him. "The only thing you have planted is that damned orchard. I have the bill for the pear grafts obtained on the English exchange. Seventy pounds! Only three of those grafts survived, thus providing you, if Kleinhoff is to be trusted, with twelve pears. Including incidental costs, that would come to nine pounds a pear."
"That is enough of your badgering," the Abbe said. "You stand by your calculation. I stand by mine. Our goals will never converge. You didn't see the pears, or taste them. Worth every halfpenny paid. You wish to put a price on beauty at the current rates of exchange. You cannot. Nor can you diminish the significance of a single, extraordinary pear, a pear nurtured by a dedicated gardener who nourished each tree with a mix of hog's dung and loam in warm months, stiff horse dung in cold, who protected the fruit from aphids, wasps, and snails, all for the delectation of the table and the advance of the botanical arts. So you keep your crop rotation of turnips-barley-clover-wheat, turnips-barley-clover-wheat. I will be happy with my pear."
"It will not feed you very long, that pear of yours. You must boost your income. You brought the boy in for the Hours, and so far no Hours have been produced. Why?"
"We will get to the Hours in good time."
"Is that wordplay? If so, it is inappropriate," the accountant said sourly. "You have no choice but to have your apprentice start at once if you are to avoid your creditors. And I need not mention that, as one of them, I will happily exert my legal rights to ensure payment of what monies are due."
"Enough!" the Abbe yelled. "I will have the Hours done. You may go. You may go to—" The Abbe didn't finish the phrase, but the destination was clear enough.
The Abbe tore a piece of paper from a journal of experimental philosophy. "A test is in order, Claude, to register the progress of your studies. Have you made advances on the Rule of the Thing?"
Claude nodded, as well he should have. When informed, somewhat incorrectly, that the origin of the Rule of the Thing was Arabian by way of Persia and Persian by way of India, the young student embraced its complexities with fervor.
Struggling through the exotic formulas stimulated recollections of his father and certain private myths not generally associated with algebra.
The Abbe handed the scrap to Claude, who sat at the ready, his fingers curled around a soft-lead pencil—a Cherion, to be sure—in anticipation of the test. The Abbe began with a simple problem and then moved to ones of graduated difficulty. Claude would calculate and announce a solution, calculate and announce, diligently appending to his answer the rule used to uncover the variable quantities. When the Abbe had deemed Claude's mind thoroughly limber, he introduced a question designed to reveal the secret nature of the Hours. "Suppose I were to tell you that if the foreskin of my manhood were multiplied by three-quarters of the member's length, the result would be equal to the length as a whole; further, that my foreskin represented one-twelfth of that whole; could you tell me the length in inches?"
To diminish Claude's perplexity, the Abbe added, "A hint: the third, second, and seventh rules."
But the confusion was not algebraic. The query pushed beyond the bawdy humor that sometimes peppered the Abbe's speech.
"You are frowning," the Abbe observed after Claude had finished his figuring.
"I must have made an error."
"Why is that?"
"By my calculation, the length would be . . . sixteen inches."
"And that is what you should have. For an answer." The Abbe chuckled. "Are you shocked?"
Claude chose his words with care, lobbing his response back to the Abbe as if it were a tennis ball arcing on the penthouse of the great hall. "Shocked more, sir, by the magnitude of the answer than by the nature of the question."
"A fine reply. In fact, even better than the solution." The Abbe returned the volley with two quick flicks of his hand. "Come with me."
As
"That is enough of your badgering," the Abbe said. "You stand by your calculation. I stand by mine. Our goals will never converge. You didn't see the pears, or taste them. Worth every halfpenny paid. You wish to put a price on beauty at the current rates of exchange. You cannot. Nor can you diminish the significance of a single, extraordinary pear, a pear nurtured by a dedicated gardener who nourished each tree with a mix of hog's dung and loam in warm months, stiff horse dung in cold, who protected the fruit from aphids, wasps, and snails, all for the delectation of the table and the advance of the botanical arts. So you keep your crop rotation of turnips-barley-clover-wheat, turnips-barley-clover-wheat. I will be happy with my pear."
"It will not feed you very long, that pear of yours. You must boost your income. You brought the boy in for the Hours, and so far no Hours have been produced. Why?"
"We will get to the Hours in good time."
"Is that wordplay? If so, it is inappropriate," the accountant said sourly. "You have no choice but to have your apprentice start at once if you are to avoid your creditors. And I need not mention that, as one of them, I will happily exert my legal rights to ensure payment of what monies are due."
"Enough!" the Abbe yelled. "I will have the Hours done. You may go. You may go to—" The Abbe didn't finish the phrase, but the destination was clear enough.
The Abbe tore a piece of paper from a journal of experimental philosophy. "A test is in order, Claude, to register the progress of your studies. Have you made advances on the Rule of the Thing?"
Claude nodded, as well he should have. When informed, somewhat incorrectly, that the origin of the Rule of the Thing was Arabian by way of Persia and Persian by way of India, the young student embraced its complexities with fervor.
Struggling through the exotic formulas stimulated recollections of his father and certain private myths not generally associated with algebra.
The Abbe handed the scrap to Claude, who sat at the ready, his fingers curled around a soft-lead pencil—a Cherion, to be sure—in anticipation of the test. The Abbe began with a simple problem and then moved to ones of graduated difficulty. Claude would calculate and announce a solution, calculate and announce, diligently appending to his answer the rule used to uncover the variable quantities. When the Abbe had deemed Claude's mind thoroughly limber, he introduced a question designed to reveal the secret nature of the Hours. "Suppose I were to tell you that if the foreskin of my manhood were multiplied by three-quarters of the member's length, the result would be equal to the length as a whole; further, that my foreskin represented one-twelfth of that whole; could you tell me the length in inches?"
To diminish Claude's perplexity, the Abbe added, "A hint: the third, second, and seventh rules."
But the confusion was not algebraic. The query pushed beyond the bawdy humor that sometimes peppered the Abbe's speech.
"You are frowning," the Abbe observed after Claude had finished his figuring.
"I must have made an error."
"Why is that?"
"By my calculation, the length would be . . . sixteen inches."
"And that is what you should have. For an answer." The Abbe chuckled. "Are you shocked?"
Claude chose his words with care, lobbing his response back to the Abbe as if it were a tennis ball arcing on the penthouse of the great hall. "Shocked more, sir, by the magnitude of the answer than by the nature of the question."
"A fine reply. In fact, even better than the solution." The Abbe returned the volley with two quick flicks of his hand. "Come with me."
As
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