Emma Donoghue

MY FELLOW BOARDERS AT Benson’s are mostly cure-seekers, come to Wiesbaden in search of lost health. Two consumptives, an anaemic, half a dozen digestive cases. Mr Christopher Benson himself (withered legs, wheeled around by his valet) is the gentle lord of this house of invalids. “No, I’m perfectly well, as it happens. It’s a natural pallor,” I tell his sister-in-law (nerves), who’s just arrived from Berkshire as September begins to cool. “How convenient for you, Miss Hall,” says Mrs Mary Benson with a tiny smile. “You could claim to be on the verge of fainting at any moment. In the middle of a dinner party, say, or an interminable tour of a gallery.” I shake my head. “The former, perhaps, but in matters of art I’m tireless. For some years now I’ve been working on a study of the Madonna and Child motif in German painting and sculpture.”