The Willow King

by Meelis Friedenthal

  One of the students raised his hand to ask a question, his voice stammering from excitement. “Sorry, but will we be discussing the circulation of blood? And what is your position on the location of the soul? Will we cover the subject of blood as a substance which carries the life force around the body?”

  For a moment, Professor Sjöbergh appeared to be lost in thought. But then, seeming to ignore the student’s question, he turned to Laurentius and asked, “You’re from Leiden, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Laurentius replied, with a nod.

  “Then you will definitely be familiar with the idea that the soul is located in the pineal gland?”

  “That is the Cartesians’ view, yes. But I am sure that it is a mistaken one.”

  “So you are a Platonist, then?”

  “No. I am indeed an adherent of the Philosopher,” Laurentius conceded, realizing that this would put him in a rather difficult position. From the way the auditorium had responded to the lecture it was clear that no one had much respect for Aristotle in these parts any more. His advocates tended to be old-fashioned bookworm types who had been educated in the old style and could not countenance the experimental method at all. Laurentius knew from his own experience in Leiden the kinds of disputes this question could provoke.

  “Ah, so do you believe that he is correct to posit that the soul is the body’s form?” Sjöbergh enquired in a slightly mocking tone.

  Laurentius had a quick glance around and started trying to defend his position. “Is the soul not the actuality of the body? That is why we do not find the soul when we dissect a person’s body, because a dead body is no longer an actual person. We can slice the body up into lots of little pieces, but we won’t find the soul, because it simply isn’t there any more. But anyone who is alive experiences an aching within his soul sometimes, does he not? We are alive, and can therefore feel our souls inside us.”

  Peter took his turn: “I’m sure that the anatomical theatre will illuminate this matter for us. Perhaps Master Hylas has already sliced up lots of corpses and is therefore fully convinced of his positions, but experience teaches better than words, and experience is precisely what we need. After all, what else is theatre but an experience?”

  He bowed, and then turned to Laurentius and smiled, making it clear that his interjection shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

  Professor Sjöbergh turned to the student who had initially asked the question. “I am sure that we will be able to discuss those questions during the disputation.” He nodded in Laurentius’ direction. “Perhaps Master Hylas could produce an overview of the relevant theories? But be sure not to leave the problems of blood and the pineal gland unaddressed, otherwise your fellow students may ask you some very awkward questions.”

  Sjöbergh’s request was not in itself unusual. Students who had arrived from further afield often had to establish their reputations—by proving their debating skills and their knowledge of Latin, for example. Laurentius’ educational background certainly played a role here—being from Leiden he was expected to be better versed in some matters than the other students, who were mostly from the provinces. But the decisive factor was probably that Dimberg had shown the other professors his disputation, ‘On Fascination’. Sjöbergh clearly thought that Laurentius was competent enough to present the latest views to the other students. In any case, a trial disputation of this sort normally only consisted of an overview written by the presiding professor himself, words which he had put into the student’s mouth. Sometimes that could be the only way for the professor to express radical ideas which might conflict with those generally accepted at the academy.

  “I would be happy to write on that subject, presuming of course that I can have recourse to Professor Sjöbergh’s personal expertise, and of course his excellent library,” replied Laurentius, accepting the proposal.

  “Naturally,” said Sjöbergh. “Come to see me at lunchtime today and we can discuss the matter further. But you should bear in mind that you will have to cover the printing costs yourself. We shan’t be able to make any exceptions in your case, especially given current circumstances.”

  FRIDAY LUNCHTIME

  IT WAS NOW RAINING SO HEAVILY that none of the students dared to venture outside, and they had gathered on the ground floor of the academy, where they were busy talking among themselves.

  “I don’t know; doesn’t look like it’s going to ease off any time soon,” said Peter with a sigh as he looked outside at the river of rainwater flowing down the street. “If we just stay here waiting for it to stop then no one will get home before evening.”

  Laurentius shrugged his shoulders.

  “There’s a decent tavern across the street, right behind the church—we could go to have something to eat in there, and they serve coffee too, or at least they did yesterday. We could all do with some of that now,” Peter continued with a knowledgeable air. The others nodded before rushing en masse through the door, holding their hats firmly pressed onto their heads with one hand. They splashed through the rainwater with their capes flapping behind them, round the corner and straight through the door of the first building they came to. Laurentius ran with them, pushing the large door of the tavern open to arrive in a warm room which smelt of coffee. In this town of tall, narrow, medieval buildings nearly every staircase led to some sort of tavern. Some citizens had also obtained a brewing licence from the city, and sold food and drink from the ground floors of their own homes. Peter explained that there were yet to be any proper coffee shops in Dorpat, but there were certain places where one could drink it. Laurentius was not overly surprised to hear him speak of Dorpat coffee culture. If opera had already arrived there, there was no reason why coffee should not have too. In any case, it was a welcome discovery, as he had already grown accustomed to drinking coffee back in Holland, and he had been expecting Dorpat to be a much more provincial kind of place.

  Laurentius gave his face a quick wipe with his wet hands, and sat down at a table by the window with the other students.

  “One pipe and a coffee, please,” he said to the girl who came up to the table. “...with sugar,” he added after pausing for thought. The others ordered themselves drinks of various descriptions, shouting rowdily over one another, and a long discussion ensued over what they might order to eat.

  Laurentius sat looking out of the window, waiting for his coffee to arrive in trepidation, unsure what it might taste like in Dorpat. In Holland they tended to make coffee in long-handled cups, Turkish style. But there was scope for a lot of things to go wrong during preparation: it was important not to let the fine powder boil for too long, for example. In any case, he had decided it was safer to order his coffee with sugar. It might make it cloyingly sweet, but it would at least hide any unpleasant taste resulting from deficiencies in preparation. He was also afraid that otherwise it might taste disgusting, like everything else in Dorpat.

  Peter and the short student sitting next to him had started arguing about something, switching smoothly over to the Elfdalian dialect of their home region, which Laurentius only understood a few words of. But he got the impression that they were discussing financial matters. He tried to follow the conversation for a while, but eventually turned away to look out of the window again. Rainwater was streaming down the thick glass windowpanes, but he could just about make out the hazy forms of people on the street. They had their dark rain capes pulled tight around them, the hems flapping in the rain, which seemed to be even heavier than before. They were stooped forward as they struggled against the wind, hurrying to find shelter, to reach their destinations, wherever those might be. Yesterday evening, when he met Clodia, Laurentius had also had a goal. He had truly felt that he had his own will, that he could strive for something, desire something. Achieve something. But now that feeling had gone, and his thoughts were again in total disarray.

  “Who ordered the pipes?” the waitress asked.

  Laurentius smiled at her, gripped hold of his pipe, and took a deep pu
ff. The tobacco was acrid and bitter-tasting, but he carried on smoking nonetheless, hoping that together with the warmth of the room the hot smoke might hold his damp sickness at bay for a while. There was no sense in ordering anything to eat as he was already quite sure that he would not be able to swallow a single mouthful.

  “Thank you,” he said to the waitress.

  He had worked out his plan for the day as soon as he woke up, while he was still capable of thinking clearly. He had to apportion the time available to him rationally before the bile of his sickness started to rise again. There could be no risk of deviation; everything had to be predictable, certain and clear. All chance meetings and unexpected invitations would only cause more confusion and worsen his condition. He had to make a strict plan and stick to it. This was exactly the kind of forward planning which Spinoza referred to in his Ethics—the predetermined, unerring execution of local motion. Science, in other words. It was how an arrow must feel as it flies from the bow, straight to its target. The wooden stick was lifeless and lacked a soul, but forward momentum took it inexorably to the point at which it was aimed. One could determine the precise spot which the tip would pierce in advance—the arrow’s own will had no influence on that at all. But yesterday evening he had had his own goal. He had been more than just a mechanical force set into motion, like Kircher’s automated organ. He had really felt he had his own free will; he had experienced a feeling akin to freedom. Was it possible for the arrow to come to a standstill in mid-flight, to snap in two from the strain and lose its grey goose-feather tail? To waver, to veer off course, to do something other than arrive unerringly at the predetermined target? Yesterday evening he had felt that it was.

  “What do you think of the disputation topic which Sjöbergh proposed?” Peter asked, apparently having successfully concluded the argument with his neighbour.

  Laurentius shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve actually written a number of disputations already—not for assessment, just for practice. But I’ve no idea how good his library is. It could be difficult to produce an overview of the latest trends in thinking without access to the right literature.”

  “As far as I know he’s got a good selection of the latest writing,” Peter said. “But that Sjöbergh of ours is secretly a dedicated Cartesian... You’ll see that for yourself shortly—he’s sure to have all the books you need.”

  “So does he lend out his books?” Laurentius asked in surprise.

  “It has been known,” Peter replied.

  That certainly improved the situation a little. Given the state he was in, Laurentius found the thought of trying to work at someone else’s house a little daunting. All the more so if the household was a large one. It could end up being more of a social visit than an opportunity for academic research. There were some students who deliberately used that kind of research assignment to set themselves up in the professor’s home. At least then they didn’t need to worry about where their meals were coming from.

  “Where does he live anyway?” Laurentius asked.

  “Right here behind the academy. Lunch tends to be pretty good at his place; I’ve been there a few times myself,” Peter replied.

  He then started to divulge his knowledge about which of the professors had a reputation for feeding their students. He had already been in Dorpat for a while, which meant that he was already well informed about the various local characters. He knew which of the professors stubbornly maintained a distance from their students and never invited them to their homes, making it clear that they would never be seen in such dubious company. And there was another category of professors who occasionally invited people to their homes, but provided scant food and nothing more than weak beer to drink.

  “You can sometimes even get wine at Sjöbergh’s, if he happens to have any in. In any case, definitely best not to order anything to eat here,” explained the young man sitting next to Peter. Laurentius noticed that although his boots were falling apart, with their heels worn crooked, he was wearing a well-cut overcoat. His hat was also fashionably narrow-brimmed, folded and pinned at three points, and there was even a sodden feather poking out from it. It seemed he belonged to that band of students who spent all their state stipend and the allowance from their parents on fancy clothes and revelry, and were then forced to scrape by at their friends’ or even their professors’ expense for the rest of the year. Laurentius was sure that Peter and this student had been arguing on that very subject. Those sorts would normally end up working as private teachers. Decorum was a relative concept for them, which meant that they had a knack for getting on with people. Laurentius liked those sorts much more than the ones who abided obsessively by the rules of propriety—they were normally unjustifiably full of themselves and would brandish their swords about at so much as one wrong word. Unfortunately, however, those kinds of students made up the majority.

  He smiled and nodded in gratitude. Now, however, he had started worrying about what might happen should the food at Sjöbergh’s taste as bad as everywhere else, and how he could then maintain a polite demeanour and avoid doing anything untoward.

  “I don’t particularly enjoy going to lunches,” Laurentius explained. “I hope he won’t be offended if I go to visit him after lunch instead.”

  “Well, I don’t know... Why should he be offended? I think he probably invited you more out of politeness than anything else. But it would still be best to let him know that you can’t go,” Peter advised.

  “It would be a little odd for me to go and announce on my own behalf that unfortunately I can’t come,” Laurentius said sceptically.

  “I can go!” announced the student in the fashionable hat, perking up. “Maybe he’ll invite me in to lunch instead?”

  Peter gave him a slap on the shoulder. “You, Jonas, are just too sly.”

  Laurentius shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, why not? Tell him that I feel lousy and had to go home with fever. It’s true anyway. If it weren’t raining so hard I would have gone back to my lodgings by now. Tell him that I’ll come in the evening instead.”

  Jonas began to drain his mug of beer in large gulps. “But what do you have against the food here anyway, if I may ask? Magnus said that you didn’t eat anything at the banquet either?”

  “Really?” asked Laurentius in surprise.

  “Yes. We happened to be discussing your good self. Are you in training for winter? As far as I know all other creatures prepare for winter by eating as much as they possibly can. Or maybe you are showing your solidarity with the peasants?” Jonas asked, and burst out laughing.

  Laurentius forced a smile. “As far as I know fasting has never been considered a crime. But if I remember rightly, gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. I don’t know, is it better to prepare for winter or for death?”

  Jonas stopped laughing and shook his head. “You know it’s one thing to take care of your soul. But if that soul is no longer there inside you, then you have nothing left to care for, do you?”

  At that they all fell abruptly silent. They sat looking out of the small window at the peasants with ragged beards and shabby hats, plodding barefoot down the wet street. Notwithstanding that the guards had been ordered not to let any more ragamuffins through the city gates, there they were, shuffling along in the rain with slow heavy footsteps, hands pressed together as if in prayer, their gazes downcast. They probably hoped to find work so that they could earn enough money to buy some bread and somehow keep body and soul together. But the prospect seemed unlikely given the wretched condition they were in. Laurentius recalled the peasants he had seen who had fled starvation, and were now sprawled across the mouldy hay in the barn, waiting for food from the city. He thought of the girl whom he had given his last fever medicine to, and of her mother, who had tried to sell her body to earn money for food.

  “Yes, quite hopeless,” Laurentius said in agreement.

  He found himself wondering whether there would still be any of the medicine left, and whether it had been of any h
elp. He would now have to go to the apothecary’s again to get hold of more medicaments. After all, he had finally given the girl and her mother hope. He should go to the river to gather more willow bark; then he could go to the barn and see how they were. By going there the previous evening he had taken on an obligation. But for some unknown reason he had been feeling guilty ever since, as if he had done something wrong—committed a bad deed rather than a good one. So he had to go back. Given the weather the prospect was an unpleasant one, but there was nothing else he could do. Even if he wasn’t sure he would be able to find the right building again.

  “Incidentally, who is responsible for that barn which was set up for the peasants? I understand that they’re not normally allowed through the city gates?” Laurentius asked.

  “That’s right, they’re not allowed! But then look at this lot here!” Jonas exclaimed. He finished off his beer with a disgruntled look on his face, as if he were personally offended that there were hungry peasants loitering in the streets.

  Peter shook his head. “But I don’t think there’s more than a couple of soldiers on duty; they can only check the barn from time to time. It’s not as if they don’t have enough to worry about. Just this morning I heard from my landlady that they plan to start transporting grain from here to Sweden soon. The situation could start to turn very nasty indeed,” said Peter, sounding genuinely concerned. There were fears that if the number of starving peasants continued to grow, then the city would have to start using soldiers to restrain them. In those circumstance there was the danger of plague breaking out, and if plague reached town, it would spare no one. No matter whether student or peasant. “That barn is actually pretty far from town, Aruküla way, so they’re not likely to end up here just by chance. The city probably hopes that if there is an outbreak of disease, at least it won’t reach the citizens straight away,” Peter added.