Ken threw down his knife with a clatter and, hands shaking, stood up to leave the table. I feared that they might come to blows but, in fact, it was all theater. “Romans, 8:13,” he said. With icy slowness, he withdrew from the table and marched out of the hall, his footsteps echoing as he went. I believe I was the only person who heard this last comment, and to me it meant nothing. I always found the tendency of Protestants to bandy quotations from the Bible a trifle ridiculous, even blasphemous. Anyway, Grove certainly did not hear, but instead looked pleased with himself for having carried the field.
As nobody else wanted to break the silence, I decided (as a foreigner, and knowing little of what was going on) to try to cover over the affair. “I am not a theologian or a priest,” I said, trying to return the argument to rational grounds, “but I have studied the medical arts in my way. And I know that in many cases physick is as likely to kill as to cure. I think it is my duty to find out as much as I can and help my patients the better. It is not impious, I hope, so to do.”
“Why would I take your word when it differs from the great masters of the past? What is your authority compared to theirs?”
“Small indeed, and I reverence them as do you. Did not Dante call Aristotle il maestro di color qui sanno? But that is not what I am asking. I ask you to decide on the result of experiment.”
“Ah, experiment,” Grove said with glee. “Do you hold with the Copernican notion that the earth goes round the sun?”
“I do, of course.”
“And you have performed those experiments yourself? You have made the observations, repeated the calculations, and established by your own labors that it is so?”
“No; I know little of mathematics, alas.”
“So you believe it is true, but you do not know? You take Copernicus’s word for it?”
“Yes. And that of those experts who accept his conclusions.”
“Pardon me for saying so, but it appears to me that you are just as bound to authority and tradition as a man who subscribes to Aristotle or Ptolemy. After all your protestations your science is also a matter of faith, not in any way distinguishable from the old learning you so despise.”
“I judge by results,” I said pleasantly, for he was clearly enjoying himself, and it seemed churlish to spoil his entertainment. “And by the fact that the experimental method has produced good results.”
“This experiment of yours, it is the core of the new medicine, for example?”
I nodded.
“But how do you reconcile it with the notions of Hippocrates which you physicians seem to think are so important?”
“I do not need to,” I said. “I see no conflict.”
“Surely you must?” Grove said in surprise. “For you have to substitute proven treatments for others which might be better, but might well be worse. Rather than trying first and foremost to cure your patients, you experiment on them to see what result is obtained. You use patients to gain your knowledge, not to make them better, and that is a sin. Bar-tolomeus de Chaimis says so in his Interrogatorium sive con-fessionale, and he has been seconded by the best authorities ever since.”
“Clever argument, but untrue,” I said. “Experiment is there to improve treatment for all patients.”
“But if I come to you with an illness, I do not care for all patients. It matters not to me if others are cured when I die proving a treatment does not work. I want to be healthy, yet you say your wish for knowledge is greater than my need for health.”
“I say nothing of the sort. There are many experiments which can be carried out without endangering the patient.”
“But you are still setting aside Hippocrates. You are deciding to use treatments not knowing whether they will work or not, and that breaks your word.”
“Think, sir, of a patient for whom there is no remedy. That person will die. In that case, an experiment which gives the chance of health is better than none at all.”
“Not so. Because you might well be hastening death. That is not only against the oath, it is against God’s law. And the law of men, if it be murder.”
“You are saying that no improvement in medicine is permissible? We have what we have been given by our forebears and can hope for nothing more?”
“I am saying that by your own admission the experimental method is corrupt.”
It was hard, but still I remembered my manners. “Perhaps. But I treated you today and you show much improvement. You may dispute the source, but not, in this case, the result.”
Grove laughed and clapped his hands together with pleasure and I saw that he was really only amusing himself, seeing how far I could be provoked. “That is true, sir, very true. My eye is much better, and I am grateful to the new philosophy for that. And I will trust you on the dangers of any substance you dislike, and avoid them entirely. But,” he said with a sigh as he confirmed that his wine glass was empty, “our meal is over, and with it our discussion. A pity. We must talk more on this during your stay in our university. Who knows? I might even persuade you of the error of your ways.”
“Or I you?”
“I doubt it. No one has ever succeeded before. But I would be happy to hear you try.”
Then everybody stood while a young scholar read out thanks to the Lord for the food (or maybe it was for having survived it) and we all shuffled out. Grove accompanied me across the courtyard to see me out, pausing briefly at the entrance to his stair to pick up a bottle which had been left there. “Splendid,” he said as he clutched it to his breast. “Warmth on a cold night.”
I thanked him for his hospitality. “I am sorry if I annoyed either you or your colleague, Dr. Wallis. I did not intend it.”
Grove waved his hand. “You certainly did not annoy me, and I wouldn’t worry about Wallis. He is an irascible fellow. I don’t think he liked you very much, but do not concern yourself—he doesn’t like anyone. However, he is not a bad man; he has offered to visit Prestcott for me, as you say I should spare my eyes, which is kind of him. Now, here we are, Mr. Cola,” he said. “Goodnight to you.”
He bowed, then turned rapidly round and marched off to his room and his bottle. I stood watching him for a moment, surprised by the sudden dismissal, so unlike the lengthy formalities of Venice; but then there is nothing like a north wind in March for curtailing civilities.
9
It was not until the next morning that I realized a catastrophe was in the making; the earlier part of the day was spent commiserating with Lower on the loss of his corpse.
He took it in good part; as he said, his chances of getting his hands on Prestcott’s body had been small, so it gave him a little satisfaction to know that the university wouldn’t be getting it either. Besides, he’d quite liked the lad, although he, and most of the members of the town, did think that the way he had maltreated Dr. Wallis was quite unseemly.
To explain briefly—and this succinct account was the result of piecing together innumerable accounts until I understood what had happened—the escape of Jack Prestcott from the king’s justice was partly my doing. I had delivered the message about the lad wanting a visitor, and Dr. Wallis, the very man who had been so rude to me at dinner, had gone in Grove’s place because of my medical advice. It was a kind act, both to Grove and to Prestcott, and I felt ashamed for deriving some small amusement from the result.
Wallis had asked that the prisoner be unshackled so that he might have more ease in prayer, and was left alone with him. About an hour later, still swaddled in his thick black gown and heavy winter hat, he had emerged so distressed at the imminent loss of a fine young life that he had scarcely been able to speak, merely tipping the jailer two pence and asking that Prestcott be allowed an undisturbed night’s sleep. Reshackling could wait until the morning.