11
I found Lower hard at work dissecting a brain; such work—later given to the world as his Tractatus de corde—occupied him greatly during his days, and he had prepared many fine sketches of its anatomy. He was not pleased when I burst in to demand his assistance and again I saw him in bad humor.
“Can’t it wait, Cola?” he asked.
“I don’t think it can. Not for long, at least. And in return, I can offer you one of the most enjoyable of experiments.”
“I do not experiment for enjoyment,” he said curtly.
I studied his face, bent over the table as it was, with one of his dark locks of hair hanging over his eye. There was a set about the mouth and cheeks that made me concerned that one of the moods of passing blackness was upon him.
“It is also a charity, and I beg you not to turn me away, for I need help and you are the only person steady and wise enough to give it. Do not be angry, for I promise to repay your kindness tenfold later. I have examined Widow Blundy and there is little time.”
The obsequiousness of my manner disarmed him, for he grimaced and, with a show of reluctance, put down his knife and turned toward me.
“She is as bad as the girl’s face indicated?”
“She is. She will die very soon, unless something is done. We must try the experiment. She must be given blood. I have examined the almanac; the sun is in Capricorn, which is good for matters of the blood. Tomorrow will be too late. I know you are doubtful of such details, but I am disinclined to take risks.”
He growled at me angrily as my manner made it clear that I would brook no refusal and not leave him in peace.
“I am not convinced this is a sound idea.”
“But she will die otherwise.”
“It is probable she will die in any case.”
“So what is there to lose?”
“In your case, nothing. In my case, the risk is more substantial; my career and my family depend on my making my way in London.”
“I don’t see the problem.”
He wiped his thin knife on his apron and washed his hands. “Listen, Cola,” he said, turning to face me when he had finished, “You have been here long enough to know of the opposition we face. Think of the way that idiot Grove assailed you at New College last night on exactly this question of experimental treatment. He has a point, you know, loath as I am to admit it. And there are many worse in a position to do me harm if I give them the slightest chance. If I take part in this operation, the patient dies and it becomes known, then my reputation as a physician will be damaged before my career has even begun.”
“You have doubts about the experiment I am proposing?” I asked, trying another approach.
“I have the very gravest doubts about it, and you should have as well. It is a pretty theory, but the chances of the patient surviving the application of it seem small indeed. I must admit,” he said reluctantly, making me sure I would win, “it would be fascinating to try.”
“So if there was no fear of it becoming generally known…?”
“Then I would be delighted to assist.”
“We can swear the daughter to silence.”
“True. But you must also swear that you too will say nothing. Even when you are back in Venice, if you published a letter saying what had taken place, you would land me in the most serious difficulty unless it was all done properly.”
I clapped him on the back. “Have no concerns,” I said, “for I am not a publishing man. I give my word that I will not say anything unless you give me express permission.”
Lower scratched his nose as he thought this over, then, grim-faced at the risk he was taking, he nodded his agreement. “Well, then,” he said. “Let us be about it.”
That is how it happened. Even now I like to think that he had no occult motive in insisting on this arrangement. He was prompted by the simplest self-interest and I think it was only later that, swayed by the siren words of his friends in the Royal Society, he came to prefer fame to honor, and advancement to friendship. Then he exploited my honesty and trust most basely, using my silence for his own ends.
At the time, however, I was overjoyed and grateful to him for taking such a risk on my behalf.
To be frank, I would have preferred to have conducted my experiment in better surroundings, and with more witnesses present to note what we were doing. But such an option did not exist—Mrs. Blundy could not be moved and, quite apart from Lower’s fears, finding other qualified persons to participate would have taken too much time. So Lower and I alone walked, seriously and silently, back to the little hovel, where we once more found the sick woman and her daughter.
“My dear child,” said Lower in his most friendly and reassuring fashion, “do you understand fully what my colleague has proposed? You understand the dangers, both to yourself and to your mother? We may be linking your souls and your lives together, and if it fails for one, it may be catastrophic for the other.”
She nodded. “We are already linked as closely as mother and daughter can be. I told her but don’t know how much she understood. I’m sure she would refuse, because she has always accounted her own life of little value, but you must ignore that.”
Lower grunted. “And you, Cola? You wish to proceed?”
“No,” I said, doubtful now the moment had arrived. “But I think we must.”
Lower then examined the patient and looked grave. “I certainly cannot fault your diagnosis. She is very ill indeed. Very well, then, let us begin. Sarah, roll up your sleeve, and come and sit here.”
He gestured to the little stool beside the bed, and when she was sat, I began wrapping a ribbon round her arm. Lower got to work uncovering the thin scrawny arm of the mother, and wrapped another ribbon—a red one this time; it has stuck in my mind—around her upper arm.
Then he took out his silver tube and two quills, and blew through them to make sure there were no blockages. “Ready?” he asked. We both nodded grimly. With a neat and experienced movement, he slipped a sharp knife into the girl’s vein and inserted one quill into it, with the end pointing against the flow so that the natural movement diverted the blood out into the air; then he slipped a cup under it and began to collect the liquid. It poured in a ruby red rush into the bowl, faster than either of us had anticipated.
He counted slowly. “This can hold half a gill,” he said. “I will just see how long it takes to fill, and then we can guess more or less how much we are taking.”
It filled swiftly, so much so that it overflowed and the blood began to splash on the floor. “One and an eighth minutes,” Lower called loudly. “Quickly, Cola. The tube.”
I handed it to him as Sarah’s lifeblood began splashing on the floor, and I inserted the other quill into the mother’s vein, the other way around this time so that the new blood would flow in the same direction as her own and not set up turbulence. Then, and with surprising gentleness, as the girl’s blood began to flow copiously out of the silver tube, Lower moved her over, and connected the tube to the quill protruding out of the mother’s arm.
He peered intently at the join. “It seems to be working,” he said, barely managing to keep the surprise out of his voice. “And I can see no sign of coagulation. How long do you calculate we should wait?”
“For eighteen ounces?” I did the calculations as swiftly as I could while Lower counted. “Ah, about ten minutes,” I said. “Make it twelve to be sure.”
Then silence fell, as Lower counted intently to himself, and the girl bit her lip and looked worried. She was very brave, I will say that—not a sound of complaint or worry came from her throughout the entire proceeding. For my part, I was in a state of anxiety, wondering what the result would be. There were no effects either way to start off with.