The Anatomy Lesson Read Online Free

belly and shock of white hair. “As they say, a friend is always better than money in the purse.”
    Descartes isn’t quite so sure what level of sarcasm was intended with this axiom, since he never met a Dutchman who’d choose a friend over a guilder. He stands for a moment, contemplating hisresponse as the bells finish their tolls. “Then friends we are,” he finally answers.
    The butcher smiles, revealing the large gap between his two front teeth.
    A city of so many Remonstrants and nonbelievers and yet still this constant catholic ringing of the bells, he muses as the butcher waits for his payment. They mount a revolt against the church, build a capital on the worship of the mighty guilder, and still they continue to count out their hours by the church tower.
    They are prosperous, though, these Amsterdammers, beyond all imagining. Yet so damn cheap—one has to wrangle over everything. He counts the coins in his palm one more time. Hadn’t he paid half this amount not two weeks ago to this selfsame butcher?
    Wait, though. His servant had mentioned the new exchange rate from guilders to livres, and he has just received payment for his “Meditations” in livres. Did the servant say the markets had crested? Was that the word he’d used: “crested”? Everyone in this town speaks the tradesman’s argot, don’t they?
    Now then, he was becoming confused. Was he the one being stingy? Perhaps it was the other way around, and a week ago he’d paid twice as much? Descartes, a world-renowned mathematician, baffled by this utterly simple matter, hands over all his coins. “You’re right. We must not waste our youth in bargaining.”
    The butcher nods with a smirk and, after pocketing the money, leaves to collect the animal. He should learn to put the servants in charge of these tasks, Descartes berates himself; they’re more familiar with simple mathematics amid such trading chaos. Still, it is so troublesome to have to explain to them repeatedly that it isn’t the meat he’s after.
    While the butcher is collecting the carcass, the mathematicianleans down to pick up one of the stivers that fell from his purse onto the street.
    “Monsieur Descartes,” comes a voice from behind, immediately followed by a heavy clap on the back. “I see you’re returned to the metropolis from the bog. Well, at least you don’t look too much the peasant.”
    The man addressing him is so tall that it takes the diminutive Frenchman a moment to look all the way up to his face. On the way there, he takes in the silky finery of a true Dutch dandy: his black French silk shoes adorned with black flowers, white stockings and breeches, a doublet of glazed linen with paned sleeves, and a cloak adorned with loop lace, thrown open as if he is not the least bit cold, plus a wide-brimmed hat embellished with feathers from … well, yes indeed, a peacock.
    “Good afternoon, Mijnheer Visscher,” says Descartes, not yet placing this acquaintance’s first name. “What, may I ask, brings a man of your high breeding into this bloody byway?”
    “I should ask the same of you, my friend. It’s rare that I bump into intellectuals in the butchers’ quarter. My excuse is that it’s an easy shortcut to Sint Antoniesbreestraat, where I am to join an art connoisseur’s circle at the Uylenburgh academy. We are to hear from a painter whose name is on everyone’s lips, some Harmanszoon or other. Do you know the name?”
    “I don’t believe I do.”
    “Apparently he’s impressed Huygens with his biblical paintings and now he’s doing burgher portraits. Truth be told, I’ve arranged all kinds of activities for myself today simply so that I can avoid the festival. The streets are too thick with foreigners.”
    The comment stings, since Descartes himself is, of course, a foreigner, but he suspects the dandy doesn’t mean this as a slight.
    “My excuse is, as usual, work. I’m doing a little amateur anatomical research to help with my search for