by Stuart Clark
‘I hope so. You say that you have left problems unsolved. What, may I ask, are those?’
‘The Moon’s orbit. Our nearest neighbour is the only member of the celestial family that doesn’t obey Kepler’s laws. The shape of its orbit appears to change during the month, speeding up and slowing down seemingly at will. I intend to prove that it is being pulled by the gravity of both the Earth and the Sun, and that is what causes it to dance. Once I do that, I will have explained how all celestial motion is due to gravity.’
They made their way into the first of the palace’s courtyards, where there was another tide of servants, some hanging out of windows with polishing cloths fluttering across the glass, some carrying furnishings and tapestries. All was noise and activity, and Newton had to raise his voice to be heard. ‘Tell me, how is my work being received on the continent?’
‘I am becoming your champion,’ said Huygens with a smile. ‘My latest correspondent is your own countryman, John Locke. He says the mathematics is beyond him, but he sought a clarification that your basic ideas were sound.’
‘You can follow my geometry?’
‘I can, sir. You are to be applauded for your system of the world. It explains more than I ever thought possible for a man to know. All Galileo’s Earthly motion and all Kepler’s celestial motion resolved into a single unified theory of gravity. I have made this clear to Mr Locke.’
‘He is in exile, is he not?’
Huygens nodded. ‘But I think that with the Stuarts gone, perhaps he would like to return. He would certainly like to meet you.’
‘Mr Newton, when I arrived in England, I stepped ashore a Cartesian, but now I have studied your book, I see Descartes as an empty imagination,’ said Fatio.
Newton could not help but stare at the young man. ‘Tell me, Monsieur, are all the Swiss like you?’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘I mean so . . .’ Newton paused, ‘ . . . delightful.’
‘I could not say.’
‘Then allow me to say what our modest young friend cannot,’ said Huygens. ‘He is gifted in the mathematical arts. He is highly regarded by King William, and has already distinguished himself with Cassini in Paris and Leibniz in–’
‘Leibniz?’
Fatio continued effortlessly. ‘He rebuffed me, sir. When Christiaan here tried to engage the two of us in mathematical correspondence, Herr Leibniz claimed that he saw no need.’
Newton caught the mockery in the title and his lips curled into a smile. ‘I see.’
‘I think perhaps Leibniz was claiming that he could teach you nothing,’ said Huygens.
Newton ignored the Dutchman, giving Fatio his full attention. ‘Well, Monsieur Fatio, I was about to say that if all the Swiss are like you, I would be forced to consider it the most charming place in the world. As it is, I am content that the best part of Switzerland has chosen to visit this country.’
The young man flushed scarlet, like a girl in over-laced stays. Newton thought how becoming it made him look, innocence and virtue balanced against intellect and manners. A primal feeling stirred, and Newton thought he might blush as well. At first the tingling shocked him – a distilled version of what he had battled with in his younger years. Thankfully this was not as frightening as the bodily fires that had raged when Wickens laughed, or stripped to wash in the summer.
Newton tore his gaze away and turned to Huygens. ‘How long are you in London?’
‘All too briefly, I’m sad to say. I return to Holland in a few days, which makes our business here all the more urgent. Mr Newton, have you thought of how the King might reward you for your loyal service?’
‘I have. The position of Master at King’s College is vacant.’
‘It seems a modest move for one such as yourself.’
‘Maybe, but I believe it would be a good move for me.’
Huygens nodded. ‘I will make inquiries at once. I believe this matter could be brought before the King himself this very afternoon. Gentlemen, please excuse me. I will see you both at dinner.’
Newton smiled at Fatio. Neither seemed quite able to speak. They were standing at the entrance to a passageway leading out of the courtyard.
‘It will take us to the back lawn,’ said Fatio.
‘Shall we?’ Newton gestured him on.
They wandered through, forced into closer proximity by the narrow walkway, and exited under wooden scaffolding being built to cover the entire length of the Palace. Where the scaffold was already complete, architects stood on the wooden framework, scanning rolls of plans and arguing. Dressed in their plush jackets and high heels, they looked out of place among the wild hair and smocks of the carpenters. Newton registered their presence but paid them little heed.
‘I am told that the gardens have been neglected,’ said the younger man.
‘I don’t think we need flowers to distract men like us, not when we have such conversation.’
Fatio blushed again. ‘I am at your command, Mr Newton.’
‘Lead on, Monsieur Fatio.’
Hooke watched Newton and Fatio from the scaffolding. He was still breathless from the climb and leaning against one of the uprights. ‘Look at them, prancing and preening.’
‘Leave them be. We have a job to do,’ said Wren.
‘Who’s the pretty boy?’
Wren glanced up from the plans.
‘That is Nicolas Fatio de Duillier, hero of the Dutch people.’
‘Hero?’
‘They say he foiled a French plot to kidnap William.’
Hooke stared at the receding men. ‘He barely looks able to arrange flowers.’
Wren chuckled despite himself. ‘Come along now, Robert. Let’s get back to work. Have you recovered enough to finish the climb?’
Hooke’s lungs were still burning, but he forced some indignation into his voice. ‘Of course.’
Wren rolled up the plans and began climbing upwards again.
Hooke waited for him to dismount on to the higher platform and began his own ascent. Midway, his legs turned to lead and he slumped against the red wall for support. He snatched a glance towards the gardens. Newton walked easily, upright as a church tower, hands clamped behind his back. Fatio walked self-consciously, as if each movement were being judged. ‘He walks like a woman,’ Hooke called upwards before feeling for the next rung. He missed his step and the world dissolved around him.
When he came to he was lying on the grass, staring at the painfully bright sky. He jerked up into a sitting position. His head felt as if it had been split open.
Wren was crouching next to him.
‘Easy, Robert.’
‘Did I fall all the way?’ Hooke looked anxiously at the tower of scaffolding.
‘Not quite. Mr Trent carried you down.’
Cradling his head, Hooke sank back on to the grass and closed his eyes.
‘I fear that this work is not for you any more, Robert.’
‘I missed my step, that’s all.’
‘I know about your black-outs. They’re getting worse, aren’t they?’
Hooke had tried to keep them quiet, but perhaps Wren had heard about last week’s incident. He had been caught unawares in Garraway’s and sent an entire trestle table of coffee cups crashing to the floor.
‘You’re not safe to climb the scaffolding,’ said Wren.
‘But I’m younger than you by three years.’
‘By God’s grace, I’m still fit and able. I cannot risk you injuring yourself or worse.’
‘I’d rather die working than fester in my bed.’
‘You cannot do this any more, Robert. I simply won’t take the responsibility. I’d never forgive myself.’ Wren’s words were softly spoken but his intent was clear. This was not a suggestion.
Gentle notes cascaded from the harpsichord in the gallery below the eaves. The servants lit the enormous round candelabra as evening fell and hoisted the giant wheels of light high, securing their ropes on hooks at the side of the d
ining-hall.
Newton was sitting next to Fatio and opposite Huygens. The Dutchman plucked food from his plate, talking between well-judged mouthfuls, but Fatio hardly touched a thing. Perched on his chair, he was leaning a little towards Newton.
The softness of the candlelight flattered the room’s occupants, washing their faces with a gentle yellow glow. Newton stole frequent looks at Fatio’s profile. Often he found the young Swiss man looking straight back at him.
‘A toast to the new Master of King’s College,’ said Huygens, raising his glass to Newton. ‘A letter will be drafted for despatch to Cambridge tomorrow.’
They drank the inky red wine.
Newton noticed the new King glancing towards him. He inclined his head to be respectful and thought he saw William return the gesture.
When Newton returned his attention to his immediate companions, Huygens was regarding him with a quizzical expression. ‘I wonder if my admiration for you earns me the right to ask you one question, Mr Newton?’
‘Of course,’ said Newton, immediately on his guard.
‘Your work admirably describes the effects of gravity and allows us to calculate the influence that one massive body will have on another, but it does not say how the gravity is communicated between those objects. What are your thoughts on this matter?’
Newton suppressed a stab of irritation. Huygens had found his Achilles’ heel. He steepled his fingers and spoke with care. ‘I have not yet been able to discover a single motivating reason behind the phenomenon of gravity. It is presently beyond my ability to understand.’
‘But you must have some ideas. Come, don’t be coy with us.’
‘We’re your devoted followers,’ said Fatio, earning himself a sideways glance from Huygens.
‘Gentlemen, I offer no hypothesis that cannot be proven. Yet . . .’ The two foreigners leaned closer. ‘Speaking confidentially, among friends, it is inconceivable to me that inanimate brute matter should operate upon other matter without mutual contact.’
‘I thought so.’ Huygens looked triumphant. ‘You know, sir, that I have succeeded in compiling a mathematical version of Descartes’s vortices.’
Newton swilled some wine. ‘They cannot work.’
Huygens looked hurt. ‘How can you dismiss them so casually?’
‘You said that you had read and understood my Principia. Then you know that in book two I destroy the notion of vortices. Think of this. Descartes believes that the heavens are filled with an ether and that swirling eddies circle the Sun, carrying the planets. But if a vortex is carrying Jupiter on its orbit, then the planet’s moons must also be caught. As they orbit Jupiter there must be times when they are travelling in the opposite direction to the vortex, yet they do not slow down as they should if they are travelling against this headlong wind.’
The Dutchman frowned. ‘But without a mechanical explanation, your theory is incomplete.’
‘My theory allows you to calculate the effects of gravity – what more do you need?’
‘But it smacks of the occult. Without a mechanical explanation the forces must magically jump across empty space.’
Newton added what he hoped was a conciliatory tone to his voice. ‘There are worse things to live with than a mysterious force of gravity.’
Fatio almost jumped from his chair. ‘I can reconcile the two systems! Universal gravity with a mechanical cause.’
‘How?’ Newton indulged him with a smile.
‘I would rather not say just yet, but I will be working on my own treatise.’
‘Then you, sir, are a marvel to be toasted.’ Newton wanted to reach over and touch the young man’s hair. He distracted himself from such thoughts by raising his glass.
Huygens joined the toast. ‘I told you that he has the learning. If anyone can do this, he can.’
Newton found that he did not mind the implied slight on his own abilities. Fatio’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled. Newton said, ‘If you can do this, I will have every Fellow at the Royal Society put his name to it. I’ve been thinking about your rebuff from Leibniz. You don’t need him now, I will be your mentor.’
‘Truly?’ Fatio gasped.
‘It will be my great honour.’
Fatio blushed, and Newton’s heart soared.
30
Adriatic Sea
Heart pounding, ear pressed to the door, Gottfried Leibniz did not believe what he was hearing. The insistent voices were barely audible above the pitching ship’s creaking timbers and the crack of thunder from the sky. When the voices grew fainter, Leibniz placed his eye against a knothole. He could see a pair of sailors lurching around, one of them pointing wildly in his direction as they climbed to the deck.
The vessel heaved again, reverberating under the impact of another crashing wave, and Leibniz fought the urge to vomit. Water dripped from the roof, cooling his face, and he forced himself to calm down.
His Italian was poor, but he had heard enough to know what the sailors were discussing. He knew the word paria when he heard it, and he knew what was done with such undesirables. On a night like this he would stand no chance in the rolling waves.
They had not been expecting the storm. It hit just as night had begun to lull their senses and the grog had minded them to sing their shanties. Gathered below decks, the first of the hammocks was being stretched across the beams when one white-haired mariner cocked his head. A moment later the first wave sent them sprawling, and while the crew scrambled for the deck, Leibniz returned to his cabin.
He turned from the knothole and tried to collect up the papers and cutlery that had been thrown about, but when he too was pitched into the bulkhead, he gave up and tried to lodge himself in a corner. The lanterns swung, toppling and extinguishing the candles inside. The only source of illumination was an occasional burst of lightning.
In his foetal position, growing ever more agitated, he tried to piece together the overheard conversation.
Lutheran . . . Omen . . . Sinner . . .
He was sure that the angry sailor was the same one who had been eyeing him with suspicion ever since he had boarded at Venice.
‘Tedesco?’ the sailor had said that first night. ‘Tedesco?’
‘I’m German, yes. On my way to Rome.’
The man had pulled at the lower lid of his eye and spat at the philosopher’s feet. Now he wanted to throw him overboard.
As another wave struck the ship, panic surged through Leibniz. He tore open the cabin door. Where could he hide? Down in the hold perhaps, with the cargo? Surely they would know the nooks and crannies better than him. So where? Where could he hide?
Over the noise of the storm he thought he heard shouting from the deck; certainly there were feet stamping on the single wooden layer that separated them. They were coming back. He was sure of it. Throw the Lutheran sinner overboard and God’s wrath would abate.
Then he saw it: a string of beads in the darkness. They were rolling around the floor, probably having fallen from a sailor’s pocket as he scrambled to save the ship. Leibniz snatched the beads and headed back inside.
Kneeling in the corner, it took him no effort to pray. He mumbled a litany and fed the beads through his fingers one at a time.
He jumped when the sailors burst through the door but forced himself not to look up. He was handling the beads for all to see and muttering his prayer. Lightning flashed and the mob froze in the white light. They stared at him in silence.
‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ he said loudly.
‘Amen,’ one of them responded, crossing himself.
Another one took a determined step forwards but a burly fellow with drenched hair and beard grabbed his shoulder. ‘Signor,’ he said in apology and backed out of the room, pulling the troublemaker with him. The others followed.
Leibniz kept up his prayer for a long while afterwards. He held the rosary beads all night but did not close his eyes to sleep. When the battered ship eased into the next port he sl
ipped away and continued to Rome on land.
The piazza was full of people. A sudden shower propelled Leibniz into a shop doorway. As he sheltered he watched the citizens go by: unconcerned by the change in the weather, they dodged around each other, eager to be about their various journeys despite the rain.
Hawkers still called out their wares, eager to make some fast money from ripe fruit, and it seemed to Leibniz that people were always on the move in Rome. It was so different to life back in Hanover, where citizens braved the cramped and muddy streets only as a last resort.
When the shower died away he set off again, bound for the enormous Jesuit Roman College. Situated on the opposite side of the square, stone walls glistening, the towering structure provoked envy in him. He could not help but admire the Catholics’ skill of organisation, of bringing together scholars, philosophers and theologians under one roof. He imagined the debates and the discussions stretching into the night as the college reached its consensus. Much better, he thought, than the piecemeal approach in northern Europe, with individuals vying for status and philosophical power. In London, they at least had the Royal Society; frankly, anything would be better than the philosophical isolation of Hanover.
Making his way through the crowd, Leibniz felt out of place. His woollen jacket was far too warm for Rome, and despite the shower his raven-coloured wig was a cauldron on his head, drawing sniggers everywhere he went. He was taller than most Italians, and the towering hairpiece was not helping matters. He had tried going out without the cursed thing but his naked scalp embarrassed him. A Turkish headscarf had attracted the most blatant stares of all. In the end, he decided the occasional laugh at his periwig was the most bearable option.
As he entered the Roman College, his envy of the Jesuits increased. He stood overwhelmed by the palatial lobby, his gaze drawn by the towering Egyptian obelisk in its centre. It must have been twenty feet high, yet it sat as comfortably as a potted plant in an ordinary home. It was covered in ancient, undecipherable markings.
‘They say Galileo himself stood and looked at it on his first visit to this college,’ somebody said in passable German.
