Frig Newton

It would have been handy if Isaac Newton had left a proper will, but he didn't.

His library of some two thousand volumes would have been vastly more useful to scholars if it had been passed on to one, or maybe two, archives, instead of being scattered across Europe and North America, although not as widely as was common for some other seventeenth century collections of important personages. Tracking most of the items had been tiresome and time-consuming, but hardly impossible.

Rupert Booker had managed to get his hands on, or at least read, copies of every book in Sir Isaac's library, in order to understand the origins and basis of the great man's thinking. Also, while Rupert had not read every word that Sir Isaac had written himself, he had come close.

But there was one remaining and highly intriguing item. An early handwritten draft of Sir Isaac's Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica, commonly known as the 'Principia', held by Trinity College Cambridge, where Newton had resided for twenty-four years, ultimately as the 'Lucasian Chair of Mathematics.'

This magisterial work, first published in 1686, contained Newton's early ground-breaking ideas about mathematics and nature's forces, the immortal three laws of motion among them. Most importantly this draft manuscript was said to include some cryptic annotations from Newton himself in the margins. Rupert desperately wanted to see them.

He had made the trip from the University of Idaho (at international conferences Rupert liked to tell people he came from 'Moscow' and watch their reactions, before informing them that Moscow, Idaho was the college town that hosted his American university) in order to review the document.

Rupert had presented himself to the librarian at the Wren library that first Monday of Spring Break in April, excited to study the early draft. He reckoned to get his work done in a couple days, and then visit town and environs for the rest of the week, a real vacation for the first time in years. He would return to Moscow, refreshed, energized for teaching, and most importantly, armed with the last bit of detail to add to his almost finished manuscript on Newton's unusual theological perspective, 'Newtonian Variations: Arian Aberration vs. Anglican Orthodoxy.'

Rupert had navigated the intimidating Main Gate at Trinity, including the bowler-behatted entirely supercilious Porters themselves, made the long circuitous traverse of Great Court. He stood for a moment at the entrance to Nevile's court, admiring the stately lines of Christopher Wren's library. The air was cool, the sky overcast, and a light, bracing breeze came off the fens to the East. Everything, the grass, trees, even the waters of the river Cam were far greener and fresher than anything back in Idaho, save for the endless conifers up in the mountains.

But trouble, inevitable and ubiquitous, reared its ugly head at the library. Rupert was brought up short at the front desk. He'd identified himself and asked for TC. MS. 336, as the Principia draft was listed in the catalog, but the tall, looming librarian (or archivist, or whatever his official title might be) was entirely hostile, not only refusing to retrieve the manuscript for him, but denying access entirely.

Rupert, indignant, outlined his intent, the fact that he had completed Trinity's fussy process, official form and all, for gaining access to rare materials, including a statement of his research purpose and a letter from his dean, all done in plenty of time to be processed.

"I'm sorry Mr. Booker, we have no record of your dean's correspondence. Everything else is in order. You understand, of course, that you are seeking a Grade One document, and we don't let those out without appropriate authorisation."

Rupert glared up at the man's face with its scowling features, with lips in that tightly-pursed imperial smile Rupert had encountered many a time before.

"That's quite impossible. My dean's letter would have been sent weeks ago. There must be some mistake."

"Mr. Booker, I will need a signed letter from your administrator, stating your name, your research agenda, and your intended need of the manuscript. All these rules are clearly spelled out."

Rupert worked himself into a fair fury. In an increasingly agitated voice, he announced his credentials, the ones that usually acted like those ice-breaking ships in the Arctic when it came to the barriers to archival exploration. He explained that he was an important scholar, with a significant monograph to his credit: the 'Immutable Laws, the Newtonian Canon', published by Bloomsbury no less. He was an academic spelunker, a Jacques Cousteau of the dusty repositories and archives of early scientific knowledge, a Newtonian aficionado. Rupert recognized his limitations in the charm and rhetorical skills department, but trusted in the facts as delivered.

"You have no idea how important this research is," Rupert went on, choosing not to emphasize the importance the impending book would have to his own potential promotion next year at UI, instead stressing the universality of Newtonian research and the value it would bring to Trinity. Yet he was beginning to realize that none of this would make the slightest bit of difference to this malignant reptile of a bureaucrat.

He felt his blood rise and the signs of the onset of his stammer, one of only two aspects of his life over which he was unable to exert control.

"But, but..." there it was, the curse of his spoken life. "Ev-everything is in place! I ... I can show my credentials, my university I ... ID?" He reached for his wallet, not noticing the upraised hand.

"Mr. Booker. There is no point in pursuing this further today. Without the letter from your administrator, the Newton manuscript, this Newton manuscript, is unavailable to you."

Rupert looked at that face, implacable and stony, and his heart sank.

He descended the imposing staircase of the library, defeated.

Standing out in Nevile's court, staring at the Wren library, Rupert's knees shook in rage. He had to go far back into the distant recesses of his path as a scholar to remember such an unceremonious dismissal, but at least then it had made more sense. He had been young then, an early-career academic, didn't know the ropes, hadn't established a track record. But this current predicament was outrageous.

Rupert paced along the southern side of Nevile's court, his mouth opening and closing like a carp's, footsteps angry and irregular on the paving stones. He turned to stare at that magnificent, if suddenly hostile, library.

At least the view across the Backs was worthy. He envied the students and fellows who could count on this charming overlook as a daily event during their precious time at Trinity. The Cam was free of punters and tourists on this cool gray morning, slight bits of water vapor hovering over the languid water.

He would retreat to his hotel, the time-lag meaning he wouldn't get through to his dean's office until the afternoon. He cursed the dean, cursed the time-zone expanse, cursed the luck that seemed to have changed for him out of the blue.

Lost in his thoughts he became aware of a figure at his side. He hadn't noticed anyone approach.

She was an ordinary English-looking girl, short, shorter than him even, with a plain blue dress that went down to what looked like leather boots that were chosen for walking comfort rather than style. Her woolen overcoat was a nondescript gray.

Her face was round, inquiring.

"Pardon me, I couldn't help hearing you having a bit of trouble inside." She gestured towards the Wren.

"Wentworthy is not known for making exceptions, allowing any leeway. He's a strictly by-the-book chap. " She shook her head.

Rupert relaxed a little, although his distress lay close to the surface.

Her hair was fuzzy and a bit tangled, but her smile was ready, and graced by a dimple. She was young, a student perhaps, but no, a bit older unless maybe a re-entry graduate student, he didn't know how common that was here in this miserable pompous university in this ossified country. He couldn't decide if her furrowed brow was the result of noticing too much or too little of the world.

"I don't know how far into our conversation you heard," he began, pleased his voice had regained some degree of normalcy in its tone.

"It's my dean, my dean's letter, back at Idaho, you surely know I am an American, you've heard me speak..." he was acutely aware of how silly he sounded.

"My dean was supposed to send a letter, he knew I needed it, knew I had to have it for my week-stay here, they don't give you much time off mid-semester," he went on lamely.

"I should have saved the whole business for summer, when the timing wouldn't have mattered so much, but I have a publication deadline." He felt compelled to mention this detail, perhaps it might serve as a reminder to this young woman of his importance, of his weight as a scholar.

"Deadlines don't wait," he found his voice rising again, "and this manuscript, perhaps you know it, Sir Issac Newton's first draft of the Principia, there are some annotations in the margin I must see, it is imperative I see."

He stopped, a bit breathless.

"It has taken me years to learn to decipher Sir Isaac's handwriting, a dying art back in America." He stopped again. He had been rambling. Probably sounding stupid as a goose while waving his hands about. Why would this woman care? He was making an absolute spectacle.

He ran the back of his hand across his brow, moister than he wished it was. Probably his face was flushed.

"This item appears to be more valuable than the Kohinoor diamond. How many levels of security just to see it in person, never mind open it? Study it?"

"Wentworthy made it seem completely off limits, it is true. But he overstated matters," she said.

"I am sorry, didn't mean to go on like that. It's just that it is so important. But important only to me, obviously," he waved at the quadrangle of grass in front of them.

He thought for a moment as if she might touch his arm, but she didn't.

"No, don't apologise," she said softly. "I am quite aware of the difficulties of archival work, the barriers one must surmount."

They looked at each other for a moment.

"I'm afraid there is nothing I can do to help with Wentworthy," she said. "I have no influence, his word is quite law. Will you be able to produce this letter? Eventually?"

"Probably. I won't know straight away however, time-zone difference and all that. I'll try to reach home when I get back to my hotel. The University Arms," he added, as if that made any difference.

"We do get a lot of Newton fanciers coming by here, and there are some things kept rather carefully under cover. What you want is one of them."

Rupert didn't appreciate being lumped in with the other 'Newton fanciers' and made a face.

"You are a physicist?" she asked softly.

Rupert shook his head. "No afraid not. I know only just enough to marvel at Sir Isaac's astonishing genius. I'm mostly interested in his written corpus."

"I'm Cassie." She reached out a hand.

Rupert was pleased with the introduction, but aware that she had made it, and felt stupid for not doing so himself.

"Rupert. Rupert Booker." Her hand was soft but deliberate.

"In the states they call my field History of Ideas, or Intellectual History. Not sure if you have an equivalent here, but the complex science does me in. I am more interested in what it did as far as moving the life of the mind forward, the 17th century Scientific Revolution, all of that, and of course you cannot ignore Sir Isaac."

She listened attentively. "I hope you get the letter."

"Me too."

They stood awkwardly for a moment, at least Rupert felt that way.

"I have to go," she finally said. "Best of luck to you," and she was off.

Rupert made his way back to his hotel, and although the time-zone differences meant he couldn't ring the dean's office immediately and expect to talk to an actual person, he scattered email notes everywhere he could think of, his department chair, the dean, Connie in the dean's office, all saying the same thing—he needed the letter, signed, ASAP.

But he did reach Connie by phone that afternoon, 9 AM her time.

"Rupert, you know Donald is not just gone for the week," she said in that slow patient tone she used with faculty, as if speaking to a kindergarten class, "but completely incommunicado. Some Buddhist retreat off in the mountains. Mindfulness mediation, no cell phone, no nothing. He's been planning this for months. There is no way to get hold of him until he gets back. I did see your email, I'll do what I can but any real results will have to wait a week."

Rupert cursed and stomped around his hotel room, but managed to rearrange his plans, rebook flights, extend his stay through Wednesday of the next week, got Albert to cover his early week classes. It was only his Friday seminar that would be crucial, although his department chair wouldn't be happy with his absence.

For the next few days, Rupert stewed about town, spending unsatisfying hours reading in the University library, that monstrous pile, an ugly brick tower of stored erudition beyond the Backs. The days were damp, often drizzly, sunshine rare and weak. Folks in town had their overcoats buttoned up, leaning into the winds coming from the fens off to the east.

He visited a few college grounds, paying exorbitant admission fees (five pounds or more) to take a stroll around and admire, and sometimes cringe at, their manicured lawns and mullioned 16th century windows. He picked up a TLS at Heffers, a cheap easy treat here, a luxury at home.

On Wednesday he stopped in at the central marketplace, just behind Great St. Mary's church, for provisions. He hadn't found much pleasure eating alone in the various pubs and downtown eateries, and planned his own 'ploughman's lunch,' some bread and cheese, back at his hotel room.

The marketplace stalls were an entirely random collection of vendors, a high-end condiment place with vinegars and olive oil right next to a stall with cheap souvenirs, little British flags, and Cambridge University badges, but he retrieved a few stout looking rolls at the bread-stall, and was surveying the scene for his next purchase.

An elderly woman whom he had seen at the bread vendor a few minutes before was pulling her miniature market-cart along the cobble-stoned pavement, bits of carrot foliage poking out from gaps in the cart's wire mesh perimeter. A loaf of bread tumbled off the top when she hit a rough patch, but she hadn't noticed and kept going, her feet a short set of syncopated steps.

He dashed over and retrieved the loaf in its paper wrapper, brushed it off, and chased after the woman.

"Looks like this fell out," he said a bit breathlessly. He felt apologetic, as if intruding. "Would you like me to tuck it into your cart a little more securely?"

She peered up at him over her spectacles, eyes gauging Rupert and the situation.

"How kind of you, young man. Yes, if you'd do that I'd be most grateful."

He arranged her load a bit, wedging the bread in so it wouldn't fly out again, but not so tightly as to squash it.

"Thank you. Good day!" She waved a little farewell.

"Good day to you as well, madame!" He felt a bit foolish, sounding far more formal than was his custom. What was it about this ancient town that made him act so?

He found a stall selling cheese, with a small but enticing set of choices.

"Do you like blue?" a familiar voice asked.

He turned to find Cassie at his elbow.

"The Stilton they carry is really quite good." She eyed the loaf of bread I was holding. "It would go well with you have there," gesturing at his rolls. "If you like blue cheese, that is."

He was pleased to see her.

"Indeed I do. Yes, that sounds splendid." He kicked himself, why so pompous-sounding?

As the fellow behind the counter weighed out a quarter kilo of Stilton he turned to Cassie.

"Do get a bit of this Cheddar too, it's quite good," she urged.

"Assuming this won't be too a much splurge for you? Two kinds of cheese at the same meal?"

Rupert couldn't tell if Cassie was mocking him, his silly American ways, but she had a smile on her face.

"Yes, why not," and he took another 200grams of the one she had pointed out.

"What are you getting here? Is this a normal feature of your weekly shopping?" he asked.

"Yes, I come at least twice a week, the produce changes with the seasons, and it's faster than waiting in line over there." She gestured behind him to the Marks and Spencer. "I love this cheesemonger," using a term Rupert had never heard before.

He now had two items, some bread and cheese.

"All you need now is some mustard and a good ale, and your lunch will be complete."

"Any suggestions?" Rupert was struck by how easily she handled these little interactions, probably trivial to her but often an ordeal for himself.

She brought him to a stall where he bought a jar of mustard, and then they stood at one corner of the market square.

"I have to get back," she said, plainly enough. "But if want a good ale and don't mind a walk, head down Mill Road a few blocks, it's just diagonally across Parker's Piece from your hotel, there are a couple specialty wine and beer shops. Adnam's is good, anything from Hook Norton will be super."

Just before turning to leave, she paused.

"Listen, I am free for lunch tomorrow, would you have any interest in joining me? Around 1:30?"

Rupert was tickled.

"That would be super. Where do you suggest?"

"Let's do the Cambridge Blue, it's not far from your hotel."

They parted and Rupert was intrigued.

He resisted the urge to turn around and watch her walk back to Trinity.

****

The next day Rupert found the Cambridge Blue tucked into a quiet street, Cassie already there, at a back table.

"Try the cask ale, its Oakham's this week." Rupert marveled at the slow-pull handles at the tap.

As they settled in at their table, with their crusty-edged 'sarnies' as Cassie called them, to Rupert's amusement, he tried to begin the conversation casually.

"What's Cassie short for? Casandra?"

"A good guess, to be sure, but unfortunately wrong. Cassiopeia."

"Father had a bit of a fetish for mythology," she added.

"But it's a bit of an odd choice isn't it? Like calling you vain before you've even grown? And..." He stopped and felt his cheeks redden.

"And that I do not even possess unrivaled beauty?" Her eyes teased him.

"It has long since ceased to bother me. My looks are what they are, I have control over my health and I dislike trying to make my features more handsome than they are naturally."

She was what his aunt Millie might have called 'pleasingly plump' although that wasn't really the case, only she was just not rail thin. Soft curved shoulders, and those crooked teeth that seem to plague most of Britain below the aristocracy line.

"No, no..." Rupert began to stammer, his tension rising. "That's... that's not what I meant..."

"I know, don't worry. I know what you meant."

Rupert tried again, asking her about her interests, her status at Trinity.

"A graduate student. I'm interested in Newton only insofar as his life touched the Royal Society. Of course you know he was president for a few years."

He laughed. "Yes, quite unwillingly. He hated the public experiments part, figured if he had done the research and made his conclusions, doing so publicly was a positive waste of time. Plus he had a prickly time of it with Hooke."

It was her turn to laugh. "Yes, Hooke was convinced Newton stole all his best ideas, the inverse square law in particular. I've read a fair amount of Hooke's work, but right now I am concentrating on Oldenburg."