The Sensorium of God

by Stuart Clark

  Leibniz turned. The voice belonged to a youthful man with wide eyes and a broad forehead.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked. We’re allowed to mention Galileo, you know, just not his science.’ The Jesuit grinned.

  ‘Father Grimaldi?’

  ‘Gottfried Leibniz, I’m so pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting me here today, Father. There are many who would not have wished to be seen with a Protestant historian from the court of Hanover.’

  ‘You’re a historian now? I know of your work as a philosopher, a mathematician, even a theologian, but not as a historian,’ Grimaldi teased.

  Leibniz winced. ‘I do whatever the Duke requires of me, and at present he would like me to trace his ancestry as far back as Charlemagne. That means travelling to find the covenants and birthrights. But at least it means I can indulge my passion for philosophy with people such as yourself.’

  Grimaldi bowed his head. ‘You’re most kind. Now, please, let me take you for some refreshment. You look rather hot.’

  Leibniz mopped his brow. ‘Delighted.’

  Grimaldi’s office looked out over a landscape of orange and grey slate. There was no trace of the rain now, the clouds having evaporated along with the moisture from the thousands of roof tiles. It was impossible to see the streets, as the buildings appeared to lock into one another, and Leibniz had the sensation that he could step out and walk across the roofscape.

  Grimaldi handed Leibniz a goblet that smelled of peaches. Entranced by the exotic flavour, Leibniz downed the cordial in one gulp and smacked his lips with appreciation.

  His host’s eyes creased with pleasure. ‘They grow them in orchards just south of here, the same family for seven generations now.’

  ‘Delicious, but small talk is difficult in a foreign language, and I don’t think that sampling peaches is why you asked me here today.’

  ‘I like your directness. It’s a welcome trait around here.’ Grimaldi led Leibniz away from the view to a small, battered desk. The Jesuit squeezed behind it and sat down. ‘Now, let me be direct with you. Rome is in philosophical crisis. It’s nervous about the new philosophies coming from the North. Should it be?’ Grimaldi pulled open a drawer and placed a copy of the Principia on the table. A number of paper strips had been interlaced as bookmarks, with notes scribbled on them.

  ‘To me, Newton is one of the few people alive who is pushing the boundaries of science. His grasp of mathematics is superb . . .’

  Grimaldi leaned in. ‘I sense a but coming.’

  Leibniz eyed the Jesuit. ‘There is something dark, maybe even dangerous about his ideas. I believe they may even be irreligious.’

  ‘Explain,’ said Grimaldi, intrigued.

  ‘Nowhere in the work does Newton tell us what gravity is. He states that it is merely action at a distance – some sort of force that appears from nowhere and travels through space. It is a concept taken from the alchemists.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Leibniz continued. ‘Some years ago I tricked my way into an alchemical society. I was curious about alchemy – the secret nature of it fascinated me – and I soon heard rumours of an adepts’ society in Hanover. But they’d only admit other adepts, not young men eager to learn. So I bought any old alchemical manuscripts I could find, determined to decipher them. Of course, it was useless. I couldn’t understand a word, but I didn’t let it stop me. I wrote a paper about alchemy, using the most complicated of the words and phrases I had read. Have you read any alchemical writings?’

  Grimaldi shuddered. ‘I have always avoided them.’

  ‘They’re full of allegory and metaphor. They read like veiled myths, which the alchemists believe contain clues to the lost knowledge of ancient civilisations. So I used the most extravagant of their language and wrote something that sounded meaningful but was, in truth, gobbledegook. Within a week, I was approached and invited to a meeting. I learned that they believe all things, from the stars to the animals, are governed by a universal spirit. This spirit gives rise to what they call active principles, which cause change and transmutations on Earth. They believe that if they learn the secrets of these active principles, they will have the power of God.’

  Grimaldi’s face turned ashen. ‘But what has this to do with Newton’s Principia?’

  ‘As I said, nowhere in the book does Newton provide an explanation of what gravity is. In fact, he goes out of his way to try to show that there can be no mechanical explanation. He attacks vortices, even the concept of the ether. What does he advocate instead? Active principles. May I?’ Leibniz indicated Grimaldi’s copy.

  Grimaldi pushed the book towards him.

  Leibniz found the page and read out the Latin. ‘A certain most subtle Spirit pervades and lies hidden in all large bodies. By the force and action of this Spirit, the particles of such bodies mutually attract one another. But these are things that cannot be explained in a few words, nor are we furnished with that sufficiency of experiments which is required to an accurate determination and demonstration of the laws by which the Spirit operates.’

  Leibniz replaced the book on the desk. ‘Thinking such as this comes directly from alchemy. Newton is a secret adept, and this is an attempt to foist occult forces upon natural philosophy – and justify them with mathematics.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ Grimaldi leaned backwards in his chair. ‘I thought he was glorifying the Holy Spirit.’

  ‘To an alchemist, even their state of mind can override God’s will and change the outcome of their experiment. They search for power over nature, not simply an understanding of it. Newton may be trying to pervert us all.’

  Grimaldi was looking at the book as if it were cursed. ‘I have never before felt the desire to burn a book.’

  ‘Don’t burn it just yet. As I did with those alchemists back in Hanover, I intend to understand what Newton’s motivations are. His mathematics is sound; his description of gravity’s behaviour is a masterpiece of reason. It’s the justification he places on top of it that’s questionable. There’s plenty to learn from Newton, but, as a sinner must be cleansed, so we must choose what is pure about the Principia and exorcise the rest.’

  ‘Are you up to the task?’

  Leibniz met his gaze. ‘I am.’

  31

  London

  Halley had already received one drenching that morning and was in no mood for another. He glanced skywards, but the grey weight of clouds was making no promises. Returning his eyes to the muddy ground, he dimly perceived a hatted figure leaning nonchalantly on the stone pillar of the iron watergate at the end of the street. The faint lap of the river could be heard beyond.

  Halley rapped on a narrow black door.

  He was greeted by the housekeeper as he scraped the mud from his shoes on the boot-scraper set into the ground. Once he was inside, Mary Skinner, Pepys’s companion for the last two decades, hurried out of the drawing-room.

  ‘Edmond, you’ve had a wasted journey. Sam’s not here, he’s been arrested,’ she said, more annoyed than upset.

  ‘Arrested?’

  ‘They say he’s plotting for James’s return.’

  ‘Is he guilty?’

  A thunderous look crossed her face, ‘Even you doubt him?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Halley silently cursed his ineptitude. ‘It’s just that he was on the very best of terms with the previous King . . .’

  Mary pushed her fists into her fleshy hips. ‘He served all his Kings to the letter. He was no traitor.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mary. That was clumsy of me. What evidence are they using against him?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s all contrivance.’

  ‘Then he’ll be home soon, I’m sure of it. He’s been a good friend to me.’

  ‘If Sam ever wished to scare me, he’d tell me about Tangiers, and how there were parts of Africa where the sands look safe to walk on but would suck you down to your death. I fear England’s become the same.’

&
nbsp; Halley risked a brief touch of her arm. She did not respond. ‘These things will resolve themselves. Is there anything I can do?’

  She shook her head and bade him goodbye.

  Halley set off at a determined pace, one eye on the scudding clouds above him. At the end of the street he was passing an awkwardly parked carriage when the door swung open. A brass-topped walking cane emerged from the door at chest height and brought him to an abrupt stop.

  ‘What’s the hurry, Edmond, old friend?’

  ‘Mr Winslow.’

  ‘It’s been too long. Get in.’

  The large man with the black hat came up behind Halley, leaving him no choice but to comply. The oaf heaved himself in too, making the carriage tilt.

  ‘I’ve nothing to tell you,’ said Halley, recalling the questioning after his trip around Europe.

  ‘Oh, I think you have.’

  His abductor held out a black hood. ‘Put this on, please.’

  Halley stared defiantly. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  The giant next to him stirred. Halley reached out and placed the hood over his head. He could feel the drawstrings being pulled tightly around his neck. The carriage lurched into motion for a while, then shuddered to a halt. He was manhandled out of the vehicle and told to walk.

  Indoors, the hood removed, Halley found himself in a dark room. A thick tapestry hung at the window, a few thin needles of light penetrating the hunting scene. An iron candelabrum stood in one corner, supporting three large candles that flickered their meagre light around the room, and a perforated wooden screen stood in another. Halley thought he could see a silhouette behind the screen.

  Winslow sat opposite, a table between them. The deep shadows produced by the candlelight emphasised his emaciated appearance. He unrolled a printed sheet of paper on the table. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  ‘Of course. It’s my survey of the sandbanks in the Thames estuary.’

  ‘And you’re proud of the achievement.’

  ‘I am. I hope I have saved lives by making the approach safer.’

  Winslow pulled a sour face, unrolling another sheet. ‘And this?’

  It was Halley’s southern star chart. ‘How did you get that?’

  Winslow leaned closer. ‘Take my advice. It’s best not to ask questions in situations like this. You dedicated the chart to Charles II, a bold move for one as young as you were then, don’t you think?’

  ‘He was my monarch at the time,’ said Halley, beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘As was James when you made the estuary survey. How well do you know Samuel Pepys?’

  ‘I know you’ve arrested him. I went to visit him today, as you witnessed, so I presume I’m under suspicion too. Pepys and I have the Royal Society and the Admiralty in common. That is all. I’m English to the core and I will serve the English monarch.’

  ‘Even if that monarch was intent on leading the country back into the arms of Rome?’

  A wave of irritation swept through Halley. It was as sudden and complete as the drenching he had received from the rain earlier. ‘I am a loyal servant and wish to serve in peace. And I’m in no mood to be lectured by you, Winslow. You served Charles and James much more closely than I ever did.’

  Winslow momentarily bared his crooked teeth. He glared at Halley, but not before his eyes had flicked to the wooden screen.

  The shadow behind it moved and the realisation struck Halley with full force. He whirled from the chair and dropped to one knee. ‘Your Majesty, I wish only to serve you as best I can.’

  ‘How dare you–’ began Winslow.

  The King emerged from behind the screen. Halley, head bowed, saw a pair of garishly buckled shoes encasing puffy ankles.

  ‘I have heard enough,’ the King said in his Dutch accent.

  Halley kept his head bowed and said nothing.

  ‘We must all adapt to the world in which we find ourselves,’ said the King. ‘Stand up, Mr Halley. I have heard of your father, his association with the Earl of Essex and with my father-in-law . . .’ He hesitated as if he didn’t quite believe his own connection to James.

  Halley rose. The King had sharp features and chiselled lips. His cheeks were rouged but there was fairness in his eyes, perhaps even kindness. He was swathed in a cloak of lush red velvet.

  ‘I do not believe you would want James back on the throne. Go back to your telescopes and serve in peace. We may yet call on you in the future to serve your country again, but there has been enough tyranny in England.’

  With a shiver of excitement, Newton opened the door to Fatio. The young man stood in the last of the Cambridge daylight. His head was held high, yet he grew bashful when accepting the invitation to step inside.

  Newton stepped aside, but still their bodies passed within inches.

  The waft of fresh air reminded Newton just how strongly the room smelled of hot metal.

  ‘What is this place?’ Fatio stared into the gloom at the angry light from the furnace.

  ‘Have you never seen an elaboratorium before?’

  ‘Not like this.’ Raising a hand to his nose, Fatio scanned the rows of flasks, alembics, crucibles and chemical jars before approaching the furnace and its bubbling flask. He turned to Newton, wide-eyed. ‘You’re an adept?’

  Newton spoke softly. ‘Some call me that.’

  Fatio pointed to the flask. ‘What are you making?’

  ‘Something especially to show you. Watch carefully.’

  Newton lifted a pair of tongs and grappled the flask on to a metal frame. ‘Observe what happens when it cools.’

  In the flask, tawny particles were condensing out of the fluid. They clung to the sides and the flat bottom of the glass, sprouting tendrils that grew quickly through the liquid. Newton had seen it happen countless times, yet he still found it fascinating.

  ‘They look like plants growing at supernatural speed,’ whispered Fatio, leaning closer to the transformation.

  ‘These are the active principles of nature at work.’

  ‘Is it alive?’

  ‘Not as we are, but it must be tapping some measure of the same animating force. Look at the organic structures. Whatever this force is, it must flow through all matter, ready to be used.’

  The transformation was slowing, having filled the flask with a tangle of chemical branches.

  ‘What’s it called?’ asked Fatio.

  ‘The adepts refer to it as the regulus of Mars. It’s based on antimony. It’s an important step towards the Great Stone.’

  ‘The Great Stone?’

  ‘The Philosopher’s Stone. Those who know little of its power think it is simply to be used to create gold from lead, but this’ – he indicated the crystalline briar – ‘is the real power of it. Nature delights in transformation. All around us we see things changing into other things. The Philosopher’s Stone would allow us to control those transmutations. Lead into gold is nothing compared to its true power.’

  There was a trace of fear in Fatio’s eyes, and Newton realised just how immature the man was. He smiled to soften the moment.

  ‘Gravity is just the beginning,’ he said quietly. ‘It gives us the movement of the gross collections of matter, but there are other forces at work too, threading all matter. That is my ultimate goal: the philosophical understanding of everything. I’m close to it – I can sense it. I’ve felt for a long time that some kind of judgement is hanging over mankind, but once I have the power to control transformations I can end all the fear and uncertainty.’

  Fatio looked as if he might cry.

  ‘But I see I have scared you. Think no more of it. These are indeed fanciful thoughts, and sometimes I get carried away. Tell me of your theory about the cause of gravity.’

  Fatio bobbed his head. ‘I find myself reticent.’

  ‘Come, now,’ Newton purred, ‘what secrets can true friends have from each other? I have confided in you.’

  Fatio composed himself. ‘I believe that the ether is in constan
t motion, tiny particles all rushing hither and thither. There are neither vortices nor streams; the particles travel in arbitrary directions. Here, let your fingers be the particles.’ He waggled his fingers at Newton, daring the professor to do the same. Newton lifted his hands and joined in. Something that might have been amusement or embarrassment lodged in his throat.

  ‘Now, if a planet were to be suspended in space, these particles would collide equally from every side, the forces would cancel and the planet would remain still.’ Fatio raised his fist and Newton played his fingers over it, feeling how warm the skin was.

  ‘Put another world nearby and it shields the first from a particular direction.’ Fatio raised his other fist close to his first, forcing Newton’s hands apart so that his fingers spread themselves over Fatio’s fists.

  ‘Now the forces of collision are no longer equal and the planets will be pushed together.’ Fatio began to draw his hands together as if Newton’s dancing fingers were forcing them to move. Newton followed the motion, ending up with his hands encircling Fatio’s clenched fists.

  Newton’s mouth went dry. With an effort of will he released Fatio’s hands. ‘Ingenious. We must get you on to the agenda at the Royal Society.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Why not?’ Newton exulted in the look of triumph his praise evoked.

  Some weeks later, Newton and Fatio dodged the carts trundling along Bishopsgate and headed for Gresham. Fatio eyed the crumbling red bricks; one of the many chimneys had collapsed to make a small pile of rubble in the street and leave a hole in the moss-ridden roof.

  ‘This is the Royal Society?’

  It was indeed an embarrassment for the Society to meet amid such ruin, but Newton was not prepared to admit it. ‘The Fellows are the Royal Society, not the building, but don’t be intimidated by them. They will look at you with blank faces and close their eyes, and Hooke will probably pick his nose, but don’t let them worry you. You’re better than any of them, even Halley – though don’t let him know I said that. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Fatio adjusted his jacket collar and stepped into the peeling entrance.