The Three-Body Problem Read online

  I began to feel almost uncomfortable at the intimate nature of the confidences I was receiving, but Emily desperately needed to talk, and the spate of information continued uninterrupted.

  ‘But the most important thing is that he wrote there was no one at all to take care of his little boy, and please could Mother make sure nothing ill happened to him, because she was the only person in the whole wide world that he knew and would trust with his life! Oh, Miss Duncan, I thought we would adopt little Robert straight away, but Mother would not! We went to see him, and he is living in dreadful rooms, all dirty and smelling of onions, right in the middle of a dirty street in Calais, with washing hanging up everywhere and peeling walls, with a horrible lady who said straight out that she was keeping him only to earn some money, and that the sooner she got rid of him the better. He was the saddest little boy I ever saw – he’d been an orphan for just two days! I tried to play with him, but he asked where Papa and Maman were and cried in my arms. I begged and begged Mother to take him with us; I even tried to order her, sometimes she listens to me and says I am her wise girl. But she would not listen, and said to me that she could not bear to see the child, and that she must return home, and think calmly about what to do about him. She gave some money to the lady and said that someone would come to collect the child, and that until then she would send more money. It was like selling him – oh, I cannot bear to think about it. I wanted to talk to her about it again, but she has forbidden me to mention it. Oh, Miss Duncan – what shall I do? What can I do?’

  I was compelled to say the truth, that there was really not much the child could do, and that insisting too much might well even harm her case. I advised her gently to leave her mother alone for some time, and then bring up the subject gently and without passion, and listen very carefully to her mother’s views. There was really not much else I could say.

  ‘And devote yourself to your lessons, dear, and to taking care of your bro—of Edmund,’ I added. ‘I shall give you another of Mr Lewis Carroll’s Knots to solve today – mind you reason logically!’

  I saw that I had not helped her as much as she had led herself to hope that I would.

  ‘Miss Duncan, please promise you will help me, if I ever really need help,’ she whispered. ‘I will do the same for you. Please, let it be a pact between us.’

  She grasped my hand like a gentleman, and shook it firmly, and I kissed her. I will always help her to the best of my ability, of course, but that is so very limited. I cannot imagine what more she can expect. But I am deeply moved by her determination and her beautiful innate sense of justice.

  I leave you now, to prepare my modest evening meal,

  Vanessa

  Cambridge, Monday, April 23rd, 1888

  My very dearest sister,

  Today was really a lovely, joyful, sunny day. The legendary English spring has finally made its appearance in full force. The gardens are bursting with flowers, the old walls drowning in wisteria. I had quite a new experience: for the first time, I attended a public lecture!

  It was Mr Weatherburn’s idea. He told me that the very important Professor of Mathematics Arthur Cayley – the very one whom I met at Mrs Burke-Jones’s dinner party in early March – was going to hold a public lecture on the teaching of mathematics in a great hall, and that ever so many people were expected to attend, all those who enjoy mathematics or who are engaged in the teaching of it. He added that there would be refreshments afterwards, and if the weather was fine, they would be held in the gardens of Trinity College, where Professor Cayley is a Fellow. I felt extraordinarily honoured; it was my very first entrance within the walls which I can never avoid thinking of as hallowed. And Trinity College, seen from within, is not disappointing. The vine-draped Master’s Lodge in the Great Court is the noblest mansion anyone could ever hope to reside in; as for the famous Chapel, a mere human feels almost unworthy of such splendour. They say it rings and echoes with the singing of the choir. I murmured wistfully that I should love to hear it some day, and was almost taken aback when told, in the most pragmatic of tones, that it was open to the public every Monday evening.

  I felt shy to attend the lecture alone, and convinced my advanced class of Emily and Rose to join me; Miss Forsyth very kindly replaced me for the afternoon with the little girls. Emily and Rose were enchanted, not by the mathematical lecture, to be sure, but by the change in their usual habits, and the opportunity to spend the loveliest part of the afternoon taking refreshments in splendid gardens, instead of working sums in a schoolroom. There were a great many ladies in the audience; the hall seemed filled with their summery hats, next to which my own appeared sadly modest. Perhaps they are governesses or teachers, or perhaps they are married to mathematicians and wish to have some glimpse of the mysterious activity that occupies their husbands so intensely.

  My two pupils were very well-behaved during the lecture; they sat directly behind me, and I tried hard not to wonder whether or not they were paying attention to the illustrious professor, and to ignore the stifled giggles which occasionally reached my ears. I myself listened closely to what Professor Cayley was saying. He sat facing the audience, reading from a prepared text, and looking up rarely; his voice was monotonous, his expression vinegary, and his speech rapid, and it would have been easy to lose the thread, had he not been so powerful in expressing his convictions. I had not realised that the question of Euclid could raise such passions in the breasts of his adepts and his enemies!

  Professor Cayley held that the only door to mathematics was through Euclid, that his works attained the highest conceivable perfection of mathematical thinking, and that one could not begin to study them too early. He recommended them strongly to schoolchildren, and said that their study should never be abandoned until all the extant volumes had been completely mastered.

  He told us that an anti-Euclid association was being founded, and mentioned the many objections that it had brought up against the use of Euclid for students, sternly refuting each one. The texts were archaic in appearance? – they could and should be edited in a modern edition. Their dry reasoning was too difficult for students to master other than by parrot-learning? – good! By memorisation they trained their minds to be familiar with the strategies of geometric proof. They ill prepared the students for the study of Modern Geometry? – false! No student who had not completely mastered the Elements should even be allowed to approach the temple of modern mathematics. And on it went, at great length.

  After the lecture, we issued outdoors, where long tables had been set up. From the conversations I heard all about me, I realised that Professor Cayley appeared to be rather isolated in his views. Everywhere, I heard Euclid decried and modern texts praised. I ended by feeling quite sorry for poor Euclid, and determining to obtain one of his tomes at all costs and attempt the study of it.

  At first, looking about the gardens, I did not espy a single familiar face. However, after some time, I saw someone signalling to me kindly, and recognised Mrs Beddoes, who had also been a guest at Mrs Burke-Jones’s dinner party. I joined her, and she led me to a shady spot underneath a spreading, low-branched tree, where her circle of friends had gathered. All those whom I remembered from the party were there, and several whom I did not know. Mrs Beddoes introduced me to some of them.

  ‘You remember Mr Young, Mr Wentworth, Miss Chisholm, and my husband, of course,’ she said. ‘Let me introduce you to Mr and Mrs MacFarlane, Mr Withers and Professor Crawford. This is Miss Duncan. She teaches Mr Morrison’s little niece.’

  Mr MacFarlane and Mr Withers, the latter an amusing, undersized but aggressive little figure, were bent over a piece of paper, writing something, and hardly nodded to me.

  Mr Crawford was a robust, tall and heavy gentleman with a loud, ringing voice. ‘So you teach,’ he said to me, ‘and have you a particular interest in the teaching of mathematics?’

  ‘I do teach mathematics, or at least arithmetic, to the children in my class,’ I told him, ‘but as far as Profess
or Cayley’s lecture is concerned, it is for my own instruction and improvement only. I was not thinking of introducing Euclid to my students.’

  ‘I should hope not, indeed,’ he bellowed, ‘nor to any students! Faugh! Cayley’s ideas are ridiculously backwards. He should leave all notions of teaching to others.’

  ‘There is truth to that,’ intervened Miss Chisholm. ‘There is something stifling about Professor Cayley’s teaching – he sits like a figure of Buddha upon a pedestal, and one feels that a breath of fresh air would be desperately welcome.’

  At that moment Mr Beddoes appeared, carrying a cup and saucer, and joined the group.

  ‘Ah, here’s Beddoes!’ cried Mr Crawford, in such stentorian tones that all heads nearby turned in his direction, and a few more people approached to join the group. ‘Well, Beddoes, how have you been? I haven’t seen you for a week.’

  ‘Quite well, quite well,’ said Mr Beddoes, seeming rather surprised, almost taken aback, no doubt at being thus accosted with almost violent friendliness.

  ‘Now, Beddoes, we’re having a debate on Euclid, here – you’re a member of the old-fashioned school, of course!’ interjected Mr Withers, a little snappishly.

  ‘Well, I do support the teaching of Euclid, yes,’ began Mr Beddoes.

  ‘I don’t see how any progress is to be made, as long as such people continue to hold teaching responsibilities in our Universities,’ exclaimed Mr Withers, turning to Mr Crawford. ‘I’d like to know more about that anti-Euclid society which irked Cayley so much. I’d join it!’

  Although his views appeared to correspond with Mr Crawford’s, the latter did not welcome these remarks with any particular ardour. He considered Mr Withers with some disdain, and said rather loudly, ‘Before you criticise the teaching methods of better men than yourself, you’d do well to master the mathematics they aim to communicate!’

  Mr Withers responded to this provoking remark with a faint ‘Ha, ha.’

  But the words attracted the attention of Mr Wentworth, who had been listening silently. ‘Now just a moment,’ he cried energetically. ‘Just what are you implying?’

  ‘I’m implying no more than this: those who take decisions and argue the value of teaching methods of mathematics had better be those who master the subject – otherwise the whole university structure may just as well collapse!’ answered Mr Crawford belligerently.

  ‘And how many people, according to you, might belong to this select group?’

  ‘Precious few!’

  Although answering Mr Wentworth, Mr Crawford continued to address himself directly to Mr Withers, who became somewhat yellow with annoyance, and hastened off in the direction of the refreshments table.

  ‘Well,’ intervened Mr MacFarlane hastily, in a soothing tone, ‘few there may be, but I suppose you do at least agree that our most illustrious professors belong to the group?’

  ‘Stagnation, stagnation, that’s the whole problem of it!’ answered Mr Crawford resentfully. ‘Yes, of course I don’t deny the fantastic talent of a man like Cayley. But it’s not enough! You’ve got to have the mastery and the originality and then something else, perhaps even more important than those – you’ve got to have an open mind and welcome new ideas and progress! That’s what’s missing here in our university. Original minds are held back, unrecognised, stifled by the powers that be!’

  These words were greeted by shouts of opposition from those standing about, which soon led to a full-fledged and very lively debate. So much noise was made that I began to wonder what line exactly divides a debate from a quarrel, and whether ‘your imbecilic preferences’ and ‘that sort of incompetent opinion’ could not constitute serious causes of umbrage.

  Mrs Beddoes noted my surprise, and murmured to me in an undertone, ‘They’re always like that, dear, pay no attention. Mathematicians are always so terribly excited about whatever they are doing! Especially Mr Crawford – he’s begun on his favourite theme now. I suppose one has to be a woman, observing it all from the outside, to see how obvious it is that he is really only ever speaking, in veiled terms, of himself and his own resentment at not being sufficiently adulated and rewarded within his community.’

  And she distanced herself a little from the group and began to talk with Emily and Rose, and ask them questions about themselves, until soon they were engaged in telling her all the details of their lives.

  ‘What lovely children,’ she said a little sadly, turning to me. ‘I used to long to have little girls like these, when I was younger, but the time is long past now. Do you think your mothers would allow me to ask you to tea in my house, dears? It would be a great pleasure for me, and perhaps also for you, as my husband has three cats, and one of them has just had kittens. I do not think so very highly of cats myself, and really cannot have them in the house, as they make my eyes water; I find it difficult to go near them. But they are the apple of my husband’s eye!’

  ‘Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, please!’ they chorused. ‘We will ask our mothers, and promise to come very soon!’

  ‘It’s time to proceed to a new era,’ Mr Crawford was meanwhile still shouting. ‘No more geometry, no more algebra – mathematical physics is the new force in Cambridge! Why, we’ve had Maxwell, we’ve had Airy, we have Stokes – what’s all this geometry and algebra! Quaternions – imaginary numbers – hah! Give me truth, give me reality, give me the solar system!’

  ‘Now, now, Crawford,’ intervened Mr Beddoes quickly, ‘there’s no need to bring in the solar system, we’re talking about Euclid.’

  ‘Hah! I suppose you’re right. Well, I’ll be off then,’ said Mr Crawford, changing his tone suddenly, and turning on his heel, as though to dismiss the whole foolish topic. He turned away, and then abruptly turned back. ‘I need to see you, actually, Beddoes,’ he said. ‘What say we dine together one of these days? I’ll let you know shortly.’

  ‘Why – yes, certainly,’ said Mr Beddoes, somewhat taken aback by this welcoming invitation proffered in a tone of barking severity.

  Mr Crawford departed, and I followed his cue, bid goodbye to the company, and went to capture my two protégées, who were gambolling on the lawn, and making occasional forays to the tea table.

  ‘I do believe it is time to walk you home,’ I told them. They ran about and refused to join me for some little time, enjoying themselves tremendously, but as they saw the company straggling away and the tea-things being collected, they came up to me all twinkling and rosy.

  ‘Well, let us go home, then,’ said Emily. ‘Can we walk Rose home first, Miss Duncan? You have never seen her house, it is really very pretty. Rose has a room of her own, and she has ever so many funny things in it. Perhaps she’ll play something for you, Miss Duncan, won’t you, Rose? Please?’

  ‘Ho,’ said Rose with her tiny nose in the air, ‘I don’t feel like it today! I ate too much. Maybe another time, I’ll play something … some Bach, some Haydn, maybe something by Mr Johannes Brahms – we’ve just received his new sonata. Do-faaaa-la-sooool-re-doooo-si-sooool …’

  And the little elf insisted on being left at her own front door.

  ‘She plays the violoncello, Miss Duncan,’ Emily told me as we continued on towards her own house. ‘Isn’t it strange? I don’t know any girls who play anything except piano. It’s ever such a big instrument – that’s why she always has such wonderful big skirts, to go round it!’

  ‘Oh, that explains the style,’ I smiled. ‘I remember how my sister and I used to beg our mother to make ours that way, too. It wasn’t for music, though – it was because we used to run about outside, and jump on the ponies and ride them about the fields!’

  ‘Ride them? But didn’t you ride side-saddle?’ exclaimed the well-brought up child.

  ‘My dear, we had no saddles at all,’ I laughingly undeceived her. ‘I used to be able to ride nearly anything, but I have very little experience of side-saddles – perhaps I should fall off!’

  ‘Oh, do let us go riding together someday, Miss Duncan, when it�
��s warmer,’ she invited me eagerly as I deposited her upon her doorstep.

  It is a tempting idea; I should love to canter along between the hedgerows and pluck the blossoms from the trees in passing, as we used to. But dear me – I do hope I shan’t make a spectacle of myself among the other ladies, who unlike me, are probably all experts in the art of moving forwards with the whole lower half of their body perched sideways! The civilised have strange habits, do they not?

  Your Vanessa

  Cambridge, Tuesday, May 1st, 1888

  Oh, Dora, the most dreadful thing has happened – I hardly know how to write about it! Yet I can think of nothing else, and although it is painful and repugnant to me to write to you about such horrors, even less could I ramble on about ordinary things as though nothing was amiss.