Vienna Secrets

33

From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann

We interrupted our circumnavigation of the ring at Karlsplatz, where we found a bench on which to sit and admire the Karlskirche. I was reminded of a fact originally learned at school: during the plague of 1713, Emperor Karl VI vowed that if the population of the city survived, he would build a church dedicated to Saint Charles Borromeo, a former archbishop of Milan and the patron saint of the plague. What an odd notion, to have a patron saint of plagues. I wonder if the Catholic Church has considered appointing a patron saint of gallstones or-even better-syphilis. Is it any wonder that Vienna leads the world in medicine? It seems to me that the Viennese have always been preoccupied by death and diseases.

I shared this speculation with Miss Lydgate, who asked how long it had taken to build the Karlskirche. “Twenty-five years,” I was able to tell her. She scrutinized the church for some time before saying, “The Italianate dome owes a great debt to Brunelleschi, don’t you think? The lantern, for example?” Needless to say, I had to confess that I didn’t know whom she was referring to. “Filippo Brunelleschi,” she replied, “the architect who designed the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. The largest dome in the world.”

As is her habit, she enthused about her topic and mentioned in passing a treatise, “On the Tranquility of the Soul,” written by one of Brunelleschi’s disciples. It was of some interest to me because the subject matter of this work was the treatment of depression. Two men, both depressed, are conversing beneath Brunelleschi’s newly constructed dome. One of them lists a number of traditional remedies for low spirits: wine, music, the company of women, and exercise. But to these he adds a new remedy: the contemplation of giant hoists of the kind that Brunelleschi had devised to raise his creation.

I was obviously amused by this idea. Miss Lydgate, however, was not altogether impressed by my reaction. She explained that this “treatment” was not really as absurd as it might at first seem, particularly if one considered it in its proper context. The dome of Santa Maria del Fiore was nothing less than a miracle to the people of Renaissance Florence. Therefore machines that made such buildings possible were viewed as equally miraculous, symbolic of human ingenuity. To contemplate Brunelleschi’s hoist, in that age, was to realize the unlimited potential of the human mind, an undeniably uplifting consideration.

She then described to me Brunelleschi’s mechanical marvel: a large frame that supported a number of vertical spindles, each rotating the other by means of variously sized cogged wheels. Miss Lydgate reserved her most profligate praise for Brunelleschi’s revolutionary gear mechanism, the operation of which involved a large screw with a helical thread. This gear mechanism was, I gather, of some considerable significance, but I am not altogether sure why. Miss Lydgate’s account was complex and difficult to understand without the aid of a diagram. In truth, I fear that her erudition was rather lost on me. I am bound to confess too that my intellectual powers had gradually deserted me as I became absorbed by the unique coloring of her eyes.

Over the years, marble and masonry weighing millions of pounds-I forget the exact figure-were lifted hundreds of feet by Brunelleschi’s hoist with astonishing efficiency. The mechanism was set in motion by a single ox. I inquired of Miss Lydgate how it was that she had come to know so much about a subject that must-in all fairness-be described as obscure. She replied that her father was greatly interested in the Renaissance and had taken her to Florence when she was only thirteen. While there, he had made it his business to gather information about the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore and its construction. On his return to London he had composed a pamphlet on Brunelleschi’s hoist for the edification of his pupils (how delighted they must have been).

I formed the impression that Samuel Lydgate had used his daughter as an amanuensis, and that she had spent most of her time during this Italian adventure traipsing around old buildings and holed up in dusty archives. This, I could see, she regarded as entirely normal! The sun was setting, and its red light found corresponding tones in her hair. She was talking about a geometric feature of Brunelleschi’s dome called the quinto acuto, or pointed fifth. I have a dim recollection of certain words: “radius,” “curvature,” “intersecting arches.” But what I remember most is a feeling of quiet desperation. I wanted so much to reach out and link my fingers with hers. But instead, I found myself agreeing with her on some point that I had barely been able to follow.

On returning home I attacked the Chopin Studies: a definite improvement. Perhaps the Klammer Method is working. On the other hand, venting one’s frustrations at the keyboard typically produces a more impressive performance. And I am at present nothing if not frustrated.