Doctor Mirabilis

by James Blish

  But he was unable to go back to his fair copy now, inviting though all that virgin parchment was, and imperative though it was to have the work ready to be sent to Paris before this month was over. Instead, he moved suddenly to sponge off the face of the sheet which had carried his outline for the work; and on this, while Oxford slept the midday sleep outside his hot, still cell, he began slowly to write down a letter to himself, beginning.

  i: Robt Grosseteste has left Oxenford.

  He had only slowly become aware of what it was Grosseteste had been about during his long meditative convalescence, and had been even slower to connect it with those few words of mysterious promise spoken to him by the lector during the winter of the death. Doubtless Adam had known all about it, but he had said nothing; in the meantime, Roger had been left tacitly to understand that his new privilege as a teacher of Aristotle – now much threatened by the arrival of Richard Fishacre, a frighteningly learned master who had brought with him a new translation by Michael Scot, with commentaries by Averroes – was the whole sense to be read in that sickbed adumbration. It had certainly seemed sufficient at the time; to Roger’s elation, he had become the first man ever to teach at Oxford before entering upon his secular mastership in the Faculty of Arts; and he had made much of the opportunity, so that after the passage of less than two years the students crowded into his classes (some of them, no doubt, there simply to hear him say something outrageous, as under the prompting of the self he occasionally, helplessly did, but most to hear the new knowledge discoursed by the only regent master in Oxford who had it at his fingertips.)

  All of which had been so enormously satisfying that he had neglected to think, until last year, of where he might hope to go next, even putting off as of no special urgency the question of whether or not to read for the Faculty of Theology. Certainly it had never entered his head that the now inaccessible Grosseteste might have been engaged in politicking, even of a peculiar and limited kind; Adam Marsh, yes – though Adam appeared to hate any involvement with the powerful, there was something in his nature which drew the powerful to him with almost the force of love – but certainly never the lector. Besides, Roger had been too busy; preparing his lectures, gratifying though it was, multiplied the difficulty of becoming Master of Arts, which, in these last two years, involved the explication of exceedingly difficult texts and rigorous practical training in disputation; and his unwelcome, unavoidable involvement in Adam’s outside affairs had further deprived him of contemplation when – as he now saw, but perhaps too late –he had stood most in need of it.

  And then, after a lapse of years, Grosseteste again called Roger and Adam Marsh to his study and unleashed his levin.

  ‘Roger, I’ve seen too little of thee,’ he said without preamble, ‘but thou wilt understand when I tell thee that I mean now to assume the bishopric of Lincoln which Adam and the King alike have been urging on me. Hence, I must leave Oxford; the next lector to the Franciscans will be magister Hugo, as Adam knows; thou wilt approve, Roger, I ne mislike.’

  ‘Yes,’ Roger said faintly, stunned.

  ‘Good. Now I must tell thee what work I’ve been about since Adam first brought thee to me as a stripling. I’ve said naught of it before, it being mischancy and far too far in the balance; but the finger of God hath been on me since mine illness, o happy accident! and now it must all be broached, and brought into flower. I’ve been conspiring all these years with Philip the Chancellor to bring about the restoration of the University of Paris, and in particular, to see that blind prohibition of Aristotle rescinded there. In large, we’ve succeeded; but who’ll teach Aristotle in Paris now? There they’ve no students grown in him, let alone a master. Yet we have such a master to send them, Roger. Wilt thou go?’

  Roger could say nothing at all; he felt as taken up out of his waters as a little fish in a net; yet, at the same time, the brand was alight again in his breast as burningly as ever in his and more, more.

  ‘That’s early asked, Capito,’ Adam said, eyeing Roger with what seemed to be amusement. ‘Let be a while; I ken our Roger better thilke days, and the dose is heavy.’

  I wis it well,’ Grosseteste said, nodding gravely. ’Say on, then; wilt have it so, Roger?’

  ‘Please,’ Roger said. ‘I’m lost as lost may be.’

  ‘Spoken like a Platonist,’ Adam said, still with that slight gleam of amusement. ‘Knowest thou then, Roger: Philip the Chancellor would have us provide him a book from Aristotle, new-written, which he might send the Pope as evidence of the uses of learning; the subject to be the postponement of old age. We’ve promised him just such a work, but are in some straits as to who shall have the writing of it. We are too busy both to compose any such book in a useful period of time, nor are we as perfect Aristotelians as we’d like. John Blund is gone from us, poor wight, and our saintly Edmund Rich is Archbishop of Canterbury in his stead. There’s to come to us next year a great master named Richard Fishacre, but alack, that’s next year and not now. Whom have we but thee?’

  Whom indeed? – Roger’s own silent argument at the sickbed now turned upon him.

  ‘Which should be naught but to thy liking, Roger, an I read thee right,’ Grosseteste added. ‘There’s scholarship in thy blood, as is plain to see, not only in thee, but eke in our Dominican frater Robert.’

  ‘The eminent Robert’s no kin of mine,’ Roger said, for sheer want of knowing what else to say; he a little welcomed the diversion. ‘The name is very common, Master. I’ve a brother Robert, ‘tis true, but he’s no scholar; my younger brother Eugene may become a scholar in time, by God’s will.’

  ‘Well enough; but not to the point,’ Adam said. ‘Wilt thou undertake the book? Thou canst make free of my library, and Master Grosseteste’s, where there’s sure to be much thou might simply copy for better speed; yet, harm there’d be none were it to be a work of some substance in the art of medicine, for Gregory’s much enfeebled as thou knowst, and the next Pope may be hardly so great a friend of universities.’

  ‘That being so,’ Roger said, ‘why not thy Dominican physician, Master Grosseteste? I know naught of medicine—’

  ‘And John de St. Giles knows naught of Aristotle,’ Grosseteste said, ‘and being rusty in disputation, writes but slowly and that with a club foot. Nay, Roger, Adam is right; thou canst consult with John to thy profit, I ne doubt, but thou art the man an thou’lt grasp the nettle. The burden’s great, I grant thee, but why else did the lord God give shoulders to His children?’

  ‘I know not,’ Roger said. ‘But thus I’ll answer you, my Masters: certes, I’ll write you your book, but Paris is a second question which I must abide. In all this time I’ve thought myself to be reading, when the time came, for a doctorate in theology, as is small secret anywhere in Oxford. Moreover, I’ve much in mind to study in the natural sciences, and where in Paris would I find …

  Here he faltered and found himself unable to continue. Grosseteste would soon leave Oxford to be charged with the largest diocese in England, reaching from the Humber to the Thames. Where in the world would Roger find another master in those sciences, even at Oxford? It was not a subject that interested Adam greatly, despite the younger man’s mathematical bent.

  ‘But to what purpose, Roger?’ Grosseteste said. ‘’Tis always and only the end in view which doth condemn or purify. True that the arts help purge us of error and guide to perfection mends aspectus et qffectus; yet belle are they that well of water dug by Isaac called Esdon, signifying contention. But the scientiae lucrativae, as medicine, the two laws, alchemy – they signify enmity, puteus, qui vocatur Satan, quod est nomen diaboli.’

  ‘From thee this is a hard saying’ Roger said, ‘that art first in all the world hi the librinaturake

  ‘But the purpose, Roger! Dost thou wish to preach, then the sciences be well enough, after thou art become a theologian; but thou knowest well that many learned men wis not how to preach ne wish to; they whore after such sciences as will add to their riches or repute; one s
tudying medicine to cure the sick and be made wealthy, or raise the dead and be called a magician; another alchemy, to make heavenly what’s naturally impure, yet without a dram of piety; another music, to cast out demons; another wonders, such as stars, winds, lightning, beasts, stones, trees, and all else that appeareth wonderful to men’s gaze. Yet, theology is first among all studies, through which a man might know all such marvels better and more notably – not for vain glory and worldly wealth, but for the salvation of souls.’

  ‘Master Grosseteste, well I ween all knowledge to be theology’s handmaiden,’ Roger said haltingly. ‘Nor do I run after knowledge for greed or pomposity, but out of the lust to know, which I count holy. Even in the Proverbs be we commanded to love wisdom for its own sake; for whatever is natural to man, whatever becoming, whatever useful, whatever magnificent, including the knowledge of God, is altogether worthy to be known, integritas eorum quae ad sapientiam completam requiruntur. No more can I answer thee’

  For a moment, Grosseteste seemed taken aback; then he smiled gently. ‘Which will suffice for the present,’ he said. ‘We’ll not compel thee to Paris, Roger, an it be not thy will and desire. Only be not hasty-firm in thy choice, which thou mayst repent no matter how it goeth. Enough for now that thou’lt give us a book for Philip de Greve—’

  ‘How long a book?’ Roger said with new, sudden misgiving.

  ‘How long is a book?’ Adam asked reasonably. ‘No longer than the subject; that’s all that’s proper. Put down what’s known of the postponement of old age – which is next to nothing, surely – and such conjectures as thou thinkest worthy so to dignify. A fair summary of Aristotle on thilke subject will be thy meat, and all else be subject to thy discretion.’

  ‘There be books of Scripture a copyist with a fine hand might encompass with a single sheet,’ Grosseteste said. ‘Should what thou’lt add to Aristotle be no more than that, none could think ill of thee on that account; though I hope that thine ambition will let itself be bolder.’

  And deep in Roger’s heart came again the voiceless whisper of the self: Thou kennst me over-well, Seynt Robert.

  And there it was, awaiting the copyist whiling his day’s pittance of working time on a letter to himself: Greece, Rome, Chaldea, Arabia, Zion; fire, air, earth, water; Aristotle, Galen, Avicenna, Rhazes, Haly Regalis, Isaac, Ahmed, Haly super Tegni, Damascenius; cold, heat, moisture, dryness; aloes, balsam of Gilead and Engedi, basil, wild cabbage, calamint, camomile, wild carrot, cassia, the greater celandine, cinnamon, saffron, dittany, elder, fennel, fumitory, hellebore, hound’s tongue, mace, marjoram, myrobalan, olea, penny-royal, pomegranate, radish, rhubarb; blood, phlegm, yellow bile, black bile; the seven occulta, ambergris of the whale, the pearls of Paracelsus, the skin of vipers, the long-lived anthros or rosemary, Galen’s body heat of the healthy animal (whether child or fat puppy), the bone which forms in the stag’s heart, the fat underflesh of dragons; and the precious incorruptible underground sunlight of gold, that aurum potabile which being itself perfect induceth perfection in the living frame ….

  The copyist looked away; the quill scratched; the letters flowed slowly and formed in small clots:

  ii: Marlsco will have us alle politick’g, scilicet the Capito & that Roher card Bachon, inside a xii-month.

  This was not a new thought, for he had scarcely escaped from within the breastwork and bastion of Westminster Hall that furious April of 1235, more than a year ago, before the self was whispering it; yet, he was no more comfortable with it now than he had ever been.

  At first he had thought he had been reprieved. He had expected to be hailed by Adam ex studio to the King’s proclaimed parliament with his surly barons; and though he had never before been to London, the prospect did not gratify him – one exchange with Henry had been more than enough for Roger. But for reasons unknown, Adam went alone to the 1234 meeting, which apparently had proven as unproductive of earls and barons as had the Oxford conclave.

  Not long after that began the rebellion of Richard earl-Marshal. There was hardly a sign of it in Oxford, where nothing of moment was going on but the establishment by the King of a hospital for pilgrims and the sick, near the bridge; but the roads became less safe than ever, and in the north and in Ireland the whole countryside was said to be smoking with pillage and slaughter. At the beginning of November the whole of England was assaulted by thunderstorms more clamorous and violent than any man could remember, so that the serfs began again to mutter that old saw, ‘Weep not for death of husband or childer, but rather for the thunder’; and on St. Catherine’s Day, November twenty-fifth, the King’s forces met Richard’s before Monmouth in a battle that left the earth deep in slaughtered foreigners, yet gained the earl-Marshal nothing except to preserve him a while. There was another such blood-letting on Christmas Day, equally indecisive; and the word from elsewhere in the kingdom was that the holdings and estates of the rebels were being vengefully put to the torch and their people cut down, freemen and serfs alike, by French-speaking bands with letters from Henry, It was not a good season for pilgrimages.

  Yet, by March, Adam had brought Roger warning to prepare to attend at Westminster, where the King on the ninth of April would at long last have the assemblage of his full court, saving only those who still cleaved to the earl-Marshal and to de Burgh. The meeting had evidently been arranged by Edmund Rich, perhaps the only man in England still fully trusted by both sides. Roger was not overjoyed, nor did the possibility of seeing his London brother after the meeting was over tempt him even slightly; but Grosseteste would be there, since he was soon to be elevated to the bishopric, vacated by Edmund a year before; and Adam would have no other familiar with him but Roger, which ended any argument Roger was empowered to offer to the contrary.

  The trip to London was long, and Adam had seemed both elated and secretive about some matter which, since he could not penetrate it, soon had Roger miserable with mixed curiosity and boredom; attempts to produce conversation on any other subject ran up against the blank wall of Adam’s preoccupation:

  ‘Adam, what thinkest thou of the intelketus agens? Of the nature of it?’

  ‘Hmmm? Why, ‘tis the raven of Elias.’

  ‘But the raven was not of Elias himself. What is the signification? That the active intellect is more of God than of man?’

  ‘No, not exactly.’ And that was all. Or:

  ‘Whom shall we see at Westminster? Hath thy friend de Montfort been confirmed in the earldom of Leicester?’

  ‘Yes, two years ago. Nay, not properly confirmed, but the land and appurtenances of his father were conveyed to him.’

  ‘Then we shall see him?

  ‘Nay, an God willeth. He’s abroad, I trust, or else will need to be.’

  Obviously nothing was to be learned from such scraps of enigmas, and Roger had retreated, at first sullenly, then with an increasing preoccupation of his own, into the interior composition of the Liber de retardation, about the possibility of which he was then only beginning to become aroused; and so they jogged the rest of the way in a mutual silence, broken only by the commonplaces of journeying, of which Adam seemed wholly unaware and to which Roger eventually became quite accustomed.

  London itself had proven to be overwhelmingly like a gigantic Ilchester in the midst of a perpetual market day, a seemingly endless labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys choked with stinking ordure and with stinking people. The rain, which fell every day and night that Roger was in London, did not the slightest good, for it was accompanied by no slightest breath of April breeze; the stench simply rose a little distance and then hung in the fog, refusing to disperse, while below on the cobbles, the sludge thrown down from the second-storey windows was spattered impartially upon walls and pedestrians alike by every passing horseman. Like sin, such filth was the common situation of humanity, but Roger had never before encountered either in so sensible a concentration.

  It was better as they approached the Hall, which stood directly along the Thames; for though the river i
tself sublimed into the air the miasma of the grandest Cloaca Maxima of them all, here at least the air could distinctly be felt to be in motion. Nevertheless, by the time he and Adam were left alone in their separate cells in the palace, Roger was more than ready for the spring bath with which he had already planned to conclude the long trip.

  What he had expected to follow upon their arrival he could not have said, but in fact, there was nothing of any moment. They had reached the. Hall early in the afternoon, and Roger spent the rest of daylight prowling his cell. Occasionally, a distant sennet announced the arrival of one of the barons and his suite; on each such occasion, Roger halted his pacing and looked out his one window, but for the most part there was nothing to see but fog; when, once or twice, the fog lifted slightly, nothing but the river. The day, a dim and depressing one even at high noon, died early, obviously of suffocation. A man came with a lit rush and touched it to two tapers beside Roger’s low wooden bed –even inside the cell the air was so moist that both flames showed haloes only five paces away – and then there was another long wait. Part of this he was able to fill as a matter of course with the prayers appropriate for the hours; but he was able to go no further with the book on old age without writing materials, and perhaps could have accomplished as little with them, for he discovered that away from his references he could not call a single quotation to mind with surety – either something had abruptly gone wrong with his memory or (the self suggested with its usual exacerbating abruptness) his memory had never had the true scholar’s infinite retentiveness for the letter of the text. The simple attempt to choose the least unattractive of these two new appearances made him feel slightly motion-sick, like a child taken trotting for the first time; and as the hours lengthened, the giddiness seeped down into his knees and began to transform itself implacably into panic.