Frank Tallis - Vienna Secrets

From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann

We had arranged to meet at the natural history museum. It is a favorite haunt of Miss Lydgate’s-and mine, of course. She tarried longest in the geological halls and became utterly absorbed by the meteorites, identifying the exhibits by their technical names: “ordinary chondrites,” “carbonaceous chondrites,” “achondrites,” etc., etc. It amused me, the way she gazed at those gray-black rocks with the same covetous, lingering gaze that other women reserve for diamonds. Indeed, she hardly noticed the precious stones when we passed through the gem hall. We both admired the Knyahinya meteorite, which is reckoned to be the largest in the world (or at least, the largest one to be displayed in any of the world’s museums). It weighs almost six hundred sixty pounds and fell in Hungary. The fiery arrival of the Knyahinya meteorite is celebrated in a canvas panel by Anton Brioschi above one of the doors.

Miss Lydgate said, “How extraordinary that this object, which has traveled between worlds-through the vast emptiness of space-should, in the fullness of time, find a resting place here, in a cabinet, in Vienna.” Needless to say, I was minded to agree. It is an extraordinary thing. From where did this great lump of rock originate, and how far did it travel before crashing into Earth? The mind can scarcely imagine such an epic voyage.

When we arrived at the empress Maria Theresa’s mechanical planetarium (an exquisite piece of eighteenth-century craftsmanship), Miss Lydgate fell into a meditative state. She was frowning a little-her lips pressed together-and while she was thus distracted, I positioned myself at a distance, just far enough to steal a few glances (inconspicuous glances, I hope) at her figure and hair. The shame that accompanies such improprieties has now become dulled through repetition: the self-loathing is less acute and is diluted by a vague feeling of tired resignation.

Without turning her head (she was not aware that I had moved away) Miss Lydgate began to speak. I quickly came forward from behind my observation post. Her contemplation of the immense distances traveled by the Knyahinya meteorite had clearly prompted her to reflect on the great size of the cosmos. She was speaking of Bessel, the German astronomer, who had demonstrated that even the nearest stars were unimaginably distant. I asked her how he had achieved such a feat of measurement, and she replied, “By observation of the parallax.”

My incomprehension must have been obvious, because she immediately invited me to participate in an instructive scientific exercise. “Hold your finger a few inches away from your nose. Then look at it first with the left eye, closing the right, and then the right eye, closing the left.” My finger appeared to jump to the left. “Now repeat the procedure, but this time hold your finger at arm’s length. Notice that there is still movement, but not so much. The smaller the parallax, the farther the object.

Apparently, by using this simple principle as applied to the apparent movement of stars, Bessel was able to determine the distance from Earth of 61 Cygni, which proved to be much farther away than anyone had previously expected. “Sixty-four trillion miles,” said Miss Lydgate (she has a remarkable memory for numbers). In Miss Lydgate’s estimation, Bessel’s accomplishment ranked among the greatest in all of science.

“Against the backdrop of the universe, our great globe is but an insignificant speck.” She looked at me with characteristic intensity. Her eyes captured and condensed the blue fire of the gas jets: whereas others might have been disturbed by the size of the universe, and conversely human insignificance, Miss Lydgate seemed-how should I put this? — quietly satisfied. The terrifying enormity of the universe was humbling, and therefore its contemplation was virtuous.

But what am I to make of all this? I can no longer consider our frequent engagement in conversations of this kind entirely innocent. They have become a substitute for natural, physical intimacy. We talk-but dare not touch. Our erotic instincts have become frozen in an arctic waste of cerebration. Do I flatter myself? Does she really desire me, as I desire her? And why has this conversation about the great size of the universe stayed with me? We spoke of many things, but it is this conversation that I now recall most vividly. Was she trying to say something to me? Was there hidden meaning in all this discussion of meteorites and stars? Unconscious encouragement? “Given the vastness of the universe, must we be so respectful of social observances? Does any of it really matter?” Was it a disguised appeal? Or is this just wishful thinking on my part? Am I reading too much into what was nothing more than innocent erudition?

I am reminded of young Oppenheim. We were discussing Freud’s dream book in Cafe Landtmann, and Oppenheim said that he thought it shouldn’t have been called “The Interpretation of Dreams,” but rather “The Over-Interpretation of Dreams.” Sacrilege, but he has a point, and I had to laugh. What am I to do? It is all so very complicated. Yet there is more to my inaction than a fear of embarrassment or rejection. She is sensitive and fragile. I know that-perhaps better than anybody. Human actions do not have cosmic repercussions. Our pathetic little dramas unfold-great rocks fly through the heavens, and planets wheel around the sun. All true. But disparities of scale-however large-do not justify recklessness. Besides, who is to say that the stately progress of stars is any more

THERE WAS A KNOCK on the door. Liebermann stopped writing, closed his journal, and placed it in his desk drawer.

“Come in,” he called out.

The door opened slowly, and a nurse stepped into his office. He had seen her before but they had never spoken. She seemed rather agitated.

“Yes?” said Liebermann.

“My name is Magdalena Heuber. I am a nurse on Professor Friedlander’s ward.” She gestured down the corridor. “Would you please come and examine one of our patients? He is very ill.”

“Where is Professor Friedlander?” asked Liebermann.

“He has gone home,” said Nurse Heuber.

Liebermann glanced at the clock and saw that it was getting late. He had been so absorbed in his journal that he had lost track of time.

“What about Professor Friedlander’s sekundararzt-Dr. Platen?”

The nurse, looking distinctly uncomfortable, replied, “Dr. Platen has been unavoidably detained.” Liebermann suspected that she wasn’t being entirely candid, but he chose not to press her. “We only have an aspirant-Herr Edlinger-on the ward,” the nurse continued, “and he is not sure what to do. The patient is the young Baron von Kortig.”

Liebermann sighed and stood up. Remembering his journal, he took a key from his pocket, locked the desk drawer, and pulled at it a few times to make sure that the bolt had properly engaged.

“Confidential case notes,” said Liebermann, catching the nurse’s eye. This small falsehood still drew an unwelcome warmth to his cheeks.

They made their way down the corridor to Professor Friedlander’s ward and entered an anteroom. It was cramped and dim. The shelves were stacked with folders and formularies, and the wooden table-which nestled under the black square of a small window-was covered in medical journals. A metal cart parked beside the table was loaded with flasks, some of which were filled with opaque peach-colored urine. The claustrophobic and stale atmosphere of the anteroom was exacerbated by the presence of the aspirant, Edlinger, who occupied the central floor space. He was a well-dressed young man with blond hair, an exceedingly thin mustache, and a silver dueling scar on his chin.