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 labors 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 patronized those with merit and did not play favorite with his clients. But Lower’s jealousy and worry was 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 The-mistocles 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 normally reserved for acquaintances 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 onto 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-behavior by continuing to watch, and continuing to make sure that I was myself unobserved.