An Instance of the Fingerpost (86 page)

That fright, however, was enough for her to abandon all the show of docility. I did not know what she might have done had I taken a further step, but I felt then a tremendous will within her, and I did not feel able to challenge it.

‘Get out of this house,’ I said when she had lowered her arm. ‘You are dismissed. I will not lay a complaint against you, however much I have a right to do so. But I never want you in here again.’

Without another word, but with a glance of the purest contempt, she walked out of the room. A few seconds later, I heard the front door close.

HAD I BEEN
Prestcott, I might have concluded from this encounter that Sarah was evil and possessed; certainly there was something powerful and terrifying in her gesture, and in the flame of her eyes at that moment. This is something I will dwell on properly at the right moment; for now, however, I must say merely that not only did such a thought never occur to me, I can refute absolutely Prestcott’s assertions.

It requires no great learning knowledge to do so; even by his own account, Prestcott’s conclusions were wrong and he was let down by his own ignorance and derangement. For example, he says that demons took over the body of Sir William Compton and changed its shape, but this is plainly contradicted by all authority, for the
Malleus Maleficarum
says plainly it is not possible; Aristotle says this can be caused only by natural causes, particularly the stars, yet Dionysius says the devil cannot change the stars: God will not allow it. Prestcott never found any evidence of Sarah having cast an enchantment over his hair and blood, and the visions he suffered were due more, I think, to the devils he had himself summoned into his mind than any sent there by others.

Nor did he read those signs aright which he had himself summoned, for in the bowl of water shown him by Anne Blundy, he sought the author of his misfortunes, and she showed him truly: he saw, quite plainly, his own father and a young man: that man, I believe, was none other than himself. These two people brought all the troubles on their own heads through their violence and their disloyalty. Greatorex repeated the warning and again he ignored it. Jack Prestcott had the answer in his hand, Wallis says so plainly and I know it to be true, and yet in his madness he blamed others, and helped destroy Sarah, and put all hope for ever out of his reach.

He very nearly put it out of mine as well. I scarcely saw Sarah at all for the next few months, as I took myself back to my manuscripts and my notebooks. When not working, though, my mind incessantly and disobediently returned to her, and my distress grew into resentment, and then into the most bitter hatred. I rejoiced when I heard that Dr Grove had dismissed her and that she was without work of any sort; I took satisfaction in the fact that no one else would employ her for fear of comment; and once I saw her in the street red in face with anger and humiliation, subjected to the lewd remarks of students who had also heard the stories. This time I did not intervene as I had once before, but turned away after I was certain she had seen me, so that she would know my contempt continued unabated.
Quos laeserunt et oderunt
, as Seneca has it – those you have injured you also hate – and I believe I felt already that I had been less than just, but did not know how to reverse my harshness.

Shortly after this business, when my spirits were still low and my habits continued unsociable – for I knew my humour did not appeal, and so avoided the company of my fellow men lest they demand to know what ailed me – I was summoned to Dr Wallis. This was a rare occurrence, for although I was earning him his salary as keeper of the archives, he did not honour me frequently with such attention; any business between us was habitually conducted at chance meetings, in the street or in the library. As everyone who knows Wallis will realise, the summons alarmed me, for his coldness was truly terrifying. This is one of the rare matters on which Prestcott and Cola agree – both found his presence disturbing. It was, I think, the blankness of his countenance which gave such alarm, for it is hard to know a man when the visible indicators of character have been so rigorously suppressed. Wallis never smiled, never frowned, never showed either pleasure or displeasure. There was only his voice – soft, menacing and permanently laced with scarce-hidden nuances of contempt beneath a courtesy which could evaporate as swiftly as a summer dew.

It was at this meeting that Wallis asked me to discover for him the edition of Livy he sought. I will not recount the conversation as it actually took place; stripped of his sneering remarks about my character, the essence of his version is accurate enough. I promised to do my best and did so, leaving no library unexamined and no
bookseller unbothered by my enquiries. But he did not tell me why he wanted it: I still knew nothing of Marco da Cola, who arrived several weeks afterwards.

I suppose I must now concentrate more fully on that gentleman, and approach the heart of the matter. I am aware I have delayed unseasonably; it is something which I find painful to recall, so great was the torment he caused me.

I heard of Cola’s existence a few days before I met him; on the evening of his arrival, I think, I ate with Lower at a cookhouse, and he told me of the occurrence. He was quite excited about it; Lower in those days always had a taste for the novel and the exotic and had yearnings to tour the world. There was not the slightest chance that he would do so, for he had neither the money nor the leisure to travel, nor yet the easiness of mind to put aside his career. Absence is the greatest danger of all for the physician since, once out of the mind of the public, it is difficult to fight back into esteem. But it pleased him for some time to talk about how he would one day tour the universities of the Continent, meeting the men of science and discovering what they were doing. The arrival of Cola rekindled these notions in his breast, and I am sure he imagined himself arriving in Venice and being treated to the greatest hospitality by Cola’s family to repay the courtesies done in Oxford.

And he liked the man, strange as he found him, for Lower was nothing if not broad in his appreciation of humanity. Indeed, the little Italian was hard not to like, unless one be of a hard and suspicious turn of mind like John Wallis. Short and already tending to a certain roundness in the belly, with bright, sparkling eyes which twinkled readily with amusement, and an engaging manner of leaning forward in his seat which gave the impression of fascinated attention when you spoke, he was a charming companion. He was full of observations on all he saw, and none of these (that I heard) was pejorative; Cola seemed one of those happy few who see only the best, and prefer not to notice the worst. Even Mr Boyle, who gave his affections with the greatest difficulty, seemed to grow fond of him, despite Wallis’s
warnings. This was the most extraordinary of all, perhaps, for Boyle liked peace and quiet; he suffered noise and disturbance almost as physical pain, and even at the height of the most exciting experiment, insisted on an air of moderate calm amongst those who were assisting. No servant was allowed to clatter about with equipment, or talk above a whisper; all had to be done with almost a religious demeanour – for, in his opinion, to study nature was a form of worship.

So the success of the boisterous, noisy Cola – always bursting into peals of laughter, whose flat-footed movements led him to bump noisily, with loud and extravagant oaths, into tables and chairs – was something of a mystery to us all. Lower ascribed it to the Italian’s obvious and genuine love of experiment, but personally I put it down to his gentlemanly amiability, and we might say with Menander that his reception was the fruit of his stately manners. Mr Boyle was excessively sober in his demeanour, yet occasionally I suspected that there was part of him which admired those who were light-hearted and cheerful. Perhaps he would have been himself, had he been less stricken with ill health. I was not aware that, in part, Boyle’s attention was prompted by ulterior motives, but even this does not suffice, for he was not a man who could pretend an affection out of duplicity. No; Wallis’s intervention with Boyle merely makes that Italian’s success the more striking – or makes Wallis’s beliefs the less acceptable. For Boyle was as well acquainted with Cola as any in England, and a fine judge of character. I find it impossible to credit that he would have extended his affection had he discerned anything at all which corresponded with Wallis’s fears. Moreover, Boyle had no need to fear Wallis and I believe held him in a certain amount of distaste: more than any, he was capable of making up his own mind, and his opinion should thus be given more weight when reaching any judgement on this matter.

The gradual disenchantment of Lower with Cola, however, did have much to do with Wallis, for he preyed like the serpent before Eve on Lower’s fears and hopes, twisting them to his own ends. Wallis knew Lower was desperate for success, for all his family depended on him since it was clear that his elder brother (through the perversions of religious belief) would never be in a position to give much support. And Lower had a large family, for not only were his parents still
living, he had several unmarried sisters who needed portions and innumerable demanding cousins. Merely to satisfy part of their expectations, he would have to be the most successful physician in London. It says much for his sense of duty that he applied himself with the greatest success when he took up the challenge; and it says as much for the weight of this burden on his mind that he swiftly came to see Cola as a threat to his progress.

Lower had, after all, worked hard with Mr Boyle and others to deserve and receive their patronage. He had done countless labours and small services for no payment and had proved an assiduous courtier. The rewards were to be Boyle’s support for his membership of the Royal Society; his approval when he finally plucked up the courage to advance his cause with the College of Physicians; his patronage when the position of court physician came vacant, as well as the huge family of patients that Boyle’s approval could bring to him when he began his practice in London. And he deserved all the success and all the support Boyle could provide, for he was a very good physician indeed.

Having worked so hard and being now, at the age of some thirty-two years, on the verge of entering the lists, he was frightened lest some event snatch those greatly desired rewards from him. Cola presented no threat to him, and would not have done even had he been what Lower feared, for Boyle patronised those with merit and did not play favourite with his clients. But Lower’s jealousy and worry were inflamed by the words of Dr Wallis, who played on his ambition by saying that Cola had the reputation for stealing other men’s ideas. I do not (though my own path has been so different) condemn moderate ambition, such as drove Themistocles to match the glory of Miltiades, or fired Alexander to seek the trophies of Achilles; rather it is the excess of ambition that becomes pride, drives courtiers to beggar themselves and their families, and makes good men behave with cruelty and recklessness, which all men of sense must condemn; Wallis’s purpose was to drive Lower into this great fault and for a while he succeeded, even though Lower battled manfully with his jealousy. The conflict within him, I believe, exacerbated those changes in mood, from exultation to darkness, from excessive friendliness to bitter condemnation, which caused Cola so much grief.

Initially, however, all was very well. Lower bubbled with enthusiasm as he described his new acquaintance and I could see he hoped that a true friendship would develop. Indeed, he was already treating Cola with that consideration and courtesy normally reserved for acquaintance of much longer standing.

‘Do you know,’ he said, leaning forward with an arch look of amusement on his face, ‘so good a Christian physician is he, he has even undertaken to treat the old Blundy woman? Without any hope of payment or reward, although as he is Italian perhaps he intends to take payment in kind from the girl. Should I warn him, do you think?’

I ignored the remark. ‘What is wrong with the old woman?’ I asked.

‘Fell and broke her leg, apparently. A nasty wound by all accounts, and she is unlikely to survive. Cola took her on after the daughter had the gall to approach Dr Grove in public to ask for money.’

‘Is this man any good? Does he know anything about such injuries?’

‘That I cannot say. All I know is that he has set to work with a great enthusiasm, completely mindless of the disadvantages of such a client. I applaud his kindness, if not his sense.’

‘You would not treat her yourself.’

‘With only the greatest reluctance,’ he said, then hesitated. ‘No, of course I would. But I am glad I was not asked.’

‘You have taken a shine to this man.’

‘Indeed. He is quite delightful and extremely knowledgeable. I look forward to many long conversations during his stay, which may be a long one, as he is out of funds. You must come and meet him; visitors to this town are few and far between these days. We must make what use we can of them.’

There the subject of itinerant Italians was dropped, and the conversation passed on to other matters. I left my friend later with a feeling of concern in the back of my mind, for I was distressed to hear of the misfortunes of Sarah’s mother. This was, after all, many months since our last encounter and the passage of time had softened my feelings. I am not a man much given to hatred, and find that I cannot sustain a continued resentment, however grave the injury
suffered. While I had no desire to resume my acquaintance, I no longer wished to see that family visited by troubles and still nurtured an affection of sorts for the old woman.