Death And The Maiden

17

Amelia Lydgate lived among a people for whom music was not so much a pleasure as a way of life. In this respect, the difference between the German and English character was most pronounced. Not wishing to appear deficient, Amelia had asked Liebermann to recommend some concerts. He had immediately assumed the role of musical mentor and had taken her to a recital of Bach’s English Suites. A second concert followed, then a third, then a fourth. In the space of only a few months, attending piano recitals together had become a regular event. Liebermann recognised his own duplicity. These musical outings provided him with a perfect pretext for seeing Amelia. He had previously been obliged to fabricate all kinds of justifications, but now they had found a suitably innocuous reason for meeting and neither party expressed any wish to alter the arrangement.

Pretexts were necessary because Liebermann had once been Amelia Lydgate’s doctor. He had treated her at the general hospital for a hysterical illness that had arisen because of a trauma: she had been importuned by a man who was supposed to be acting in loco parentis. Needless to say, this unfortunate history complicated Liebermann’s relationship with Amelia — a relationship that had continued beyond the termination of treatment.

After attending concerts at the Bosendorfersaal, it had become their custom to stroll down Herrengasse to Cafe Central, where a candlelit table awaited them in the glass-covered courtyard. First they would discuss the recital, then Amelia’s medical studies — anatomy, physiology, diseases of the blood — and finally they would discuss books, philosophy and, very occasionally, psychoanalysis.

Amelia was wearing a plain blouse, grey jacket and matching skirt. She had tied her hair back with a silver ribbon, revealing the luminous red stones of her pendant earrings. The taut whiteness of her neck was completely exposed and her skin gleamed like polished marble. Liebermann made an effort to concentrate more carefully on what his companion was saying. She was praising a book by Goethe called Elective Affinities, a work that Liebermann had not read.

‘It is a most interesting piece of writing,’ said Amelia. ‘A romantic novel, but unlike any other I have ever before encountered. In a sense, it is as much about natural philosophy as it is about the lives of the protagonists. In an early chapter the author draws attention to the similarities that exist between chemical reactions and human behaviour, and by doing so raises profound questions relevant to psychology.’ She picked up her cup and took a minute sip of Earl Grey tea. When she resumed speaking, her lips were glistening. ‘Some substances meet as friends, hastening together, like the mixture of wine and water. Other substances are obdurate strangers and refuse to unite. Oil and water will separate immediately even after they have been shaken together. It is as if preferences are being expressed.’ Amelia leaned forward. ‘In its day, Elective Affinities was the subject of considerable controversy and was regarded as being immoral.’

Liebermann looked perplexed.

‘Why was that?’ he said. ‘Goethe’s observation appears harmless enough.’

‘Not at all,’ Amelia replied, shaking her head. ‘Quite the opposite.’ The pendant earrings swung and the stones flashed. ‘Astute members of the clergy identified in Elective Affinities a challenge to Church doctrine. By drawing these analogies Goethe was showing that inanimate matter sometimes appears to exhibit attributes — free will, for example — associated with higher explanations. Thus he gives us cause to question their legitimacy.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘I see what you mean. Choices are made by the brain, not the soul.’

‘Indeed,’ replied Amelia. ‘However, the principal objection to Elective Affinities concerned the nature of …’ Amelia hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘… love.’ Liebermann tilted his head to one side, adopting the attitude of one eager to hear more. ‘Love is the most elevated state,’ Amelia continued. ‘It was considered almost sacrilegious to suggest that love has a material origin, that lovers are drawn together not by destiny but by the irresistible power of some chemical attraction.’

They gazed into each other’s eyes and the moment became uncomfortably intense. A waiter dashed past and the candle between them flickered.

Liebermann looked away. ‘Yes,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘I can see that.’

When he had recovered his composure he turned to face Amelia. She was still staring at him. A vertical line had appeared on her forehead.

‘Would you like to read it?’ Amelia reached into her reticule and pulled out a slim volume bound in black cloth. She passed the book across the table.

‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘I would.’

They spoke a little more about literature and the conversation became lighter in tone. Amelia mentioned that Frau Rubenstein, the widow in whose house she lived, was about to embark on a trip to Germany.

‘Really?’ said Liebermann. ‘Why’s that?’

‘She’s going to visit some relatives in Berlin.’

‘I didn’t know she had relatives.’

‘Neither did I,’ said Amelia, tracing a circle with her finger on the table top.

That night, lying in her bed, Amelia Lydgate was reading a journal published by The Socialist Education Alliance. She discovered that she could not concentrate. Consequently she got up, crossed the room to her bookcase and scanned the spines. She found a volume of English poetry. The well-thumbed pages fell open at ‘To His Coy Mistress’ by the seventeenth-century poet Andrew Marvell.

Had we but World enough, and Time,

This coyness Lady were no crime.

The poem took the form of an entreaty: a young man, begging the object of his love to consummate. The arguments employed were persuasive.

But at my back I always hear

Time’s winged Chariot hurrying near.

Time, thought Amelia. How the silent hours steal by. Days, months and years …

The Grave’s a fine and private place,

But none I think do there embrace.

Amelia returned to her bed and held the book against her chest. She remembered Frau Eberhardt talking about the research undertaken in America and the answers given by the respondents: ecstatic, delightful, would have hated to have omitted the experience. She closed her eyes, but knew she would not sleep.