3

I hope that this account explains the first two stages of my progress—my coming to England and then to Oxford, and my acquisition of the patient whose treatment was to cause me such grief. The girl herself—what can I say? She was touched by doom; her end was written, and the devil was already reaching out his hand to drag her down. The man of skill can see this, can read a face like an open book and discern what the future holds in store. Sarah Blundy’s face was deep scored already with the evil that had gripped her soul and would shortly destroy her. So I told myself after, and it may be true. But at that time I saw nothing more than a girl as insolent as she was pretty, and as careless of her obligations to her superiors as she was mindful of her duty to her family.

I need now to explain my further progress, which was just as accidental although ultimately more cruel in its effects—the more so because it seemed, for a while, as though fortune had begun to smile on me once more. I had been left with the task of paying off the debts she had so impertinently run up for me at the apothecary’s, and I knew that you annoy apothecaries at your peril if you are concerned with experimental knowledge. Omit to pay, and they are quite likely to refuse you in the future, and not only them but all their fellows for miles around, so closely do they stick together. In the circumstances, that would be the final straw. Even if it was my last penny I could not afford to enter the society of English philosophy as a man of bad credit.

So I asked the way to this Mr. Crosse’s shop, and walked halfway along the High Street once more, opening the wooden door in the shop front and going into the warmth of the interior. It was a handsome place, nicely laid out as all English shops are, with fine cedarwood counters and beautiful brass balances of the most up-to-date variety. Even the aromas of the herbs and spices and drugs welcomed me as I moved strategically across the polished oak floor until I stood with my back against the fine carved mantelpiece and the roaring fire in the grate.

The owner, a portly man in his fifties who looked decidedly at ease with life, was dealing with a customer who seemed in no hurry, leaning nonchalantly on the table, chattering quite idly. The customer was perhaps a year or two older than myself, with a lively, active face and bright, if cynical, eyes below heavy, arching brows. In dress he was in a somber garb that steered between the extremes of puritanical drabness and the extravagance of fashion. It was, in other words, well cut but of a tedious brown.

For all that he had an easy manner, this customer seemed very self-conscious, and I discerned that Mr. Crosse was amusing himself at the man’s expense.

“Keep you warm in winter, as well,” the apothecary was saying with a broad grin.

The customer wrinkled up his face in pain.

“ ‘Course, when spring comes you’ll have to put netting over, in case the birds start nesting in it,” he went on, clutching his sides in merriment.

“Come now, Crosse, that’s enough,” protested the man, then began laughing himself. “Twelve marks it cost…”

This sent Crosse into greater paroxysms of laughter, and soon both of them were leaning over, helpless and in virtual hysteria.

“Twelve marks!” wheezed the apothecary, before collapsing once more.

I even found myself beginning to giggle with amusement, even though I had not the slightest idea what they were talking about. I didn’t even know whether it was considered ill manners in England to interpose oneself into the merriment of others, but the fact was that I didn’t care. The warmth of the shop and the open good humor of these two, as they clung to the counter to avoid slipping onto the floor in their helplessness, made me want to laugh with them, to celebrate the first normal human society I had experienced since my arrival. Instantly I felt restored by it for, as Gomesius says, merriment cures many passions of the mind.

My slight giggling attracted their attention, however, and Mr. Crosse attempted to restore himself to the dignified posture that his trade required. His comrade did likewise and both turned to look at me; a somber silence reigned for a few seconds, then the younger man pointed at me, and both of them lost control once more.

“Twenty marks!” cried the young man, waving in my direction, then banging his fist on the counter. “At least twenty.”

I counted this as being the nearest thing to an introduction that I was likely to receive and, with some wariness, made a polite bow in their direction. I half-suspected some appalling joke at my expense. The English love making fun of foreigners, whose mere existence they regard as an enormous jest.

My bow to equals—perfectly executed, with just the right balance between the extended left leg, and the graciously elevated right arm—nonetheless set them off again, so I stood with the impassivity of a stoic as I waited for the storm to pass. And in due course, the gurglings faded, they wiped their eyes, blew their noses and did their best to appear like civilized people.

“I must beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Crosse, who was the first to regain the power of speech and the grace to use it civilly. “But my friend here has just decided to become a man of fashion, and has taken to appearing in public with a thatched roof on his head. I was doing my best to assure him that he cuts a very fine figure indeed.” He began heaving with mirth again, and his friend then tore off his wig and threw it on the ground.

“Fresh air at last,” he exclaimed thankfully as he ran his fingers through his thick, long hair. “Dear Lord, it was hot under there.”

At last I was beginning to make sense of it; the wig had arrived in Oxford—several years after it had established itself throughout most of the world as an essential part of elegant masculine dress. I was wearing one myself, having adopted it as a sign, so to speak, of my graduation into the adult world.

I could see, of course, why it caused such amusement, although the understanding was overborne by that sense of superiority felt by a man of parts when he encounters the provincial. When I began wearing my wig myself it took some considerable time to grow used to it; only pressure from my fellows persuaded me to continue. And, of course, looking at it as a Turk or an Indian might were he suddenly transported to our shores, it did seem slightly odd that a man, graced by nature with a full head of hair, should shave much of it off in order to wear somebody else’s. But fashionable attire is not for comfort and, as it was profoundly uncomfortable, we may conclude that the wig was very fashionable.

“I think,’’ I said,’ ‘that you might find it more comfortable if you shortened your own hair; then there would not be so much pressure under the mat.”

“Shorten my own hair? Good heavens, is that how it’s done?”

“I’m afraid so. We must sacrifice for beauty, you know.”

He kicked the wig roughly across the floor. “Then let me be ugly,” he said. “For I will not be seen in public wearing this. If it produces convulsions in Crosse here, think what the students of this town will do to me. I’ll be lucky to escape with my life.”

“They are the very height of fashion elsewhere,” I commented. “Even the Dutch wear them. I think it is a question of timing. In a few months, or maybe a year, you may find that they hoot and throw stones at you if you do not wear one.”

“Bah! Ridiculous,” he said, but nonetheless scooped the wig up off the floor and placed it more safely on the counter.

“I’m sure this gentleman has not come here to discuss fashion,” Crosse said. “Perhaps he even wishes to buy something? It has been known.”

I bowed. “No. I have come to pay for something. I believe you extended credit to a young girl not so long ago.”