An Instance of the Fingerpost

by Iain Pears

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘She believes it. Your mother believes it. Many others in the past few years have held me responsible for such deeds. Mr Boyle heard of it as well.’

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘She was racked with pain with a swollen ankle; it made her very ill tempered and she tried to beat me. I held her hand to make her stop and she swore that at that moment the pain and the swelling went.’

  ‘She never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘I begged her not to. It is a terrible reputation to have.’

  ‘And Boyle?’

  ‘He heard something and thought I must have knowledge of herbs and potions, so asked for my receipt book. It was difficult to refuse him, as I could hardly tell him the truth.’

  There was a long silence broken only by the sound of the horse’s hooves on the road, and the snuffle of its breath in the cold night air. ‘I do not want this, Anthony,’ she said quietly and I could hear the fear in her voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whatever this is. I don’t want to be a prophet, I don’t want to cure people, I don’t want them coming to me, and I don’t want to be punished for something I cannot prevent and do not will. I am a woman and I want to marry and grow old and be happy. I don’t want humiliation and imprisonment. And I don’t want what will happen next.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘An Irishman came to see me; an astrologer. He said he had seen me in his charts and came to warn me. He said I will die, that everyone will want me dead. Anthony, why would that be? What could I have done?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s wrong. Who believes people like that?’

  She was silent.

  ‘Leave, then, if it worries you.’ I said. ‘Go away.’

  ‘I cannot. Nothing can be changed.’

  ‘You will have to hope this Irishman is wrong and you are mad, then.’

  ‘I do hope so. I am frightened.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure there is nothing to worry about, really,’ I said. I shook myself to cast off the atmosphere of ominous terror that had grown around us, and when I did so I saw more clearly the foolishness of our conversation. Set down here, I suppose it seems even more so. ‘I don’t hold with Irishmen or astrologers and, from my limited experience, prophets and messiahs these days tend to rush around telling all the world of their powers. It is most unusual to hope that the cup be taken from you.’

  She laughed at least, but noticed my allusion, for she knew her Bible well, and looked curiously at me when I spoke it. For my part, I swear I did not notice till later what I had said and it passed from my mind easily as we plodded on.

  As I look back, I think that time on the horse was the happiest in my life. The return of the easy intimacy which I had so wantonly destroyed through my jealousy was such a blessing that, had it been possible, I would have continued on to Carlisle simply to preserve and lengthen our time together, the conversation of perfect amity and the feel of her arm around my waist. Despite the freezing chill in the air, I felt no cold at all, and might have been in the most commodious parlour, not on a muddy, wet road near midnight. I suppose the tumultuous events of that evening and night had fuddled my mind and so shocked me out of my normal caution that I did not set her down on the outskirts of town so that we were not seen together in such a fashion. Rather, I kept her with me all the way back to my cousin’s tavern and even then could not let her go.

  ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘She is in comfort.’

  ‘You can do nothing for her?’

  She shook her head. ‘It is the only thing I have ever wished for myself and I cannot have it.’

  ‘You’d best go and tend her, then.’

  ‘She is in no need of me. A friend who knows me well offered to spend time with her, and only leave when she was sure she was asleep so I could attend that meeting. She will die soon, but not yet.’

  ‘So stay with me still.’

  We walked back to Merton Street, and went into my house, mounting the stairs quietly so that my mother would not hear, and then, in my room, we loved each other with a passion and ferocity I have never before, or since, felt for any living person, nor has anyone shown such love to me. I had never before spent a night with a woman, had someone lying by my side in the quietness of the dark, hearing her breath and feeling her warmth beside me. It is a sin and it is a crime. I say it frankly, for I have been taught so all my life and only madmen have ever said otherwise. The Bible says it, the Fathers of the Church have said it, the prelates now repeat it without end, and all the statutes of the land prescribe punishment for what we did that night. Abstain from fleshly lusts which war against the soul. It must be so, for the Bible speaks only God’s truth. I sinned against the law, against God’s reported word, I abused my family and exposed them even more to risk of public shame, I again risked permanent exclusion from those rooms and books which were my delight and my whole occupation; yet in all the years that have passed since I have regretted only one thing: that it was but a passing moment, never repeated, for I have never been closer to God, nor felt His love and goodness more.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  WE WERE NOT discovered; Sarah arose at dawn, and slipped softly downstairs to begin her duties in the kitchen, and only after the fire was going and the water brought in did she leave to see her mother. I did not see her again for two days, and did not know that she discovered her mother abandoned by the friend, and in need of the assistance which prompted her to apologise to Cola and submit to his experiment with transfusion. She was sworn to silence and was a woman of her word in all respects.

  For myself, I went back to a blissful sleep and awoke late, so it was several hours before I walked to an inn for some bread and ale, an occasional extravagance I indulge in when I am feeling at ease with the world, or wish to avoid my mother’s conversation. It was only then, as I was sitting dreamily over a pot, that I heard the news.

  There are countless tales in myth to warn us of our heart’s desires. King Midas wanted to be so rich he wished that everything he touched might turn to gold, and legend has it that he died of hunger as a result. Euripides talks of Tithonus, whom Eos loved so well she begged Zeus to give him eternal life. But mistakenly she asked not for youth as well and he suffered an eternity of decrepitude until even the cruel Gods took pity on him.

  And I wished to be spared the scandal which Grove in his malice threatened to visit on me. The memory of him cut into my mood, and I prayed that his mouth might be stopped for ever and that I should not suffer for what I had done and said, however deserving I was of punishment. I had scarcely finished my ale when I heard that my wish had been granted.

  The moment I heard the news my blood ran cold with horror, for I was absolutely certain that my own prayers and private vengeance had been responsible. I had killed a man. I believe there is no crime greater and I was tormented with remorse at my deed, so much so that I felt as though I should instantly confess. Cowardice soon overcame this urge, as I thought of the shame of my family should I do so. And I convinced myself that I was not really to blame. I had made a mistake, that was all. The intent was lacking, my guilt was limited and my chances of discovery small.

  So speaks the mind, but the conscience is not so easily quelled. I recovered from the shock as best I could, seeking out all the information available in the attempt to discover some small detail to convince me that I had not, in fact, caused this awful event. I persuaded myself for a brief while that all was well, then tried to return to my labours and found all my concentration gone, as my rebellious soul confronted me with what I had done. And still I could not take any step to relieve myself; my contentment vanished, my sleep soon after and in the days and weeks that followed I grew haggard and sickly in my struggle.

  I aim for sympathy but do not deserve any, for it was easy to remedy and cleanse myself of disquiet. I merely had to stand and say, ‘I did this.’ All else would be taken care of.

  But t
o die myself, and make my family live under the obloquy of having engendered a murderer? To have my mother hooted through the street and spat on, my sister living out her old age in spinsterhood as no man would attach himself to her? My cousin’s trade dry up into failure because no one would drink in his tavern? These were real concerns. Oxford is not London, where all sin is forgotten within a week, where criminals are celebrated for their deeds, and thieves rewarded for their endeavours. Here all know the business of all and the desire to maintain good morals is acute, however great secretive breaches might be. My greatest loyalty is, and always has been, to my family. I have lived to bring what little lustre is in my power to my name, and maintain our position of respectability. I would have accepted that the courts might punish me, for I could not deny that it would be deserved, but I recoiled in horror at doing such great injury to my people. They struggled as it was, due to our losses in the troubles, and I would not add to their burden.

  I nursed my guilt to myself for the next few days, and kept to my room in miserable solitude, refusing food and conversation even with Sarah, whom I dared not look in the face. I had told her I had been to see Grove, but dared not tell her what I had done as I could not abide her disgust, nor could I burden her with information she would be obliged to share. I spent much of my time in prayer, and even more staring blankly at empty pieces of paper on my desk as I failed to get my mind to concentrate on even the dullest and most mechanical of tasks.

  And in those few days I missed much of importance in my tale, for it was in those days that Lower discovered the bottle of brandy and took it to Stahl; dissected Dr Grove to see if his corpse accused Cola through bleeding; and performed the experiment of transfusion on Anne Blundy. It was also in these days, it seemed, that the finger of suspicion first began to point at Sarah, but I swear I was totally unaware of this. I was aware only of Lower’s growing discomfort with the Italian and his fear that Cola was out to steal his glory.

  My own opinion of the dispute between the two is a complicated one, yet I think it will serve. Both, I think, tell the truth even though their conclusions be opposite. Nor do I think that this is necessarily a contradiction. I do accept, of course, that there is one truth, but except on rare occasions we are not given to know it. Horace says, Nec scire fas est omnia, it is not God’s will we should know all, a sentence taken (I believe) from Euripides. To know all is to see all and omniscience is God’s alone. I state the obvious, I suppose, for if God exists, so does truth and if there was no God (a thing not to be imagined in seriousness, but as a philosophic jest alone) then truth would disappear from the world, and the opinion of one would be no better than that of another. I might also reverse the theorem and say that, if men come to think all is merely opinion, then they must come to atheism as well. What is truth?’ said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer. I do believe that the fact we know in our hearts there is truth without having to reason about it is the prettiest proof of God’s existence there can be, and as long as we strive to discover it, so we also strive to know God.

  But, with Lower and Cola, we have no assistance from the divine and must reason it out as best we can. Cola has put his account on paper for all to see; Lower told me (and many others) his version, although he disdained to enter the lists by publishing any sort of justification for his claims. He had published his account in the Transactions, he told me, because he was assured by Dr Wallis that Cola had drowned in an accident when leaving the country. And even had he been assured of the man’s health, he would have done so in any case. In his recollection, Cola’s notions were only of the vaguest sort; he spoke of rejuvenating blood by some magical means, but said not a word about transfusion. It was only when Lower described his own experimentation with injections that Cola hit on the idea of transferring new blood and accomplishing the desired aim in that fashion. Lower had had this possibility in the back of his mind for months by then and it was only a matter of time before it took place. He points out that, even by Cola’s own account, it was he who performed most of the technical labours. Consequently, the credit should be his.

  When I received this account and compared both versions I was, frankly, astonished that the dispute could arise at all, for it seems to me that it was the meeting of the two men which produced the result and that both were responsible in equal part for the idea. When I wrote this to Lower, he ridiculed the idea with some asperity and made it clear that (he put it as kindly as he could, but his irritation showed through) only an historian, who has no ideas, could imagine such an absurdity. He repeated this assertion a week or so ago, when he made one of his now very rare visits to Oxford, and called on me to pay his respects.

  The transfusion of blood, he said, was a discovery. Did I agree?

  I did.

  And the essence of an invention or discovery lay in the idea, not in the execution.

  Agreed.

  And it was whole and entire, not consisting of parts. An idea was like one of Mr Boyle’s corpuscles, or Lucretius’s atoms and could not be reduced further. It is the essence of the conception that it is entire and perfect in itself.

  It was an Aristotelian concept that sounded strange on his lips, but I agreed.

  One cannot have half an idea?

  If it cannot be divided, then obviously not.

  Therefore they all must have a single point of origin, as you cannot have one thing in two places at the same time.

  I agreed.

  Therefore it was reasonable to assume that it could arise in the mind of only one man?

  I agreed again, and he nodded with satisfaction, convinced he had disproved my attempt to restore amiable agreement between the two men. His logic was impeccable, but I must say I still do not accept it, although I am incapable of saying why. None the less he proceeded to his next theorem that, if one of the pair had conceived the idea of transfusion first, then the other must be lying when he claims its authorship.

  Given his starting point, I agreed this was again an inevitable conclusion, and Lower rested content with the notion that, in a choice between himself and Cola, then he had the higher claim, for who would take the word of an Italian dilettante above that of an English gentleman? Not that it was unknown for the latter to lie, or miscomprehend the truth, but because the chances of it were very much smaller. This is well known and accepted. I did not enquire whether it was equally accepted in Italy.

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  ALTHOUGH I SCARCELY ventured out during those days, on the few occasions I left either my house or the library, I encountered the Italian; the first time our meeting was deliberate, for I sought him out in Mother Jean’s cookhouse, the second time it was by accident, after the play. On the first occasion, in particular, the conversation threw my mind into the utmost confusion.

  He has recounted this talk between us in his memoir, and it was clear at the time that he believed he had deceived me. I found him to be sober and courteous, with an intelligent air and of moderate conversation. He was clearly gifted in tongues, for although the conversation tended to be in Latin, it seemed to me that he missed very little when we lapsed into English. Despite his skill, however, he gave himself away badly to anyone with the sense to listen; for what doctor (or soldier, for that matter) could talk so knowledgeably about heresies long dead, could refer so learnedly to the works of Hippolitus and Tertullian, or had even heard of Elchesai, Zosimus or Montanus? Papists, I grant, are more interested in such obscurities than Protestants, who have learned to read the Bible for themselves and thus need less knowledge of the opinions of others, but few even of the most devoted Romanists would have such matter readily to hand for use in dispute.

  Cola did not act like a physician when he searched the Blundys’ cottage; now he did not talk like one either; I found my curiosity about him getting ever greater.

  Even so, this was a minor matter in comparison to the substance of the conversation, and the direction he gave me so unknowingly. I have often thought abo
ut this phenomenon which occurs so frequently in the lives of all men that we almost fail to notice it any more. How often have I had a question on my mind, and picked a book at random off the shelf, often one I have never heard of before, yet found the answer I seek within its covers? It is well known that men feel impelled to go to that place where they are to encounter, for the first time, that woman who is to be their wife. Similarly, even peasants know that letting the Bible fall open where it will, and putting a finger randomly on the page thus revealed will, more often than not, give the most sound advice that any man could wish to hear.

  The thoughtless call this coincidence, and I note amongst philosophers a growing tendency to talk of chance and probability, as though this were some explanation rather than a scholarly disguise for their own ignorance. Simpler people know exactly what it is, for nothing can happen by chance when God sees and knows all; even to suggest anything different is absurd. These coincidences are the visible signs of His manifest Providence, from which we can learn well if we will only see His hand, and contemplate the meaning of His actions.

  So it was that I was driven against my will to Sarah’s house the night Cola searched it, came across her on the Abingdon road and followed her, and so it was also in my conversation with Cola. All those things which the scoffers call chance and accident and coincidence show the direction God takes in men’s affairs. Cola could have taken any example at all to illustrate his point, any one of which would have done as well or better than a tale of a long-extinct and forgotten heresy. So through what inspiration did he mention that most obscure branch of the Montanist heresy? What angel whispered in his ear and directed his mind so that, by the time I left the cookhouse, my limbs were trembling and my body sweating? ‘In each generation the Messiah would be reborn, would be betrayed, would die, and be resurrected, until mankind turns away from evil, and sins no more.’ These were his words, and they frightened me greatly, for Sarah had said precisely the same only a few days previously.