The Confusion

“Perhaps you would prefer a Mint-master who, insofar as his motives were more intelligible, would prove more manageable.”

 

 

“I am sure I have no idea what you mean, Daniel.”

 

“I am sure you lie like a dog in the sun. A time-serving hack—a tapeworm—is easy to understand. He will run your mint for you because he receives a stipend, a place to live, influence and prestige. But you must get it very clear in your mind, Roger, that Newton wants none of this. He will benefit from a steady income, it is true. But if I am to interest him in this job, I must hold out enticements. And I say to you that he has the hard, bare soul of a Lincolnshire Puritan, a type of soul I understand well, and the usual incentives are less than nothing to him. If he does it, he shall do it in the name of ideals, and in the pursuit of goals, you may find incomprehensible. And inasmuch as you shall be unable to comprehend his ends, you shall be unable to control, or even influence him.”

 

“That’s perfectly all right, Daniel, I can always write you a letter in Boston and ask you to explain what he’s on about.”

 

 

 

“MAY I ASSIST YOU carrying one of those tomes, Mr. Halley?”

 

“Daniel! An unexpected pleasure! I can manage, thank you, but you may assist by telling me in which of these rooms I might find Mr. Pepys.”

 

“Follow me. He is meeting with one Cabal or other at the end of the opposite wing.”

 

“Ah, then wait with me while I rest my arms.”

 

“Are these for his book collection?”

 

“These are money.”

 

“On the pages I see numbers. Rumor has had it, Mr. Halley, that you have hired up every computer on this island, and set them to a great work. Now I see the rumors were true.”

 

“These are only the first fruits of their lucubrations—I have brought them up, at the request of Mr. Pepys, to show them as a sort of demo’.”

 

“Why do you say that they are money? To me they could be sines and cosines.”

 

“These are actuarial tables, a sort of extract or distillation from the records of births and deaths of every parish in England. Supplied with these data the Exchequer can raise capital by selling annuities to the general public; and if they sell enough of them, why, the law of averages dictates that they will make a profit without fail!”

 

“What, by gambling that their customers will die?”

 

“That is no gamble, Dr. Waterhouse.”

 

 

 

“SAFE JOURNEY TO OATES; I shall see you there on the morrow, Mr. Locke.”

 

“You may expect nothing but the warmest hospitality from the Mashams. From Newton you may expect—”

 

“You forget I have known him for thirty years.”

 

“Right.”

 

“...”

 

“I can only guess what machinations you are about, Mr. Waterhouse. But I admit that I shall look forward to your arrival and that I shall feel a weight lifted when you arrive.”

 

“Why, Mr. Locke, what weighs ’pon you?”

 

“Newton is unwell.”

 

“Love-sick?”

 

“That is the least of his ailments.”

 

“I shall be there soon, Mr. Locke, with what feeble medicine I may proffer.”

 

 

 

“MR. WATERHOUSE, MY SCHEDULE IS a monolith, seamless and unbroken. Except for piss-breaks. Shall we?”

 

“As I need hardly explain to you of all men, Mr. Pepys, nothing now gives me greater satisfaction than pissing—but to piss with you, sir, would be to compound honor with pleasure.”

 

“Let us then leave the company of these fellows who know not what it signifies, and go piss in each other’s company.”

 

“If it would please you to turn to your right out this door, Mr. Pepys, you shall come in view of a garden wall that, earlier, I was sizing up as—”

 

“Say no more, Mr. Waterhouse, ’tis a magnificent wall, well-proportioned, secluded, admirably made for our usage.”

 

“...”

 

“I say, Mr. Waterhouse, have you been buying your breeches from Turks?”

 

“I am a man of almost fifty, sir, and am permitted a small repertoire of eccentricities. As pissing gives me so much pleasure I will brook no interference from my clothing—I’ll have my yard out smartly and be finished with my work while you are still fumbling with buttons and clasps.”

 

“Not so, sir, I am only moments behind you.”

 

“...”

 

“Makes you want to sing hymns, eh?”

 

“I do, sometimes.”

 

“Word has reached me that you are off to visit Newton tomorrow. I wonder if he has an answer for me on my lottery question.”

 

“Another way of raising money?”

 

“Think of it rather as a way for ordinary men to enrich themselves at the (trifling) expense of vast numbers of other ordinary men. Of course the Exchequer will have to collect a small rake-off for overhead.”

 

“Of course. Mr. Pepys, when we got the Royal Society going, never did I dream you would find such uses for the knowledge it would generate.”

 

“That is the rub—the lottery is a game of chance, and will founder unless we get the mathematicks just so. I have brought in Newton as a consultant.”

 

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