Читать книгу Newton’s Niece - Derek Beaven - Страница 9

My mother brought me in. I was dressed well in cleverly designed restraining garments; my coat, for example, gave the illusion that I stood habitually with my arms folded. They were in fact secured by the sleeves. I was fourteen. There’d been a bloody civil war and a bloodless revolution. The mathematics of gravity had just been published, and the universe had been told that it was dead. I had no speech but I could sing. I sang to him. To my Uncle Isaac. Church songs and street songs, psalms and farm songs; the old revolutionary songs my Granduncle Ayskew said he’d learnt in the army, that I didn’t know the meaning of:

Let us with a gladsome mind Make away with all we find. Church and King will ay endure Till they take the common cure.

Here’s an Earl and here’s a Lord, Harlot’s hair and Spainish sword, Church and King will ay endure Till they take the common cure.

All who seek to heap up gain While men landless do remain They their profit shall endure When they take the common cure.

Let them think on Charlie’s axe Ere the next ungodly tax, For His mercies ay endure Taken with the common cure.

I piped, but my voice was breaking, and not just because of my age. My fit of rage was beginning to give way to the other emotion, hopelessness. Soon the restraint would hardly be needed and I could be sat in a corner without danger to myself or others. My mother used the fact that I could sing to shore up the lie she told herself that I was normal. She liked to give out that I was her young gentleman protector on the journey from Northamptonshire. And whenever she, flushed and carnal, came to Cambridge on one of her various negotiations, leaving me in my Uncle Isaac’s rational care, she would first stand me in the centre of that charred and reeking chamber and have me sing. Why was it that I sang? Somebody once referred to the vocal art as licensed screaming. The negotiation that Autumn, I think, was with a Mr Trueman.

My mother was very persuasive. I see her now with her strict coiffure and her distinguished features, which were only belied by a moistness she managed to secrete on her lips even as her Purity eyes engaged you. Ordinary men melted; my Uncle Isaac shuddered.

So many years ago. I said you would not believe. I hear my young voice again, knowing and unknowing. It is not the voice of a stripling hero of fiction. I lack the clear skin and bold dash of a handsome Johnny who within a year or two will escape the hangman and sail off to Virginia in search of a fortune. I have the feel and looks, beneath my mother’s grooming, of what I can only describe as a wolf. My teeth are too often exposed and there is a distinct howl to some of my high notes. The skin of my face is blotched from the various scratchings and attacks I have made on it. I register and understand what goes on around me but I do not take part, being racked with waves of rage and fear which make me pant, and occasionally growl. In my sullen phases I know I am collapsing inside. I can read well and write; for I may be uncontrollable, and inadmissible in society, but I am not stupid. Far from it: I have had enforced leisure for study, and my father is a clergyman. Now I remember it, he lies at home, dying, and my mother must be concealing her anxiety about income.

It was an Autumn of quiet red celebration. Low sun illuminated the Cambridge brick and stone so that it glowed brighter than the blue sky it cut into. That wonderful light struck inward at the casement, but I could not let myself feast on it.

My uncle, at fifty-one, claimed a total indifference to music or poetry in any form, but nevertheless made a point of shooting pained looks and drawing in his breath when any of my notes came out flawed. So the singing ritual pleased neither of us. He too was ‘in his fit’, and as she denied mine my mother over-acknowledged his, casting my music as a species of psychological bandage. She said it ‘eased him’ to hear my assortment of canticles and bawdry. She particularly toadied to him now that he was famous and no longer the other embarrassment of the family; and we were facing destitution.

Isaac’s dis-ease at the time was that he was laid low with an unusual melancholy. It was a bleak and restless frenzy. His bowels griped him and he went about a little stooped with his hands clutched across his belly, as if his body were feeling the loss of a child. But his look remained undemonstrative. As for the proof sheets of a special reprint of his Principia that Mr Halley sent, he could hardly bear to see their impressions. I grasped him intuitively, but could not articulate then what I can describe now – that he was at the mercy of what he had striven so hard to exclude from the whole universe: human feelings. He was experiencing a reaction equal and opposite to Monsieur Fatio de Duillier’s Platonic teasing – that sly, Swiss and mathematical little chienne. Mr Newton’s great brow was greatly knitted in a Type of stifled despair. Each icy orb promised to melt into a tear. But could not.

For politeness’ sake he thanked my mother shortly when I’d finished. Every time, after I’d performed, he’d refer to me as a young siren, and laugh cynically. I disliked his jokes; they were wounding. Then he begged leave to cast himself down in the little cluttered bedchamber. I recall my mother following him and fidgeting in its doorframe. It was a frame only, because Uncle Isaac had taken off all the interior doors, including what used to be Mr Wickens’s, to aid the supply of draught, and to ease all the coming and going.

She said: ‘Well, is all agreeable to you, Ize? He has everything he needs in the basket, and I’ve done some baking for you. And Mr Anderson sent the wine. And Robert sends you his best wishes and blessing in Christ.’ She lowered her voice to a mutter. ‘There are his cords for the night-time under the package of his linen. Which reminds me I packed some of my own which I must take out directly. Linen, I mean. It’s the last day or so of my courses and you can imagine … ’ She drew breath and then whispered on. ‘Regarding what I wrote to you about his … ’ and here she only mouthed the word and I could not see her lips, but I knew she said devil, ‘you will see what you can do, won’t you?’ She continued in a normal voice: ‘But I believe I’ve seen to everything and he’ll be no trouble. Is there a screen or corner where I can …?’ She looked round and then back to him. I saw terror come into his eyes. But she was driven, tactless, itching to be changed and off. My dear mother: an unknown; a variable.

She left. I sat. He wrestled with his misery, ignored me, and at last was empowered to continue his Quest for the Philosopher’s Stone – the riddle of Matter. It was the only thing he could bear to do.

I knew from previous visits that every bit of his space and time was pressed into the service of this great activity. He either worked here or in the laboratory – a tiled shed the College had caused to be put up for him in what was known as Mr Newton’s Garden. There was a large iron furnace up here in the fireplace as well as the one down there, and scattered around both rooms were a number of secondary structures he had made himself, that bubbled and smoked at various times. Papers and books lay about inviting combustion.

I did not feel safe. But then I never did.

My mother would be with Mr Trueman for a week’s holiday, hoping, I surmise, to clinch some relief for the family’s financial crisis from this comfortable city businessman, in addition to that from my uncle’s sense of family duty. It was the week in which we made the Elixir. Yes, it was accomplished. Newton and Co. (and an odd company we were) succeeded in the ultimate goal of alchemy; but it was never made public. Of course not. It was never sent up to the Annals of the Royal Society, whose august fellows later conspired to deny for centuries that their sainted Mr Newton even so much as looked at an alembic, let alone suffered from a primary obsession with the warped and solitary art of the Puffers.

And he’d had practice enough – after the twenty years he made his chum, John Wickens, help him fire and pour and puff and skim and slake, coming and going with the great scuttle full of seacoals, the nets of ores, ingots and fossil turds; crucibles, pelicans, tongs; bags and boxes of God knows what; until they both had hands as black as print and not an eyebrow between them.

But he did not achieve it by any rational means, as he’d have liked. It occurred because of me – and by accident.

My uncle had his own ways of dealing with me which were different from my mother’s. He had no intention of attempting to exorcise my devil according to her wishes – I believe his new fame had suggested to her that he had some special power over the moon and thus could do something about my version of lunacy which my father could not. She had no more expectations from that religious quarter.

But Uncle did not hold with priests or ritual of any sort. When I made the noise and gestured to him that I needed to use the chamber – pot, he undid the concealed tapes that turned the sleeves of my green coat into a straitjacket and let me loose. He had a cane on the ledge over the chimney-breast should my sudden rage call for it. His only general precaution was to lock the main door to his rooms.

I went into my doorless sleeping space. This bedchamber was, like my uncle’s own, off the main room, and it was empty for the very good reason that no one now in the College dared to share his noisome, explosive centre of activity. John Wickens, his close and only friend from the time they were both undergraduates, had left him two years ago, to get married; and was replaced in due course by an H. Newton who was not related to us, and whom I was glad to see the back of when my uncle dispensed with his services earlier that same year, 1693.

When I had finished he came and saw me clean myself up. Then he held my wrist with one hand and brought the chamber-pot in the other so that he could empty it as we went down to the laboratory.

His garden was immaculately kept by a gardener whom we passed on the way. It was a maze of pretty paths between which were beds of a great variety of unusual flowers that I wished I could destroy

In the laboratory I was left to myself in a corner and immediately began to seek manual comfort.

‘Leave off that, you young dog!’ said my uncle, looking up from his work at a crucible he had in the tongs. ‘Or you’ll feel my cane across you! I’m about God’s work here and I want none of your impurities.’ In my family I lived among lies and contradictions. Although I knew different about him, my odd uncle was held up to be a creature of the most absolute temperance, virginity, and, dare I say it, gravity. He even believed this himself. My mother and the College certainly did. He’d once quarrelled with another alchemist -Vigani, I think his name was – just because he’d told a lewd story about a nun. And yet I had earlier evidence that he suspected himself possessed and was tormented by the suspicion. The lies of adults were one of the reasons I could not speak. Their aggression was proportional to their denial. He came over and tied my right hand to a ring in the wall.

It was in the Corner of Fermentation. This corner of the laboratory had as its heart and nominator a great hot-box full of horse shit – a device used in those days before thermostatic heating elements by many a chymical projector for incubating any processes which needed generous room temperature over a long period. Sunk into the steaming rancidity of the hot-box my uncle had left a large vessel – a sort of glass bath – and in this vessel there was nothing except a grey, scum – plagued liquid.

I made noises at him equivalent to: ‘Are you using this at the moment, Uncle?’

He looked up with a certain suggestion in his eyes that he was sorry for the way he’d corrected me and saw in me the image of his soul.

‘What? Eh? What do you want? You can’t do any harm over there.’ Then he turned back to his torture of the metals.

With my free hand I could reach various piles of objects that lay about the Corner of Fermentation. It was, as it were, the slag heap of the operation – a dumping ground for sweepings, or for remnants of the process, or for forgotten things from former parts of the obsession.

I decided on a vaguely rebellious whim to drop everything shiny or attractive from the slag heap of bits into the bath. I looked at the prettier amalgams and lumps of pure metal. I thought of Elizabeth, whom I loved and could not come near. I thought of the curious composition of her name, and the way the sounds might be made in the throat. These were the sounds that denoted her. Remote breathy compositions: El-iz-a-b-e-rh. I thought of jewellery and murder and beautiful women with soft breasts with whom I was not in love. I thought of these metals lying upon the flesh, their sharpnesses just grazing the tender nipples. Then I plummeted them. I had no idea of their rarity or chemical composition or the fact that my uncle must have had them supplied from strange sources and then worked them, in incalculable ways, according to his books and recipes. They were an assortment of metallic substances probably never before or afterwards assembled so closely in one small dump, not counting the other shards and offcuts, stone chips, curios, corals, crystals, dried offal and organs, pastes, bladders, potions and gums which he was too preoccupied to notice me adding in once I’d lost scruple for the seriousness of my project. Thus into that glass bath went some very far-fetched chemical company. Soon the faintest steam began to lift from its surface, and the tiniest bubbles to appear at its rim. This was my first and momentous attempt at experimental science.