An Instance of the Fingerpost

by Iain Pears

  My success in attending my patient after the meal had finished was, therefore, of considerable merit. How exactly I managed to prepare my bag and walk to the miserable cottage, I do not recall. Fortunately, the girl was not there, as I had no desire to renew my acquaintanceship with her, but as far as her mother was concerned it was far from lucky; she was badly in need of care and attention, and the girl’s absence struck me as being hardly an example of the dutifulness which the old woman had mentioned.

  She had slept; in fact she was still drowsy, her daughter having given her some peasant potion of her own devising which, none the less, seemed to have been very effective. But she was in considerable discomfort; pus and corrosive matter had suppurated through my binding and caked dry over the wound, giving off an evil smell which filled me with foreboding.

  Removing the bandage was a long and distasteful business, but it was eventually completed and I decided that I would try exposing the wound to the air, having heard the theory that tight warm binding in such cases might very well aid corruption rather than prevent it. Such a view goes against orthodox practice, I know, and the willingness to allow the vapours to swirl round might be considered rash. All I can say is that experiments conducted since by others have tended to support the technique. I was so absorbed in my task that I failed to hear the door creaking open, or the soft pad of feet as they came up behind me, so that when Sarah Blundy spoke, I jumped up with alarm.

  ‘How is she?’

  I turned round to look. Her voice was soft, and her manner more appropriate than before.

  ‘She is not well at all,’ I said frankly. ‘Can you not attend to her more?’

  ‘I have to work,’ she said. ‘Our position is already grave now my mother cannot earn. I asked someone to look in, but it seems they did not.’

  I grunted, slightly ashamed of myself for not having thought of this as a reason.

  ‘Will she recover?’

  ‘It is too soon to say. I am drying out the wound, then I will rebind it. I fear she is developing a fever. It may pass, but I am concerned. You must check every half-hour for signs of the fever getting worse. And, strange as it may seem, you must keep her warm.’

  She nodded, as though she understood, although she could not.

  ‘You see,’ I said kindly, ‘in cases of a fever, one can either reinforce or oppose. Reinforcement brings the malady to a head and purges it, leaving the patient void of the cause. Opposition counters it, and seeks to restore the natural economy of the body. So, with a fever, one can either expose the patient to ice and cold water, or one can wrap her up well. I choose the latter because of her grave weakness: a more strenuous cure could well kill her before taking effect.’

  She leant over and protectively tucked her mother in, then, with a surprising gentleness, stroked the old woman’s hair into place.

  ‘I had been planning to do that anyhow,’ she said.

  ‘And now you will have my approval for it.’

  ‘I am fortunate indeed,’ she said. She glanced at me, saw the suspicious look in my eye, then smiled. ‘Forgive me, sir. I mean no insolence. My mother told me how well and generously you acted to her, and we are both deeply grateful for your kindness. I am truly sorry I mis-spoke. I was frightened for her, and upset about the way I was treated in the coffee house.’

  I waved my hand, touched strangely by her submissive tone. ‘That is quite all right,’ I said. ‘But who was that man?’

  ‘I worked for him once,’ she said, still not taking her eyes off her mother, ‘and was always dutiful and conscientious. I believe I deserved better from him.’

  She looked up and smiled at me, a smile of such gentleness that I felt my heart begin to melt. ‘But it seems that we are spurned by our friends, and saved by strangers. So thank you again, sir.’

  ‘You are more than welcome. As long as you do not expect miracles.’

  For a moment we balanced on the brink of a greater intimacy, that strange girl and I, but the moment passed as swiftly as it presented itself. She hesitated before speaking, and it was instantly too late. Instead, we both made an effort to re-establish the correct relations and stood up.

  ‘I will pray for one, even if I do not deserve it,’ she said. ‘Will you come again?’

  ‘Tomorrow, if I can. And if she worsens, come and find me at Mr Boyle’s. I will be attending him. Now, about payment,’ I continued, hurrying on.

  I had decided, on my walk down to the cottage that, as there was not the slightest chance of being paid in any case, it would be best to accept the fact with grace. Rather than accept the inevitable, I should turn it into virtue. In other words, I had decided to waive any fee. It made me feel quite proud of myself, especially considering my own impecunious state but, as fortune had smiled on me, I thought it fair to spread my good luck a little further.

  Alas, my speech died in my throat before even the end of the first sentence. She immediately looked at me, eyes blazing with contempt.

  ‘Oh yes, your payment. How could I think you would forget about that. We must deal with that urgently, must we not?’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said, completely astonished by the speed and completeness of her transformation, ‘I think that . . .’

  But I got no further. The girl led me through to the damp and squalid little space at the back of the house which was, evidently, where she – or some other animal, I could not tell – slept. On the damp floor was a pallet, hard sacking stuffed with straw. There were no windows at all, and the little space smelled very distinctly of sour water.

  With a gesture of the most brusque contempt, she immediately lay down on the bed, and pulled up her thin skirt.

  ‘Come then, physician,’ she jeered. ‘Take your payment.’

  I recoiled visibly, then blushed scarlet with rage as her meaning became clear even to someone as slow-witted as the beer had made me that evening. I became even more confused as I wondered whether my new friends thought this was my interest in the case. More particularly, I was outraged at the way my fine gesture had been trodden in the dirt.

  ‘You disgust me,’ I said coldly as the power of speech returned. ‘How dare you behave like this? I will not remain here to be insulted. Henceforth, you may cater to your mother as you wish. But kindly do not expect me to return to this house and subject myself to your presence. Good night.’

  Then I turned round and boldly marched out, even managing – just – to avoid slamming the thin door as I left.

  I am more than susceptible to female charms, some might even say overly so, and in my youth I was not averse to taking my pleasures wherever they might arise. But this was not one of those cases. I had treated her mother out of kindness and to have my motives and intentions so abused was intolerable. Even if such was the form of payment I had in mind, it was certainly not the girl’s place to talk to me in that fashion.

  Seething with fury, I marched away from her hovel – more convinced than before that the girl was as corrupt and foul as her living accommodation. To the devil with her mother, I thought. What sort of woman could she be, to have spawned such a hellish monstrosity? A scrawny little wretch, I told myself, forgetting I had earlier thought of her as pretty. And even if she was beautiful, what of it? The devil himself can take on beauty, so we are told, to corrupt mankind.

  On the other hand, a little voice in the back of my mind was whispering critical words into my ear. So, it said, you will kill the mother to have your revenge on the daughter. Well done, physician; I hope you are proud. But what was I meant to do? Apologise? The good San Rocca might be capable of such charity. But he was a saint.

  Those who have some inkling that my command of the English language by this stage was adequate but by no means sophisticated are no doubt thinking that I am a fraud in recounting my conversations. I admit my English was not good enough to present complex ideas, but then I had no need to. Certainly, in conversations with such as the Blundy girl, I had to do my best in English; although their manner of speaking wa
s usually sufficiently uncomplicated that I could manage perfectly well. With others, the conversation switched as occasion required from Latin and sometimes even French, the English of quality being renowned as linguists of considerable attainment, with a frequent ability in foreign tongues which many other peoples – above all, the Germans – could do well to emulate.

  Lower, for example, was perfectly at ease in Latin and managed a passable French; Boyle could, in addition, manage Greek and spoke a dainty Italian as well as having a smattering of German. Now I fear Latin is passing out of use, to the detriment of our Republic; for how will men of learning manage when they sacrifice conversation with their equals and have only the ability to talk to their ignorant countrymen?

  But then I felt safe in my place, surrounded, as I thought, by gentlemen who brushed aside the prejudices of lesser men. That I was a Roman Catholic occasioned no more than the occasional barbed joke from Lower, whose love of fun sometimes overbalanced into the offensive, and not even that from the pious Boyle, who was as mindful of others’ faith as he was fervent in his own. Even a Mussulman or a Hindoo would have been welcomed at his table, I sometimes think, as long as he was pious and showed an interest in experiment. Such an attitude is rare in England, and this bigotry and suspicion are the most serious flaws in a nation which has many faults. Fortunately, my associations meant that I was sheltered initially from its effects, beyond an occasional insult or stone thrown at me in the street when I began to be known.

  I should say that Lower was the first man I considered my friend since my infancy, and I fear I misunderstood the English in this respect. When a Venetian calls a man his friend, he does so after long thought, as to accept such a person is all but to make him a member of the family, owed much loyalty and forbearance. We die for our friends as for our family, and value them as did Dante: noi non potemo aver perfetta vita senza amici – a perfect life needs friends. Such friendships are justly celebrated among the ancients, as Homer lauds the bond between Achilles and Patroclus, or Plutarch the amity of Theseus and Perithoos. But it was rare among the Jews, for in the Old Testament I find few friends, except David and Jonathan, and even here, David’s obligation is not so great that he refrains from killing Jonathan’s son. Like most of my station, I had had childhood companions, but put these by me when the obligations of family descended as an adult, for they are a heavy burden. The English are very different; they have friends at all stages of their lives, and maintain a distinction between the obligations of amity and those of blood. By taking Lower to my heart as I did – for I never encountered anyone so close to me in spirit or in interest – I made the mistake of assuming he did the same with me, and acknowledged the same obligations. But it was not the case. The English can lose their friends.

  Then such sad knowledge was unsuspected, and I concentrated on repaying my friends for their kindness and, at the same time, advancing my knowledge through assisting Boyle in his chemical experiments, having long and fruitful conversations at all hours and times with Lower and his associates. Although he was serious of demeanour, Boyle’s elaboratory positively bubbled with good humour except when work was about to take place, for he considered experiment to be the discovery of God’s work and to be performed with reverence. When an experiment was to begin, all women were excluded for fear their irrational natures would influence the result, and an air of fervent concentration descended. My task was to take notes on experiments as they happened, to assist in setting up equipment, and to keep accounts, for he spent a fortune on his science. He used – and often broke – specially made glass bottles, and the leather tubes, pumps and lenses he required all consumed huge amounts of money. Then there was the cost of chemicals, many of which had to be brought from London or even Amsterdam. There can be few prepared to spend that much to produce so little in obviously advantageous result.

  I must here declare myself as someone who does not for a moment subscribe to the general view that a willingness to perform oneself is detrimental to the dignity of experimental philosophy. There is, after all, a clear distinction between labour carried out for financial reward, and that done for the improvement of mankind: to put it another way, Lower as a philosopher was fully my equal even if he fell away when he became the practising physician. I think ridiculous the practice of certain professors of anatomy, who find it beneath them to pick up the knife themselves, but merely comment while hired hands do the cutting. Sylvius would never have dreamt of sitting on a dais reading from an authority while others cut – when he taught, the knife was in his hand and the blood spattered his coat. Boyle also did not scruple to perform his own experiments and, on one occasion in my presence, even showed himself willing to anatomise a rat with his very own hands. Nor was he less a gentleman when he had finished. Indeed, in my opinion, his stature was all the greater, for in Boyle wealth, humility and curiosity mingled, and the world is the richer for it.

  ‘Now,’ Boyle said when Lower turned up in mid-afternoon and we took a break from our work, ‘it is time for Cola here to earn the pittance I am paying him.’

  This alarmed me, as I had been labouring hard for at least two hours and I wondered whether perhaps I was doing something wrong, or if Boyle had not noticed my efforts. But rather, he wanted me to sing for my supper, as the phrase goes. I was there not only to learn from him, but also to teach him, such was the marvellous humility of the man.

  ‘Your blood, Cola,’ Lower said to relieve my anxiety. ‘Tell us about your blood. What have you been up to? What experimentations are your conclusions based on? What are your conclusions, in fact?’

  ‘I’m very much afraid I am going to disappoint you,’ I began hesitantly when I saw they were not to be diverted. ‘My researches are scarcely advanced. I am mainly interested in the question of what the blood is for. We have known for thirty years that it circulates around the body; your own Harvey showed that. We know that if you drain an animal of its blood, it dies rapidly. The vital spirits in it are the means of communication between the mind and the force of mobility, permitting movement to take place . . .’

  Here Lower wagged his finger. ‘Ah, you have fallen too much under the influence of Mr Helmont, sir. There we will be in dispute.’

  ‘You do not accept this?’

  ‘I do not. Not that it matters, at the moment. Please continue.’

  I regrouped my forces and rethought my approach. ‘We believe,’ I started, ‘we believe that it moves heat from the ferment of the heart to the brain, thus providing the warmth we need to live, then vents the excess into the lungs. But is that really the case? As far as I know, no experiments have proved this. The other question is simple: why do we breathe? We assume that it is to regulate the body heat, to draw in cool air and thus moderate the blood. Again, is that true? Although the tendency to breathe more often when we exercise indicates this, the converse is not true, for I placed a rat in a bucket of ice and stopped its nose, but it died none the less.’

  Boyle nodded, and Lower looked as though he wanted to put some questions, but as he could see I was concentrating and trying to present my case well, he obligingly refrained from interrupting.

  ‘The other thing that has struck me is the way in which the blood changes consistency. Have you noticed, for example, that it alters colour after passing through the lungs?’

  ‘I confess I have not,’ Lower replied thoughtfully. ‘Although of course I am aware that it changes colour in a jar. But we know why, surely? The heavier melancholic elements in the blood sink, making the top lighter and the bottom darker.’

  ‘Not so,’ I said firmly. ‘Cover the jar, and the colour does not change. And I can find no explanation of how such a separation could occur in the lungs. But when it emerges from the lungs – at least, this is the case in cats – it is very much lighter in colour than when it goes in, indicating that some darkness is withdrawn from it.’

  ‘I must cut up a cat and see for myself. A live cat, was it?’

  ‘It was for a while. It m
ay well be that some other noxious elements leave the blood in the lungs, are sucked out by passage through the tissue, as through a sieve, and are then exhaled. The lighter blood is purified substance. We know, after all, that the breath often smells.’

  ‘And did you weigh the two cups of blood to see if they had changed weight?’ Boyle asked.

  I flushed slightly, as the thought had never even occurred to me. ‘Clearly this would be a next step,’ Boyle said. ‘It may be, of course, a waste of time, but it might be an avenue to explore. A minor detail, though. Please continue.’

  Having made such an elementary omission, I felt unwilling to continue and lay out my more extreme flights of fancy. ‘If one concentrates on the two hypotheses,’ I said, ‘there is the problem of testing to see which is correct: does the blood shed something in the lungs, or gain something?’

  ‘Or both,’ Lower added.

  ‘Or both,’ I agreed. ‘I was thinking of an experiment, but had neither the time nor the equipment in Leiden to pursue my ideas.’

  ‘And that was . . .?’

  ‘Well,’ I began, a little nervously, ‘if the purpose of breathing is to expel heat and the noxious by-products of fermentation, then the air itself is unimportant. So if we placed an animal in a vacuum . . .’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Boyle said, with a glance at Lower. ‘You would like to use my vacuum pump.’

  In fact, the idea had not occurred to me before I spoke. Curiously, Boyle’s pump was of such fame I had scarcely given it a thought since I had arrived in Oxford, as I had never dreamt of the possibility of using it myself. The machine was of such sophistication, grandeur and expense that it was known to people of curiosity throughout Europe. Now, of course, such devices are well enough known; then there were perhaps only two in the whole of Christendom, and Boyle’s was the better, so ingenious in design that no one had managed to reproduce it – or the results he attained. Naturally, its use was rationed very carefully. Few were even allowed to see it in operation, let alone employ it, and it was forward of me even to bring the subject up. I hardly dared risk a refusal; I had set myself the task of ingratiating myself into his confidence, and a rebuff now would have been hurtful.