“No doubt you will,” I consoled him.
“Is the gentleman interested in the new edition of Master Shakespeare’s plays?”
“No.”
“In Ben Jonson’s then, assuredly.”
“Why assuredly?”
He smiled, raising his upper lip and keeping it pasted against his gum. “The purchasers of my books seem to be divided into two camps nowadays.”
“Ah!” I answered, resolved to care for neither one. “What I should like, if you permit it, is to look about and perhaps discover something that might interest me.”
“The classics, no doubt. The gentleman is a classicist.”
“Hm, hm!
“I have Cicero and Aristotle and Plato and Marcus Aurelius.”
“Marcus Aurelius?” I asked.
“A fine old edition.”
He climbed on the ladder quickly, like a squirrel, forgetting, evidently, the rheumatism in his leg, and descended, a heavy folio in his arm which he presented to me tenderly, as if it had been an infant on its way to the baptismal font.
I examined the book, seeking the passages which I had heard the Emperor read while his beautiful wife toyed with her slave.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, as I read: ‘Be thou erect or be made erect.’ The eyes of the Empress had closed a little and the fan of the youth had grazed her face…
I seated myself on a bench and continued reading, recalling the while the Emperor, the visitors, the old whispering artist. Kotikokura, seated himself on a rung of the ladder and read, moving his lips, a child’s book with letters almost as tall as fingers.
“Nothing is true!” I shouted rising. “Nothing is true save dust!” The bookseller, taken by surprise, shivered and retreated, grasping his rheumatic leg. Kotikokura dropped his book to the floor.
“Nothing, I tell you! What is Marcus Aurelius but dust? And his wife who betrayed him under his nose, while he preached virtue—dust? And all the lords and ladies that flattered him while he droned monotonously? Dust—dust! Does it not choke you, as it chokes me?”
“Yes, Milord!” he groaned, “all dust. Ouch! What a leg, sir, what a leg!”
“In this you have an illustrious predecessor,” I remarked, “Charlemagne—Charles the Great, Emperor of the West, suffered from rheumatism.”
“Is it true, milord?” he asked, dazed.
“But for a long, long time now, he has been relieved of the torture. Dust does not pain, my friend. Keep that in mind and it will help you greatly.”
“It has already, a little. Will your lordship buy the book?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his hands whose hard hooked nails gave the appearance of eagles’ claws.
As I was about to leave the place, I spied a pamphlet whose covers were black from spots of grease. The title, in Latin, read: “The Wandering Jew—His Trial at Oxford University. His remarks, Opinions and Ideas Expounded, Commented Upon and Analyzed by the Reverend Bishop of Canterbury with annotations by Master Aubrey and Master Battermann, Doctors of Sacred Theology.”
I jerked the book out of the shelf and turned the pages rapidly. No doubt about it! It was the record of my examination by the Bishop in Oxford.
LXXI: FRANCIS BACON, LORD VERULAM—I GO TO THE THEATER—I MEET “MR. W. H.”—THE JEALOUSY OF KOTIKOKURA—ANTONIO-ANTONIA—I LIFT A CURTAIN—THE MASTER THIEF
THE London solicitors were more garrulous than the Irish and their more meticulous knowledge of the law made it less possible for them to reach a conclusion. My plan was to receive a favorable judgment without appearing before the courts in person. What judge was both powerful enough and susceptible enough to gifts to accomplish this? For the time being, it was uncertain. Queen Elizabeth died unexpectedly and the favorites of the new King were as yet unknown.
“It is best to wait, Kotikokura. Are you not of my opinion?”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Meanwhile, let us travel about the country, learn its customs and habits. When we are away from here, we may find it necessary to call ourselves Englishmen. We must not arouse any doubt.”
Upon our return, I discovered that Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, a philosopher whose work I had read and admired, had been appointed Chief Solicitor of the Crown.
I wrote him a long letter in which I praised his great contribution to philosophy, and begged him to accept, as a token of my profound appreciation, a watch, the shape of a little book, studded with precious stones, the work of a Florentine artist.
The Lord’s reply was an epistolary masterpiece. He invited me to Gray’s Inn where, despite his position, he was still constrained to live.
The Lord’s kindliness and simplicity were equal to his greatness. He thanked me profusely for my gift, the most appropriate and opportune conceivable, and particularly agreeable since it came from Florence, the most beautiful of cities which he had visited in his youth. I thanked him for the praises he had accorded my city which my ancestor, a man of the same name as I, Baron di Martini, had helped to enrich by his remarkable work in history and by his love for art.
“The Florentines, like the Athenians of old,” Bacon said, sighing a little, “are the only true patriots. We do not understand the meaning of patriotism. Mere allegiance to King and Flag is not patriotism. A man should identify himself with his country, should merge into it as a tiny stream merges into a river. Greater still is the patriotism which flows beyond the frontier of one nation, uniting with the limitless sea of mankind.”
He twisted his short red beard and bit its tip. His eyes, round almost as an owl’s, stared into the distance.
“I discard all philosophies which consider the world ex analogia hominis and not ex analogia mundi. Philosophers, even Aristotle at times, prefer to proclaim their own abstract notions as truth. They never take the trouble to observe. They prefer to close their eyes tightly and speak of light in terms of the darkness in which they live. I consider philosophy a human and a practical thing.”
His round eyes seemed to grow rounder still.
His words thrilled me. Had man at last awakened from the lethargy of futile scholastic argumentations? Was he endeavoring to see truth, to love reality?
“Man,” he continued, “can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of Nature; beyond this, he neither knows anything nor can do anything.”
Who was this man, this oracle of truth? Apollonius? No! Apollonius partook of divinity. This man was mortal, of the earth. One after another I passed in review the great men I had known. No—he was a new pattern—destined, perhaps, to recreate the mind of man. Francis Bacon—I must remember him—and see how future generations would assay his philosophy.
“In my main work, ‘The Novum Organum,’ he said, “I elucidate the questions we are discussing.”
“I am most anxious to see the work.”
“Alas, who knows whether I shall ever complete it? I have been laboring at it nearly all my life but– —” he stopped, sighed, and pulled one hair out of his beard.
“Is it a matter of health, my Lord?”
“Health, too, but mainly duties that occupy my time—duties and debts. I beg your pardon, Baron. I have no right to burden you with my troubles.”
“On the contrary, my Lord. You honor me greatly. Perhaps, too, if it is merely a matter of money– —”
“Merely a matter of money, Baron? Money! People speak so glibly about it. Money—is it not the basis of all reality?”
“The lack of money,” I answered, “is a greater reality than its possession.”
He smiled.
I considered this the most favorable moment of broaching the matter of my suit.