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.
