“Well,” I said, “so much for one hypothesis.”
Boyle nodded, and gave the assistant a nod to try it again. Here I must note the extraordinary goodness of this fine man, who refused to use the same animal in more than one series of experiments, because of the torture to the creature. Once it had served its turn, and given itself to the pursuit of humane knowledge, he either let it go or, if necessary, killed it.
Until then, I had never thought such an attitude attachable to any experimentalist other than myself, and I rejoiced to find at last someone whose sentiments were similar to my own. Experimentation must take place, this is certain; but sometimes, when I behold the faces of my colleagues as they cut, I think I see too much pleasure on their countenances, and suspect that the agony is prolonged longer than is necessary for mere knowledge. Once in Padua, a vivisection of a dog was interrupted when a female servant, grieved to hear the beast’s piteous cries as it was cut open, strangled it in front of a full audience of students, causing much dismay and protest at the ruining of the spectacle. Of the assembled multitude, I believe that only myself had sympathy for the woman, and was grateful to her; but then I was ashamed of the effeminacy of my concerns which, I think, came from my delight as a child in being read from the life of St. Francis, who loved and reverenced all things in God’s creation.
But Boyle came to the same conclusions, although (typically of the man) did so in a far more rigorous fashion than myself and was, of course, uninfluenced by memories of the Assisi countryside. For, just as he believed that a gentleman should show Christian condescension to the lower orders, according to their merits, so men, the gentlemen of God’s creation, owed similar courtesy to the animals over whom they had dominion. While not scrupling to use men or animals as was his right, he believed firmly that they should not be abused either. In that, good Catholic and fervent Protestant were in accord for once, and I liked Boyle the more for his care.
That afternoon, we used only a single bird. By means of careful study we ascertained that it was scarcely affected when only half of the air was removed, that it began to show signs of distress when two thirds had gone, and was rendered insensible when three quarters had vanished. Conclusion—the presence of air is necessary for life to continue, although, as Lower said, that did not explain what it did. Personally, I believe that as fire needs air to burn, so life, which can be likened to fire, needs it also, although I admit that argument by analogy is of limited use.
It was an appealing little animal, the dove we used to prise these secrets from nature’s grip, and I had my habitual pang of sorrow when we reached the final, necessary round of the experiment. Although we knew what the result would be, the demands of philosophy are implacable and all must be demonstrated beyond contradiction. So it was my voice which reassured the creature for the last time, and my hand which placed it back in the bell, then gave the signal for the assistant to begin pumping once more. I offered a small prayer to gentle St. Francis when it finally collapsed and died, its song finally extinguished. It is God’s will that sometimes the innocent must suffer and die for a greater purpose.
5
This business concluded, Lower suggested I might like to dine with some friends, whom he felt I might profit from meeting. It was kind of him and it seemed that the closeness to Boyle that an afternoon’s experiment entailed had placed him in a good humor. I suspected, however, that there was another side of his character, a darkness which warred with his natural good nature. For a flickering of a moment, while I laid out my thoughts to Boyle, I had felt a slight unease in Lower’s demeanor, although this had never come to the surface. I had also noticed that he had never given his own theories or elaborated his own thoughts; these he kept close to himself.
I did not mind; Boyle was Lower’s most important connection among the few gentlemen of standing who could help establish himself in his career and he was naturally concerned lest that patronage be diverted. But I contented myself with the assurance that I presented him with no challenge, and concluded that I could hardly attract his enmity. Perhaps I should have been more sensitive to his concerns, for it was a matter of character not of circumstance which made him uncomfortable.
My position had made me easy with all ranks of life; I admired and was beholden to Mr. Boyle, but in all other respects I considered him my equal. Lower was unable to feel the same; although all are citizens of the republic of learning, he was often uneasy in such company, for he believed himself at a disadvantage due to a birth which, although respectable, gave him neither fortune nor people. Moreover, he lacked the talents of the courtier and in later years he never rose to any position of distinction in the Royal Society while men of lesser accomplishment took on its great offices. This was galling for a man of his ambition and pride but, for the most part, this inner conflict was hidden, and I am aware that he did as much as his nature allowed to assist me while I was in Oxford. He was a man who liked easily, but then was seized by fear lest his affections be abused and exploited by others of a less trusting disposition than himself. The fact that earning position in England is so formidably hard merely heightened this aspect of his nature. I can say this now, as the passage of years has lessened my hurt and increased my understanding. At that time my comprehension was smaller.
It was as a result of his friendliness and enthusiasm, however, that I was led down the High Street that afternoon in the direction of the castle.
“I didn’t want to mention it in Boyle’s presence,” he said confidingly as we marched briskly along in the cold afternoon air, “but I have high hopes of getting hold of a corpse soon. Boyle disapproves.”
I was surprised by this remark. Even though some of the older physicians didn’t hold with the business at all, and it still caused considerable trouble among churchmen, it was accepted as an essential part of medical studies in Italy. Was it possible that a man like Boyle could disagree?
“Oh, no. He has nothing against anatomizing, but he feels I tend to become undignified about the matter. Which may be true, but there is no other way of getting hold of them without getting permission first.”
“What do you mean? Getting permission? Where does this man find the body in the first place?”
“He is the body.”
“How can you ask permission of a corpse?”
“Oh, he’s not dead,” Lower said airily. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Is he ill?”
“Heavens, no. Prime of life. But they’re to hang him soon. After he’s found guilty. He attacked a gentleman and injured him badly. A simple case it is, too; he was found with the knife in his hand. Will you come to see the hanging? I must confess I shall; it’s not often a student is hanged, alas. Most of them join the church and get livings… I’m sure there’s a witticism in there somewhere, if I phrased it rightly.”
I was beginning to see Boyle’s point of view, but Lower, quite impervious to disapproval when fixed on his work, explained how very difficult it was to get hold of a fresh corpse these days. That had been the one good effect, he said nostalgically, of the civil war. Especially when the king’s army had been quartered in Oxford, there were corpses, two a penny. Never had anatomists had such a plentiful supply. I forbore to point out that he was much too young to know.
“The trouble is, you see, that most people who die are sick in some way.”
“Not if they have the right doctor,” I said, desiring to show myself as witty as he.
“Quite. But it’s very inconvenient. The only time we can see what a properly healthy person looks like is if they are killed in some relatively clean fashion. And the best supply of those comes from the gallows. But that is another one of the university’s monopolies.”