by Rose Tremain
‘Now come, Merivel, before he flees into the night and is lost to our research for all eternity.’
(Pearce, I report in parentheses, has this flowery, sometimes melodramatic way of speaking that is interestingly at odds with the clipped, odourless and self-denying man he is. I often feel that no anatomical experiment would be capable of discovering the function of these ornate sentences in relation to the whole, soberly-dressed person, unless it is a universal but contradictory fact about Quakers that, whereas their gait, habit and ritual are monotonous and plain, their heads are secretly filled with a rapturous and fandangling speech.)
We descended to Pearce’s room, where a fire was burning in the small grate. In front of the fire stood a man of perhaps forty years. I bade him good evening, but he only nodded at me.
‘Shall I unbutton?’ he asked Pearce.
‘Yes!’ said Pearce, his voice choking with anticipation. ‘Unbutton, Sir!’
I watched as the man took off his coat and lace collar and began loosening his shirt. He let the shirt fall to the floor. Bound to his chest, and covering his heart, was a steel plate. Pearce, at this moment, took a handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his moist brow. The man removed the plate, under which was a wad of linen, a little stained with pus.
Carefully, he unbound the linen and revealed to us a large hole in his breast, about the size of a Pippin apple, in the depths of which, as I leaned forward to look more closely at it, I saw a pink and moist fleshy substance, moving all the time with a regular pulse.
‘See?’ exclaimed Pearce, the heat of whose excited body seemed to fill the room with a tropical dampness. ‘See it retract and thrust out again? We are witnessing a living, beating heart!’
The man smiled and nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A fracture of my ribs, occasioned by a fall from my horse two years ago, was brought to a terrible suppuration, voiding such a quantity of putrefaction that my doctors feared it would never heal. It did, however. You can see the sconce of the old ulcer at the edge of the hole here. But its ravages were so deep as to expose the organ beneath.’
I was dumbfounded. To observe, in a living being, standing nonchalantly by a fire, as if about to welcome friends for a few rounds of Bezique, the systole and diastole of his heart affected me profoundly. I began to understand why Pearce was in such a lather of excitement. But then – and this is why I set down the incident as a possible beginning to the story now unfolding round me – Pearce produced a shilling from the greasy leather purse in which he kept his pitiful worldly income and gave it to the stranger, and the man took it and said: ‘You may touch it if you wish.’
I let Pearce go first. I saw his thin, white hand creep forwards and tremblingly enter the thoracic cavity. The man remained still and smiling. He didn’t flinch. ‘You may,’ he said to Pearce, ‘put your hand around the heart and exert gentle pressure.’
Pearce’s thin mouth dropped open. Then he swallowed and withdrew his hand. ‘I cannot do that, Sir,’ he stammered.
‘Then perhaps your friend will?’ said the man.
I rolled back the lace at my wrist. Now, my own hand was shaking. I remembered that, just prior to Pearce’s appearance in my room, I had cast two pieces of coal onto my fire and hadn’t washed my hands since, but only wiped them carelessly on the seat of my breeches. I examined my palm for coal dust. It was faintly smudged with grey. I licked it and rubbed it again on my velvet buttocks. The open-hearted man watched me with an utter lack of concern. At my elbow, Pearce, in his vaporous dampness, was breathing irritatingly through his mouth.
My hand entered the cavity. I opened my fingers and, with the same care I had applied, as a boy, to the stealing of eggs from birds’ nests, took hold of the heart. Still, the man showed no sign of pain. Fractionally, I tightened my grip. The beat remained strong and regular. I was about to withdraw my hand when the stranger said: ‘Are you touching the organ, Sir?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘don’t you feel the pressure of my fingers?’
‘No. I feel nothing at all.’
Pearce’s breathing, at my side, was rasping, like that of a hounded rodent. A pearl of sweat teetered on the tip of his pink nose. And my own mind was now forced to contemplate an astounding phenomenon: I am encircling a human heart, a living human heart with my hand. I am now, in fact, squeezing it with controlled but not negligible force. And the man suffers no pain whatsoever.
Ergo, the organ we call the heart and which is defined, in our human consciousness, as the seat – or even deified as the throne – of all powerful emotion, from unbearable sorrow to ecstatic love, is in itself utterly without feeling.
I withdrew my hand. I felt as full of trouble as my poor Quaker friend, to whom I would have turned for a tot of brandy, except that I knew he never had any. So while our visitor calmly strapped on his linen pad and his steel plate and stooped to pick up his shirt, Pearce and I sat down on his extremely hard settle and were, for a good few minutes, devoid of words.
From that day, I was unable to have the same reverence for my own heart as other men have for theirs.
3. My father was appointed glovemaker to the restored King in January 1661.
I was by then at the Royal College of Physicians, after four years at Padua, studying under the great anatomist, Fabricius. I was at work on a paper entitled ‘The Footsteps of Disease: a Discussion of the Importance of the Seats of Tumours and Other Malign Diversities in the Recognition and Treatment of Illness’. But I was becoming lazy. Several mornings a week, I would sleep late at my lodgings, instead of attending, as I was pledged to do, the Poor Sick of St Thomas’s. Several afternoons, I would walk in Hyde Park, with the purpose only of snaffling and leading to what I call the Act of Oblivion some plump whore – when I should have been at lectures.
The truth is that, when the King returned, it was as if self-discipline and drudgery had exploded in a clap of laughter. I became much too excited by and greedy for life to spend much of it at work. Women were cheaper than claret, so I drank women. My thirst for them was, for a time, unquenchable. I tumbled them riotously. Two at a time, I longed to take them, immodestly, like the wild hogs whose hair my own spare locks resemble. In public places even: in the night alleyways, in a hackney coach, on a river barge, in the Pit of the Duke’s Playhouse. I dreamed of them. Until the day I went to Whitehall. And after that day – so extraordinary and unforgettable was the impression it made upon me – I started to dream about the King.
Admiration for craft and skill is, I now understand, at the root of the generous but stubborn nature of King Charles II. He took my father into his service because he recognised in him the dedicated, skilled and single-minded craftsman. Such people delight him because they inhabit an orderly, meticulously defined world and never aspire to cross over into any other. The haberdasher, my father, never considered for one moment becoming, say, a gardener, a gunsmith or a money-lender. He laid out a precise territory with his skill and kept within it. And King Charles, while trying on a pair of my father’s exquisitely moulded kid gloves, revealed to him that this was how he hoped the English people would behave during his reign, ‘each,’ he said, ‘in his appointed station, profession, calling or trade. And all contented in them, so there is no jostling and bobbing about and no one getting above himself. In this way, we shall have peace, and I will be able to rule.’
I don’t know how my father answered him, but I do know that it was on this occasion that the King promised, ‘at some future time, when you are bringing me gloves’, to show my father the collection of clocks and watches he kept in his private Study.
No doubt my father bowed humbly. Very few people ever enter the King’s Study. The only key is kept by his personal servant, Chiffinch. And it was at this moment – on his knees, perhaps? – that my father spoke up for me and asked the King whether he could bring his only son, from the Royal College of Physicians, to make his acquaintance, ‘in case His Majesty should ever have need of an additional physician in his household . . . a phy
sician for the People of the Bedchamber, perhaps, or even for the scullery boys . . .’
‘By all means,’ it seems the King replied, ‘and we will show him the clocks, too. As an anatomist, I expect he will be interested in their mechanical complexity.’
So, on a November afternoon, with a chill wind blowing him forward up Ludgate Hill, my father arrived at my lodgings. I was, as had become my habit on a Tuesday, engaged in the Act of Oblivion with the wife of a ferryman called Rosie Pierpoint. Her laugh was as rich and juicy as that part of her anatomy she coyly referred to as her Thing. Encircled both by the Thing and the laughter, I was giggling ecstatically and bumping so energetically towards my brief Paradise, that I didn’t see or hear my father as he entered my room. I must have been a risible sight: my breeches and stockings still tangled round my ankles, the sandy hogs’ hair that sprouts in the crease of my bottom unflatteringly visible, Mrs Pierpoint’s legs flailing either side of my back, like a circus tumbler’s. I blush to remember that my own father saw me like this and, when he was consumed by fire a year later, I had, in the midst of great sorrow, the cheering thought that at least this memory burned with his poor brain.
An hour later, my father and I were at Whitehall. I had put on the cleanest coat I could find. I had washed all trace of Rosie Pierpoint’s rouge from my face. My hair lay concealed and tamed under my wig. I had polished my shoes with a little furniture oil. I was excited, eager and full of admiration for the attention my father appeared to be getting from the King. But then, as we walked down the Stone Gallery towards the Royal apartments, I felt myself suddenly hesitate, gasping for breath. The public wandered freely here and all the people we passed looked at ease. But, to me, it was as if the presence of the King had altered the air.
‘Come on,’ said my father. ‘Thanks to your acrobatics, we’re already late.’
The doors to the Royal apartments were guarded, but were opened to my father’s nod. He held, over his arm, a silk pouch containing two pairs of satin gloves. We entered a Drawing Room. A fire was roaring under a vast marble mantel. After the chill of the gallery, I would have moved towards it, except that by now I felt almost too weak to move at all and wondered whether I was going to inconvenience my father (who had had enough embarrassment for one day) by falling down in a faint.
Moments passed, as if in a distorted, dreamlike time. A servant came out of the King’s bedchamber and asked us to go in. I felt us glide, like skaters, across thirty feet of Persian carpet, stumble through the great gilded doors and fall flat on our faces at the feet of a pair of the longest, most elegant legs I had ever seen.
I realised, after a moment, that we were not prostrate, but only kneeling. Somehow, we the skaters hadn’t fallen. This in itself seemed to be a miracle, because everything around me – the canopied bed, the candle sconces, even the brocaded walls themselves – appeared to be moving, coming in and out of focus, first clear, then dim.
Then a voice spoke: ‘Merivel. And who is this?’
These days, enmeshed as I am in the tangle of the story, the voice returns to me frequently: Merivel. And who is this? First my name. Then a denial of all knowledge of me. Merivel. And who is this? And the memory is so fitting. I am not now the Merivel I was that day. On that November afternoon, I was shown a roomful of clocks, chiming and ticking in disunion. I was offered a sweetmeat, but could not swallow it. I was asked questions, but could not answer them. A dog snuffled at my foot and the touch of its nose felt repellent, like the touch of a reptile.
After an interminable time (and I do not know to this day how that time was filled up) I was out in the gallery again with my father, who began to shout at me for being a dumbcluck and a fool.
I walked alone back to Ludgate and climbed wearily to my room. There, in my shabby loft, the enormity of what had happened became suddenly and terrifyingly visible to me, as if a nest of maggots had all at once broken out of the wall. I had been within a glove’s length of obtaining power, and I had not taken it. It had been there for me, and now it had gone for ever. I began, like a pig in pain, to howl.
4. It is not clear what started the fire in my father’s workshop in the New Year of 1662. It was of course crammed with wooden boxes and shelves holding the flammable materials of his trade: felt, buckram, goatskin, fur, lace, feathers, ribbons and bales of satin, camlet and silk. A small blaze begun by an upturned oil lamp or candle would have had ample substance on which to feed.
All that is known is that the fire began in the late evening, engulfed the workroom and spread ravenously upwards to my parents’ apartments, where, it seems, they were at supper. Their servant, Latimer, managed to open a small skylight onto the roof, to scramble up and endeavour to haul his elderly master and mistress to safety. My mother had a hold of Latimer’s hand when she suddenly fell back, retching and choking on the smoke. My father tried to lift her up again towards Latimer, but she was unconscious in his arms.
‘Fetch a rope!’ my father screamed, perhaps, but his instructions were muffled by the dinner napkin he had tied round his nose and mouth and Latimer could not make out what he was saying. He stared helplessly in, while all the time the smoke became thicker and darker and to belch out in his face while he clung precariously to the leads of the roof. He told me, in the bitter chill of the following morning: ‘I watched them die, Mr Robert. I would have given all my life’s wages to save them, but I could not.’
The burial was well attended. Lady Newcastle, for whom my father had made moleskin eye patches, arrived in a black coach with her horses decked with black plumes. The King sent two Gentlemen of the Bedchamber. Amos Treefeller, now in his dotage, hired a sedan-chair to carry him to the graveside, where he began to blub. The January wind carried the prayers up and away into silence.
The following day, I was summoned back to Whitehall.
The death of my kindly parents, as well as slaking for the time being my thirst for women, set moving in my anatomist’s brain an acute awareness of the speed at which the body can succumb to death. I am not squeamish. At Padua, short of cadavers in the summer months, Fabricius once conducted an anatomy lesson on the body of a pauper that had been floating in the river for three days. The German students, notorious for their interruptions and disorderly behaviour, now took to vomiting and swearing all round me. I stayed perfectly well and calm and took notes as Fabricius worked. However, after my mother and father perished, I looked at my own body, of which I had never been at all proud, with a new distaste, with a new antipathy and with a new fear. And it was this fear which, in the contradictory workings of the world, brought me to the honour about to be conferred on me. Fear of death, you see, had lessened, if not obliterated, my fear of power. So when summoned to Whitehall, I was no longer overcome by the scent of majesty and thus no longer idiotic and dumb. My poor father would have been very pleased, in fact, by the way in which I was able to conduct myself.
The King received me in his Drawing Room. He talked at length and most flatteringly about my father’s skill. He repeated his theory that no man should get above himself, but know his own talents and his own degree. I nodded and bowed. Then he said: ‘Out of my affection and admiration for your late father I have summoned you, Merivel.’
‘Yes, Sire,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘But I have a task for you, a task in which you must succeed, because my heart will suffer very much if you fail.’
‘Did you know, Your Majesty,’ I ventured, ‘that the human heart – the organ itself, that is – has no feeling?’
He looked at me with sorrow. ‘Ah, Merivel,’ he said, ‘where have you learned that?’
‘I have seen it, Sir.’
‘Seen it? But what we see is but a fraction of what it is. You, as a physician, must no doubt have understood that. Look at my hand, for instance. Wearing a glove made by your late father. What we see is the excellent glove, a little rucked on my fourth finger by the large sapphire ring I am fond of wearing. Whereas, underneath the glove is the hand itself
, capable of a thousand movements, en l’air like a dancer, supplicant like a beggar, fisted like a ruffian, in prayer like a bishop . . . but then again of what fantastic complexity is the arrangement of bones in the hand . . .’
He went on to describe, with some degree of accuracy, the skeletal structure of the human hand. By the time he had finished, I thought it prudent not to return to the subject of the heart, but to allow him to come at last to his reasons for calling me to the palace.
‘One of my dogs appears to be dying,’ he said. ‘The veterinary surgeon has bled him repeatedly, shaved the hair off his back in order to cup him, has tried without success lesions, emetics and purges, but the little creature doesn’t rally. If you can cure him, Merivel, I will offer you a place here as a Court Physician.’
I knelt. Aghast, I noticed there was a stain of boiled egg on the thigh of my breeches. ‘Thank you, Sir,’ I stammered.
‘I will have you taken to the dog immediately, Merivel. Food and drink and night linen will be brought to you and any surgical instruments you may need made available to you. You will stay until the dog dies or recovers. Call for any medicines you deem suitable.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘The dog’s name is Bibillou. He also answers to Bibi and Lou-Lou.’
‘Lou-Lou, Your Majesty?’
‘Yes. Your own name, by the way, has a very pleasing cadence.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Merivel. Very pretty, to my ear.’
I left the royal presence and followed two servants down acres (or should I say hectares, in that the King appears committed to distributing French names everywhere?) of corridor. I was shown into a pleasant bedroom, with a view of the river and the crowded wharves. A fire had been lit. In front of the fire, in a little basket, a brown and white Spaniel was lying. Its body was pitifully thin and its breath rasping. On a table near the window, a decanter of claret, a goblet and a dish of Portuguese figs had been placed. Laid over the bed was a fine linen nightshirt and a matching nightcap, which, once the servants had left me alone with the dog, I immediately put on, suffering as I was that day from a scabrous itching under my wig. I also removed my shoes and coat and poured myself a glass of claret.