Now supposedly Daniel was a student, attending lectures and studying the works of Aristotle and Euclid. But in fact, he had over the last year become the one thing, aside from the Grace of God, keeping Isaac Newton alive. He’d long since stopped asking him such annoying, pointless questions as “Can you remember the last time you put food into your mouth” or “Don’t you suppose that a nap of an hour or two, once a night, might be good?” The only thing that really worked was to monitor Isaac until he physically collapsed on the table, then haul him into bed, like a grave-robber transporting his goods, then pursue his own studies nearby and keep on eye on him until consciousness began to return, and then, during the moments when Isaac still didn’t know what day it was, and hadn’t gone off on some fresh train of thought, shove milk and bread at him so he wouldn’t starve all the way to death. He did all of this voluntarily-sacrificing his own education, and making a burnt offering of Drake’s tuition payments-because he considered it his Christian duty. Isaac, still in theory his sizar, had become his master, and Daniel the attentive servant. Of course Isaac was completely unaware of all Daniel’s efforts-which only made it a more perfect specimen of Christlike self-abnegation. Daniel was like one of those Papist fanatics who, after they died, were found to’ve been secretly wearing hair-shirts underneath their satin vestments.
“The diagram may give you a better comprehension of the design of tonight’s experiment,” Isaac said. He’d drawn a cross-sectional view of eyeball, hand, and darning-needle in his Waste Book. It was the closest thing to a work of art he had produced since the strange events of Whitsunday last year-since that date, only equations had flowed from his pen.
“May I ask why you are doing this?”
“Theory of Colors is part of the Program,” Isaac said-referring (Daniel knew) to a list of philosophical questions Isaac had recently written out in his Waste Book, and the studies he had pursued, entirely on his own, in hopes of answering them. Between the two young men in this room-Newton with his Program and Waterhouse with his God-given responsibility to keep the other from killing himself-neither had attended a single lecture, or had any contact with actual members of the faculty, in over a year. Isaac continued, “I’ve been reading Boyle’s latest- Experiments and Considerations Touching Colors-and it occurred to me: he uses his eyes to make all of his observations-his eyes are therefore instruments, like telescopes-but does he really understand how those instruments work? An astronomer who did not understand his lenses would be a poor philosopher indeed.”
Daniel might have said any number of things then, but what came out was, “How may I assist you?” And it was not just being a simpering toady. He was, for a moment, gobsmacked by the sheer presumption of a mere student, twenty-one years old, with no degree, calling into question the great Boyle’s ability to make simple observations. But in the next moment it occurred to Daniel for the first time: What if Newton was right, and all the others wrong? It was a difficult thing to believe. On the other hand, he wanted to believe it, because if it were true, it meant that in failing to attend so many lectures he had missed precisely nothing, and in acting as Newton’s manservant he was getting the best education in natural philosophy a man could ever have.
“I need you to draw a reticule on a leaf of paper and then hold it up at various measured distances from my cornea-as you do, I’ll move the darning needle up and down-creating greater and lesser distortions in the shape of my eyeball-I say, I’ll do that with one hand, and take notes of what I see with the other.”
So the night proceeded-by sunrise, Isaac Newton knew more about the human eye than anyone who had ever lived, and Daniel knew more than anyone save Isaac. The experiment could have been performed by anyone. Only one person had actually done it, however. Newton pulled the needle out of his eye, which was blood-red, and swollen nearly shut. He turned to another part of the Waste Book and began wrestling with some difficult math out of Cartesian analysis while Daniel stumbled downstairs and went to church. The sun turned the stained-glass windows of the chapel into matrices of burning jewels.
Daniel saw in a way he’d never seen anything before: his mind was a homunculus squatting in the middle of his skull, peering out through good but imperfect telescopes and listening-horns, gathering observations that had been distorted along the way, as a lens put chromatic aberrations into all the light that passed through it. A man who peered out at the world through a telescope would assume that the aberration was real, that the stars actually looked like that-what false assumptions, then, had natural philosophers been making about the evidence of their senses, until last night? Sitting in the gaudy radiance of those windows hearing the organ play and the choir sing, his mind pleasantly intoxicated from exhaustion, Daniel experienced a faint echo of what it must be like, all the time, to be Isaac Newton: a permanent ongoing epiphany, an endless immersion in lurid radiance, a drowning in light, a ringing of cosmic harmonies in the ears.
DANIEL BECOMES AWAREthat someone is standing over him as he lies on the deck: a stubby red-headed and -bearded man with a lit cigar in his mouth, and spectacles with tiny circular lenses: it’s van Hoek, the captain, just checking to see whether his passenger will have to be buried at sea tomorrow. Daniel sits up, finally, and introduces himself, and van Hoek says very little-probably pretending to know less English than he really does, so Daniel won’t be coming to his cabin and pestering him at all hours. He leads Daniel aft along Minerva ’s main deck (which is called the upperdeck, even though, at the ends of the ship, there other other decks above it) and up a staircase to the quarter-deck and shows him to a cabin. Even van Hoek, who can be mistaken for a stout ten-year-old if you see him from behind, has to crouch to avoid banging his head on the subtly arched joists that support the poop deck overhead. He raises one arm above his head and steadies himself against a low beam-touching it not with a hand, but a brass hook.
Even though small and low-ceilinged, the cabin is perfectly all right-a chest, a lantern, and a bed consisting of a wooden box containing a canvas sack stuffed with straw. The straw is fresh, and its aroma will continue to remind Daniel of the green fields of Massachusetts all the way to England. Daniel strips off just a few items of clothing, curls up, and sleeps.
When he wakes up, the sun is in his eyes. The cabin has a small window (its forward bulkhead is deeply sheltered under the poop deck and so it is safe to put panes of glass there). And since they are sailing eastwards, the rising sun shines into it directly-along the way, it happens to beam directly through the huge spoked wheel by which the ship is steered. This is situated just beneath the edge of that same poop deck so that the steersman can take shelter from the weather while enjoying a clear view forward down almost the entire length of Minerva. At the moment, loops of rope have been cast over a couple of the handles at the ends of the wheel’s spokes and tied down to keep the rudder fixed in one position. No one is at the wheel, and it’s neatly dividing the red disk of the rising sun into sectors.