The Three-Body Problem (3 page)

‘Dear me, b-but we are already very nearly acquainted!’ he exclaimed in surprise, levelling his brown eyes upon me
with the same intentness I had noted in them, the other day, in the hall.

‘How so?’ said Mrs Burke-Jones, surprised.

‘Why, my rooms are in the same house as Miss D-Duncan’s,’ he explained, and added that he knew I held a class there each afternoon, but had had no idea that ‘Morrison’s niece’ was one of the fortunate pupils.

Mrs Burke-Jones was as nice as could possibly be.

‘Oh, Miss Duncan does wonders,’ she cried effusively, ‘Emily does so love her lessons, and the mathematical parts more than anything!’

Whence a short discussion with Mr Weatherburn about my interests and methods, in which I showed myself to be woefully ignorant, alas, and was deeply grateful to have heard tell of Mr Lewis Carroll at all, for it was certainly the only thing he mentioned that was the least bit familiar to me!

I floundered on, my dear Dora, blushing greatly, and felt most relieved when Mr Weatherburn moved away from the subject of mathematics to other topics. The guests soon gathered into one or two larger groups, and the conversation, seemingly quite naturally, turned to the death of their poor colleague, Mr Akers. As the newspaper article I sent you hinted, nobody seemed to like him at all. They did make some attempt to speak of him more or less with the respect due to the deceased, but even so, I suspect a certain dose of snideness lay behind some of the remarks. Mr Beddoes in particular seemed to sneer subtly behind his apparent admiration, when he spoke of his colleague’s
work. But his remarks elicited only knowing smiles from his colleagues, although they freely discussed the character of the poor defunct gentleman. ‘He was quite insufferable,’ appeared to reflect the general opinion; Miss Chisholm even put in that ‘a sarcastic smile was part of his permanent apparel.’ Mr Weatherburn did not say anything at all, as the others traded remarks and observations, and for some little time the question of the nature of his death was politely avoided, but suddenly someone could not resist any more, and directly put the question which must have been tickling all of them from the beginning, to judge by myself!

‘Well, Weatherburn, you dined with him on the fatal evening, so what did you actually talk about, eh?’

‘Yes, uh, well,’ said Mr Weatherburn, whose speech is slow and careful, perhaps because of the stammer, ‘he seemed to want to talk about an absolutely remarkable idea he had conceived lately. He was quite excited, I recall.’

‘A remarkable idea? What kind of idea?’ came a chorus of excited cries from the throats of all the mathematicians present.

‘Apparently he had been working on the n-body problem. He didn’t want to get into details, however. The closest I got was when he pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket and scribbled the solution down onto it, to show me, saying that it provided a complete and incredibly original solution to the differential equations of the n-body problem. But he shoved the paper away, naturally, before I could really inspect it closely. He told me that he had already written a rough manuscript of his proof of convergence of
the series. Indeed, I quite believe he asked me to dine mainly from a need to vent his irrepressible feelings of triumph. He seemed particularly concerned with the possible reaction of Professor C-C-Crawford.’

‘Ah yes, I’m not surprised. I believe Crawford’s been working on the n-body problem in secret for several months now, ever since it was set as the main problem of the Birthday Competition organised by King Oscar of Sweden, though he won’t admit it,’ remarked Mr Wentworth.

‘Except for making elliptical allusions to it after he’s had a few glasses!’ added Mr Morrison.

‘Well, Crawford certainly has been working hard lately,’ remarked Mr Young. ‘My word, he’s been almost invisible for over a week now, shut in his rooms working from morning till night. Normally, he wouldn’t miss an evening at Mrs Burke-Jones’s for the world.’

‘Crawford’s been saying he’s working on the n-body problem – really?’ cried Mr Beddoes, looking aghast. ‘But that’s – that’s quite impossible! Utterly impossible. Ha!’ There was a moment’s pause, and then he added in a different tone, somewhat aggressively, ‘It’s far too difficult for a mathematician like Crawford. Why, the man has ideas, but no rigour! How can he hope to compare with a genius like young Poincaré in France?’

‘Does anyone know what became of the paper Mr Akers had in his breast pocket – the one he showed Mr Weatherburn at table?’ enquired Miss Chisholm suddenly.

It was exactly the question I had been longing to put, but I really didn’t dare insert even a word into a conversation
about things I knew nothing of. I must say that my heart warmed to her because of her forthrightness. I noticed that every time she spoke, Mr Wentworth, Mr Morrison and Mr Young all looked at her with favour.

Upon her remark, everyone looked at each other, and there was a moment’s silence. Nobody appeared to know the answer to this very interesting question.

‘Yes, it’s worth finding out about that, isn’t it,’ said Mr Weatherburn slowly.

Then dinner was announced, and we all went in, arm in arm; Mr Cayley took in Mrs Beddoes and Mr Beddoes took in Mrs Cayley. Mr Morrison took in his sister, and Mr Wentworth took in Miss Forsyth, who is Emily’s governess, and was asked by Mrs Burke-Jones to join the dinner in order to even out the numbers. She teaches Emily all the things I know nothing of (alas): music, embroidery, French and German. Mr Young took in Miss Chisholm, and you can see for yourself who was left.

The dinner was delightful, in a lovely room, not very large but spacious and attractive. Mrs Burke-Jones’s house must be very nearly as large as Mrs Fitzwilliam’s, and it is all for herself and her family, and her servants! Her brother, Mr Morrison, lives there too, as I learnt afterwards. During dinner we talked about all kinds of things; that is, the others talked, and I listened a great deal, and exchanged only a very few words with my left-hand neighbour, as I did not seem to be able to do more without blushing uncomfortably. Things were somewhat easier with my right-hand neighbour, Mr Beddoes, who became quite
agreeable as the dishes succeeded each other, and barked out kind remarks in my direction, such as ‘So you teach, do you?’ and ‘Whereabouts are you from, my dear?’ before becoming reabsorbed in his plate and glass. The others spoke of general things, politics, India, Queen Victoria, and various other topics, to all of which I listened eagerly, feeling sadly ignorant because of my sheltered life. Dear me, to think that I dare to teach anyone anything, when I know so little! Between the stammering awkwardness on my left and the sharpness on right, and my own feelings of ignorance, I was a little nervous the whole time and unable to appreciate the details of the meal itself, although it did seem very different from either toast or soup.

After dinner, the six ladies retired to the drawing room, actually only five of us, because Miss Forsyth returned upstairs to the children. The conversation was most interesting – Mrs Burke-Jones appears to have lost her husband some years ago – at least she did not say so, but seemed sad for a moment, and said that six years ago she had asked her brother to occupy the upstairs apartments, as she felt uncomfortable alone with children and servants in such a large house. He, naturally, was only too happy to oblige, and be spoilt and pampered. (She really did say this, with nothing like the respect due to a promising young research fellow of the university!) I believe he is her younger brother. She told me that Emily also has a younger brother, Edmund, who is to Emily just as Mr Morrison is to her. Edmund is sent to a very good boarding school, which strains the family fortunes rather, I gathered, though
Mrs Burke-Jones only sighed and said it was not always easy. She added that Edmund is very fragile, and that she feels she must have him home occasionally on weekends, although the school does not approve. He did make a brief appearance later with his sister, and it was like seeing a frail white rose next to a blooming pink one. Mrs Cayley asked him if he enjoyed his school and was looking forward to going back next day. I think it was a mistake. Already pale, he became paler and cast his eyes about, until Emily stepped forward and relieved the situation by stating categorically, ‘Naturally he likes home better.’

The most amazing thing I learnt, however, in the course of our postprandial conversation, was that Miss Chisholm is a student at the university! She studies mathematics at Girton College, of those two colleges I learnt about from Mrs Burke-Jones, where ladies may enrol. Mr Young is her tutor there. She says that in England, ladies may only study for the degree called the Tripos, but they may not attempt to write doctoral dissertations. It is, however, possible although rare for a lady to write one in Germany, and she would like to travel there after having passed her examinations here. When she talks about it, she sounds like the way I felt when I first thought of coming here: eager, but almost frightened. I do hope I will have a chance to meet her again.

I digested all these facts and allowed my mind to dream and roam, this afternoon, during a lengthy ramble, taking advantage of the lovely weather on the one day that I am not required to spend all the afternoon indoors. Although
most often, I love to wander out of the town into the fields, or take the direction of Grantchester, today my legs carried me straight towards the university: down the Chesterton Road past Jesus Green, left on Magdalene Street and then into St John’s Street; why, it is almost as good as reading one’s Bible! I could not resist taking a particularly good look at St John’s, where poor Mr Akers was a Fellow. I remained there for a moment, gazing upon the imposing red facade, above whose main gateway, flanked by octagonal towers decorated with white brickwork upon the red, a set of ancient arched windows is topped by medieval crenellations over which one half expects to see the tip of an arrow pointing, ready to shoot.

I passed the less imposing although similarly styled gateway leading to Trinity College, somewhat distracted by recalling that it was not only the college whose walls once were home to Isaac Newton, but that they also constituted the daily place of work of my neighbour Mr Weatherburn. Turning into Trinity Lane, I passed the more modest colleges there as in a dream, and turned to walk along the Cam, between the green fields dotted with daffodils and crocuses, upon which gave the back parts of Trinity and St John’s with their tempting and mysterious ramparts and bridges with nostalgic names. Cambridge is a beautiful place, Dora, not least because its fields and buildings are all steeped and burnished with meaning from the past. No, decidedly, I have no regrets about coming here.

My very best love until next time,

Vanessa

My dearest sister,

I have made great friends with Emily since the dinner party. She would like to see a new Knot every day, but I am restricting her to a single Knot each week; they require successively more and more reflection, and she has promised on her honour not to seek help from her uncle. I am to go to tea at her house at least once a week, from now on, she says! I must say that such outings hold great pleasure for me, as a change from my own rooms, and Emily is a delightful girl, not in the least bit infantile, and possessed of a sharp, enquiring mind.

Today was our very first tea date; we had it in the nursery together with Miss Forsyth, whose first name is Annabel, though I must not use it because Emily may not. We took it in turns to tell Emily about our early childhood, and asked her a great many questions about hers, for Miss Forsyth has been with her only six years. Before Miss Forsyth, she had a French governess, who cared for both herself and her brother, and she told us how happy the family had been all together, and talked at length about her father. There was something sweet and strange about the way she spoke of him, almost as though she did not know, or feel, that he was dead, but thought of him as being somewhere far away, but thinking and caring about her and waiting to see her again some day.

We asked her how it had happened that her governess had left, but she answered rather oddly, that she really
did not know what had become of her, with a curious indefinable tone in her voice. It seems as though she is holding back some secret, or perhaps has simply heard tell of things she could not understand, and keeps them in her little heart, waiting for the future to bring wisdom. She told us that the decision had been taken at that time to find a school for her brother, and that he cried terribly and begged not to leave home. Although poor Emily was only seven years old at the time, she understood that after the changes that had been so suddenly wrought within the family, little Edmund would scarcely be able to endure an even greater one, whereas their mother seemed to think that a fatherless life at home would be unbearable for him. The children were compelled to submit, naturally, but Emily’s mutinous little face told us how right she still believed herself to be. After what seemed a great effort to remain discreet and ladylike, under the gentle pressure of my questions, she suddenly burst out in a passion and told me how her brother hated school with all his heart, and longed only to return home, that he was vexed and tormented there day and night by the other boys, all of whom undergo brutal treatment by the masters. ‘Oh, Edmund says they beat them horribly,’ she cried heart-rendingly, ‘he says they have to go into the headmaster’s office, all white and trembling and then those outside hear the most awful screams. Edmund says it’s near as bad or worse when it’s somebody else as when it’s himself. I’m so happy, so happy I don’t have to go to boarding school! If only he could just stay at home with us, and go to your school, Miss Duncan!’

Could such awful things really be true, Dora? I so often envied boys their luck, free to travel, to leave home, to go to school and later explore the whole world. But perhaps – in fact quite probably, I am learning, having had no brothers, I understood nothing of the masculine realities, and keep only an ideal image within me. Poor Edmund! I would be only too happy to include one pale little boy in my group of blooming girls, if only it could be allowed, but I expect it is perfectly unthinkable. I tried greatly to cheer up Emily in all kinds of ways, and distracted her so well with foolish stories that in a few moments she was shouting with laughter instead of near tears.