An Elegant Solution

by Paul Robertson

“At least a little longer,” I said.

  And when she was out of the room, Little Johann came in to ask, “You’ll keep coming?”

  “As long as I can.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s right to do. I shouldn’t take lessons without paying.”

  “That’s all?”

  “It would be an exile to not come.” Of all the family, I was least sure of Little Johann’s thoughts, and all the family was an opaque set. I didn’t know if he was glad or thought me a fool. He took a covered basket from beside the hearth, opened it, and took out a plump, risen ball of dough. “I’m not gentleman enough yet to be above work.” I sighed a wistful sigh. “But I’m not sure I’ll ever wear my old hat again, even if I did have it. It might be only tricornes for me now.”

  As he began working his dough, Little Johann seemed grieved as I was. He squeezed the dough. He had such strong hands.

  Then I said, “What became of my hat, Johann? Did you lose it?”

  He stared at the dough, kneading and pressing it so hard. Then he nodded.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I have it back.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I just wonder how it came to be where I found it.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Where did you lose it?” I asked.

  “I had it from Cousin Gottlieb. I took it to the Barefoot Square to find you in the inn or the church.”

  “What happened?”

  “A gust blew it out of my hand. It was away too quick. I didn’t see where.”

  “I found it in the Square,” I said. “So it’s all right. And Johann, on your father’s desk. There’s only one letter for Daniel. The letter from Paris. The other, from Russia, is gone.”

  I stayed home that afternoon and evening. Sometimes I was driven so strongly to write that everything else fled aside, as if an angry bull were let loose in the market square. That evening my thoughts had piled so high from Saturday morning that they were riotous as the bull and the scrambling market-goers together. The quill in my hand flew tempest and my pages drifted into deep snowbanks against my books. It was a blizzard! Once I noticed a plate of supper had alit at my side, and another time I noticed it was empty, and some other moment I saw that I’d lit a candle. Or it might have spontaneously lit itself.

  And finally I dimly perceived that I was in bed and the candle was out. Saint Leonhard’s bell sounded three times. But all of that was only the visible world. In the invisible, I was still writing and every word was exact and clear.

  As I was in Mistress Dorothea’s kitchen Tueday morning, scrubbing an iron skillet, I was called upon. It was a student, Heidelmann, who clerked for the Provost, and he watched me work my elbow.

  “Your grandmother said you’d be here. That’s nothing for a student or even any man to be doing,” he said, but in friendship.

  “It’s rusted. It needs a hard hand.”

  “I have man’s work for you. I have a task from my Master, and you know who he is.”

  “I know.”

  “He wants you for an errand.”

  “Me? Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know that. So make yourself look like a young gentleman, if you can, and get over to Master Provost, and he’ll tell you what to do.”

  I could make myself look like a young gentleman, though looks were deceiving, and I could do it fast. Grandmother was curious over my summons but there was little I could tell her.

  “What would the Master Provost want with a student?” she asked.

  “To learn his lessons, pay his tuitions, and comport himself decently.”

  “Oh, Leonhard! What does he want of you?”

  “I pay my tuitions,” I said, “so it must be I’m lacking the others.”

  But I did know a few reasons the Provost might have to call a single student, and one was to be a messenger. When just the Senior members of the University met for a routine matter, they were simply sent a message the day before. It was much less picturesque a gathering than the Convention, and a single student was given the task. He was given a day for it: some score of Chairs and Deans and Officials took a few hours at least.

  So I called on the Provost at his home as soon as I was presentable. He lived not far from Magistrate Faulkner and in a similar house, though Faulkner’s had more pleasant trees and gardens. I was shown in to the front parlor and soon greeted by the Provost himself.

  He was a bit of a jovial man, once a Chair of Law, comfortable in his office, unafraid of it, and placid in its exercise. It was the Deans who saw to the affairs of their Colleges, and the Chairs who were the affairs of the Colleges. A Provost held a high position that depended on his wisdom and light touch. But there was a weight on his shoulders and duties to be performed. So he wanted me for a messenger.

  “You know the names, Leonhard,” he said. “Tell them, the faculty will come together tomorrow morning at ten.”

  “Yes, sir. For what, should I tell them?”

  “The reports of the committees. The nominations.”

  “I’ll tell them all, sir.”

  I started my door-to-door. But I couldn’t run, which was a pity, as young gentlemen didn’t, at least not when they were seen, and there were only a few streets and alleys that were empty. And I came to each door, and knocked, and said I must speak to the Master himself, and when the Master was produced, gave him the message. It wouldn’t usually be proper to demand the sight of the mighty men, but they knew that the day would have been coming soon and were expecting it. A few weren’t home so I asked when they would be, and rounded on them again. The people of Basel were in their homes much more than anywhere else, and the Masters of the houses really had little reason to leave besides church.

  The only door that worried me was my own Master’s. I could have easily come in the back and sent Little Johann up for his father, but the University had to be served in its own way. So I knocked, and Little Johann answered, and I told him I had an important message for Master Johann. Then I was let in. A gentleman wasn’t kept waiting outside, even if it was me.

  I took a seat in the front parlor, where more often I was cleaning or tending the fireplace. As always the room was in twilight. Then with no warning the door opened. I was up on my feet like a rabbit.

  Master Johann regarded me. “Sit down,” he said. His near-round face was caught somehow in a shaft of light; I hadn’t seen the light before he came in. His wig was bright white in it. “You have a message for me?”

  “Yes, sir.” I jerked up again. “The Provost requests that the faculty attend to important business at the University tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

  “Sit down.” He stood watching me. I sat down. Then he sat down. When I came on Saturday afternoons we both sat, but the table was between us, and he was already sitting. That was very different. Here, he was sitting to converse, with me. “Leonhard,” he said. “I have written a letter to Paris. It is to Monsieur Frontenelle of the Academy, to tell him that I have seen a solution of the Reciprocal Squares problem by my student, and that he should await a letter from Master Leonhard.”

  “Master Johann . . . thank you . . . thank you! I don’t how to thank you!”

  He dismissed my amazement. “The Monsieur is also an editor of the Acta Eruditorum, and I have suggested that the proof should be published.”

  I nearly fell from my seat. The Acta was the journal to which Master Johann submitted his own most important papers! It was incredible that he would consider promoting me this way.

  “I . . . but Master Johann . . .”

  “I believe your proof is worthwhile. Leonhard, you have great potential. It is time to consider plans for your future.”

  This was all beyond my greatest hopes. I’d had so many small evidences that Master Johann was favorable toward me, but many others that contradicted those. And I knew well how little he was given to selfless generosity. Yet here we sat, almost as equals, and he, the truly famed Master Johann of Basel, was
advising me for my future.

  “I’ve thought of the future,” I said, “but not of plans.”

  “Then listen to this counsel.” Oh, of course I would! “Should the Academy accept your proof,” and of course, with his recommendation they would! “or the Acta Eruditorum publish it,” and with his suggestion, how could they not? “then you will find many opportunities open to you.” Many? All! Any door would open! “I would advise you,” he said, “to choose carefully.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Of course I would want to.”

  “There are numerous positions that seem significant but great men aren’t found in them.”

  I nodded.

  “And there are other positions,” he said, “which are fewer, which great men do hold.”

  “I wouldn’t know which was which,” I said.

  “And the men in these positions recognize each other.”

  “I’m sure you must,” I said.

  “Even great ability will only raise a man to a certain level. Occupying one of these highest Chairs, holding office in one of these exceptional Academies, or attending one of these erudite Courts, is just as necessary.”

  “I’d aspire to such a position,” I said.

  “These positions are never simply given.”

  “They must be achieved?” I asked.

  “They must be negotiated.”

  “But . . . with whom?”

  He had leaned forward, slowly, as he talked. Now he leaned back and his manner changed from conspiratorial to magnanimous. “An introduction to the Royal Academy in Paris will be a step forward, and I have every hope the Secretary will receive it graciously. Now, Leonhard, the Provost and I both thank you for your service today.”

  All the bells of Basel tolled three o’clock as I walked back to my grandmother’s house. They were a cacophony but pleasant and grand and noble. I felt them calling me to noble and grand places. Then they fell silent, and their echoes circling the city dwindled. From far off, I heard the single bell of Riehen answer two o’clock, quietly.

  Later, I made a visit to the Boot and Thorn in the chance of finding Daniel, which I did. Nicolaus was there, of course. I don’t think he enjoyed the smoky dungeon any more than I did.

  “It’s all for tomorrow,” Daniel said. “Just hours.”

  “It’s a Chair,” I said, “but only a Chair. Daniel, you’re nervous as a sheep that smells a wolf.”

  “As a wolf that smells a sheep,” Nicolaus said.

  “You’ll be nominated,” I said. “I’m certain you will. And you’re certain. Be at peace.”

  “It’s a certainty that doesn’t bring peace,” Nicolaus said.

  Daniel snarled at him. “What’s that?” His anger flared, but Nicolaus was still as always. “You’d take a nomination if you could! You’d give as much as I.”

  “How much have you given?”

  Daniel shrugged him off. “He’s just jealous,” he said to me.

  “There are three nominations,” I said.

  “And two are worthless.”

  “Worthless after the stone’s drawn, or before?” Nicolaus said.

  “After,” I said. “They’re each worth the same while they’re each still in the box.”

  “Don’t under-guess Mighty Brutus,” Daniel said. “He’ll squeeze just what he wants out of that box. There’s no telling what he might do.”

  “I don’t understand you,” I said. “You seem so sure that you’ll be nominated and chosen, and you’re sure your father will be sure that you aren’t. What does it mean? And your father isn’t so vengeful as you think, anyway.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “He’s conceded my proof. He’s said he accepts it and even admires it.”

  “Brutus? He said that?”

  “To me, this morning.”

  “That’s easy enough, I suppose, when there’s no one to hear him.”

  “He says he’s sending a recommendation to Paris that I’ve solved the challenge.”

  Daniel leaned close, and even Nicolaus did, too. “But has he sent it?”

  “It’ll be on the Post to Belfort tomorrow. It will be in Paris in a week.” I couldn’t help myself, boastful as it was to say it. “And he’s recommending it to the Acta Eruditorum, as well.”

  “What? Never. It’s not the same man! You’ve been captivated by a conjurer, Leonhard. It wasn’t any member of my family who said that.”

  “Or father’s been captivated,” Nicolaus said, thoughtfully.

  “If he’s been,” Daniel said, “it’s worth guessing by whom. No, Leonhard’s the one captivated, and by Brutus.”

  “Would you want a nomination, Nicolaus?” I asked.

  “I have my Chair already in Bern, and I’m wise enough,” he said with a nod to his brother, “to not give up my own until I have something better.”

  “The nothing I have now is better than that Chair was. And you’ve neglected your Chair this past month.”

  “It will stand a rest when I have more urgent business here.”

  I asked Daniel a question. “Which part is Gottlieb of the schemes? Is he of yours or your father’s?”

  “That’s a question,” Nicolaus said. “Which is he, Daniel?”

  “We’re fire and stone,” Daniel answered. “Enemies that can’t help or hinder.”

  “And cousins, too,” I said, “who’ve been friends before.”

  “And aren’t now. Brutus won that match. But he can’t win this one. Watch, Leonhard. The committees he’s put together so carefully, he can only use to nominate me. He’s forced into it.”

  “Then when you’re nominated, you’ll be sure it’s your scheming. Oh, Daniel. I think the only man caught in your nets is yourself.”

  He laughed. “Then you’ll believe it when the lot is cast.”

  “If you win the Chair, will you take it?” Nicolaus asked.

  “What? Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Something better might come.”

  Daniel laughed again. “That would be a trick. What card might Brutus pull from his sleeve? I’ll accept he’s clever enough at the game that he might.”

  At that I left.

  I crossed the Barefoot Square, to the Barefoot Church, and sat in the back corner I preferred. I even took off my shoes; it seemed right to do so. At times the light through the windows was straight as taut string, which reminded me of the weight of the whole city which the church held up. Where the light struck was lit, and where it did not, was not.

  But other times, and this was one, the light was diffuse. It reflected and spread, seeping and merging until every spot was some mixture of glow and shadow. When I would see this, I wondered whether there was light and dark, or only lighter and darker.

  Shod, and in the Square, I stopped at the Coal Arch. The rubble was cleared all away, and the good, formed stones of the old arch were piled to be repaired and replaced. I lifted one. They were all the same, the same size and the same shape, a proper trapezoid front to back, and square on the sides where the stones rested against each other. The stone in my hands was almost as much as I could lift. A good arch would stand by just friction. There’d been mortar between these stones, but not enough to hold the arch from falling. I wondered who’d finish the stonework. Then I wondered who would make a stone for Lithicus.

  Tuesday evening I felt an odd chill in my room where I was writing. It was penetrating enough that I set down my quill, and once I had, my line of thought was broken.

  To find it I stepped out of my house. It was twilight. As I seemed to always do in these recent weeks, I walked toward the Barefoot Square, and there, took a place in the door of the church. But the chill just wrapped me more and I shivered. I heard horses and wheels. The clatter seemed more real than the actual appearance of the coach from Freiberg. Rupert the driver, always grinning, brought the carriage to a hard stop at the door of the inn, almost against it, blocking it from my view. But I was hearing, not seeing, and I heard the coach door open and
I heard black robes and black boots pass through the brief air into the inn.

  Faint as it was, I even heard the fires’ greetings inside.

  From the Barefoot Square I went on further. The chill was gone, replaced by a heat in the air like a fever. I followed through evening streets beneath the stars and past closed windows with lights like stars. In a while it led me to a garden beneath trees and a door that was closed but hospitable anyway. I knocked. It was soon answered.

  “I’m sorry for the late call,” I said. “Might I speak with Magistrate Faulkner?”

  “Come in,” I was requested, and I did. I didn’t wait long. I’d been in the room a few other times. Even in a great man’s house, in Basel the rooms are quiet and simple. But there were portraits on the wall and upholstered chairs and flowers.

  “Leonhard?” Faulkner smiled and greeted me. He was in his black coat and breeches, as I was. But his black was the purest in Basel.

  “Good evening, sir. When we met on the Wall, some days ago, you had asked me to come.”

  “It’s Tuesday night, isn’t it.” His voice was like black ink on white paper. “Did you speak to him?”

  “I only heard him get off the coach. I knew it was him. I didn’t see him.”

  “I don’t doubt you.”

  “Do you know why he is here, sir?” I asked.

  “Yes, I do. Were you born in Basel, Leonhard?”

  “Yes, sir. Though my father took me to Riehen soon after.”

  “I remember when your father left the city. I hope someday he would return.”

  “I don’t know if he ever will. He visits, of course.”

  “Yes, he’s close. But outside. Basel is separate from Riehen and from everywhere else.” He was musing, and I’d never before known him to be indirect or to wander. “But the outside is very close. Riehen is close, and the Empire is close, and France is close.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and stood. He opened the door for me.

  “Thank you, Leonhard. He may leave on the morning coach, but he will soon return. Tell me what you see of him.”

  “I will, sir.” So, then I understood the danger to Basel. At least, I understood what Magistrate Faulkner and Master Gottlieb believed was the danger to Basel. I’d already known the true danger, which they didn’t know.