by Iain Pears
As we had swapped country, so we also exchanged roles; my surprise at Marangoni’s sudden reappearance in my life was so great that I said little. He, in contrast, never stopped talking. We remembered things very differently; he talked of the good fellowship of his days in London, the fine friends he had made, asked about the members of that little group of apprentice rakes—which information I could not provide, as, apart from Campbell, I had cast them off as I had abandoned that way of life, and I have never cared for gossip in any case. Then he began to surprise me.
“I wish I’d liked London more,” he said. “It is such a dull place.”
“In comparison with Venice?”
He groaned. “Ah, no. Professionally Venice is interesting, but hardly glittering, alas. No, in comparison to a place like Paris, for example. The English—do forgive me, my friend—are so respectable.”
I was half-minded to be insulted by this, but looked enquiringly instead.
“Take my fellow medical students, for example. In Paris, they live together, and eat together, and all have their shopgirls for mistresses and housekeepers until they qualify or find someone suitable to marry. Their life is their own. In London everyone lives with a landlady, eats every evening some hideous meal she has cooked and goes to church on Sunday. Riotous living consists of getting drunk, and little else.”
“I’m sorry you were disappointed.”
“I wasn’t there to enjoy myself; merely to learn and observe. Which I did, with great profit.”
“To learn and observe what?”
“Medicine, as you know. Particularly the science of alienism. I am a doctor of the mind and so it is my business to study people in all their variety. I learned much there, although less than I did in Paris. The group you were attached to was full of instruction.”
I was, as may be imagined, a little offended by this remark; the idea that all the time we were ignoring him, treating him as some insignificant little foreigner, he was, in fact watching and assessing us. A bit like the Marchesa, only more scientific, I hoped. He saw my discomfort and laughed.
“Do not be perturbed. You were the least interesting person there.”
“I do not find that reassuring.”
“But who knows what lurks beneath the surface? I joke. You were by far the most normal of my companions. The others, mind you, were quite fascinating in their many different ways.” He mentioned one man. “Clear degenerate tendencies, with a pronounced swelling indicating distorted cranial lobes. Certainly a tendency to insanity, erratic judgement and a pronounced attraction to violence.”
“He has just become a Queen’s Counsel,” I commented dryly.
“Proves my point, does it not?”
I said nothing. (A few weeks ago, as I write, I discovered my erstwhile acquaintance has been confined to an asylum after a murderous attack on his wife of thirty years. The matter has been kept quiet lest the idea of a complete lunatic in charge of criminal cases—as a judge he became notorious for his infliction of the death penalty—lessens the awful majesty of the law in the public’s mind.)
“Alas, I rarely have the opportunity to deal with such intricate cases now,” he said almost wistfully. I was not hugely interested, but asked him of his progress since we had last met. It appeared that Marangoni, his studies in Paris ended, had returned to Milan, where he had briefly worked in an asylum, trying to introduce the best French practises. He had done so well (this was his account, not mine) that he had then been transferred to the Veneto, to embody there the new ideas that unification with Italy represented. He was the emissary of the State, sent to organise the asylums of the city and to corral, bully, persuade and intimidate the insane back to health, using the most up-to-date methods. He was not overoptimistic about his prospects, although gratified by the salary his new employment provided.
“And, lest you think I am being rude about England, I must assure you that in comparison with Venice, it was like being in paradise. Here the insane are still in the hands of the priests, who intone their mumbo-jumbo over them, and pray they will get better and beat them when their prayers are not answered. So you see, I have a big job on my hands. I must fight the insane and the Church simultaneously.”
“Which is worse?”
He waved his hand. “Do you know, sometimes I can’t tell them apart. Degenerates,” he said, as he sipped his drink. “Little to be done for them except identify, isolate and eliminate. The city is inbred, generation after generation has never even left the lagoon. What you see as a city of unparalleled beauty and untold richness is, in fact, a festering, seeping sore of mental illness. A people weakened and debilitated, incapable of fending for themselves. You have read the history of the city, no doubt, about how it finally fell to Napoleon. It was not Napoleon who conquered this city; it was the steady eating away of the population by degeneration, which stripped it of all ability to resist.”
“And you recommend what, exactly?”
“Oh, if I had my way, I’d ship everyone out.”
“Everyone? You mean the whole city?” I asked slightly incredulously.
He nodded. “If there is a house with plague in it, you don’t adopt half measures, do you? That is what Venice is; a plague city, spreading corruption to all who are in contact with it. We are at last trying to build a nation here in Italy, we need a forceful, healthy population that will multiply and meet the challenges of modern life. We cannot take the risk of having a place like this undermining all our efforts, sapping our vitality with contaminated stock.”
He smiled as he saw my surprise at his remarks. “I say that so forcefully because I know no one is going to listen to me. No one has the will to take the necessary measures. So, instead, I do what I can and must, case by case.”
“I hate to challenge the opinion of a scientist, but I have seen many idlers in London and Paris. And noted no tendency here to violence.”
He nodded sagely. “There are degenerates everywhere. Particularly in Europe, which is crumbling. Do you know, one eminent doctor has estimated that up to a third of the entire population might be afflicted?”
“And you would like to get rid of all of them?”
“Not possible,” he replied, clearly suggesting he would like nothing better. “What I am trying to do is identify them. If they could be stopped from breeding, for example, then eventually the problem would diminish on its own. As for the violence, don’t be fooled. Their natural lassitude makes them seem passive enough, but when something snaps they behave like beasts. What is more, the city attracts more such people, every day they arrive, and find the place congenial. There is a man called Cort, for example—”
“I have met Mr. Cort,” I said, no doubt a little stiffly. “I found him very pleasant.”
Marangoni smiled in a slightly superior fashion. “That is why there are alienists,” he said. “To spot things the untrained eye cannot perceive. Mr. Cort is a man on the edge, and could topple over into the ravine of madness at any moment. He should never have been sent here. But that’s you English all over. He was sent here to toughen him up, I believe the saying is. It may well do the exact opposite, and finish him off. He is having hallucinations, you know. He thinks there is a man following him. And not just any man, oh, dear me, no. He is being followed by the city itself.”
“How do you know that?”
“Ah.” Marangoni smiled, touching his nose. “There is little secret here, as you will discover.”
“You would consider him insane?”
“Cort, or the spectral Venetian?”
“Both.”
“If the Venetian exists at all, then both, naturally. Thinking yourself immortal is not unusual, of course, and persuading yourself that you are someone else is common enough. I have encountered Napoleon on many occasions, as well as princes and children of popes, all snatched away at infancy. Persuading yourself you are a city is most odd. I have never encountered such a thing. I rather hope he does exist. I would love to meet him.”
“And Cort?”
“A hypersensitive young man, in my opinion. He is picking up the unhealthiness of the city, but instead of responding in a rational manner, he embodies it in his fantasies. This Venetian is the degenerate city which killed his mother and it exerts an unhealthy fascination for him. He should leave immediately. I have told him this, but he refuses to listen. He says it would be cowardly, that he has a job to do here. But it will cost him his sanity, if he is not careful. Especially if he continues to keep his wife with him.”
Marangoni was no gentleman. It was bad enough, surely, for a doctor to discuss a man who was a patient in such terms, but to cast aspersions on Mrs. Cort as well I found deeply offensive. I think he saw the look on my face.
“Oh, you chivalrous English,” he said, with a very faint air of contempt. “Very well, I should not have said that. But Mrs. Cort I find to be—”
“That is no doubt because you do not appreciate refinement and character in women,” I said, “being used only to Italians.”
Still the wretched man did not take offence. “That may be so; certainly they are very different in manner. Though not so different in nature. You have met the lady? I think you must have.”
“I found her charming.”
“So she is. So she is. Well, I stand corrected. You no doubt know her better than I, a mere Italian, ever could.”
I found his conversation somewhat alarming. I am used now to capitalists such as myself being detested for their pitiless fixity of purpose, their ruthlessness at the exploitation of others. Perhaps we are so, but I must say that I have never encountered a capitalist half as pitiless as one of those doctors of the mind. Should they ever be allowed to put their ideas into practise, they would be fearsome. The conviction that their method makes them unchallengeable, that their conclusions are always correct, leads them to lay claim to a remarkable authority over others. Capitalists want the money of their customers, the bodies of the workers. Psychiatrists want their souls.
Fortunately Marangoni was tiring of the subject as well as I, and out of politeness turned to questioning me about my trip. “You have met some people already, I believe. It was Mr. Longman who mentioned you to me.”
“A few,” I said. “And I am about to move to new accommodation, in the palazzo of the Marchesa d’Arpagno.”
“Oh ho!” he said with a smile. “Then you must be a special person. She is fussy in her choice. What did you say or do to win her over?”
“It’s my aura, apparently. Or the size of my wallet.”
Marangoni laughed. “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. The Marchesa is a seer.”
I looked at him.
“Really, she is. The spirits positively queue up to chat to her. It must be like bedlam in her sitting room sometimes. She has the Gift. The Eye. That certain spiritual something which means she is—totally crazy.”
“Another one? You alarm me.”
“Oh, she’s harmless enough. Remarkably so. Naturally, I scented a customer when I first came across her. But I was disappointed. You will note that apart from a few matter-of-fact comments, she is entirely normal.”
“And that means…”
“Clearly she is insane. It is only a matter of time before the madness bursts forth and becomes more explicit. At the moment, though, she is quite normal in her behaviour. Apart from the spirits, of course. You will, I imagine, be summoned to take part in a séance at some stage. Everyone is. But you won’t have any excuse for not attending. So you’ll have to go. Do you believe in spirits? Ghosts? Auras? Things that go bump in the night or under the table?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“A shame. But she won’t mind. If you express your doubts, all she does is smile at you in a pitying manner. Blind fools, who do not see the obvious even when it is in front of their very eyes. It is your loss, not hers, if you cut yourself off from the pleasures of the astral planes and the higher wisdom they offer.”
“A bit like alienists, then,” I said with some relief.
“Exactly like alienists,” he agreed jovially. “What is more, the Marchesa doesn’t talk like some charlatan. This is what makes her so fascinating. Her madness is entirely logical and reasonable. So much so that she is very convincing. Mrs. Cort seems to have fallen under her spell, for example. I use the word ’spell’ metaphorically, you understand.”
“Do you believe all women are insane? You must know some who are not so?”
Marangoni considered the question, then shook his head. “Taking all things as equal, no. All women are insane at one level or another. It is merely a question of when—or if—the insanity will manifest itself.”
“So if I come across a woman who is entirely normal and balanced…”
“Then she merely has not yet manifested the signs of madness. The longer she remains in a state of apparent normality, the more violent is the underlying insanity. I have wards full of them. Clearly, some women hide the symptoms all their lives, and the insanity never rises to the surface. But it is always latent.”
“So being sane is a proof of insanity? In women, I mean?”
“I fear so, alas. But I am not dogmatic on the subject, unlike some of my colleagues. Tell me,” he continued, abruptly changing the subject, “is money still your main occupation in life?”
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugged. “It was always obvious that you were never going to be one of the poor of this world,” he replied with a smile. “You were always too watchful. If I said ’calculating’ you would take it as an insult, which I do not intend. So let us say too aware, and too intelligent.”
“Yes. Let us say that then. I do have some financial interests.”
“Which you are not pursuing here?”
“No.”
“I see.” He smiled again, which I found annoying. There is something acutely irritating about men whose expressions depict a sort of omniscience, who pretend to be able to read the minds of others. “I never thought of you as a man for holidays.”
“It is time to think again then. Although you are right, in general. My inactivity does weigh on me a little.”
“But you are staying here.”
I nodded. “Perhaps there are other things to do in Venice than look at buildings.”
“Such as?”
I shrugged. I was beginning to find him irritating. “Build them?”
“I see you are not minded to say more,” he said after he had considered my face for a few moments. “You leave me to work it out for myself.”
“Precisely.”
“Very well. Give me a week, and a few meals together, and we will see. If I guess your purpose, you buy me a meal. If I fail, I buy you one.”
“Agreed,” I said with a faint smile. “And if you will excuse me, I must see to my packing. The Marchesa expects me by six.”
“Willingly. I must go as well. I have a new patient who was brought in this morning.”
“Interesting?”
He sighed. “Not in the slightest.”
CHAPTER 7
Until I made that response to Marangoni about building, I had not thought at all seriously about the vague ideas that had passed through my mind. It was only because of this chance conversation that it became a fixed purpose; a small project that might give me occupation, and end the purposeless wandering that I was beginning to find disturbing.
To that end, I needed to find an appropriate site. A preferred option would have been to buy some ground in the centre of the city and demolish all the buildings to make way for a modern and efficient structure. I soon learned, however, that such a proposal was unlikely to come to anything. Permission had to be gained from the council for any work of that nature, and the local government had the instinct to oppose anything which smacked of the modern. Permission to demolish half a dozen palaces on the Grand Canal (however magnificent the result) was unlikely and, in any case, the initial cost of purchasing the site would have been prohibitive.
Non
etheless, I hired a gondola for the next morning and instructed the rower to go wherever he wished. It was a pleasant enough pastime, idling along broad canals and narrow ones, watching the water carriers fill the wells, the faggot vendors selling wood, all the business of the city carried out in the strange way that must evolve in a city drowned in water. Listening to the echoes of voices against tall narrow buildings, made slightly sharper and more diffuse by the effect of the water, began to bring back to me the mood of odd peacefulness that had overcome me my first evening, and which was so opposite to my supposed purpose.
In brief, I indulged in all sorts of fantastical notions. This happened time and again during my stay. My wonder was, not that the citizens of Venice were now so idle, but rather that they had once been sufficiently energetic to raise themselves from the lagoon, and turn their wooden huts on mudflats into the great metropolis that had once ruled the Mediterranean. Had the Venetians of old been more like me in mood then, they would still be paddling about in silt up to their knees.
I write as I remember, and give some sense of my mood that fine September morning, as the gondola slowly turned a corner, and I saw Mrs. Cort walking along the side of the canal we had now entered. It was easy to recognise her; she looked and walked in a way which meant she could only be English—more upright, and with more bearing than Venetian women, who do not discipline their bodies into deportment.
On top of that, she was dressed in the same manner as when I had met her, eschewing a top coat in honour of the fine weather, and wearing only a hat to guard her fine white skin from the sun. I called out to her and gestured to the gondolier to pull over to the side, where there were some landing steps.
“I have been to the pharmacist for some cough medicine,” she said once we had exchanged greetings. It did not matter what she said. I noticed that her eyes were bright and met mine when we spoke. She stood closer to me than I would have expected from a woman I hardly knew.
