person moves slightly to the left and I gain a better view. Edouard holds a glass by its base, poised as if someone is just about to paint it. He looks to the glass as he talks to Victorine.

B
ehind him is one of the doctors from the Faculty who followed me. Not Ipsen, someone else whose name starts with Q, I think Quenton, Quiggly, Quackenboss, something like that. Anyway, I shall call him Quackenboss. He is, in my opinion, noteworthy. At the hospital amongst his peers, he is humble and quiet, almost paling into insignificance. Here, he stands tall with his head high. He has toast with caviar in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other and he is looking my way with a sullen expression.

Eugenie Manet
comes forward to greet us. She has a coil of dark hair at either side of her head and a black silk dress buttoned to her throat. Large white pearls rest heavy upon the fabric at her breastbone and sit like shields on her ear lobes. From a distance she could be mistaken for a young widow, but up close the lines around her mouth pinch inwards, whilst those on the outside of her orbital bones fan outwards, bringing attention to the lacklustre of her eyes.

‘You must be Blanche,’ she says offering a hand. ‘And you must be Paul Gachet. I’m so pleased you have both arrived.
Edouard’s friend will be playing for us too. Come this way. Have you met Suzanne?’

Suzanne
Leenhoff is standing by the piano, alone, as we approach.

‘Oh Suzanne, this is Mademoiselle Blanche
Castets, who I was telling you about. She plays the violin.’

Blanche thrusts her hand forward. Suzann
e briefly shakes it, then briefly shakes mine.

‘Suzanne
, how is Leon?’

‘Leon’s fine but now
I
have a cough,’ she says and she is gripped by a spasm that makes it difficult for her to breathe. At which point Camille taps me from behind. I turn around. He clutches my upper arm and pumps my hand. His eyes are watery as he looks into mine.

‘He’s the man to cure your cough,’ he says. ‘Alfred is so much
better.’

‘Yes, didn’t he cure Leon’s
?’ says Madame Manet.

Suzanne nods,
still coughing, unable to stop. She signals this with her hands.

‘Well then, my dear, have him cure yours,’
Madame Manet says, walking off.

‘He cured mine,’ Blanche tells Suzanne and I realise for the first time that Blanche hasn’t coughed all day.

‘I hope I’ll be all right to play the piano,’ Suzanne answers.

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine
. Somehow I never coughed when playing the violin,’ Blanche tells her.

I am a little embarrassed by
the praise and not sure where to look. I sense a presence behind me. Doctor Quackenboss. He’s standing next to me with his hands behind his back as if he is giving a lecture. He takes a step forward into our crowd.

‘Don’t let this man fool you,’ he says. ‘The Faculty does not recognise that homeopathy has any healing potential at all. The medicines have nothing in them. They are made from plain water. He merely gives you a placebo.’

‘Then how can you explain that my brother Alfred was dying and no other doctor could heal him?’

‘Your brother was lucky. He obviously went into some sort of spontaneous remission. But can you imagine if such a non-medicine was given to someone who needs proper intervention and doesn’t get it? Your friend can easily become a murderer just
for taking on the case. Excuse me,’ he says, looking around. ‘I think I’m wanted over there.’ Heat rises to my face. Discomfort rankles. I want to get away. I grab hold of Blanche’s wrist pulling her over to the side.

‘We don’t have to stay,’ I say. ‘You can tell them I’ve been called out on urgent business and I’m taking you home.’

‘No, really,’ she says. ‘This is work for me. I want to stay. I have to stay. Anyway, what’s wrong with you? That man’s an idiot. Everyone knows it. You don’t need to go.’

‘Blanche, men like
Quackenboss, or whatever he’s called, are powerful and they’re damning not just me but an honourable profession.’

‘I have to play show tunes for money all the time but I’d rather play Vivaldi.’

Over Blanche’s shoulder I see that Madame Manet has joined Victorine and Edouard. She whispers something in his ear. He nods emphatically and walks towards us. He arrives before I can answer Blanche.

‘Paul,’ he says. ‘Congratulations on helping to achieve the Salon des
Refusés and Mademoiselle Blanche, I am looking forward to hearing your hauntingly beautiful recital again tonight.’

‘Monsieur Manet,’ she responds politely.

‘Edouard, please,’ he says clearing his throat. ‘This is very embarrassing. Georges is over there but my mother insists that I ask
you
to pay a visit in order to prescribe for Suzanne’s cough. I am going to need your discretion.’

‘Is Suzanne a patient of Georges?’

‘No, not technically, although I most certainly am.’

‘There is no conflict of interest then, Georges will understand.’

‘I hope so.’

‘You can tell Suzanne that I will call on her tomorrow morning at nine.’

Victorine joins our group. ‘Edouard,’ she says placing a gloved hand on his back. ‘We were mid-conversation when you said you’d be back. I decided that I’d waited long enough and had to come to find you. Doctor Gachet, Paul,’ she says, offering me her other gloved hand which I accept and lower my head.

‘Mademoiselle Blanche,’ Edouard says. ‘Where did you learn to play the violin?’

‘Did you gain permission for me to do a portrait of Bella Laffaire?’ Victorine whispers, moving closer towards me.

‘No,’ I say, in equally hushed tones. ‘You’ll probably have more luck if you write to the hospital directly.’

‘Excuse us,’ she says to Edouard and Blanche, then links her arm through mine and walks me to a corner. I glance over my shoulder at Blanche who is still carrying her violin case and watching us in the mirror above the fireplace.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Victorine says. ‘How is Bella?’

‘I don’t understand. Why have you brought me over here?’

‘Her father keeps coming to my home. He is looking for her.’

‘Haven’t you told him where she is?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘He looks mean.’

‘That’s not a reason …’

‘Look, how do I know that he
really is her father? I have his address – if you wish to go and see him,’ she says, placing something in the pocket of my frock coat.

‘Now I really think we should go back,’ I say, but she is already making her way into the centre of the room.

‘Is there something between you and Victorine?’ Blanche asks when I return.

I open my mouth to answer her, but
Paul appears at our side accompanied by a grey haired man.

‘I want you to meet my father. He is very interested in homeopathy,’ he says.

We drink champagne from fluted cut glass and eat canapés from silver trays. As the evening wears on I become more and more transfixed by the sorry figure of Suzanne. She is as out of place here as a chimpanzee would be in the Louvre. She stands alone by the piano as if looking out to sea. I wonder if she is still under the employ of Eugenie Manet, on call for Thursday evenings and ladies’ afternoons. When the chairs are brought in and she finally gets to play, she shifts uncomfortably on the stool and I wonder throughout her recital if she’s stifling a cough. She plays Chopin note perfect: competent, definitely competent. Her body is hunched as she turns to the audience and receives a light ripple of applause.

Blanche, on the other hand, stands tall before us, her instrument enslaved by her chin. She confidently plucks strings with her eyes closed, warming up
. It is a while since Suzanne has finished her piece. The audience stand. They are restless, noisily conversing with each other. Behind me, Henri tells Charles that he is going to make his fortune in England.

‘London is so much more receptive to new art,’ he says.

Edouard climbs over chairs to the back of the room to greet his tardy friend Charles who has just recently arrived. He slaps him on the shoulder and kisses his cheeks.

‘You made it. I thought the bordellos had claimed you, but you got here, I’m so glad you did.’

Blanche doesn’t say a word. People sit. The room goes quiet. She sways as if to a secret rhythm, back and forth, back and forth. She raises the bow. Back and forth, back and forth, in double time back and forth, the bow is lowered to string and the music flows evoking the perfection of a summer’s day. When she finishes, Charles stands on his chair, fingers to his lips, he whistles at a nerve-racking pitch. The clapping is hearty. Edouard, Henri and others call ‘Bravo!’

The silence in the street is deafening by comparison.

‘I’ll walk you to your house,’ I say, lightly squeezing Blanche’s hand in mine, and purposefully kicking a stone. ‘I’m not staying. I have to be up early.’

‘You’re not staying.’

‘That’s right.’

‘No, you misunderstand me. You’re not staying. It’s also
my
choice.’

A bawdy song spills out through the open doors of an inn down the road and
I hear the rustle of a lover’s clothes in the shadows around the corner. Tears well up in my eyes. I sit down on a boulder and put my head in my hands. Blanche perches on another boulder, opposite, and waits.

‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry,’ I say eventually, looking up and mopping my face with a handkerchief. ‘You must think I’m strange. Here, catch,’ I say, tossing a bottle of
Phosphorus 30c into her lap.

‘What’s this?’ she asks. ‘Isn’t it the same remedy you gave me for my cough?’

I nod.

‘My
cough’s better; why are you giving me more pills?’

‘It’s an explanation,’ I say, and then blow my nose. ‘It’s to let you know that I’m in the middle of a homeopathic proving. The remedy is
Phosphorus. I’m taking it three times a day until it brings out characteristic symptoms.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Pathological sympathy. I am crying for your sadness, Suzanne’s loneliness and Victorine’s frustration, all at once, and it is making me look a fool.’

‘Do you think I am a fool, Paul? Is this why you gave it to me?’

‘Absolutely not. No. No. I gave you the remedy because a sympathetic act was your cough’s aetiology – its causation – and you also had a Phosphorus-type cough.’

‘You know what?’ she asks. ‘Sometimes I feel like I really need to get away. Have you ever thought of India, Paul?
I met a man who told me that Indian priests wear saffron robes and walk elephants across the beach in Goa on a pilgrimage for peace. In Africa, apparently, elephants trumpet at dawn. Whilst Paris can be stiflingly complicated, don’t you think?’

‘Why are you angry with me, Blanche?’

‘I’m not sure I want this.’

‘Me?’

She nods.

I look away as
tears come again. When I’m ready, I get up.

‘Come,’ I say. ‘Let me walk you home.’