An Instance of the Fingerpost

by Iain Pears

  ‘They are the very height of fashion elsewhere,’ I commented. ‘Even the Dutch wear them. I think it is a question of timing. In a few months, or maybe a year, you may find that they hoot and throw stones at you if you do not wear one.’

  ‘Bah! Ridiculous,’ he said, but none the less scooped the wig up off the floor and placed it more safely on the counter.

  ‘I’m sure this gentleman has not come here to discuss fashion,’ Crosse said. ‘Perhaps he even wishes to buy something? It has been known.’

  I bowed. ‘No. I have come to pay for something. I believe you extended credit to a young girl not so long ago.’

  ‘Oh, the Blundy girl. You are the man she mentioned?’

  I nodded. ‘It seems that she spent my money a little freely. I have come to settle her – or rather my – debt.’

  Crosse grunted. ‘You won’t be paid, you know, not in money.’

  ‘So it appears. But it is too late for that now. Besides, I set her mother’s leg, and it was interesting to see whether I could do so; I’d learnt a great deal about it in Leiden, but never tried it on a living patient.’

  ‘Leiden?’ said the young man with sudden interest. ‘Do you know Sylvius?’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘I studied anatomy with him; and I have a letter from him with me for a gentleman called Mr Boyle.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ he asked, and walked to the door at the back of the shop and opened it. I could see a flight of stairs in the corridor beyond.

  ‘Boyle?’ he yelled. ‘Are you up there?’

  ‘No need to shout, you know,’ Crosse said. ‘I can tell you. He isn’t. He went to the coffee house.’

  ‘Oh. No matter. We can go and find him. What’s your name, by the way?’

  I introduced myself. He bowed in return, and said: ‘Richard Lower, at your service. A physician. Almost.’

  We bowed once more and, that done with, he clapped me on the shoulders. ‘Come along. Boyle will like to meet you. We’ve been feeling a little cut off up here recently.’

  As we walked the short distance back to Tillyard’s, he explained that the ferment of intellectual life in the town had ceased to bubble as it had in the past, due to the return of the king.

  ‘But I heard His Majesty is a lover of learning,’ I said.

  ‘So he is, when he can tear his attention away from his mistresses. That’s the trouble. Under Cromwell, we eked out our existence here, while all the lucrative places in the state went to butchers and fish sellers. Now the king is back and naturally, all those well placed enough to take advantage of his generosity have gone to London, leaving a rump of us up here. I’m afraid I shall have to try to make a name for myself there as well, sooner or later.’

  ‘Hence the wig?’

  He grimaced. ‘Yes, I suppose so. One must cut a dash in London to be noticed at all. Wren was back here a few weeks ago – he’s a friend of mine, a fine fellow – decked out like a peacock. He’s planning a trip to France soon and we’ll probably have to shade our eyes just to look at him when he gets back.’

  ‘And Mr Boyle?’ I asked, my heart sinking a little. ‘He has – ah, decided – to stay in Oxford?’

  ‘Yes, for the time being. But he’s lucky. He’s got so much money he doesn’t have to fish for positions like the rest of us.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, greatly relieved.

  Lower gave me a look which indicated that he understood perfectly what had been going through my mind. ‘His father was one of the richest men in the kingdom and a fervent supporter of the Old King, bless his memory, as I suppose we should. Naturally, a lot of it was dispersed, but there’s enough left for Boyle not to have the concerns of ordinary mortals.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘A fine person to know, if you are inclined to philosophical knowledge, which is his main interest. If you’re not, of course, he won’t pay much attention to you.’

  ‘I have done my best’, I said modestly, ‘with some experimentation. But I’m afraid that I am only a novice. What I do not know or understand greatly outweighs what I do.’

  The answer seemed to please him mightily. ‘In that case you will be in good company,’ he said with a grin. ‘Add us all together and our ignorance is almost complete. Still, we scratch at the surface. Here we are,’ he went on, as he led the way back into the very same coffee house. Mrs Tillyard again approached, wanting another copper off me, but Lower waved her away. ‘Fiddlesticks, madam,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You will not charge a friend of mine for entry into this bawdy house.’

  Loudly demanding that coffee be brought to us instantly, Lower bounded up the stairs to the room I had previously selected. It was then that I had the horrible thought: what if this Boyle were the unpleasant gentleman who had turned away the girl?

  But the man sitting in the corner whom Lower immediately approached could not have been more different. I suppose I should here pause and describe the Honourable Robert Boyle, a man who has had more praise and honour heaped upon him than any philosopher for centuries. The first thing I noticed was his relative youth; his reputation had led me to expect a man certainly over fifty. In fact, he was probably no more than a few years older than myself. Tall, gaunt and obviously with a weak constitution, he had a pale, thin face with a strangely sensual mouth, and sat with a poise and a degree of ease that instantly indicated his noble upbringing. He did not appear so very agreeable; haughty rather, as though he was fully aware of his superiority and expected others to be as well. This, I later learned, was only part of the story, for his pride was matched by his generosity; his haughtiness by his humility; his rank by his piety; and his severity by his charity.

  None the less, he was a person to be approached with care for, while Boyle tolerated some truly dreadful creatures because of their merit, he would not put up with charlatans or fools. I count it as one of the greatest honours of my life that I was allowed, for a while, to associate with him on terms of ease. Losing this connection through the malice of others was one of the bitterest blows I have had to endure.

  For all his wealth, reputation and birth, he tolerated familiarity from his intimates, of whom Lower, evidently, was one. ‘Mr Boyle,’ he said as we approached, ‘someone from Italy to pay homage at your shrine.’

  Boyle looked up with raised eyebrows then permitted himself a brief smile. ‘Good morning, Lower,’ he said dryly. I noticed then and later that Lower constantly mis-stepped himself in his dealings with Boyle, as he considered himself an equal in matter of science, but was all too conscious of his own inferiority in rank, and so moved from an excessive familiarity to a respect which, although not obsequious, was still far from assured and comfortable.

  ‘I bring you greetings from Dr Sylvius of Leiden, sir,’ I said. ‘He suggested that, as I was to come to England, you might permit me to make your acquaintance.’

  I always feel that introductions are one of the most difficult of areas of etiquette. Naturally, they exist, and will always continue. How else could a total stranger be accepted except under the patronage of a gentleman who can vouch for his character? In most circles, however, the mere existence of a letter is enough; if they are read, it is generally after the introductions have been performed. I hoped that a letter from Sylvius, a physician as famous in medicine as was Boyle in chemistry, would ensure me a welcome. But I was also aware that divisions ran deep, and that my religion might well cause me to be rejected. England had only recently been in the grip of fanatical sectarians, and I knew their influence was far from dissipated – my colleagues in the coach to Oxford overnight had informed me with glee of the new persecutory laws against us that the Parliament had forced the king to adopt.

  Boyle not only took the letter and began to read it, but also commented on its contents as he progressed, making me ever more nervous as he did so. It was, I saw, rather a long missive; Sylvius and I had not always seen eye to eye, and I greatly feared that much of the letter would be uncomplimentary.

  And so it seemed as B
oyle read. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Listen to this, Lower. Sylvius says your friend here is impetuous, argumentative and much given to querying authority. Impertinent, and a positive gadfly in his interests.’

  I made to defend myself, but Lower gestured for me to be quiet. ‘Family of gentlemen merchants in Venice, eh?’ Boyle went on. ‘Papist, I suppose?’

  My heart sank.

  ‘A veritable fiend for blood,’ Boyle went on, ignoring me totally. ‘Constantly fiddling with buckets of it. But a good man with a knife, it seems, and a fine draughtsman. Hmm.’

  I resented Sylvius for his statements. To call my experimentation fiddling made me hot with indignation. I had begun methodically and proceeded in what I thought was a rational manner. It was, after all, hardly my fault that my father’s summons made me leave Leiden before I had come to any conclusions of substance.

  Since it is of some moment to my story, I should make it clear that my interest in blood was no new-found fancy, but by this stage had preoccupied me for some time. I can scarcely recall when the fascination began. I remember once listening to some tedious Galenist lecturing on blood in Padua and the very next day being lent a copy of Harvey’s magnificent work on circulation. It was so clear, so simple, and so obviously true that it took my breath away. I have not had an experience like it since. However, even I could see that it was incomplete: Harvey demonstrated that the blood starts in the heart, circulates around the body, then returns whence it came. He did not establish why it does this, and without that science is a poor thing indeed; nor did he proffer any therapeutic gain from his observations. Perhaps impertinently, but certainly with reverence, I had dedicated many months in Padua and nearly all my time in Leiden to exploring this subject and I would have already achieved some notable experiments had I not obeyed my father’s desires and come to England.

  ‘Good,’ Boyle said eventually, folding the letter carefully and putting it in his pocket. ‘You are welcome sir, more than welcome. Above all to Mr Lower, I imagine, as his insatiable lust for entrails seems to be matched only by your own.’

  Lower grinned at me and offered the saucer of coffee which had been growing cold as Boyle read. It seemed that I had been put to the test and found adequate. The relief I felt was almost overwhelming.

  ‘I must say’, Boyle went on pouring quantities of sugar in his coffee, ‘that I am all the more pleased to welcome you because of your behaviour.’

  ‘My what?’ I asked.

  ‘Your offer of assistance to the Blundy girl – remember her, Lower? – was charitable and Christian,’ he said, ‘if a little unwise.’

  I was astounded by this comment, so convinced had I been that no one had paid me the slightest attention. I had entirely misjudged the degree to which the slightest breath of anything can exert fascination in such a small town.

  ‘But who is this girl whom you both know?’ I asked. ‘She seemed a very poor creature and hardly the type who would ordinarily come to your attention. Or have years of republicanism levelled ranks to such an extent?’

  Lower laughed. ‘Fortunately not. People like the Blundy girl are not normally members of our society, I’m pleased to say. She’s pretty enough, but I would be reluctant to be known to consort with her. We know her as she has a certain notoriety – her father Ned was a great subversive and radical, while she supposedly has some knowledge of natural remedies. Boyle here consulted her over some herbal simples. It is a pet project of his, to provide the poor with medicines fitting their rank.’

  ‘Why supposedly?’

  ‘Many have attested to her skill in curing, so Boyle thought he would do her the honour of incorporating some of her better receipts into his work. But she refused to help, and pretended she had no ability at all. I imagine she wanted payment, which Boyle properly refused to countenance for a work of benevolence.’

  At least that explained the girl’s comment which I had dismissed as a lie. ‘Why is it unwise to associate with her, though?’

  ‘Her society will do you little credit,’ Boyle said. ‘She has a reputation for lewdness. But I particularly meant that she will not prove a lucrative client.’

  ‘I have discovered that already,’ I replied, and told him of the way she had spent my money. Boyle looked mildly shocked by the tale. ‘Not the way to grow rich,’ he observed dryly.

  ‘What is the supply of physicians here? Do you think I could gain some clients?’

  Lower grimaced and explained that the trouble with Oxford was that there were far too many doctors already. Which was why, when he had finished a project he was undertaking, and Christ Church ejected him from his place, he would be forced to go to London. ‘There are at least six,’ he said. ‘And any number of quacks, surgeons, and apothecaries. All for a town of 10,000 inhabitants. And you would be at some risk if you did not obtain a university licence to practise. Did you qualify at Padua?’

  I told him that I had not, having no plans to practise even had my father not considered it demeaning to take a degree. Only necessity made me think of earning money by medicine now. I suppose I phrased it wrongly, for while Boyle understood my predicament, Lower took my innocent remark to indicate a disdain for his own calling.

  ‘I’m sure sinking so low will not taint you permanently,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said swiftly, to repair the accidental slight, ‘the opportunity is more than welcome, and quite makes up for the unfortunate circumstances in which I find myself. And if I have the opportunity to associate myself with gentlemen such as yourself and Mr Boyle, I will be more than fortunate.’

  He was soothed by this remark, and gradually resumed his earlier nonchalance; none the less, I had seen briefly beneath the surface, and had a glimpse of a nature which, for all its easy-going charm, was both proud and prickly. The signs vanished as quickly as they had appeared, however, and I overcongratulated myself on my success in winning him over.

  To explain myself clearly, I briefly laid out my current position, and a precise question from Boyle induced me to say that I would soon be totally out of funds. Hence my desire to minister to the sick. He grimaced and asked why, precisely, I was in England in the first place.

  I told him that filial obligation demanded that I try to re-establish my father’s position in law. And for that I suspected I would need a lawyer.

  ‘And for that you need money, for which you need an income. Absque argento omnia rara,’ Lower said. ‘Hmm. Mr Boyle? Do you have any ideas, sir?’

  ‘For the time being, I would be happy to offer you some occupation in my elaboratory,’ said this kind gentleman. ‘I feel almost ashamed to offer, as it is far below what a man of your position should do. I’m sure Lower here could find you somewhere to stay at his old lodgings and perhaps, the next time he does a circuit in the countryside, he could take you along. What do you think, Lower? You always say you’re overworked.’

  Lower nodded, although I detected no great enthusiasm on his part. ‘I should be delighted with both the help and the company. I was planning a tour in a week or so, and if Mr Cola wished to come . . .’

  Boyle nodded as though all was decided. ‘Excellent. Then we can tackle your London problem. I will write to a lawyer I know and see what he can recommend.’

  I thanked him enthusiastically for his great kindness and generosity. It obviously pleased him, although he affected that it was a mere nothing. My gratitude was entirely genuine; from being poor, friendless and miserable, I had acquired the patronage of one of the most distinguished philosophers of Europe. It even crossed my mind that part of this was due to Sarah Blundy, whose appearance that morning, and my reaction, had swung Boyle into thinking more favourably of me than could otherwise have been the case.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  WITHIN A SHORT time I thus established myself in good company and had a vantage point from which to await more money. Eight weeks for the mails to go, another eight to come back, if I was lucky. Add on to that a week or so for the
moneys to be arranged, plus some months to sort out my business in London, and I thought I would be in England for half a year at the very least, by which time the weathers would be declining badly. Either I would have to return home overland, or risk the miserable prospect of a winter sea voyage. Alternatively, I would have to resign myself to another northern winter, and remain until the spring.

  But to begin with I was more than content with my position, except where Mrs Bulstrode, my new landlady, was concerned. Everyone sincerely believed this worthy was an excellent cook, and it was with high hopes – and empty stomach, for I had not eaten properly for two days – that I presented myself at four o’clock sharp for what I believed was going to be a fine meal.

  If the climate of England was difficult for a Venetian to become used to, then the food was impossible. If quantity were anything to judge by, then I would say that England is indeed the richest country on earth. Even the more modest sort habitually eat meat once a month at least, and the English boast that they have no need of sauces to cover up its stringy texture and unpleasant taste, as the French have to do. Simply roast it and eat it as God intended, they say, firmly believing that ingeniousness in cooking is sinful and that the Heavenly Host themselves tuck into roast beef and ale for their Sunday repast.

  Unfortunately, there is frequently little else. Naturally, fresh fruit is often unavailable because of the climate, but the English do not even like preserved fruit, believing it causes the wind, which exhalations they consider a depletion of the body’s vital heat. Nor is there much in the way of green vegetables, for the same reason. Rather, they eat bread or, more frequently, drink their grain as ale, of which their consumption is truly stupendous; even the most delicate of ladies cheerfully downs a quart or two of strong beer during a meal, and infants learn insobriety in the cradle. The trouble for a foreigner like myself was that the beer was strong, and it was considered unmanly (and unwomanly) not to drink it. I mention all this to explain why the meal of boiled brawn and three-quarters of a gallon of beer left me feeling not at all well.