"An Instance of the Fingerpost" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pears Iain)

4

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 onto 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 go back 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 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.

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 dutiful-ness 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, nonetheless, 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.

It was a long and distasteful business to remove the bandage, 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 does go against orthodox practice, I know, and the willingness to allow the vapors 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 leaned over and protectively tucked her mother in, then, with a surprising gentleness, stroked the old woman’s hair into place.

“I’d been planning to do that anyhow,” she said.

“And now you’ll 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 misspoke. 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 reestablish 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 farther. 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 were beautiful, what of it? The devil himsel#237; can become 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? Apologize? 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 was 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 of 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 is the most serious flaw 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 amid—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 demeanor, Boyle’s elaboratory positively bubbled with good humor except when work was about to take place, for he considered experiment to be the discovery of God’s will, needing 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 labor 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 practicing 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 anatomize 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 midafter-noon 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 laboring hard for at least two hours and I wondered whether perhaps I was doing something wrong, or 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 marvelous 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,” 1 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 rapidly dies. 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 proven 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 nonetheless.”

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 color after passing through the lungs?”

“I confess I have not,” Lower replied thoughtfully. “Although of course I am aware that it changes color 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 color 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 color 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 may 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 byproducts 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’d 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. The last thing I wanted was a refusal; I had set myself the task of ingratiating myself into his confidence, and a rebuff now would have been hurtful.

But, all was well. Boyle thought the matter over a while and then nodded. “And how might you proceed?”

“A mouse or a rat would do,” I said. “Even a bird. Put it in the bell and extract the air. If the purpose of respiration is to vent fumes, then a vacuum will provide more space for the exhalations, and the animal will live more easily. If respiration requires air to be sucked into the blood, then the vacuum might make the animal ill.”

Boyle thought it over and nodded. “Yes,” he said eventually. “A good idea. We can do it now, if you like. Why not, indeed? Come along. The machine is prepared, so we can start immediately.”

He led the way into the next room, in which many of his finest experiments had taken place. The pump, one of the most artistic devices I had seen, stood on the table. For those who do not know it, then I suggest they consult the fine engravings in his opera completa; here I will merely say that it was an elaborate device of brass and leather with a handle connected to a large glass bell and a set of valves through which, propelled by a pair of bellows, the air could be made to pass in one direction, but not the other. By the use of this, Boyle had already demonstrated some marvels, including the disproval of Aristotle’s dictum that nature abhors a vacuum. As he said in a rare moment of jest, nature may not like it, but if pushed will be made to put up with it. A vacuum—an area of space voided entirely of content—can indeed be created and possesses many strange qualities. As I examined the machine carefully, he told me how a ringing bell placed in a glass chamber will stop making sound as the vacuum is created around it; the more perfect the vacuum, the less the sound. He said he had .even constructed an explanation for the occurrence, but declined to inform me of it. I would see for myself with the animal, even if the rest of the experiment did not work.

The bird was a dove, a handsome bird which cooed gently as Boyle took it from its cage and placed it underneath the glass dome. When all was ready, he gave a signal, and the assistant began working the bellows with much grunting and a whooshing sound as air was propelled through the mechanism.

“How long does this take?” I enquired eagerly.

“A few minutes,” Lower replied. “I do believe its song is getting fainter, do you hear?”

I regarded the beast with interest, as it was showing signs of distress. “You are right. But surely it is because the bird itself seems unconcerned with making a noise?”

Hardly had I spoken when the dove, which a few moments ago had been hopping around the dome with curiosity, fluttering against the invisible glass walls which it could feel but was incapable of understanding, fell over, its beak gaping open, its beady eyes popping and its legs flailing around pathetically.

“Good heavens,” I said.

Lower ignored me. “Why don’t we let the air back in, and see what happens then?”

The valves were turned, and with an audible hiss, the vacuum was filled. The bird still lay there, twitching away, although it was clear that it was very much relieved. Within a few moments, it picked itself up, ruffled its feathers and resumed its attempts to fly away to freedom.

“Well,” I said, “so much for one hypothesis.”

Boyle nodded, and gave the assistant a nod to try it again. Here I must note the extraordinary goodness of this fine man, who refused to use the same animal in more than one series of experiments, because of the torture to the creature. Once it had served its turn, and given itself to the pursuit of humane knowledge, he either let it go or, if necessary, killed it.

Until then, I had never thought such an attitude attachable to any experimentalist other than myself, and I rejoiced to find at last someone whose sentiments were similar to my own. Experimentation must take place, this is certain; but sometimes, when I behold the faces of my colleagues as they cut, I think I see too much pleasure on their countenances, and suspect that the agony is prolonged longer than is necessary for mere knowledge. Once in Padua, a vivisection of a dog was interrupted when a female servant, grieved to hear the beast’s piteous cries as it was cut open, strangled it in front of a full audience of students, causing much dismay and protest at the ruining of the spectacle. Of the assembled multitude, I believe that only myself had sympathy for the woman, and was grateful to her; but then I was ashamed of the effeminacy of my concerns which, I think, came from my delight as a child in being read from the life of St. Francis, who loved and reverenced all things in God’s creation.

But Boyle came to the same conclusions, although (typically of the man) did so in a far more rigorous fashion than myself and was, of course, uninfluenced by memories of the Assisi countryside. For, just as he believed that a gentleman should show Christian condescension to the lower orders, according to their merits, so men, the gentlemen of God’s creation, owed similar courtesy to the animals over whom they had dominion. While not scrupling to use men or animals as was his right, he believed firmly that they should not be abused either. In that, good Catholic and fervent Protestant were in accord for once, and I liked Boyle the more for his care.

That afternoon, we used only a single bird. By means of careful study we ascertained that it was scarcely affected when only half of the air was removed, that it began to show signs of distress when two thirds had gone, and was rendered insensible when three quarters had vanished. Conclusion—the presence of air is necessary for life to continue, although, as Lower said, that did not explain what it did. Personally, I believe that as fire needs air to burn, so life, which can be likened to fire, needs it also, although I admit that argument by analogy is of limited use.

It was an appealing little animal, the dove we used to prise these secrets from nature’s grip, and I had my habitual pang of sorrow when we reached the final, necessary round of the experiment. Although we knew what the result would be, the demands of philosophy are implacable and all must be demonstrated beyond contradiction. So it was my voice which reassured the creature for the last time, and my hand which placed it back in the bell, then gave the signal for the assistant to begin pumping once more. I offered a small prayer to gentle St. Francis when it finally collapsed and died, its song finally extinguished. It is God’s will that sometimes the innocent must suffer and die for a greater purpose.