An Instance of the Fingerpost

by Iain Pears

  Lower poked him in the arm. ‘Hush, my friend,’ he said, ‘for here is the man himself. You know how sensitive he is to being talked about.’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ said Locke. ‘I can’t take it. Not with food. I must apologise, Mr Cole.’

  ‘Cola.’

  ‘Mr Cola. I hope to see you later, perhaps. Good evening, gentlemen.’

  He rose, bowed swiftly and headed for the door at an uncivil speed, bowing to an absurdly scruffy man shambling towards us.

  ‘Mr Wood, sir,’ cried Lower civilly, ‘do sit down with us, and meet my friend Mr Cola, of Venice.’

  Wood was already about to do so in any case, without being asked, and squeezed in alongside me, so that the smell of his unwashed clothes became quite impossible to ignore.

  ‘Good evening, sir, Good evening, Lower.’

  I could see why Locke had been in such a hurry. Not only did the man smell, not only was he bereft of any elegance, even wearing his spectacles in public, as though he had forgotten he was no longer in a library, but his presence instantly cast a pall of gloom over what had previously been a jolly table.

  ‘I understand you are an historian, sir,’ I said, trying to make polite conversation once more.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That must be very interesting. Are you of the university?’

  ‘No.’

  Another long silence, broken eventually by Lower pushing back his chair and standing up. ‘I have to prepare,’ he said, quite ignoring my panicked looks of entreaty that I should not be left alone with Mr Wood. ‘If you would join me at Mr Stahl’s in Turl Street in half an hour or so . . .’

  And with a quiet twitch of amusement which indicated he knew full well the trick he was playing on me, Lower walked off, leaving me with only Mr Wood for company. He, I noticed, did not order any food; rather he collected the plates of the others and scoured them for bits of fat and gristle, sucking the bones with a horrible noise. He must, I thought, be very poor indeed.

  ‘I suppose they have told you snide stories about me,’ he said, then waved his hand as I rushed to deny it. ‘You needn’t bother,’ he went on. ‘I know what they say.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to concern you much,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Of course it does. Does not every man wish to be held in high regard by his fellows?’

  ‘I have heard many worse things said of others.’

  Wood grunted, and attended to Lower’s plate; as the method of cooking had completely killed my appetite, I passed him my own, which was still laden with food.

  ‘Kind of you,’ he said. ‘Very kind.’

  ‘You may consider Lower a false friend,’ I said, ‘but I may say that he spoke very highly of your skills in the historical way. Which tempts me to ask what it is that you do.’

  He grunted once more, and I was afraid that the nourishment might render him too talkative. ‘You are the Venetian physician I have heard of?’ he said by way of reply.

  ‘Venetian, but not a real physician,’ I said.

  ‘Papist?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said cautiously, but he did not appear about to launch into offensive denunciations.

  ‘You think heretics should burn, then?’

  ‘Pardon?’ I said in some surprise at the gaucheness of his conversation.

  ‘If someone is tempted out of the fold of the true Church – your own or any other – do you think they should burn?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said, trying to marshal an argument at short notice. It seemed best to try to keep him on generalities, rather than prying into my private affairs. I detest gossip of all sorts. ‘They may deserve to lose their life, if you follow the argument of Aquinas, who asked why the counterfeiters of coin should be killed, but not counterfeiters of faith. But that is rare now, I think, whatever you Protestants may hear.’

  ‘I meant burn in Hell.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘If I am baptised by a heretic priest, are the sins of Adam remitted?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘If I am married by one, are my children bastards? Cyprian said the quality of the sacrament existed ex opere operantis, I think, so that a heretic baptism would be no baptism at all.’

  ‘But Pope Stephen countered that and said it existed ex opere operato, through the merit of the action, not the standing of the actor,’ I said. ‘So you would be in no great danger if it was done on both sides by men of good intent.’

  He sniffed and wiped his mouth.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You believe in mortal sin, you papists,’ he continued absently. ‘A gloomy doctrine, I think.’

  ‘Less so than your predestination. I believe God can forgive anything, even mortal sin, if he chooses. You say men gain or lose their immortal souls before they are even born and God cannot change it. What sort of poor thing is that for a God?’

  He grunted yet again at this, and seem disinclined to engage any further, which struck me as odd considering that he had begun the dispute in the first place.

  ‘Do you have a desire to become a Catholic, perhaps?’ I asked, wondering if his sally had been prompted by something other than awkwardness and unfamiliarity with decent conversation. ‘Is this why you ask? I think you will have to find someone more learned than myself for that. I am a poor churchman.’

  Wood laughed, and I sensed that I had finally chiselled him out of his morbid introspection – a fine triumph, I think, for there is nothing more persistent than a Protestant in a state of melancholy. ‘You are indeed, sir, he said. ‘Did I not see you going into a heretic church with Mr Lower only last Sunday?’

  ‘I went to a service with him at St Mary’s, that is true. But I did not take communion. Although I must say I would have had no trouble doing so.’

  ‘You astonish me. How can that be?’

  ‘The Corinthians saw no harm in eating meat offered in sacrifice to pagan idols, as they knew the gods not to exist,’ I said. ‘And however mistaken they were on other questions, I am in agreement with them on that. The act is harmless, it is wilful false belief which is heresy.’

  ‘If we are presented with the truth, and refuse to accept the evidence of our eyes and ears?’

  ‘Obviously a sin, surely?’

  ‘Even if it goes against all accepted opinion?’

  ‘Believing in Christ went against all accepted opinion once. Discerning the truth, however, is not so easy. Which is why we must not be too hasty to reject beliefs hallowed by tradition, even though we may criticise in private.’

  Wood grunted. ‘That sounds Jesuitical to me. You would have no objection to my attending a service in one of your churches?’

  ‘I would welcome you. Not that I have any right either to welcome or exclude.’

  ‘You are very easygoing, I must say. But how do you know that the Anglican Church is heretical?’

  ‘For the reasons I give. And because it has been condemned as such by the pope.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So if a proposition was plainly heretical, but had not been condemned? Would I – or you – have liberty to countenance it?’

  ‘I suppose it would depend on the proposition,’ I said, desperately seeking some way out of the conversation, which had suddenly swung back to despondency again. But he was a tenacious man, and did so obviously want to company, poor soul, that I could not be cruel. ‘If you like, I will give you an example. Several years ago, I came across a history of heretical movements in the early church. You know, of course, of the Phrygian Montanus, and his assertion that new prophets in every generation would add to the words of Our Lord.’

  ‘Condemned by Hippolitus.’

  ‘But supported by Tertullian, and commented on favourably by Epiphanius. And not my point, for this history I mentioned talked of a woman follower of Montanus called Prisca, and her sayings have never been condemned, as far as I am aware, as almost no one knows of them.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘That redemption is a perpetual process, and in each generation the Messiah wo
uld be reborn, would be betrayed, would die, and be resurrected, until mankind turns away from evil, and sins no more. And, I may say, very much more of the same sort of thing.’

  ‘A doctrine which has passed from the sight of man, you say,’ Wood replied, strangely more interested in my example than in anything else I had said since I handed him my food. ‘Not surprisingly. It is surely just an unsubtle version of Origen, who held that Christ is crucified again each time we sin. It is a metaphor taken literally.’

  ‘My point is, that despite the fact that no formal condemnation has ever been made, there can be no doubt that Catholics are obliged to reject it, as they are obliged to reject any heathen religion. Doctrine and liturgy are laid down quite clearly, and we must assume that what is not permitted is by definition excluded.’

  Wood grunted. ‘You never rebel against what you are told to believe?’

  ‘Frequently,’ I said cheerfully, ‘but not on doctrine. There is no need to do so, since it is plainly correct in all particulars. Your Mr Boyle believes that when science and religion are in conflict, then there is a mistake in the science. That is little different from saying that when the individual mind and the Church are at odds, it is the duty of the individual to learn wherein lies his error.’

  I could see that Wood was getting far more interested in this conversation than I was, and that he was on the brink of suggesting that we go somewhere to drink and continue our most fascinating discourse. I could think of nothing I wanted less, and so before I was put in the position of having to rebuff him, I stood up hastily.

  ‘You must forgive me, Mr Wood, but I have a appointment with Lower. I am late already.’

  His face fell with disappointment, and I felt sorry for the fellow. It is hard to mean so well, and try so hard, and be kept at arm’s length none the less. I would have been more congenial had I the time, despite my distaste for his scholarly earnestness and blockish discourse. But, fortunately, I did not have to lie to avoid him: more important matters really did await. I left him sitting there finishing my dinner, all alone, and the only silent person in a room full of merriment and good company.

  This man Peter Stahl whom Lower wished to consult was a German, and known to be something of a magician, having a fine knowledge of alchemy. When in drink he could talk fascinatingly about the philosopher’s stone, eternal life and how to turn base elements into gold. For myself, I always think that talk is very fine, but not as good as demonstration and Stahl, for all his claims and obscure phrases, never conferred eternal life on even a spider. As he was not noticeably rich, I assume that he never succeeded in turning anything into gold either. However, as he once said, the simple fact that something has not been done, is no proof that it cannot be; he would accept that such things were impossible only when convinced that matter was immutably imprinted with unique form. All the evidence so far, he said, suggested that it was possible to change base materials into primary elements. If you could change acqua fortis into salt – a simple enough proposition – by what reason did someone like myself scoff at the proposition that, given the right method, it was possible to turn stone into gold? Similarly, all medicine aimed at fending off illness and age and decay; some medicines even worked. Could I then swear – and give reasons for my belief – that there was no ultimate potion which might fend off illness for ever? After all, the best minds of antiquity believed it, and there was even biblical testimony. Did not Adam live for 930 years, and Seth 912 years and Methuselah 969 years, as Genesis said?

  Lower had warned me that he was a difficult character and that only Boyle could keep him under control. His abilities were matched by equal vices, as he was a sodomite of the most flagrant variety, who delighted in disgusting those who conversed with him. He was in his forties at this period, and showed the signs of decrepitude that vice brings in its train, with heavy lines around a tight mouth full of foully decayed teeth, and a hunched-over deportment indicating the suspicion and distaste in which he held all the world. He was one of those who considered everybody to be his inferior, no matter what their station, attainments or quality. No monarch was as adept as he at ruling kingdoms, no bishop as well versed in theology, no lawyer as subtle at preparing a case. Oddly, the one area where his arrogance did not rule was the one where it might have been justifiable, which was in his skill at chemical experimentation.

  The other curiosity about him was that, although he treated everybody with scorn, he gave tirelessly of his time and effort once his curiosity was engaged. Human beings he could not deal with, but set him a problem and he would work to exhaustion. Although he should have aroused little but disgust, I none the less developed a cautious regard for the man.

  It was hard to persuade him to assist, even though he knew that Lower was an intimate of Boyle, who was at that time paying his wages. As we explained the situation, he sprawled in a chair and looked contemptuously at us.

  ‘So? He is dead,’ he said in his thick accented Latin, which he pronounced with the old-fashioned weighting and value, quite discredited amongst the cognoscenti of Italy, although the English and others (I understand) still become passionately heated on the subject. ‘Does it matter what happened precisely?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lower replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is always important to establish the truth.’

  ‘And you think that can be done, do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Stahl snorted. ‘Then you are more optimistic than I am.’

  ‘What do you spend your time doing, then?’

  ‘I amuse my masters,’ he replied in a disagreeable tone. ‘They want to find out what happens if you mix verdigrice with oil of nitre, so I mix it for them. What happens if you heat it, so I heat it.’

  ‘And then try to work out why it happens.’

  He waved his hand airily. ‘Pfaf. No. We try to work out how it happens. Not why.’

  ‘There is a difference?’

  ‘Of course. A dangerous difference. The gap between how and why troubles me greatly, as it should you. It is a difference that will bring the world down on our heads.’ He blew his nose and looked at me with distaste. ‘Look,’ he continued, ‘I am a busy man. You have come here with a problem. It must be a problem of chemistry, otherwise you wouldn’t have demeaned yourself by asking me a favour. Correct?’

  ‘I have a very high opinion of your abilities,’ Lower protested. ‘I’ve given you evidence enough of that, surely. I have been paying you for lessons for long enough.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But I haven’t been overburdened by social calls. Not that I mind, as I have better things to do than talk. So if you want a favour of me, tell me what it is, then go away.’

  Lower seemed quite used to this performance. I probably would have walked out by this stage, but he very placidly took the brandy bottle out of his satchel, and put it on the table. Stahl peered at it closely – I could see that he was short-sighted, and probably could have done with a pair of spectacles.

  ‘So? What’s this?’

  ‘It’s a bottle of brandy, with a strange slurry at the bottom, which you can see as well as I can, despite your pretence of being blind. We want to know what it is.’

  ‘Aha. Was Dr Grove killed by Spirits or by spirits? That’s the problem, is it? Is their wine the poison of dragons and the cruel venom of asps?’

  Lower sighed. ‘Deuteronomy 32:33,’ he responded. ‘Just so.’ And then stood patiently as Stahl went through an elaborate display of apparent thought. ‘So, how do we test this substance, even though it is corrupted by the liquid?’ The German thought some more. ‘Why don’t you offer that tease of a servant of yours a glass of this brandy one evening, eh? Solve two problems in one go?’

  Lower said he didn’t think this was a very good idea. It would, after all, be hard to repeat the experiment even if it were successful. ‘Now, will you help us, or not?’

  Stahl grinned, showing a range of blackened, yellowing stumps that passed for teeth and whic
h might well have accounted for his ugly temper. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘This is a fascinating problem. We need a series of tests that can be repeated, and be sufficiently numerous so that it will identify this sediment. But first I have to extract this sediment in a usable form.’ He pointed at the bottle. ‘I suggest you go away and come back in a few days. I will not be rushed.’

  ‘Perhaps we might start, though?’

  Stahl sighed, then shrugged and stood up. ‘Oh, very well. If it will rid me of your company.’ He went over to a shelf and selected a flexible tube with a piece of thin glass on the end, and inserted this into the open end of the bottle, which he placed on the table. Then, crouching down, he sucked on the other end of the tubing, and stood back as the liquid ran swiftly into a receptacle which he had placed underneath.

  ‘An interesting and useful exercise,’ he observed. ‘Common enough, of course, but fascinating none the less. As long as the second part of the tube is longer than the first the liquid will continue to flow out, because the liquid falling downwards weighs more than the liquid being required to flow upwards. If it didn’t, a vacuum would form in the tube, which is impossible to sustain. Now, the really interesting question is, what happens if . . .’

  ‘You don’t want to suck all the sediment out as well, do you?’ Lower interrupted anxiously as the level of brandy fell towards the bottom of the bottle.

  ‘I saw it, I saw it.’ And Stahl quickly whipped the glass tube out.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘And now I remove the sediment, which must be washed and dried. This will take time, and there is no reason at all for you to be here.’

  ‘Just tell us what you plan.’

  ‘Simple enough. This is a mixture of brandy and sediment. I shall heat it gently to evaporate the liquid, then wash it in fresh rainwater, allow it to settle once more, again decant the liquid off and wash and dry it a second time. It should be fairly pure by then. Three days, if you please. Not a moment earlier, and if you do turn up before then, I won’t talk to you.’