soothed you. He’ll play softly, nothing that agitates you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Niccolò settling back on the pillow. “That is a kind thing indeed.”
“The rumor is in the street that you hired this man to play for the demon in your house,” said Lodovico suddenly. Again he looked to be on the verge of tears. “Is that what you did? And you lie about it now, you say this as a ruse?”
Vitale was shocked.
“Lodovico, stop,” said the father. “There is no demon in that house. And never have I heard you speak to Vitale like this. This is the man who nursed me back to health when every doctor in Padua, where there are indeed more doctors than anywhere else in Italy, had given me up for dead.”
“Oh, but Father, there is an evil spirit in that house,” said Lodovico. “All the Jews know it. They have a name for it.”
“Dybbuk,” said Vitale wearily, and a bit fearlessly for a man who had a ghost in his house.
“This man’s been plagued by this dybbuk since you gave him the keys,” Lodovico went on. “And it was only after this dybbuk took up residence and started breaking windows in the dead of night that Vitale’s skills as a physician have disintegrated before our very eyes.”
“Disintegrated?” Vitale was stunned. “Who says my skills are disintegrated? Lodovico, this is a lie!” He was hurt, confused.
“But the Jewish patients won’t come to you, will they?”asked Lodovico. Suddenly, he changed his tone. “Vitale, my friend, for the love of my brother, tell the truth.”
Vitale was stymied. But Niccolò only looked at him trustingly and lovingly, and the old man was thoughtful and not quick to say anything at all.
“The Jews have told us this themselves,” said Lodovico. “Three times they’ve tried to drive this dybbuk from your house. This dybbuk is in your study, in the room where you keep your medicines, this dybbuk is in every corner of your house and in every corner perhaps of your mind!”
The young man was working himself into a frenzy.
“No, you must not say those things,” said Niccolò in a loud voice. Vainly he tried again to raise himself on his elbows. “It’s not his doing that I’m ill. Do you think every man who takes a fever and dies of it does so because there’s a demon in a house in the same street? Stop saying such things.”
“Quiet, my son, quiet,” said the old man. He laid his hands on his son and tried to force him back against the pillow. “And remember, my sons, the house in question is mine. Therefore the demon, or the dybbuk as the Jews call it, must certainly belong to me. I must go to the house and confront this awesome spirit who routs exorcists both Jewish and Roman. I must see this spirit with my own eyes.”
“Father, I beg you, don’t do that!” said Lodovico. “Vitale isn’t telling you of the violence of this spirit. Every Jewish doctor who’s come here has told us. It hurls things and breaks things. It stomps its feet.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said the father. “I believe in illness and I believe in cures for it. But in spirits? Spirits who hurl things? This I’ll have to see with my own eyes. It’s enough for me that Vitale is here with Niccolò.”
“Yes, Father,” said Niccolò, “and this is enough for me.Lodovico, you’ve always loved Vitale,” he said to his brother, “the same as I have. The three of us, we’ve been friends since Montpellier. Father, don’t listen to these things.”
“I’m not listening, my son,” said the father, but the father was now carefully observing his son, because the more the son protested, the sicker he looked.
Lodovico knelt down beside the bed and wept with his forehead on his arm. “Niccolò, I would do anything in my power to see you cured of this,” he said, though it was difficult to understand him through his tears. “I love Vitale. I always have. But the other doctors, they say he’s bewitched.”
“Stop, Lodovico,” said the father. “You alarm your
“Oh, yes,” said Niccolò settling back on the pillow. “That is a kind thing indeed.”
“The rumor is in the street that you hired this man to play for the demon in your house,” said Lodovico suddenly. Again he looked to be on the verge of tears. “Is that what you did? And you lie about it now, you say this as a ruse?”
Vitale was shocked.
“Lodovico, stop,” said the father. “There is no demon in that house. And never have I heard you speak to Vitale like this. This is the man who nursed me back to health when every doctor in Padua, where there are indeed more doctors than anywhere else in Italy, had given me up for dead.”
“Oh, but Father, there is an evil spirit in that house,” said Lodovico. “All the Jews know it. They have a name for it.”
“Dybbuk,” said Vitale wearily, and a bit fearlessly for a man who had a ghost in his house.
“This man’s been plagued by this dybbuk since you gave him the keys,” Lodovico went on. “And it was only after this dybbuk took up residence and started breaking windows in the dead of night that Vitale’s skills as a physician have disintegrated before our very eyes.”
“Disintegrated?” Vitale was stunned. “Who says my skills are disintegrated? Lodovico, this is a lie!” He was hurt, confused.
“But the Jewish patients won’t come to you, will they?”asked Lodovico. Suddenly, he changed his tone. “Vitale, my friend, for the love of my brother, tell the truth.”
Vitale was stymied. But Niccolò only looked at him trustingly and lovingly, and the old man was thoughtful and not quick to say anything at all.
“The Jews have told us this themselves,” said Lodovico. “Three times they’ve tried to drive this dybbuk from your house. This dybbuk is in your study, in the room where you keep your medicines, this dybbuk is in every corner of your house and in every corner perhaps of your mind!”
The young man was working himself into a frenzy.
“No, you must not say those things,” said Niccolò in a loud voice. Vainly he tried again to raise himself on his elbows. “It’s not his doing that I’m ill. Do you think every man who takes a fever and dies of it does so because there’s a demon in a house in the same street? Stop saying such things.”
“Quiet, my son, quiet,” said the old man. He laid his hands on his son and tried to force him back against the pillow. “And remember, my sons, the house in question is mine. Therefore the demon, or the dybbuk as the Jews call it, must certainly belong to me. I must go to the house and confront this awesome spirit who routs exorcists both Jewish and Roman. I must see this spirit with my own eyes.”
“Father, I beg you, don’t do that!” said Lodovico. “Vitale isn’t telling you of the violence of this spirit. Every Jewish doctor who’s come here has told us. It hurls things and breaks things. It stomps its feet.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said the father. “I believe in illness and I believe in cures for it. But in spirits? Spirits who hurl things? This I’ll have to see with my own eyes. It’s enough for me that Vitale is here with Niccolò.”
“Yes, Father,” said Niccolò, “and this is enough for me.Lodovico, you’ve always loved Vitale,” he said to his brother, “the same as I have. The three of us, we’ve been friends since Montpellier. Father, don’t listen to these things.”
“I’m not listening, my son,” said the father, but the father was now carefully observing his son, because the more the son protested, the sicker he looked.
Lodovico knelt down beside the bed and wept with his forehead on his arm. “Niccolò, I would do anything in my power to see you cured of this,” he said, though it was difficult to understand him through his tears. “I love Vitale. I always have. But the other doctors, they say he’s bewitched.”
“Stop, Lodovico,” said the father. “You alarm your
Similar Books
