The Sensorium of God

by Stuart Clark

  Halley made sympathetic noises.

  ‘What is Mr Newton really like?’ asked the German.

  ‘I find that something of a personal question.’

  ‘Very well, let me come to the point. Lady Caroline and I can admire him for his mathematics but not for his philosophy. His concept of gravity is unworkable.’

  ‘Unworkable?’

  Leibniz nodded. ‘Nothing happens without sufficient reason, and what reason is there for planets to pull on each other from afar?’

  ‘Perhaps that’s just the way the Universe is,’ murmured Halley.

  ‘What a lifeless argument – if I may be so bold. The cosmos must be a rational place, so everything must happen for a reason. God cannot have designed it otherwise. Lady Caroline and I worry about the state of English religion, especially as she will one day have to rule there. You and I both come from Protestant countries, yet there seems to be a gulf between us, a laxness in English morals. Tell me, Mr Halley, you and your colleagues do believe in God, don’t you?’

  ‘Mr Newton is as devout as they come.’

  ‘Then why do I detect occult qualities in his writing?’

  ‘Never!’ But Halley remembered Newton crouched over his furnace, stirring metals.

  Leibniz’s eyes narrowed. ‘Newton imagines gravity as something that can act over great distances without any material intermediary. It is action without contact, a force for no reason. That is an alchemist’s view of things – that material objects are threaded like beads upon invisible forces. Has he ever mentioned “active principles” to you? Or “spirits” pervading matter?’

  Halley willed himself to give nothing away, even as the passage from the Principia danced in his mind’s eye: a most subtle Spirit pervades and lies hidden in all bodies, and by the force of this spirit the particles of bodies mutually attract each other.

  ‘I see from your expression that he has,’ said Leibniz. ‘It is irreligious to speak in such a way. A godly Universe is built on overarching principles that philosophers have debated for thousands of years. Newton is no philosopher; he values little observations more highly than whole lifetimes of philosophical thought. His attempt to build a new worldview from the bottom up is flawed, maybe even dangerous. He and those who subscribe to it attack accepted natural philosophy and religion.’

  ‘But his method of investigation defines how we test and prove these ideas. Never before has there been a route to knowledge that allows us to test our ideas. Philosophy is just opinion without experimentation.’

  ‘You cannot possibly travel into the sky and see if he’s right about the planets. There are certain realms where only philosophical reasoning can help,’ countered Leibniz.

  ‘The observation of Jupiter and Saturn as they draw close in the sky prove that they pull each other slightly off course, then return to their prescribed orbits as they move away from each other. The mathematics is clear; the observation is clear.’

  ‘I have nothing against his mathematics, but it is a tool, it is not a truth.’

  ‘For us, it is the truth. It’s the language in which the Universe is written.’

  Leibniz tutted. ‘That is a dangerous path. Mathematics can assist only when it is paired with philosophy. And philosophy tells us that there is no such thing as action at a distance. It is irrational; it is like an effect without a cause. Newton himself knows that there are errors in the Principia.’ He began rooting around a desk in the centre of the room and eventually proffered a paper with a flourish.

  It was a detailed list of corrections. Halley looked up sharply. ‘Where did you get this?’

  Leibniz leaned back against the desk, folding one ankle across another. ‘I bought Christiaan Huygens’s papers for the library here when he died. It was among them. Seems only fair to publish it, don’t you think?’ Leibniz delicately pulled the paper out of Halley’s hand and placed it back on his desk. ‘Especially as, from what I hear, Newton’s so busy re-coining England that he’s turned his back on philosophy.’ The tenor of his voice changed, becoming quiet and precise. ‘I know of another paper that Mr Newton has written. It’s been written anonymously, of course, but one doesn’t have to see the lion to recognise the claw marks.’ Leibniz watched Halley intently. ‘It denies the divinity of Christ, and that’s heresy – even in England.’

  ‘I know nothing of this,’ said Halley.

  ‘I will allow neither you nor Mr Newton to pervert religion.’

  ‘We search for mathematical truth.’

  ‘At the expense of religious truth. If you were a God-fearing man, you would clearly recognise the subtle poison that Newton spoon-feeds us. You do believe in God, don’t you, Mr Halley?’ challenged Leibniz.

  Halley began scanning the library for a means of escape. He saw that the door was open, but a familiar figure blocked the doorway. There was a look of rapt attention on Winslow’s face.

  ‘Do you think Leibniz really does plan to publish that list of corrections to Principia?’ asked Wren.

  ‘It’s already in the press,’ said Halley, trying to exorcise the memory of Winslow. How much had the spymaster heard? He had not said anything during the evening meal, but Halley thought he had detected a certain overplayed nonchalance.

  ‘Do we hear anything of Mr Fatio and his theories these days?’ asked Halley.

  ‘We hardly see him, and never on the rare occasion Mr Newton attends.’

  An unexpected laugh burst from Halley. ‘Remember! Robert used to call him “Newton’s ape”, and the “perpetual motion man”. “Here comes the perpetual motion man”, he’d say.’ Halley could still picture the dainty approach of Fatio that the phrase evoked.

  Wren began to chuckle. ‘He used to sign them in together on the same line of the attendance register, as if they were a single entity: MrNewtonFatio.’

  ‘Do you think they were together? You know . . .’

  Wren regarded Halley closely. ‘No one knows – and best to leave it that way, with the law the way it is.’

  ‘So, has anybody asked Newton about assuming the Presidency?’

  Wren looked over at Halley, suddenly bashful. ‘We were rather hoping you’d do that.’

  Halley heard the percussion of the Mint before he saw it. The thumping of the mechanical cutters lifted through the London air to echo around the Tower. The Mint itself was a collection of ramshackle wooden huts strung along the outer of the fortress’s walls, and Halley was led under close escort to Newton’s office.

  ‘I see we are both wigged these days,’ said Newton in lieu of a greeting.

  ‘And a confounded nuisance it is, too.’

  Newton peeled off his wig and dropped the white hairpiece to the floor. ‘Let us at least be comfortable.’

  Halley relaxed and removed his own wig. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I think we’ve known each other long enough to dispense with vague pleasantries. What can I do for you, Mr Halley?’ As an afterthought Newton indicated a chair for his guest.

  ‘In November the Royal Society will be looking to elect a new President. The Fellows wondered whether you would consider the position,’ said Halley.

  Newton stood up immediately.

  ‘I confess I thought you had quit philosophy for good,’ added Halley, quickly standing again.

  ‘So did I,’ said Newton, turning to gaze out of the windows at the other huts. ‘So did I . . . It seems that every time you turn up unannounced, Mr Halley, you have a diverting question for me. Would I be free to reorganise the Society?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘No allies of Hooke ready to lay siege to me?’

  ‘Robert has gone for good,’ said Halley, irked by the question. He concentrated on the older man’s ink-stained fingers, watched them flexing.

  ‘From the few visits I have made to the Society, I should say that natural philosophy has lost its way,’ said Newton at last. ‘I should like to turn it back. I’ve been thinking of publishing my theory of colours.’

  �
�I’d heard a rumour,’ said Halley.

  ‘The book is written and ready for the printers. I have no need of your assistance this time; these days there are plenty who wish to help.’ Newton returned to his chair. Halley did the same. Newton then spoke in a curious, hurried voice. ‘When I was first upon the colours, my design was to continue my investigations until I understood how the light rays themselves were produced. By that I mean how crude matter becomes bright. But as you know, I was . . . discouraged in this endeavour by a certain lately departed individual. Now I find I have neither the time left nor the energy to set upon these investigations myself. So, I’ve listed the questions I wished to answer in my book – I’m calling it Opticks, incidentally. Instead of a conclusion I give sixteen queries, each one answerable by experiment. It’s a manifesto for natural philosophy and the experimental method.’

  ‘Then the Presidency would suit you?’

  Newton ignored him. ‘I do have one question you can help me answer immediately. I hear that philosophers abroad are crediting Mr Leibniz with the invention of the fluxions. If I include some of my early papers in the Opticks, do you think that would settle the issue? I have no desire to become dragged into a dispute with him, but I will have my priority in the ideas acknowledged.’

  Unwilling to provoke an explosion, Halley decided not to mention his troubling visit to Leibniz. ‘I can think of nothing better than to clarify the matter. You’ve been too modest thus far.’

  Newton nodded. ‘There is one more matter that nags at me. I’d also like to publish a new version of Principia with a complete theory of the Moon. I’ve tried to put it aside but it concerns me still.’

  ‘I cannot tell you how important an accurate theory of the Moon would be. I tried to calculate longitudes from lunar observations while I was at sea, but they were dozens of miles off. With the night close around you or a storm blowing, a dozen miles is enough to have you on the rocks in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘Then that must be a priority for us, do you not agree?’

  ‘I do. It’s a frightening thing to be at sea and in nothing but the hands of God.’

  ‘Surely there is no safer place to be?’

  Halley’s frowned. ‘You know what I mean. But Flamsteed is stubborn with his observations.’

  ‘He must be hiding something.’ Newton drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘The Royal Society must be returned to its guiding principles: Galileo’s experimental method. And Flamsteed must be brought to heel. I will need a team of experimenters. Three will suffice; paid, of course, so that they will follow orders. The Society must progress. Gresham College is not highly enough regarded. We must begin the reorganisation at once.’

  ‘So, you accept?’

  Newton brought his fist down, setting the desk and papers quivering. ‘I will. And Mr Flamsteed and the theory of the Moon will be my first project.’

  35

  London

  It was a week later when Halley met Wren in a packed Garraway’s to celebrate Newton’s acceptance. Not long into their conversation, the subject of the vacant Savilian professorship at Oxford came up again.

  ‘You’d be a strong contender,’ urged Wren over the hubbub. ‘You’re an Oxford man yourself.’

  ‘I ran away from Oxford to survey the southern stars. They only granted my degree at the King’s command.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You did at the time.’

  Wren puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, they don’t remember it either.’

  ‘How do you know that? Have you been speaking out of turn?’

  ‘Perish the thought. They approached me, asked me to invite you.’ Wren fixed him with a look. ‘The professorship is yours. All you have to do is say yes.’

  When Halley arrived home, it was hard to tell where the bodies finished and the material started. Mary and the girls were inextricably woven into rich folds of shot silk that he had bought for them in Gibraltar.

  ‘I have an important announcement,’ Halley said in a voice that sounded more pompous than he intended.

  ‘You’re with child?’ asked Katherine.

  ‘Katherine! We’ll have none of your cheek here,’ said Mary.

  ‘That’s how you told us young Edmond was on the way.’

  Margaret shushed her.

  ‘Thank you, ladies,’ said their father. ‘I have been offered the Savilian professorship of astronomy in Oxford. I intend to take it.’

  ‘Oxford?’ gasped Mary.

  Halley nodded. ‘I’ve been so busy helping others that my own astronomy is all but forgotten. I want to return to my work on the comets, plotting their orbits.’

  ‘But between Oxford and sailing we’ll never see you.’

  ‘No, you misunderstand. I’ve finished sailing.’ He hurried to the chair next to Mary’s at the table, diving into the fabric ocean himself.

  ‘But you were talking about returning to the Atlantic only last week. I heard you the night the Bowers came for supper.’

  ‘I know that’s what I said, but I’ve changed my mind. It’s just–’ He checked himself. He did not wish to reveal how he lay awake at night, watching her sleep and grieving for her even though she was still alive. He should have been mourning Robert and Samuel, but somehow his mind had transferred it all into the terror of losing Mary. He counted the new lines on her face and the new threads of silver in her hair, and regretted not seeing every single one form. Time was stealing away. ‘It’s just that I miss you and the children more these days. I didn’t realise that until now.’

  She studied him and he could see in her eyes that she had read his mind. He was certain of it when she squeezed his hand tightly under the fabric.

  ‘Oxford it is, then,’ she said.

  ‘We would not need to move lock, stock and barrel to Oxford. There’s a house that comes with the position, but we will retain this one and divide our time between the two cities. After all, Newton is going to change things here at the Society, and I’d like to be a part of that. In fact,’ said Halley, glancing at the tall clock in the corner, ‘I think things may be changing as we speak.’

  There were several tall ships at anchor, rising like spectres from the water, masts as bare as the autumnal trees. Up in the curve of the river, where the Thames grew deep and dark, a three-masted Navy pink was unfurling her sails to begin the journey towards the open sea. Standing on the wharf, Newton shivered despite his heavy coat.

  He picked his way around the tea-chests and sailors, cut between the warehouses and began a steady ascent of Greenwich Hill. The observatory seemed to draw no closer, and soon he was shaken by a coughing fit. He marched on. The exertion darkened his mood further.

  By the time he reached the shadow of the observatory wall he was breathing heavily. He leaned against the brickwork, having no desire to meet Flamsteed while panting like a dog. Pushing away from the wall, he came face to face with the Astronomer Royal.

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ said Flamsteed. ‘I saw you from the window, but when you didn’t appear I came to make sure you’d survived the hill. It’s quite a climb.’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you,’ retorted Newton.

  The two men laboured up the steps into a small hallway, which led to the cramped sitting-room. Despite the chill, no fire had been lit. They watched as a stout woman waddled in carrying a tray of coffee.

  ‘I don’t believe you’ve met my wife. Margaret, this is Isaac Newton.’

  Newton acknowledged her but did not look up. He would have preferred to meet Flamsteed alone.

  ‘I’ve heard all about you, Professor Newton,’ she said in a wheezy voice.

  ‘I’m no longer a professor. I left Cambridge almost a decade ago.’

  Margaret thrust the tray between the two men. ‘Begging your pardon, I’m sure.’ She inclined her head and turned on her heel.

  Flamsteed looked vaguely amused by his wife’s bad manners.

  ‘Can we expect you at meetings now?’ a
sked Newton abruptly.

  ‘Whenever I can get there, but my joints make travelling painful these days.’

  Newton sipped the coffee, already bored with Flamsteed’s joints. The drink was gritty and lukewarm. He replaced the dish on the table and wiped his fingers down the sides of his mouth. ‘Do you remember coming to my lodgings in London some years ago?’

  A flicker crossed Flamsteed’s fat face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You left a biblical passage for me to read.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘A warning against false idols.’

  Flamsteed did not speak.

  ‘Whom were you referring to?’ asked Newton.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘No,’ said Newton through tight lips.

  Flamsteed waited a number of maddening moments. ‘Edmond Halley.’

  ‘Halley!’ Newton wanted to set the fleshy face before him shaking with the flat of his hand. To think he had assumed Flamsteed about to confess to Arianism!

  ‘Where does one start with that man? He’s arrogant, intemperate. He’s an adulterer: cuckolded Hevelius all those years ago in Danzig.’

  Newton glared at Flamsteed. ‘Mr Halley’s personal affairs are his business. It’s his astronomy I’m interested in.’

  ‘Pah! Slapdash and prone to error.’

  ‘Whereas you’re a perfectionist.’

  ‘The royal star chart demands nothing less, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Quite so. But thirty years is a long time to be working on it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Twenty-eight, Mr Newton. Tycho Brahe was not harried. He collected observations of just a thousand stars over twenty-five years, with dozens of assistants. Kepler then took another twenty-seven years to calculate and produce the tables. I’ve measured more than three thousand stars repeatedly and performed or supervised the calculations myself. As star catalogues go, I’m working rather quickly.’

  ‘Hmmm, but how long before you publish your results?’

  ‘They’re all but ready.’

  ‘Ready,’ said Newton, attempting to sound casual.