An Instance of the Fingerpost

by Iain Pears

  Shortly after this business, when my spirits were still low and my habits continued unsociable – for I knew my humour did not appeal, and so avoided the company of my fellow men lest they demand to know what ailed me – I was summoned to Dr Wallis. This was a rare occurrence, for although I was earning him his salary as keeper of the archives, he did not honour me frequently with such attention; any business between us was habitually conducted at chance meetings, in the street or in the library. As everyone who knows Wallis will realise, the summons alarmed me, for his coldness was truly terrifying. This is one of the rare matters on which Prestcott and Cola agree – both found his presence disturbing. It was, I think, the blankness of his countenance which gave such alarm, for it is hard to know a man when the visible indicators of character have been so rigorously suppressed. Wallis never smiled, never frowned, never showed either pleasure or displeasure. There was only his voice – soft, menacing and permanently laced with scarce-hidden nuances of contempt beneath a courtesy which could evaporate as swiftly as a summer dew.

  It was at this meeting that Wallis asked me to discover for him the edition of Livy he sought. I will not recount the conversation as it actually took place; stripped of his sneering remarks about my character, the essence of his version is accurate enough. I promised to do my best and did so, leaving no library unexamined and no bookseller unbothered by my enquiries. But he did not tell me why he wanted it: I still knew nothing of Marco da Cola, who arrived several weeks afterwards.

  I suppose I must now concentrate more fully on that gentleman, and approach the heart of the matter. I am aware I have delayed unseasonably; it is something which I find painful to recall, so great was the torment he caused me.

  I heard of Cola’s existence a few days before I met him; on the evening of his arrival, I think, I ate with Lower at a cookhouse, and he told me of the occurrence. He was quite excited about it; Lower in those days always had a taste for the novel and the exotic and had yearnings to tour the world. There was not the slightest chance that he would do so, for he had neither the money nor the leisure to travel, nor yet the easiness of mind to put aside his career. Absence is the greatest danger of all for the physician since, once out of the mind of the public, it is difficult to fight back into esteem. But it pleased him for some time to talk about how he would one day tour the universities of the Continent, meeting the men of science and discovering what they were doing. The arrival of Cola rekindled these notions in his breast, and I am sure he imagined himself arriving in Venice and being treated to the greatest hospitality by Cola’s family to repay the courtesies done in Oxford.

  And he liked the man, strange as he found him, for Lower was nothing if not broad in his appreciation of humanity. Indeed, the little Italian was hard not to like, unless one be of a hard and suspicious turn of mind like John Wallis. Short and already tending to a certain roundness in the belly, with bright, sparkling eyes which twinkled readily with amusement, and an engaging manner of leaning forward in his seat which gave the impression of fascinated attention when you spoke, he was a charming companion. He was full of observations on all he saw, and none of these (that I heard) was pejorative; Cola seemed one of those happy few who see only the best, and prefer not to notice the worst. Even Mr Boyle, who gave his affections with the greatest difficulty, seemed to grow fond of him, despite Wallis’s warnings. This was the most extraordinary of all, perhaps, for Boyle liked peace and quiet; he suffered noise and disturbance almost as physical pain, and even at the height of the most exciting experiment, insisted on an air of moderate calm amongst those who were assisting. No servant was allowed to clatter about with equipment, or talk above a whisper; all had to be done with almost a religious demeanour – for, in his opinion, to study nature was a form of worship.

  So the success of the boisterous, noisy Cola – always bursting into peals of laughter, whose flat-footed movements led him to bump noisily, with loud and extravagant oaths, into tables and chairs – was something of a mystery to us all. Lower ascribed it to the Italian’s obvious and genuine love of experiment, but personally I put it down to his gentlemanly amiability, and we might say with Menander that his reception was the fruit of his stately manners. Mr Boyle was excessively sober in his demeanour, yet occasionally I suspected that there was part of him which admired those who were light-hearted and cheerful. Perhaps he would have been himself, had he been less stricken with ill health. I was not aware that, in part, Boyle’s attention was prompted by ulterior motives, but even this does not suffice, for he was not a man who could pretend an affection out of duplicity. No; Wallis’s intervention with Boyle merely makes that Italian’s success the more striking – or makes Wallis’s beliefs the less acceptable. For Boyle was as well acquainted with Cola as any in England, and a fine judge of character. I find it impossible to credit that he would have extended his affection had he discerned anything at all which corresponded with Wallis’s fears. Moreover, Boyle had no need to fear Wallis and I believe held him in a certain amount of distaste: more than any, he was capable of making up his own mind, and his opinion should thus be given more weight when reaching any judgement on this matter.

  The gradual disenchantment of Lower with Cola, however, did have much to do with Wallis, for he preyed like the serpent before Eve on Lower’s fears and hopes, twisting them to his own ends. Wallis knew Lower was desperate for success, for all his family depended on him since it was clear that his elder brother (through the perversions of religious belief) would never be in a position to give much support. And Lower had a large family, for not only were his parents still living, he had several unmarried sisters who needed portions and innumerable demanding cousins. Merely to satisfy part of their expectations, he would have to be the most successful physician in London. It says much for his sense of duty that he applied himself with the greatest success when he took up the challenge; and it says as much for the weight of this burden on his mind that he swiftly came to see Cola as a threat to his progress.

  Lower had, after all, worked hard with Mr Boyle and others to deserve and receive their patronage. He had done countless labours and small services for no payment and had proved an assiduous courtier. The rewards were to be Boyle’s support for his membership of the Royal Society; his approval when he finally plucked up the courage to advance his cause with the College of Physicians; his patronage when the position of court physician came vacant, as well as the huge family of patients that Boyle’s approval could bring to him when he began his practice in London. And he deserved all the success and all the support Boyle could provide, for he was a very good physician indeed.

  Having worked so hard and being now, at the age of some thirty-two years, on the verge of entering the lists, he was frightened lest some event snatch those greatly desired rewards from him. Cola presented no threat to him, and would not have done even had he been what Lower feared, for Boyle patronised those with merit and did not play favourite with his clients. But Lower’s jealousy and worry were inflamed by the words of Dr Wallis, who played on his ambition by saying that Cola had the reputation for stealing other men’s ideas. I do not (though my own path has been so different) condemn moderate ambition, such as drove Themistocles to match the glory of Miltiades, or fired Alexander to seek the trophies of Achilles; rather it is the excess of ambition that becomes pride, drives courtiers to beggar themselves and their families, and makes good men behave with cruelty and recklessness, which all men of sense must condemn; Wallis’s purpose was to drive Lower into this great fault and for a while he succeeded, even though Lower battled manfully with his jealousy. The conflict within him, I believe, exacerbated those changes in mood, from exultation to darkness, from excessive friendliness to bitter condemnation, which caused Cola so much grief.

  Initially, however, all was very well. Lower bubbled with enthusiasm as he described his new acquaintance and I could see he hoped that a true friendship would develop. Indeed, he was already treating Cola with that consideration and courtesy no
rmally reserved for acquaintance of much longer standing.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, leaning forward with an arch look of amusement on his face, ‘so good a Christian physician is he, he has even undertaken to treat the old Blundy woman? Without any hope of payment or reward, although as he is Italian perhaps he intends to take payment in kind from the girl. Should I warn him, do you think?’

  I ignored the remark. ‘What is wrong with the old woman?’ I asked.

  ‘Fell and broke her leg, apparently. A nasty wound by all accounts, and she is unlikely to survive. Cola took her on after the daughter had the gall to approach Dr Grove in public to ask for money.’

  ‘Is this man any good? Does he know anything about such injuries?’

  ‘That I cannot say. All I know is that he has set to work with a great enthusiasm, completely mindless of the disadvantages of such a client. I applaud his kindness, if not his sense.’

  ‘You would not treat her yourself.’

  ‘With only the greatest reluctance,’ he said, then hesitated. ‘No, of course I would. But I am glad I was not asked.’

  ‘You have taken a shine to this man.’

  ‘Indeed. He is quite delightful and extremely knowledgeable. I look forward to many long conversations during his stay, which may be a long one, as he is out of funds. You must come and meet him; visitors to this town are few and far between these days. We must make what use we can of them.’

  There the subject of itinerant Italians was dropped, and the conversation passed on to other matters. I left my friend later with a feeling of concern in the back of my mind, for I was distressed to hear of the misfortunes of Sarah’s mother. This was, after all, many months since our last encounter and the passage of time had softened my feelings. I am not a man much given to hatred, and find that I cannot sustain a continued resentment, however grave the injury suffered. While I had no desire to resume my acquaintance, I no longer wished to see that family visited by troubles and still nurtured an affection of sorts for the old woman.

  Here again I confess freely, and say I wished to play the part of magnitude. However much she had caused me injury, yet I wished to show myself charitable and forgiving. Perhaps this was the greatest punishment I could bestow, for I would show her the extent of her foolishness and lord it over her with my condescension.

  So, after much thought, the following evening I covered myself in my cloak, put on my warmest hat and gloves (Cola was certainly right about the coldness of the weather; my friend Mr Plot has meticulously gathered measurements which show it to have been bitterly cold. Although spring came suddenly and brilliantly only a week or so later, winter held the country in its icy grip until the last moment) and walked down to the castle.

  I was nervous of being seen, and even more nervous about encountering Sarah, as I had no expectation of being welcomed. But she was not there; I knocked, waited, then walked in with relief in my heart, thinking that I would be able to comfort the mother without the risk of angering the daughter. That woman, however, was asleep, no doubt due to some potion or other, and although I was tempted to wake her so that my kindness might not go unnoticed, yet I refrained from doing so. Her face shocked me, so gaunt and pale that it resembled a death’s head; her breathing was harsh and difficult and the smell in the room was oppressive in the extreme. Like all people, I have witnessed death on many occasions; I watched my father, my brothers and sisters, my cousins, and my friends all die. Some young, some old, of injury, illness, plague and simple old age. No one, I think, can reach the age of thirty without knowing death intimately, in all its guises. And it was in that room, waiting its chance.

  There was nothing I could do at that moment. Anne Blundy did not need any practical help I could give, and any spiritual comfort would not have been pleasing to her. Reluctantly I stood watching her, overcome by that sudden hopelessness that results from wanting to do well but not knowing how, until a footstep at the door roused me from my meditations. Overcome with a fear and a sudden reluctance to confront Sarah herself, I quickly took myself into the little room next to the chamber, since I knew there was a small door through which I could once again gain the street.

  But it was not Sarah; the footfalls in the room were far too heavy for that, and so I paused out of curiosity to know who had come into the house. By carefully peering through the door – a deceit I am ashamed to acknowledge, as it is the sort of falseness no gentleman should ever perpetrate – I could see that the man in the next room must be this Cola; no Englishman (in those days at least) would ever have dressed in such a fashion. He was behaving very strangely, however, and his activities caught my attention in such a way that I compounded my ill behaviour by continuing to watch, and continuing to make sure that I was myself unobserved.

  First, he came in and established as I had that Widow Blundy was still perfectly asleep, then knelt down beside her, took out his rosary and prayed deeply for a short while. As I say, I had considered doing something of the same myself in a more Protestant way, but knew her better than to think even that would be welcomed. Then he acted most strangely indeed, taking out a small phial, which he opened, and spreading some oil on his finger. He applied this finger gently to her forehead, made the sign of the cross and prayed again before putting the bottle back under his coat.

  This was odd enough, although might be explained by great personal devotion, which I could admire as much as I condemned his error in doctrine. Thereafter, he bewildered me completely, as he got up abruptly and began searching the room. Not out of idle curiosity, but a thorough and determined search, pulling the small number of books off the shelves and flicking through them one by one before shaking them to see if anything should flutter out. One, I noted, he tucked under his coat so it could not be seen. Then he opened the little chest next to the door, which contained all the Blundys’ possessions, and went through that as well, meticulously searching for something. Whatever it was he did not find it, for he closed the lid with a heavy sigh and muttered some imprecation in his native language – I did not understand the words, but the sense of disappointment and frustration was clear enough.

  He was standing in the room, clearly wondering what to do next when Sarah arrived.

  ‘How is she?’ I heard her say, and my heart stirred to hear her voice again.

  ‘She is not well at all,’ said the Italian. He had a thick accent, but spoke clearly and evidently understood the language perfectly. ‘Can you not attend to her more?’

  ‘I have to work,’ she replied, ‘Our position is already grave now my mother cannot earn. 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.’

  I see here that my recollection of the conversation matches that of Mr Cola very well; his memory is sound as to the beginning of the matter, so I will not continue to repeat what he has already said. I will, however, add that I noticed something he does not mention, which is that there was instantly in that room a most palpable tension between the two of them, and, while Sarah behaved perfectly normally, concerned only for her mother, Cola became distinctly and ever more agitated as the conversation proceeded. I thought initially that he was alarmed at the thought that his bizarre behaviour might have been spotted, but realised this could not be. I should have left instantly, and slipped away while I had the chance to do so unobserved, but I could not bring myself to go.

  ‘I am fortunate indeed. 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. We are not used to it, and I am truly sorry I misspoke. I was frightened for her.’

  ‘That is quite all right,’ Cola replied. ‘As long as you do not expect miracles.’

  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,’ he said.

  I reproduce, more or less word for word, the conversation as set down by Mr Cola, and admit that his account, as far as my own memory serves, is impeccable. I will merely add one thing which, strangely, finds no mention in his description. For, as he spoke about payment, he took a step closer to her and rested his hand on her arm.

  ‘Oh yes, your payment. How could I think you would forget about that. We must deal with that urgently, must we not?’

  It was only then that she broke away, and led him into the room where I swiftly concealed myself in the gloom so I might escape observation.

  ‘Very well then, physician, take your payment.’

  And, as Cola says, again with perfect truth, she lay herself down and pulled up her dress, revealing herself to him with the most obscene of gestures. But Cola does not mention the tone in her voice, the way her words trembled with anger and contempt and the sneer on her face as she spoke.

  Cola hesitated, then took a step backwards and crossed himself. ‘You disgust me.’ It is all in his account, I merely plagiarise his words. But again I must differ on a point of interpretation, for he says he was angry and I did not detect that. What I saw was a man horrified, almost as though he had seen the devil himself. His eyes were wide, and he all but cried out in despair as he recoiled from her and averted his gaze. It was many days before I learned the reasons for this bizarre behaviour.