An Instance of the Fingerpost (6 page)

Removing the bandage was a long and distasteful business, but it was eventually completed and I decided that I would try exposing the wound to the air, having heard the theory that tight warm binding in such cases might very well aid corruption rather than prevent it. Such a view goes against orthodox practice, I know, and the willingness to allow the vapours to swirl round might be considered rash. All I can say is that experiments conducted since by others have tended to support the technique. I was so absorbed in my task that I failed to hear the door creaking open, or the soft pad of feet as they came up behind me, so that when Sarah Blundy spoke, I jumped up with alarm.

‘How is she?’

I turned round to look. Her voice was soft, and her manner more appropriate than before.

‘She is not well at all,’ I said frankly. ‘Can you not attend to her more?’

‘I have to work,’ she said. ‘Our position is already grave now my mother cannot earn. I asked someone to look in, but it seems they did not.’

I grunted, slightly ashamed of myself for not having thought of this as a reason.

‘Will she recover?’

‘It is too soon to say. I am drying out the wound, then I will rebind it. I fear she is developing a fever. It may pass, but I am concerned. You must check every half-hour for signs of the fever getting worse. And, strange as it may seem, you must keep her warm.’

She nodded, as though she understood, although she could not.

‘You see,’ I said kindly, ‘in cases of a fever, one can either reinforce or oppose. Reinforcement brings the malady to a head and purges it, leaving the patient void of the cause. Opposition counters it, and seeks to restore the natural economy of the body. So, with a fever, one can either expose the patient to ice and cold water, or one can wrap her up well. I choose the latter because of her grave weakness: a more strenuous cure could well kill her before taking effect.’

She leant over and protectively tucked her mother in, then, with a surprising gentleness, stroked the old woman’s hair into place.

‘I had been planning to do that anyhow,’ she said.

‘And now you will have my approval for it.’

‘I am fortunate indeed,’ she said. She glanced at me, saw the suspicious look in my eye, then smiled. ‘Forgive me, sir. I mean no insolence. My mother told me how well and generously you acted to her, and we are both deeply grateful for your kindness. I am truly sorry I mis-spoke. I was frightened for her, and upset about the way I was treated in the coffee house.’

I waved my hand, touched strangely by her submissive tone. ‘That is quite all right,’ I said. ‘But who was that man?’

‘I worked for him once,’ she said, still not taking her eyes off her mother, ‘and was always dutiful and conscientious. I believe I deserved better from him.’

She looked up and smiled at me, a smile of such gentleness that I felt my heart begin to melt. ‘But it seems that we are
spurned by our friends, and saved by strangers. So thank you again, sir.’

‘You are more than welcome. As long as you do not expect miracles.’

For a moment we balanced on the brink of a greater intimacy, that strange girl and I, but the moment passed as swiftly as it presented itself. She hesitated before speaking, and it was instantly too late. Instead, we both made an effort to re-establish the correct relations and stood up.

‘I will pray for one, even if I do not deserve it,’ she said. ‘Will you come again?’

‘Tomorrow, if I can. And if she worsens, come and find me at Mr Boyle’s. I will be attending him. Now, about payment,’ I continued, hurrying on.

I had decided, on my walk down to the cottage that, as there was not the slightest chance of being paid in any case, it would be best to accept the fact with grace. Rather than accept the inevitable, I should turn it into virtue. In other words, I had decided to waive any fee. It made me feel quite proud of myself, especially considering my own impecunious state but, as fortune had smiled on me, I thought it fair to spread my good luck a little further.

Alas, my speech died in my throat before even the end of the first sentence. She immediately looked at me, eyes blazing with contempt.

‘Oh yes, your payment. How could I think you would forget about that. We must deal with that urgently, must we not?’

‘Indeed,’ I said, completely astonished by the speed and completeness of her transformation, ‘I think that . . .’

But I got no further. The girl led me through to the damp and squalid little space at the back of the house which was, evidently, where she – or some other animal, I could not tell – slept. On the damp floor was a pallet, hard sacking stuffed with straw. There were no windows at all, and the little space smelled very distinctly of sour water.

With a gesture of the most brusque contempt, she immediately lay down on the bed, and pulled up her thin skirt.

‘Come then, physician,’ she jeered. ‘Take your payment.’

I recoiled visibly, then blushed scarlet with rage as her meaning became clear even to someone as slow-witted as the beer had made me that evening. I became even more confused as I wondered whether my new friends thought this was my interest in the case. More particularly, I was outraged at the way my fine gesture had been trodden in the dirt.

‘You disgust me,’ I said coldly as the power of speech returned. ‘How dare you behave like this? I will not remain here to be insulted. Henceforth, you may cater to your mother as you wish. But kindly do not expect me to return to this house and subject myself to your presence. Good night.’

Then I turned round and boldly marched out, even managing – just – to avoid slamming the thin door as I left.

I am more than susceptible to female charms, some might even say overly so, and in my youth I was not averse to taking my pleasures wherever they might arise. But this was not one of those cases. I had treated her mother out of kindness and to have my motives and intentions so abused was intolerable. Even if such was the form of payment I had in mind, it was certainly not the girl’s place to talk to me in that fashion.

Seething with fury, I marched away from her hovel – more convinced than before that the girl was as corrupt and foul as her living accommodation. To the devil with her mother, I thought. What sort of woman could she be, to have spawned such a hellish monstrosity? A scrawny little wretch, I told myself, forgetting I had earlier thought of her as pretty. And even if she was beautiful, what of it? The devil himself can take on beauty, so we are told, to corrupt mankind.

On the other hand, a little voice in the back of my mind was whispering critical words into my ear. So, it said, you will kill the mother to have your revenge on the daughter. Well done, physician; I hope you are proud. But what was I meant to do? Apologise? The good San Rocca might be capable of such charity. But he was a saint.

Those who have some inkling that my command of the English
language by this stage was adequate but by no means sophisticated are no doubt thinking that I am a fraud in recounting my conversations. I admit my English was not good enough to present complex ideas, but then I had no need to. Certainly, in conversations with such as the Blundy girl, I had to do my best in English; although their manner of speaking was usually sufficiently uncomplicated that I could manage perfectly well. With others, the conversation switched as occasion required from Latin and sometimes even French, the English of quality being renowned as linguists of considerable attainment, with a frequent ability in foreign tongues which many other peoples – above all, the Germans – could do well to emulate.

Lower, for example, was perfectly at ease in Latin and managed a passable French; Boyle could, in addition, manage Greek and spoke a dainty Italian as well as having a smattering of German. Now I fear Latin is passing out of use, to the detriment of our Republic; for how will men of learning manage when they sacrifice conversation with their equals and have only the ability to talk to their ignorant countrymen?

But then I felt safe in my place, surrounded, as I thought, by gentlemen who brushed aside the prejudices of lesser men. That I was a Roman Catholic occasioned no more than the occasional barbed joke from Lower, whose love of fun sometimes overbalanced into the offensive, and not even that from the pious Boyle, who was as mindful of others’ faith as he was fervent in his own. Even a Mussulman or a Hindoo would have been welcomed at his table, I sometimes think, as long as he was pious and showed an interest in experiment. Such an attitude is rare in England, and this bigotry and suspicion are the most serious flaws in a nation which has many faults. Fortunately, my associations meant that I was sheltered initially from its effects, beyond an occasional insult or stone thrown at me in the street when I began to be known.

I should say that Lower was the first man I considered my friend since my infancy, and I fear I misunderstood the English in this respect. When a Venetian calls a man his friend, he does so after long thought, as to accept such a person is all but to make him a member of the family, owed much loyalty and forbearance. We die for our friends as for our family, and value them as did Dante:
noi non potemo aver
perfetta vita senza amici
– a perfect life needs friends. Such friendships are justly celebrated among the ancients, as Homer lauds the bond between Achilles and Patroclus, or Plutarch the amity of Theseus and Perithoos. But it was rare among the Jews, for in the Old Testament I find few friends, except David and Jonathan, and even here, David’s obligation is not so great that he refrains from killing Jonathan’s son. Like most of my station, I had had childhood companions, but put these by me when the obligations of family descended as an adult, for they are a heavy burden. The English are very different; they have friends at all stages of their lives, and maintain a distinction between the obligations of amity and those of blood. By taking Lower to my heart as I did – for I never encountered anyone so close to me in spirit or in interest – I made the mistake of assuming he did the same with me, and acknowledged the same obligations. But it was not the case. The English can lose their friends.

Then such sad knowledge was unsuspected, and I concentrated on repaying my friends for their kindness and, at the same time, advancing my knowledge through assisting Boyle in his chemical experiments, having long and fruitful conversations at all hours and times with Lower and his associates. Although he was serious of demeanour, Boyle’s elaboratory positively bubbled with good humour except when work was about to take place, for he considered experiment to be the discovery of God’s work and to be performed with reverence. When an experiment was to begin, all women were excluded for fear their irrational natures would influence the result, and an air of fervent concentration descended. My task was to take notes on experiments as they happened, to assist in setting up equipment, and to keep accounts, for he spent a fortune on his science. He used – and often broke – specially made glass bottles, and the leather tubes, pumps and lenses he required all consumed huge amounts of money. Then there was the cost of chemicals, many of which had to be brought from London or even Amsterdam. There can be few prepared to spend that much to produce so little in obviously advantageous result.

I must here declare myself as someone who does not for a moment subscribe to the general view that a willingness to perform oneself is detrimental to the dignity of experimental philosophy. There is, after
all, a clear distinction between labour carried out for financial reward, and that done for the improvement of mankind: to put it another way, Lower as a philosopher was fully my equal even if he fell away when he became the practising physician. I think ridiculous the practice of certain professors of anatomy, who find it beneath them to pick up the knife themselves, but merely comment while hired hands do the cutting. Sylvius would never have dreamt of sitting on a dais reading from an authority while others cut – when he taught, the knife was in his hand and the blood spattered his coat. Boyle also did not scruple to perform his own experiments and, on one occasion in my presence, even showed himself willing to anatomise a rat with his very own hands. Nor was he less a gentleman when he had finished. Indeed, in my opinion, his stature was all the greater, for in Boyle wealth, humility and curiosity mingled, and the world is the richer for it.

‘Now,’ Boyle said when Lower turned up in mid-afternoon and we took a break from our work, ‘it is time for Cola here to earn the pittance I am paying him.’

This alarmed me, as I had been labouring hard for at least two hours and I wondered whether perhaps I was doing something wrong, or if Boyle had not noticed my efforts. But rather, he wanted me to sing for my supper, as the phrase goes. I was there not only to learn from him, but also to teach him, such was the marvellous humility of the man.

‘Your blood, Cola,’ Lower said to relieve my anxiety. ‘Tell us about your blood. What have you been up to? What experimentations are your conclusions based on? What
are
your conclusions, in fact?’

‘I’m very much afraid I am going to disappoint you,’ I began hesitantly when I saw they were not to be diverted. ‘My researches are scarcely advanced. I am mainly interested in the question of what the blood is for. We have known for thirty years that it circulates around the body; your own Harvey showed that. We know that if you drain an animal of its blood, it dies rapidly. The vital spirits in it are the means of communication between the mind and the force of mobility, permitting movement to take place . . .’