This, I suppose, was the time for Lower to return to his theme, but his enthusiasm seemed to have waned. Perhaps he thought the young man’s mother would regard being jointed and pickled as bringing still further shame on his name. He nodded regretfully and stood up, thanking the youth for having listened to his request.

Prestcott told him to think nothing of it and, when asked if he needed anything to improve his condition, asked if he could deliver a message to a Dr. Grove, one of his former tutors, asking for the goodness of a visit. He had need of spiritual comfort, he said. Another gallon of wine would be well received also. Lower promised and I offered to deliver the wine, as I felt sorry for the fellow, and I did so as my friend went off to an appointment with a new patient.

“Well, it was worth trying,” he said in a disappointed tone when we met later on and the conversation returned to the topic of reluctant corpses. I noticed that the rebuff had quite dissolved his cheerful mood of earlier in the day.

“What did he mean about his family having shame enough?”

Lower was lost in contemplation, however, and ignored my remark while he dwelt on his failure. “What was that?” he said abruptly when his attention returned. I repeated myself.

“Oh. No more than the truth. His father was a traitor, who fled abroad before he could be held. He would have been executed as well, given the chance.”

“Quite a family.”

“Indeed. It seems that the son takes after the father in more than looks, alas. It is a damnable shame, Cola. I need a brain. Several brains, and I am hindered and obstructed at every turn.” Then, after a long silence, he asked what I thought the chances were of Sarah Blundy’s mother pulling through.

Rather foolishly, I imagined that he wanted a detailed account of the case and the treatment I had provided, so I told him about the nature of the wound, the way I had set the bone and cleaned the flesh, and of the salve I had used.

“Waste of time,” he said loftily. “Tincture of mercury is what you need.”

“You think? Perhaps. But I decided that in this case, considering the aspect of Venus, she stood a much better chance with a more orthodox remedy…”

And then came the first serious indication of the darkness in my friend I have mentioned, for I could not even finish my reply before he exploded with rage, in full public, swinging round to face me, his face darkening.

“Oh, don’t be so stupid,” he shouted. “The aspect of Venus! What magical nonsense is that? Dear God, are we still Egyptians that we should pay attention to such rubbish?”

“But Galen…”

“I don’t give a hoot for Galen. Or Paracelsus. Or any foreign magus with his slobberings and mumblings. These people are the merest frauds. As are you, sir, if you drivel on in such a way. You should not be let loose among the sick.”

“But, Lower.

“ ‘More orthodox remedy,’ “ he said, mimicking my accent cruelly. “I suppose some gibbering priest told you that, and you do as you’re told? Eh? Physick is too important to be left to the dabblings of a rich man’s son like you, who could no more cure a cold than you could a broken leg. Stick to counting your money and your acres, and leave serious matters to people who care for them.”

I was so shocked by this outburst, so unforeseen and so very violent, that I said nothing at all in reply, except that I was doing my best and that no one better qualified had offered their services.

“Oh, get out of my sight,” he said with the most terrible contempt. “I will have none of you. I have no time for quacks and charlatans.”

And he abruptly turned on his heel and marched away, leaving me standing in the street in shock, my face burning red with anger and embarrassment, conscious above all that I had provided cheap entertainment for the mob of shopkeepers all around me.

6

I returned to my room in deep distress to consider what I should do next, and try to understand how I had caused such offence, for I am one of those who naturally assumes the fault lies in himself first of all, and my lack of understanding of English ways had greatly heightened my uncertainty. Even so, I was convinced that Lower’s shocking outburst was excessive, but the temper of the country then cast all opinions in extremes.

So I sat by the little fireplace in my cold room, with the feelings of desperation and loneliness, so recently banished, coming back to plague me once again. Was my acquaintanceship at an end so soon? Certainly in Italy no relation could survive such behavior, and under ordinary circumstances we would now be preparing to duel. I intended to do no such thing, of course, but did briefly consider whether it would be better to leave Oxford, for my association with Boyle might well become intolerable, and then I would be friendless once again. But where could I go? There seemed little point in returning to London, and less in staying where I was. I was fixed in my irresolution when feet on the stairs, and a heavy pounding on the door roused me from my dreary thoughts.

It was Lower. With a grave look on his face, he marched determinedly in and placed two bottles on the table. I regarded him coldly and cautiously, expecting another round of abuse, and determined that he should speak first.

Instead, he ostentatiously sank to his knees, and clasped his hands together.

“Sir,” he said with a gravity which had more than a touch of the theatrical in it, “how can I ask you to forgive me? I have behaved with the manners of a tradesman, or worse. I have been inhospitable, unkind, unjust and grossly ill-mannered. I offer you my humblest apologies on my knees, as you see, and beg for a forgiveness which I do not deserve.”

I was as astonished by his behavior now as I was before, and could find no suitable reply for this contrition, which was every bit as excessive as his violence an hour or so previously.

“You cannot forgive,” he continued with an ostentatious sigh as I remained silent. “I cannot blame you. Then there is no choice. I must kill myself. Please tell my family that my gravestone should read, ‘Richard Lower, physician, and wretch.’ “

Here I burst out laughing, so absurd was his behavior and, seeing that he had cracked my resolve, he grinned back.

“Truly, I am most gigantically sorry,” he said in a more moderate tone. “I don’t know why, but sometimes I become so angry that I cannot stop myself. And my frustrations over these corpses is so very great. If you knew the torments I go through.…Do you accept my apology? Will you drink from the same bottle as me? I will not sleep or shave until you accept, and you don’t want to be responsible for me having a beard down to my ankles, do you?”

I shook my head. “Lower, I do not understand you,” I said frankly. “Or any of your countrymen. So I will assume this is part of your nation’s manner, and that it is my fault for having so little understanding. I will drink with you.”

“Thank heavens for that,” he said. “I thought I had foolishly thrown away a valued friend through my own stupidity. You are goodness indeed to give me a second chance.”

“But please explain. Why did I make you so angry?”

He waved his hand. “You didn’t. It was my misunderstanding, and I was upset over losing Prestcott. Not long ago I had a violent row with someone over astrological prediction. The College of Physicians is wedded to it and this man threatened to keep me out of practice in London because I disdain it in public and advocate the new mineral physick. It is a battle between new knowledge and the dead hand of old. I know you did not mean it like that, but I’m afraid the fight I had is too fresh in my mind. The sound of you, of all people, taking their part was too much to bear, so highly do I value you. Unforgivable, as I say.”

He had a way of turning insult into compliment which I was ill-equipped to handle; we Venetians have a reputation for the elaborate nature of both our courtesies and our insults, but they are so formal there is no chance of misunderstanding even the most opaque remark. Lower, and the English in general, had the unpredictability of the uncivilized; their genius is as uncontrolled as their manners, and can make them great or mad. I doubt that foreigners will ever know them, or truly trust them. But an apology was an apology, and I had rarely received such a handsome one; I shook his hand; we bowed solemnly, and toasted each other to bring the argument to a formal conclusion.