I tried to think of a Mathematics different from the one I knew. Could one and two add to something other than three? Or did they only because that was how they were created to be?
“That would mean they are beyond the Creator.”
“We will keep our discussion on Mathematics and Mathematicians.”
“Yes, Master. But then I have another question. What makes a Mathematician great?”
“If he discovers great things. Then he is known.” He looked at me a moment. “Is that what you mean?”
“No, sir. What would make him able to discover great things?”
“What are his qualities? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
He sat back into the silence of the room. “He sees.”
“Into the invisible.”
“Yes.” Then Master Johann laughed. “But then he must also publish and he must become known. A great Mathematician who is unknown is not great.”
So I plunged forward. “Then I wish to send my proof to Paris.”
“To Paris? Monsieur Fontenelle will deride and dismiss the work of a young student. Monsieur Molieres would glance through it and find every fault that I do.”
“It would be treated respectfully if you wrote a letter of recommendation for it.”
“Yes, it would.” He did not deride me. He even seemed unsurprised that I had asked. “But should I? I am not fully convinced of it myself.” The one word though, fully, showed that he might soon be. He considered me, his young supplicant, in the same way he had the last Saturday, and it seemed that he was seeing something new.
My mother’s father was pastor of Saint Leonhard’s for three decades. He died before I was born. My grandmother didn’t speak often of him, as she was not given to reminiscing. Mostly she used him as an example to me of a sound, pious, dedicated, and competent man. Everyone else who remembered him spoke more highly even than she did.
This pastor’s daughter, my mother, married a pastor. He was a young man of good family and humble means, unshakable in his faith and in every part of his life. Beneath his calm demeanor, though, his heart burned with a slow, steady fire so hot that all the flames of the Boot and Thorn would be just a sputtering candle beside it.
For several years he had the pulpit at Saint Leonhard’s. It was even now still warm from him. When his son was born, the child was named for his father’s parish. Then, instead of taking a higher perch at the Munster or beyond, this man took his wife and child out of Basel to pastor a village in the hills north of the city and settled into its smallness. Whether the cottages of Riehen ever knew what great spirit they had, I would not be certain. He was certain of the choice he was making. He was my father. I learned from him that God was not served by our greatness but by our humbleness.
On Sunday morning I took my grandmother to church, and in the preaching we were instructed on the very greatness of God: his righteousness, his love, and his sacrifice. I would never tire of that lesson.
Monday morning, Mistress Dorothea poured words as a fountain pours water. Basel’s fountains provided a greater flow than the citizens need, so that a great deal simply flowed over the basin and into the streets; and Mistress Dorothea had more to say than there were ears to hear.
But as I was finishing, the fountain stopped. “Leonhard.”
“Yes, Mistress Dorothea?” I said.
“Master Johann has instructed me that you are no longer to be obliged to perform chores in this house.”
“Not obliged?” I was dumbfounded.
“From this moment on.”
“But . . . Mistress Dorothea . . . why not?”
“I don’t question the Master’s reasons.”
I was trying to understand, and reeling, though I also did notice that she’d let me put in my full morning’s labor before she’d said this. “Then . . . am I no longer to come on Saturdays?”
“You’ll need to discuss this with Master Johann. He is expecting you upstairs.”
“Come.” This was the third Monday Master Johann had answered my knock on his door.
It seemed more difficult each time to concentrate on speaking. The room was too marvelous. “Mistress Dorothea said I was no longer obliged to do chores for her in the mornings.”
“That is true.” From where I stood and how he was seated, I couldn’t see his desk well. There were just a few papers visible at the edge.
“Then I’ll no longer come on Saturdays?”
“You will still come.”
“But, Master, how will I pay you for the time?”
“I’ve written a letter to your father. From the present, your lessons will be at my pleasure. They will not be in exchange for tuition or service.”