by Stuart Clark
‘But what’s the point of handing in your lectures when you have no students to talk to?’ Humphrey fretted.
Newton glanced at the sheaf of papers on the table. ‘My notes for book three: a grand discussion of the moving world, the elucidation of God’s Creation. Copy those and hand them in.’
Humphrey looked forlornly at the paper stack. ‘But they’re not finished.’
‘So?’
Humphrey slunk over to the seat to begin his task.
Newton unfolded the letter; it was from Halley. There is one more thing that I ought to inform you of, that is Mr Hooke . . .
Newton snatched the quill from Humphrey’s grasp and swatted his hand away. ‘Fetch more ink, then find me a courier.’
Late the next day, Peachell summoned Newton again. He stamped into the Vice-Chancellor’s office and stationed himself with his back to the bay window.
‘The King has summoned me to London. I’m to appear before the court.’ The spider’s web of veins on Peachell’s cheeks looked redder and angrier than ever.
Newton could not keep the impatience out of his voice. ‘You must take an honest courage with you, Vice-Chancellor. Yours is a just cause, but if you let them, the papists will exploit you.’
Peachell lifted a decanter. It clattered against his glass. ‘The judge is to be George Jeffreys.’
That did arrest Newton’s attention. Jeffreys had scythed his way through the West Country, dispensing justice through the mass hangings of those revolutionaries who had landed with Monmouth.
‘Damn you, Mr Newton, you have driven me to this. So help me, you will stand with me. You and seven others will be appointed by the Senate, and you will accompany me. Get your defence ready; we all stand together. We’re little more than traitors now.’
25
Cripplegate
‘Edmond, whatever’s the matter? You’ve gone clean white,’ said Mary, tugging her shawl up on her shoulders.
‘It’s a letter from Newton. He’s going to withhold the third part of his book because of the argument with Robert. All I did was ask him to consider acknowledging Robert fully.’
‘So just publish what you have. The less you have to print, the less the expense.’
Halley looked at her in disbelief. ‘It doesn’t work like that. The book is incomplete without the third part. It’s where he plans to discuss the consequences of his work. Oh, what a mess . . .’
‘Anyway, why must those two always squabble so?’ said Mary.
‘Because men will be men whether they are philosophers or generals,’ Halley said, more sharply than he intended. He softened his tone. ‘The older Fellows still talk about it. Years ago, Newton arrived unannounced at the Society and promised to send in a paper he had been working on about the nature of colours. Well, it took four sessions for it to be read out, and at the end of it, Robert disagreed with the conclusion. You see, Robert thought that light was like sound – as they all did – and that meant that colours were created in the light by the medium it travelled through.’
She shook her head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘In the same way that the pipes in a church organ influence the sound of the notes, the timbre and the cadence, so they believed that when white light passes through glass or air or some other medium – water, say – so the colours are created. I think some still believed that the stars are holes in the sky letting through pure light from heaven.’
‘So that’s why the stars are white,’ said William from the door, intrigued by the conversation.
‘No, young man, that’s mediaeval thinking. The stars are different colours if you really look at them. Arcturus is orange, Rigel’s blue; there are colours aplenty if people wait long enough for their eyes to adjust to the dark. Newton argued exactly the opposite to the traditional view. He said that, based on his investigations, white light was the combination of colours. At first, no one believed him. They argued that if you mixed the colours from an artist’s palette, instead of white you produced a dark murky mass, but Newton was cleverer than that: he proposed an experiment to prove his hypothesis.’
William took a step forward. Halley alternated his attention between Mary and the boy.
‘No one had really done that before. They experimented and observed but then argued about the interpretation. Newton formed his hypothesis from preliminary observations and then devised further experiments to test whether his ideas were true. Do you see, he used his understanding of nature to foretell a future event, to predict what would happen when someone carried out his proposed experiment. He did the very thing that all these fortune-tellers and mountebanks claim to be able to do but cannot: he predicted the future. He said that without such a final test – the crucial experiment – natural philosophers could never be certain that they had understood nature. They’d wallow for ever in hypotheses and never be able to elevate them to theorems. So, to test his hypothesis of colours, he took a prism and used it to turn sunlight into a rainbow of colours. Then he placed a second prism in that rainbow but blocked all but the blue light from entering. He reasoned that if the glass were creating the colours, this second prism would turn the blue light back into all the colours again. But you know what happened?’
William shook his head, his eyes wide.
‘It didn’t. The only colour that emerged from the second prism was blue, proving that the glass doesn’t create the colours, it just separates out what’s already there.’ Halley turned back to Mary. ‘Well, Robert wouldn’t have any of it. I think he understood what Newton had done but felt foolish for not thinking of it himself. So, he chose to ignore the evidence and argue against it, and Newton has never forgiven him. He even decided not to publish the work. I cannot allow Newton to suppress more work because of Robert. How am I going to resolve this?’
‘I know what will cheer you up,’ she announced brightly. ‘We’ll go to the Frost Fair tonight. It may be our last chance; the crocuses will be up soon.’
He smiled to indulge her, forcing himself to say, ‘I shall look forward to it.’
But first he had some serious diplomacy to contrive.
Soft moans of despair escaped Peachell as the delegation arrived at the London courthouse. ‘It’s unfathomable,’ he whined. ‘Jeffreys himself should be behind us, he’s an Anglican.’
‘He knows only how to keep himself in favour,’ hissed one of the delegates.
‘He’s a hanging judge and no mistake,’ said another.
Newton had investigated the details of Jeffreys’s record in preparation for today, and still fought the nausea his research had conjured. The horror had begun in Winchester, where a Lady Alice Lyle had unwittingly helped two fugitives from Monmouth’s routed army. Jeffreys sentenced her to be burned. Only at the King’s command was the sentence delayed and commuted to mere beheading, which took place before a silent, disbelieving crowd in the marketplace.
It set the pattern for the justice that was to come. By late September, hundreds of Monmouth’s ragged army had been put to their deaths and their quartered remains distributed to the local villages to give them a taste of retribution.
Jeffreys had presided over this squalid mockery of the apocalypse, dispensing judgment to imbeciles and innocents. All of it was designed to terrify and belittle the population and gorge King James’s powerlust. If Satan himself had been in control of England, Newton could not have felt more driven to resist.
The Cambridge delegation was escorted to an upper floor of the courthouse, where the noises of the city were unable to penetrate. It was as if the essential march of time had halted and London life would resume only after the judgment was made.
They were led to a wooden stall that resembled a cattle pen. It faced an impressive table, heavy oak with spiral-turned legs and raised upon a dais. It was empty for the moment.
‘No chairs?’ murmured the Vice-Chancellor, flummoxed. Newton manoeuvred himself next to the quivering man, hoping that he could feed him lines during the examination and stop him swigging fro
m his small leather hip-flask.
The sound of a door opening cracked around the chamber as if someone had fired a musket. Judge George Jeffreys appeared. Although his wig was grey, his face was angular and lean, almost youthful. He radiated confidence rather than the malice Newton had been expecting.
He was trailed by others, all in scarlet gowns except Alban Francis. Garbed in his Benedictine habit, he was chattering earnestly to Jeffreys as they climbed the steps to the central table. The pale light from a window nearby flooded across the polished wood.
‘Let him win and we lose the university to the papists for ever,’ Newton whispered to Peachell.
Jeffreys spoke up, his voice as stiff as unworked leather. ‘Which one of you is Peachell?’
The Vice-Chancellor lifted a tremulous hand. A good six inches taller, Newton felt conspicuous behind him.
‘Worthy sir,’ began Peachell, ‘it gives me extraordinary distress to know that I have offended the royal personage–’
‘I don’t believe I asked you to speak.’ Jeffreys looked at each of the delegation in turn. Newton met his gaze full-on, over the top of Peachell’s flaking scalp.
‘You, sir, stand to one side so that I can see you.’
Newton moved.
‘Tell me your name.’
Newton spoke it clearly, so they all could hear.
‘Do you cower in the shadow of your Vice-Chancellor?’
Newton said nothing.
Jeffreys let his gaze linger, some calculation going on behind those unblinking eyes, before turning back to Peachell. ‘Do you know why you’re here today?’
‘Sir, I do not.’
Newton had instructed him on this during the carriage journey: admit nothing.
‘No? How could you be in doubt of this outcome after your rank disobedience?’
Peachell looked as if judgment had already been passed.
Jeffreys continued. ‘Very well. Perhaps you can explain to me why you ignored a direct request, however mildly made, by His Majesty?’
Mildly? thought Newton. The last letter had stated that they ignored the request at their peril.
Peachell was stumbling over his words. The court officials were looking from one to another, a mixture of bemusement and boredom on their faces. Alban Francis had a growing look of satisfaction on his face. Newton stepped to the front of the dock. ‘The law states that each of us must take an oath before he is appointed to a fellowship or mastership. That oath is to the Anglican Church and therefore impossible for a Catholic to take.’
‘Do I take it by this outburst that you fancy yourself as Vice-Chancellor?’ Jeffreys paused for his rebuke to have the maximum effect.
Newton saw his chance. ‘The King is not above the law. And the law is clear in this matter.’
Ignoring the mutterings that had erupted around him, Jeffreys flipped through a ledger. ‘Mr Newton,’ he said, studying one sheet, ‘can you tell the court what you were doing in London during June 1672?’
Newton’s confidence ebbed. ‘I attended the Royal Society for the first time.’
‘Is that all?’
‘And I visited Whitehall to seek an audience with King Charles.’
Jeffreys’ eyes were on him now. ‘Why?’
Newton had underestimated him. Steeling himself, he spoke up. ‘I received a special dispensation.’
‘A special dispensation. Was it a special dispensation that allowed you not to take the oath you have just advocated?’
All heads turned towards Newton.
‘Yes.’
‘So the King is not above the law, but you are.’
Stand firm, Newton willed himself. No one knows the real reason, and no one must ever know.
‘My dispensation against the oath was a private matter,’ he said.
‘A private matter?’
‘Yes.’ They would have to torture him before he would reveal it.
Jeffreys’s eyes narrowed and Newton held his breath. If the judge had learned the reason, now would be the time to use it. The pair locked eyes. After an eternity, Jeffreys said, ‘Step back, Mr Newton. I’ll hear no more from you today. There is no reason why Alban Francis should not be conferred his degree. Mr Peachell, you are guilty of an act of great disobedience. You are to leave the office of Vice-Chancellor at once. You will quit your position as Master of Magdalene and your salary. You may go on your way as a common man again.’
Peachell slumped against the wooden railing.
‘As for the rest of you,’ said Jeffreys, looking from one to another, ‘those children unfit for manual labour are best sent to schools. For all your scholarly endeavours, sirs, you are but children. Fit only for the colleges and hopelessly adrift in the world of true men. Further depositions are neither solicited nor required. I have reached my judgment.’ He glared at the men.
Those around Newton dropped their gaze as if in Church, but Newton met Jeffreys’s eyes.
‘Gentlemen,’ Jeffreys said, ridding the word of any respect, ‘your best course of action will be to deploy a ready obedience to His Majesty’s command in the future. You have set an ill example for those students in your trust. You stand here before me today because of your supposed religion. Therefore let me bid you adieu with what the scriptures say.’ His voice rumbled with menace. ‘Go on your way, and sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto you.’
Newton contemplated Jeffreys’s position – an Anglican doing Catholic work. The judge was destined to burn for ever. The image of it appeared bright and clear in Newton’s mind and it made him smile.
The Frost Fair was illuminated by the silver of the Moon and the gold of burning torches. The makeshift wooden shacks, stretched across the frozen Thames, echoed the houses that spanned the nearby London Bridge. The stalls were draped in fabrics and triangular pennants flew from spindly masts. In places the stalls were squeezed together as tightly as the Arabian souks that the old sea captains described, where you could buy everything from intoxicating powders to women. Here in London the wares were chestnuts and pies, mulled wines and spiced beers: everything necessary to keep the chill at bay, or at least to take your mind off it.
Halley bought two mugs of steaming ale; its heady smell alone was warming. It was an unusual favourite of Mary’s, who, despite her passion for the aromatic drink, could only ever manage half the mug before she became giggly and passed the rest to him to finish, a duty he was happy to perform.
It was still quite early and there were several families on the river. One youngster in particular caught Halley’s eye. He was a gentleman in miniature, wearing a tightly-fitted coat and hat. He and his father were watching a group of urchins sliding themselves along the ice underneath the wharfs. Halley could see the boy’s longing to join in.
‘Do you think we shall have a son?’ he asked.
‘Are you craving an heir, husband?’
Her question evoked a twinge of embarrassment. ‘I cannot wait to bring Margaret down here. She’d love all the colours.’
Behind them, a group of men arrived at the tented bar. Stocky and boisterous, they talked with Irish accents.
Mary gripped his arm. ‘Let’s move on.’
He led her further on to the ice, where they paused as a coach and four crunched past. They watched dogs chasing each other over the slippery ground, as intrigued by the novelty of the Frost Fair as the humans.
Some wherries had been suspended from triangular frameworks to create swings, and Halley urged Mary towards one where a couple were disembarking. A familiar figure with a silver frizz of hair was watching the swinging boats as if hypnotised.
‘Mr Newton?’
The man turned, his face impassive. ‘Mr Halley, a pleasant surprise.’
‘I had no idea you were planning a London visit.’
‘I return tomorrow.’
‘Allow me to introduce my wife, Mary.’
‘Mrs Halley,’ Newton nodded.
‘I have been writing to you today, sir, concerning your
latest letter,’ said Halley. ‘This business with Hooke, sir. It is a trifling matter when held against your achievements in philosophy.’
‘Philosophy.’ Newton said the word as if it were a profanity. ‘A man might just as well embroil himself in lawsuits. The trouble with Mr Hooke is that he cannot bear to see a procession going along without him.’
‘Sir, you must publish the third book. Why sow, tend and nurture your fruits, only then to walk away at harvest time? You have so much to teach us.’
‘Mr Halley, I have given you some trouble, and I somewhat regret my hasty letter to you, though I stand by its sentiments. I desire a good understanding to be kept between us, and have decided on my course of action. I will not suppress part three, but I will revise it. Are you familiar with the story of Galileo’s book, Discorsi?’
‘I have read it, of course. His mathematical summary of Earthly motion.’
‘I mean the composition, the way it came to be written in such mathematical tones.’
Halley tried to remember his conversation with Viviani in Rome, but eventually shook his head.
‘His previous book, Dialogues, was written as an accessible discussion that could be read by everyone, including the cardinals of the Inquisition. That was Galileo’s mistake. So, he couched the Discorsi in only maths, measurements and experiments. The cardinals couldn’t understand a word of it. Had they been versed in geometry, they would have seen that Galileo wrote the truth. It was a masterpiece of composition, a work of such importance that only those intelligent enough to understand it could read it. I will write book three in the language of mathematics, so that only other mathematicians can understand it. It’ll prove to everyone that this is not the work of some little . . . smatterer.’
Relief blossomed in Halley. ‘However you care to deliver your insights, I and the rest of the world will be most pleased to receive them – be in no doubt about that. I have already engaged a second printer; we can have it published in no time. No time at all. Sir, you do not need me to tell you that you have seen closer than any of us into the mind of the divine Creator.’
A faint warmth lit Newton’s face. ‘Then I bid you good-night; I’m on the early coach back tomorrow. Fear not, Mr Halley, I will send you the completed work soon.’
