by Iain Pears
‘She did it herself,’ the girl said quietly when I repeated this last in English. ‘She was all on her own, and did what she could.’
It looked very bad indeed. Even with a robust young man, the inevitable weakness from such a wound would have been serious. Then there was the possibility of rot setting in and the chance that some of the threads would create an irritation in the flesh. I shivered at the thought, then realised that the room was bitterly cold.
‘Go and light a fire immediately. She must be kept warm,’ I said.
She stood there, unmoving.
‘Can’t you hear me? Do as I say.’
We don’t have anything to burn,’ she said.
What could I do? It was hardly fitting or dignified, but sometimes the task of the physician goes beyond merely tending to physical ailment. With some impatience, I pulled a few pence from my pocket. ‘Go and buy some wood, then,’ I said.
She looked at the pennies I had thrust into her palm, and, without so much as a word of thanks, silently went out of the room into the alleyway beyond.
‘Now then, madam,’ I said, turning back to the old lady, ‘we will soon have you nice and warm. That is most important. First we have to clean up this leg of yours.’
And so I set to work; fortunately the girl came back quickly with wood and some embers to light a fire, so that I soon had hot water. I thought that if I could clean it up fast enough, if I could reset the broken bone without causing her so much discomfort that she died, if she didn’t develop a fever or some distemper in the wound, if she was kept warm and well fed, she might live. But there were a lot of dangers; any one of them could kill her.
Once I began she seemed alert enough, which was a good start, although considering the pain I was giving her a corpse would have become aware of its surroundings. She told me that she had slipped on a patch of ice and fallen badly, but apart from that she was initially as uncommunicative as her daughter, although with more excuse.
Perhaps the more thoughtful, and those who were more proud, might have walked away the moment that the girl confessed she had no money; perhaps I could have left when it became clear there was no heating; certainly I should have refused outright even to have contemplated the provision of any sort of medicines to the woman. It is not for oneself, of course; there is the reputation of the profession to be considered in these matters. But in all conscience, I could not bring myself to act as I should have done. Sometimes being a Gentleman and Physician do not always sit easily together.
Also, although I had studied the proper way of cleansing wounds and setting bones, I had never had the opportunity to do so in practice. It was very much more difficult than the lectures had made it seem and I fear that I caused the old lady considerable suffering. But eventually the bone was set and the leg bound, and I dispatched the girl with more of my scarce pennies to buy materials for a salve. While she was gone, I cut some lengths of wood and bound them to the leg to try and ensure that, were she lucky enough to survive, the shattered bone would knit correctly.
By this stage I was in no good humour. What was I doing here, in this provincial, unfriendly, miserable little town, surrounded by strangers, such a long way away from everything I knew and everyone who cared for me? More to the point, what was going to happen when, as was bound to occur very shortly, I found myself without money to pay for lodging, or food?
Bound up in my own despair, I completely ignored my patient, feeling I had done more than enough for her already, and found myself examining the little shelf of books; not out of interest, but merely as a way of turning my back on her so that I could avoid looking at the poor creature who was rapidly becoming the symbol of my misfortunes. This sentiment was compounded by the fact that I feared that all my efforts and expense were going to prove a waste: even though I was young and inexperienced, I already knew death when I stared it in the face, smelt its breath and touched the sweat it produced on the skin.
‘You are unhappy, sir,’ the old lady said in a frail voice from her bed. ‘I’m afraid that I am a great trouble to you.’
‘No, no. Not at all,’ I said with the flatness of deliberate insincerity.
‘It is kind of you to say so. But we both know that we cannot pay you money for your help, as you deserve. And I saw from the look in your face that you are not a rich man yourself at the moment, despite your dress. Where do you come from? You are not from around here.’
Within a few minutes, I found myself perched on one of the rickety stools by the bedstead, pouring out my heart about my father, my lack of money, my reception in London, my hopes and fears for the future. There was something about her that encouraged such confidences, almost as though I was talking to my old mother, not to some poor, dying, heretical Englishwoman.
Throughout she nodded patiently and spoke to me with such wisdom that I felt comforted. It pleased God to send us trials, just as He did with Job. Our duty is to bear them quietly, use the skills He has given us to overcome them, and never to abandon our faith that His design was good and necessary. More practically, she told me I must certainly visit Mr Boyle; he was known as a good Christian gentleman.
I suppose I should have scorned this combination of puritanical piety and impertinent advice. But I could see that, in her way, she was trying to make amends. She could offer no money, and no service. What she could give was understanding, and in the coin that she had she paid freely.
‘I shall soon be dead, shall I not?’ she asked after she had listened to my woes for a good long while and I had exhausted the topic of my hardship.
My master in Padua had always warned about such questions: not least because one might be wrong. He always believed that the patient has no right to confront the physician in such a way; if one is right and the patient does die, it merely makes them morose for the last few days of their life. Rather than composing themselves for their imminent ascent into the presence of God (an event to be desired rather than regretted, one might think), most people complain bitterly at having this divine goodness thrust upon them. On top of this, they tend to believe their physicians. In moments of frankness, I confess that I do not know why this is the case; none the less, it seems that if a physician tells them they will die, many dutifully oblige, even though there may be little wrong with them.
‘We will all die in due course, madam,’ I said gravely, in the vain hope that this might satisfy her.
However, she was not the sort of person who could be fobbed off. She had asked the question calmly and was plainly able to tell truth from the opposite.
‘But some sooner than others,’ she replied with a little smile. ‘And my turn is near, is it not?’
‘I really cannot say. It may be that no corruption will set in, and you will recover. But, in truth, I fear that you are very weak.’ I could not actually say to her: Yes, you will die, and very soon. But the sense was clear enough.
She nodded placidly. ‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘And I rejoice in God’s will. I am a burden to my Sarah.’
Come l’oro nel foco, così la fede nel dolor s’affina. I hardly felt like defending the daughter, but muttered that I was sure she performed her obligations with a happy heart.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She is too dutiful.’ She was a woman who spoke with a decorum far beyond her station and education. I know that it is not impossible for rude surroundings and coarseness of upbringing to bring forth gentleness, but experience teaches us that it is rare. Just as refinement of thought naturally requires refinement of circumstance, so brutality and squalor in life begets the same in the soul. Yet this old woman, although surrounded by the meanest of states, talked with a sympathy and understanding I have often failed to meet with in the very best of people. It made me take an unwonted interest in her as a patient. Subtly, and without even becoming aware of it, I moved from seeing her as a hopeless case: I may not be able to cheat death, I found myself thinking grimly, but at least I will make him work for his prize.
Then the girl returne
d with the little packet of medicines that I had demanded. Staring at me, as though challenging me to criticise, she said that I had not given her enough: but Mr Crosse the apothecary had allowed her to have twopence credit, when she had promised I would settle the account. I was speechless with indignation at this, because the girl seemed to be rebuking me for having sent her out with insufficient money. But what could I do about it? The money was spent, the patient was waiting, and it was beneath me to enter an argument.
Maintaining an outward show of imperturbability, I took my portable pestle and mortar and began to grind up the ingredients; some mastick for sticking, a grain of sal ammoniack, two of frankincense, a dram of white vitriol and two grains of nitre and verdigrice both. Once these were pounded into a smooth paste, I then added linseed oil, drop by drop, until the mixture had reached the right degree.
‘Where is the powder of worms?’ I asked, searching in the bag for the final ingredients. ‘Did they not have any?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘At least I imagine so. But it is no use, you know, so I decided not to buy it. It saved some money for you.’
This was too much. To be treated with insolence was one thing and quite common with daughters, but to be questioned and doubted in one’s area of skill was quite another.
‘I told you I needed it. It is a crucial ingredient. Are you a physician, girl? Have you trained at the best schools in medicine? Do physicians come to you asking for advice?’ I asked with a superior sneer in my voice.
‘Yes, they do,’ she replied calmly.
I snorted. ‘I don’t know whether it is worse to be dealing with a fool or a liar,’ I said angrily.
‘Nor do I. All I know is that I am neither. Putting worm powder on a wound is tantamount to making sure my mother loses her leg and dies.’
‘Are you Galen then? Paracelsus? Perhaps Hippocrates himself?’ I stormed. ‘How dare you question the authority of your betters? This is a salve that has been in use for centuries.’
‘Even though it is useless?’
While this was going on I had been applying the salve to her mother’s wound, then rebandaging it. I was doubtful about whether it would work, incomplete as it was, but would have to do until I could make it up properly. Once finished, I stood up to my full height, and, of course, bumped my head against the low ceiling. The girl suppressed a giggle, which made me the more angry.
‘Let me tell you one thing,’ I said with barely suppressed fury, ‘I have treated your mother to the best of my ability, even though I was not obliged to. I will come back later to give her a sleeping draught and to air the wound. This I do knowing that I will receive nothing in return but your contempt, although I cannot see that I have deserved it or that you have any right to speak to me in such a fashion.’
She curtseyed. ‘Thank you, kind sir. And as for payment, I’m sure you will be satisfied. You said we can deal with that later, and I have no doubt we will.’
With that I walked out of the house and back into the street, shaking my head and wondering what den of lunatics I had tumbled into so carelessly.
Chapter Three
* * *
I HOPE THAT this account explains the first two stages of my progress: my coming to England and then to Oxford, and my acquisition of the patient whose treatment was to cause me such grief. The girl herself – what can I say? She was touched by doom already; her end was written, and the devil was reaching out his hand to drag her down. The man of skill can see this, can read a face like an open book and discern what the future holds in store. Sarah Blundy’s face was deep scored already with the evil that had gripped her soul and would shortly destroy her. So I told myself after, and it may be true. But at that time I saw nothing more than a girl as insolent as she was pretty, and as careless of her obligations to her superiors as she was mindful of her duty to her family.
I need now to explain my further progress, which was just as accidental although ultimately more cruel in its effects: the more so because it seemed, for a while, as though fortune had begun to smile on me once more. I had been left with the task of paying off the debts she had so impertinently run up for me at the apothecary’s, and I knew that you annoy apothecaries at your peril if you are concerned with experimental knowledge. Omit to pay, and they are quite likely to refuse you in the future, and not only them but all their fellows for miles around, so closely do they stick together. In the circumstances, that would be the final straw. Even if it was my last penny I could not afford to enter the society of English philosophy as a man of bad credit.
So I asked the way to this Mr Crosse’s shop, and walked half-way along the High Street once more, opening the wooden door in the shop front and going into the warmth of the interior. It was a handsome place, nicely laid out as all English shops are, with fine cedarwood counters and beautiful brass balances of the most up-to-date variety. Even the aromas of the herbs and spices and drugs welcomed me as I moved strategically across the polished oak floor until I stood with my back against the fine carved mantelpiece and the roaring fire in the grate.
The owner, a portly man in his fifties who looked decidedly at ease with life, was dealing with a customer who seemed in no hurry, leaning nonchalantly on the table, chattering quite idly. He was perhaps a year or two older than myself, with a lively, active face and bright, if cynical, eyes below heavy, arching brows. In dress he was in a sombre garb that steered between the extremes of puritanical drabness and the extravagance of fashion. It was, in other words, well cut but of a tedious brown.
For all that he had an easy manner, this customer seemed very self-conscious, and I discerned that Mr Crosse was amusing himself at the man’s expense.
‘Keep you warm in winter, as well,’ the apothecary was saying with a broad grin.
The customer wrinkled up his face in pain.
‘Course, when spring comes you’ll have to put netting over, in case the birds start nesting in it,’ he went on, clutching his sides in merriment.
‘Come now, Crosse, that’s enough,’ protested the man, then began laughing himself. ‘Twelve marks it cost . . .’
This sent Crosse into greater paroxysms of laughter, and soon both of them were leaning over, helpless and in virtual hysteria.
‘Twelve marks!’ wheezed the apothecary, before collapsing once more.
I even found myself beginning to giggle with amusement, even though I had not the slightest idea what they were talking about. I didn’t even know whether it was considered ill manners in England to interpose oneself into the merriment others, but the fact was that I didn’t care. The warmth of the shop and the open good humour of these two, as they clung to the counter to avoid slipping on to the floor in their helplessness, made me want to laugh with them, to celebrate the first normal human society I had experienced since my arrival. Instantly I felt restored by it for, as Gomesius says, merriment cures many passions of the mind.
My slight giggling attracted their attention, however, and Mr Crosse attempted to restore himself to the dignified posture that his trade required. His comrade did likewise and both turned to look at me; a sombre silence reigned for a few seconds, then the younger man pointed at me, and both of them lost control once more.
‘Twenty marks!’ cried the young man waving in my direction, then banging his fist on the counter. ‘At least twenty.’
I counted this as being the nearest thing to an introduction that I was likely to receive and, with some wariness, made a polite bow in their direction. I half-suspected some appalling joke at my expense. The English love making fun of foreigners, whose mere existence they regard as an enormous jest.
My bow to equals – perfectly executed, with just the right balance between the extended left leg, and the graciously elevated right arm – none the less set them off again, so I stood with the impassivity of a stoic as I waited for the storm to pass. And in due course, the gurglings faded, they wiped their eyes, blew their noses, and did their best to appear like civilised people.
‘I must beg your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Crosse, who was the first to regain both the power of speech and the grace to use it civilly. ‘But my friend here has just decided to become a man of fashion, and has taken to appearing in public with a thatched roof on his head. I was doing my best to assure him that he cuts a very fine figure indeed.’ He began heaving with mirth again, and his friend then tore off his wig and threw it on the ground.
‘Fresh air at last,’ he exclaimed thankfully as he ran his fingers through his thick, long hair. ‘Dear Lord, it was hot under there.’
At last I was beginning to make sense of it; the wig had arrived in Oxford – several years after it had established itself throughout most of the world as an essential part of elegant masculine dress. I was wearing one myself, having adopted it as a sign, so to speak, of my graduation into the adult world.
I could see, of course, why it caused such amusement, although the understanding was overborne by that sense of superiority felt by a man of parts when he encounters the provincial. When I began wearing my wig myself it took some considerable time to grow used to it; only pressure from my fellows persuaded me to continue. And, of course, looking at it as a Turk or an Indian might were he suddenly transported to our shores, it did seem slightly odd that a man, graced by nature with a full head of hair, should shave much of it off in order to wear somebody else’s. But fashionable attire is not for comfort and, as it was profoundly uncomfortable, we may conclude that the wig was very fashionable.
‘I think’, I said, ‘that you might find it more comfortable if you shortened your own hair; then there would not be so much pressure under the mat.’
‘Shorten my own hair? Good heavens, is that how it’s done?’
‘I’m afraid so. We must sacrifice for beauty, you know.’
He kicked the wig roughly across the floor. ‘Then let me be ugly,’ he said, ‘for I will not be seen in public wearing this. If it produces convulsions in Crosse here, think what the students of this town will do to me. I’ll be lucky to escape with my life.’