The Importance of Being Seven

by Alexander McCall Smith

It was as much information as he could give without alerting their companion to the fact that she was being discussed. Domenica, though, was quick to sense that something was wrong, and nodded to Angus to confirm that she understood.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll go off for coffee,’ she announced. ‘I believe that the doors will be thrown open very shortly and this queue will begin to move.’

  ‘The doors will be opened,’ muttered Antonia. ‘Opened to beauty.’

  Domenica and Angus exchanged glances.

  ‘Now we must agree what we are to do once we get in,’ said Domenica in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I suggest that we split up and agree to meet somewhere in, say, three hours’ time. That will give us each an opportunity to linger in front of our favourite works of art without holding others up.’

  Angus looked nervously at Antonia. ‘A good idea. Is that all right with you, Antonia?’

  Antonia smiled. ‘It is indeed. I shall …’ She paused. ‘I shall make my way to the Birth of Venus and absorb that. Then I shall … Oh, there is so much that I plan to do.’

  The queue started to move. Under cover of the excited chatter that accompanied that, Angus was able to whisper again to Domenica. ‘She’s clearly heading for some sort of crisis. She really is. Her eyes – take a look at her eyes. Her pupils are dilated. Do you think she’s taking something?’

  Domenica cast a glance at Antonia, who was standing a short distance behind them, studying a guidebook that she had extracted from the pocket of her coat.

  ‘She could be. It would explain this rather manic muttering about beauty. We shall just have to watch her. I propose to follow her at a discreet distance once we’re in and see what she gets up to.’

  ‘I’ll do the same,’ said Angus. ‘I don’t want you to follow her by yourself.’ He paused. ‘Do you think she’s dangerous?’

  Domenica raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve always taken the view that she constitutes a danger to men, but no, I don’t think that she’s likely to be violent. Still, you never know. Do you have a whistle on you?’

  Angus did not.

  ‘A whistle can be useful in an emergency,’ said Domenica. ‘But so few people seem to carry one these days.’

  They reached the admission booth and Domenica purchased tickets. Antonia stood behind Angus; he noticed that her knuckles were white from the clenching and unclenching of her fists.

  They went in. ‘Now,’ said Domenica, ‘we shall all meet here in exactly three hours. Then we shall go for a late lunch over which we shall be able to discuss the treats that we’re about to see.’

  ‘Good,’ said Angus. ‘Quattrocento here I come!’

  ‘Che bellezza!’ muttered Antonia, wandering off towards the first of the galleries. ‘Oh, che bellezza!’

  Domenica and Angus held back under the pretence of consulting a guidebook. Then, after a minute or two, Domenica indicated that they should discreetly make their way towards the gallery to which Antonia had been heading.

  It was Angus who heard the commotion first. Grabbing Domenica by the arm, he gestured towards the source of the noise, just inside the gallery.

  ‘Quick,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

  The two ran in the direction of the shouting that was now plainly emanating from within. When they reached the doorway to the gallery, their worst fears were confirmed. There was Ant onia, prone on the floor, shouting and writhing, while about her stood a circle of concerned security guards. Another man in uniform was running from the opposite end of the gallery, accompanied by several young women.

  Angus strode forwards, followed by Domenica.

  ‘Please stand back,’ said one of the security men in Italian. ‘There is nothing to see.’

  Angus spoke quickly. ‘We are the friends of this unfortunate lady,’ he said.

  The security men let them approach. One of them was crouching down beside Antonia, trying to reassure her.

  ‘Antonia,’ said Angus. ‘Antonia, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Che bellezza,’ muttered Antonia, looking at Angus without any real sign of recognition. ‘Che bellezza insopportabile!’

  The man who had come from the other end of the gallery now spoke into a hand-held radio before turning to address Angus. ‘This lady is not at all well,’ he said in perfect English. ‘I regret that she may be suffering from Stendhal Syndrome. It is quite common, and so I have ordered a stretcher. We shall take her to the psychiatric clinic at Santa Maria Nuova. They are very experienced.’

  Angus turned to Domenica. ‘Stendhal Syndrome,’ he said. ‘We should have seen it coming. My goodness, we were blind.’

  Domenica looked puzzled. ‘Stendhal Syndrome?’

  ‘It’s a form of hysterical reaction that afflicts some people when they come face to face with great art,’ said Angus. ‘Stendhal suffered from it when he came to Italy. It’s rather like Jerusalem Syndrome, which affects people who go there and get carried away by religious ecstasy.’

  The stretcher-bearers now arrived, and quickly rolled Antonia onto their stretcher. Then they carried her away at a fast trot.

  ‘There will be an ambulance at the side door,’ said the official. ‘I do regret this somewhat inauspicious start to your visit to the Uffizi. Please accept our sympathy. I assume that you will wish to call at the ospedale psichiatrico where your poor friend is being taken.’

  He gave them the address, which Angus wrote down on the back of his guide to the Uffizi.

  ‘Most unfortunate,’ said Angus, as they made their way out of the gallery. ‘I wish I’d put two and two together earlier.’

  ‘You mustn’t reproach yourself,’ said Domenica. ‘How were you to know? One doesn’t expect an Edinburgh person to behave in quite so Mediterranean a fashion.’

  Angus shook his head. ‘You’ve got it quite wrong, Domenica. The whole point about Stendhal Syndrome is that it affects people from the north. We are the ones who come here and are overcome by the beauty. No Italian would think twice about it.’

  ‘Well, it’s still very regrettable,’ said Domenica. ‘Poor Antonia. It can hardly be very pleasant to go on holiday and be put away in a psychiatric hospital – even if one deserves it, and even if it’s the best place for one to be.’ She paused. ‘Should we go and buy her some fruit? Or is it tactless to give fruit in such circumstances?’

  ‘I’m sure that it would be appreciated,’ said Angus. And then he said, ‘I wonder how long she’ll be in.’

  ‘Several weeks, I should imagine,’ said Domenica. ‘Which leaves just you and me at the villa, Angus.’

  80. Antonia’s Condition Explained

  Domenica and Angus arrived at the Santa Maria Nuova Hospital three hours after Antonia had been taken away in her ambulance, its siren echoing through the narrow Florentine streets. The delay was deliberate and was not indicative of a lack of concern on their part. There was no point, Domenica suggested, in arriving contemporaneously with the patient: the doctors would need to make their admission examination and it would not help them to have anxious friends tugging at their clinical sleeves. So they continued with their visit to the Uffizi, taking in if not everything they had hoped to see, then at least some portion of it.

  At the hospital they were ushered into a small, sparsely furnished waiting room outside the office of the clinical director. A secretary attended to them, offering them a glass of water and a small plate of biscotti while they waited.

  ‘Such courteous people,’ said Domenica as the secretary left the room. ‘Can you imagine the National Health Service offering anybody biscotti?’

  ‘Alas, I cannot,’ said Angus, helping himself to one of the small, brittle biscuits. He examined the biscuit carefully, as if looking for something. ‘This reminds me of Proust’s madeleine cake. Perhaps that’s why they keep them in a psychiatric institution – to promote Proustian reflections that might, in turn, aid diagnosis.’

  ‘Highly unlikely,’ said Domenica.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps out
side, followed by the entry into the room of a tall man in a white coat.

  ‘Please excuse my tardiness,’ said the doctor. ‘I am Professor Sergio Novelletto. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.’

  They both stood up to shake the doctor’s hand. As Domenica took his hand, he drew hers up to his lips and kissed it in an elaborate display of formal manners. Then he invited them to sit.

  ‘I have been at the bedside of your poor friend,’ he said, looking by turn at Angus and Domenica. ‘It is a classic case of a crisis brought on by excessive exposure to art and to …’ he looked out of the window at the Florentine skyline, ‘and to these antique and beautiful stones. We call this condition Stendhal Syndrome, as you may be aware. Indeed it is here in this very institution that the pioneering work on this condition was done. My distinguished colleague, Professor Graziella Magherini, had the honour of naming this condition. She is the author of the standard work on the subject, La Sindrome di Stendhal: Il malessere del viaggiatore di fronte alla grandezza dell’arte. So we are well placed to treat the crises that this unfortunate condition brings about.’

  ‘We have heard of it,’ said Angus.

  The professor inclined his head gravely. Domenica noted the immaculately groomed head of grey hair. ‘I am sure that you have,’ he said. ‘So many travellers have been overwhelmed by art in this city. Goethe, John Ruskin, Henry James – there are many illustrious names of those for whom this condition has been only too real – and now to this list we add the name of your dear Scottish friend, la Signora Antonia Collie. What a great pity!’

  ‘Will she be all right?’ asked Domenica.

  ‘Oh, I have no doubt of that,’ said the professor. ‘The duration of the crisis varies, of course, but it is usually the case that the more educated, sophisticated independent traveller recovers rather more slowly, I’m afraid to say. Perhaps such people have more sensitive souls than those who arrive in organised tours – I am not sure. Perhaps we shall never know.’

  The professor paused for a moment before continuing. ‘I gather from my secretary that you are all from Edinburgh.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Domenica. She was about to add that Antonia came from Fife originally and that she might therefore have a less sensitive soul – and might therefore recover more quickly – but she decided not to raise this possibility.

  ‘That interests me,’ said the professor. ‘I have visited Edinburgh on a number of occasions. My great friend, Henry Walton, was professor of psychiatry there, of course, and I have been privileged to see his considerable collection of Chinese ceramics. But there is something more: I have been told by my Edinburgh colleagues that they encounter a very similar condition in Edinburgh, the Edinburgh Syndrome, which manifests itself in a very similar crisis to that encountered in Stendhal Syndrome cases: shortness of breath, palpitations of the heart, disorders of colour perception, and so on. In the case of the Edinburgh variant, this principally occurs among visitors who see rather too many Fringe shows in rapid succession, followed by a visit to your renowned military tattoo. It is at that point, later in the evening, when the massed pipe bands march onto the Castle Esplanade that those who are at risk develop Edinburgh Syndrome and have to be removed to the Royal Edinburgh Hospital.’

  Domenica and Angus listened to the professor with rapt attention.

  ‘Remarkable!’ said Domenica. ‘I was quite unaware of this.’ She paused. ‘But tell me, chiarissimo professore, how long will our dear friend have to remain in your care?’

  The professor thought for a moment. ‘I believe that the best thing to do will be to keep her here for a couple of days while we stabilise her and observe her. Then we shall move her to the care of a very fine community of nuns in the countryside, the Convent of the Tiny Sisters. They are very solicitous of patients such as these, and she will be well cared for. She should spend three weeks with the sisters before she is fit enough to travel.’ He looked enquiringly at Domenica. ‘Will that be all right?’

  Domenica nodded her approval. ‘You are very kind.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ said the professor. ‘I only regret the disturbance that this must cause to your own holiday plans.’

  ‘That is but as nothing,’ said Domenica quickly. ‘We shall rise above it, shall we not, Angus?’

  ‘Completely,’ said Angus.

  They chatted with the professor for a few minutes more. He asked them where they were staying, and told them that he knew the area well. He had a friend who had a villa nearby and he would be happy to write a letter of introduction to this person and suggest that Domenica and Angus be invited for dinner.

  ‘He keeps a very good kitchen,’ said the professor. ‘And a fine cellar too. His grandfather was one of the principal producers of Brunello di Montalcino, and some of the bottles in his cellar go back to the early 1930s.’

  ‘He is a fortunate man,’ said Angus.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the professor. ‘But we are all fortunate in one way or another. The task for most of us is to identify in what way that is, would you not agree?’

  81. A Terrible Mistake

  It was a curious coincidence of the sort that, although quite explicable in terms of statistical likelihood, none the less leaves us surprised, or at least vaguely unsettled. By such a coincidence, on the very day that Antonia Collie experienced her intense bout of Stendhal Syndrome and collapsed on the floor of the Uffizi Gallery, Matthew felt disinclined to get out of his bed in India Street and found himself burying his head under the pillows when Elspeth brought him an early morning cup of tea.

  He had not slept well. His dreams had been vivid and vaguely disturbing; not nightmares in the conventional sense, but nevertheless characterised by a feeling of foreboding, by a sense that something vaguely unpleasant was about to happen. And while the light of dawn, and, a fortiori, a cup of tea will normally put such dreams into perspective, this did not happen today. On the contrary, when Matthew awoke it seemed to him that reality, if anything, was slightly worse than the uneasy world of his dreams.

  There were several things worrying Matthew. First, there was the gallery, where he felt that he had got himself into an impossible situation with his new assistant, Kirsty – she of the extraordinarily tight jeans. Even if he had not spoken to her about it, he was not satisfied with her work; he felt that she discouraged, rather than encouraged, customers by what Angus Lordie had described as her ‘rather overpowering presence’. This was, of course, a polite way of saying that she was a flirt, and this meant that when couples came into the gallery to look round, inevitably the wife would cut short the visit in order to get the husband away. Yet although he was convinced that she was not suited to the job, Pat had also warned him that it would be impossible to get rid of her because of her membership of some obscure and frightening organisation dedicated to the intimidation of men.

  That was one issue. The other was the question of the flat that he had purchased on Moray Place and into which he and Elspeth would shortly be moving. Bruce’s report on this flat had been discouraging in the extreme. Not only did he suggest that Matthew had grossly overpaid for the new property, but he also claimed that the unauthorised removal of an internal wall by the previous owner had left the ceiling being effectively supported by nothing but a large Chinese cabinet. Matthew had not mentioned this to Elspeth, with the result that the knowledge had become even more burdensome to him. What if Elspeth decided to move the Chinese cabinet, as well she might? Would that bring down the ceiling and, on the domino principle, the neighbouring flat and then all of Moray Place? Surely not; and yet he could not bring himself to confess to her that he had made a foolish mistake.

  Elspeth noticed the pillow over his head. ‘Matthew?’

  There was a muffled sound from the bed.

  ‘Matthew, what’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?’

  From underneath the pillow, Matthew let out a groan. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I mean, no. Or not quite. Oh, Elspeth …’

  He flung the pillow aside
and stared up at his wife. There were tears in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Matthew!’ She bent down and embraced him where he lay. ‘My darling Matthew! You’re crying. My darling, what is it?’

  He told her, sobbing as he spoke, feeling the burden of his secrecy ebb away as the truth was laid bare. ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake with Moray Place,’ he said. ‘They took a supporting wall away and the whole thing’s being held up by a Chinese cabinet. And the gallery; that girl, Kirsty – Pat says that I can’t get rid of her because she’ll do something terrible to me and I saw her looking at a Vuillard in a catalogue and I think that she’s going to buy it behind my back and then we’ll have to pay because she’ll have bought it on the gallery’s behalf and what if the money … And she’s got these really tight jeans which she wears deliberately and she makes women drag their husbands away without looking at the paintings and Big Lou says …’

  ‘Hush. Hush. My darling, this is all nonsense. Just nonsense.’

  ‘It’s not,’ wailed Matthew. ‘Bruce said that if we moved that cabinet then all of Moray Place will fall down and Pat said …’

  Elspeth put her hand against his brow, just as she had done as a teacher when one of the six-year-olds had become hysterical. ‘Calm down,’ she said. ‘Just calm down. You’re under strain because of the move. That’s normal. Everybody finds a move stressful. I’ll sort out this Chinese cabinet business.’

  Matthew was suddenly alarmed. ‘Don’t touch it!’ he said. ‘If you move it, then the ceiling—’

  ‘I’ll sort it out,’ said Elspeth. ‘Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to fall down. And as for Kirsty, I’ll sort her out too. She’s a student – she’ll get another job easily enough, and it’s not as if it’s her livelihood. I’ll get rid of her today.’

  She brooked no argument. ‘You stay in bed,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘You get some more sleep – you obviously didn’t sleep very well last night. I shall go along to sort things out in Dundas Street. Then I’ll get a decent surveyor along to Moray Place and we’ll sort out this cabinet nonsense. Leave it to me.’