The Silver Pearl

1 4 6 Y T H E S I L V E R P E A R L J O A N N A S C O T T The microfilm, as I recall, showed a water stain on the marbled cover, its tentacles extending toward the embossed lettering of the title. The filigreed etching on the frontispiece included a dedication to an earl from his ‘‘most obedient servant.’’ I don’t recall the author’s name, or the name of the earl. I scrolled through the reel so long ago that I’ve forgotten important details. I do remember that an early reader had penned some heated remarks in the margins of the prologue. It was an odd prologue, to be sure, beginning with a long rant about the general uselessness of art, provoking from the anonymous reader comments that included ‘‘vaporous flummery!’’ and ‘‘piΔe!’’ In one passage, over which the reader had scrawled a large X, the author argued forcefully that art has no measurable benefits, art begets only more art, art leads away from truth and o√ers no antidotes to the world’s problems. The author denounced painting, music, sculpture, and theater before singling out literature , comparing it to the marks left on skin when a mosquito bite is scratched. Concerning education, the author maintained that there are only two subjects worth studying: history, which can teach humanity to avoid repeating stupid mistakes, and ‘‘gloriously useful science.’’ 1 4 7 R It became clear that the author regarded science not in its broadest, most traditional sense as any form of knowledge that distinguishes itself from ignorance. Rather, he (she?) was championing only natural science, with its concern for the physical world, its quantifiable results, its classification of facts, and, most important, its predictive powers. The author went on at length about this last quality. I remember that next to the passage, the reader had written a long note that was impossible to decipher no matter how much I turned up the magnification on the machine. This seemed to be the point where the reader stopped reading, for there was no more commentary on the pages that followed. Turning from the prologue to the first chapter, I was surprised, given the author’s disdain for literature, to find all the trappings of a novel. The chapter opened with a long description of a young girl named Williamina, pale and dark-eyed, wandering along the banks of the River Tay on the outskirts of the city of Dundee. She was dressed in a simple yellow frock, with a lace bonnet tied tightly over her coils of braids. What stood out most to me was that she wore no shoes. I’m not sure if I’m remembering correctly that she squished her bare toes in the mud – perhaps squished is my word – but I’m sure I’m right in recalling that she was prying freshwater mussels from the sides of rocks in the shallows. Her fingers started to tingle from the cold water, and as she paused in her task to warm her hands in her pockets, the chatter of schoolgirls caught her attention. She watched them hurry along the path. One of the girls waved to her. She waved back. There had been a time when she longed to be among them, to finish her education and learn everything there was to know. She had given up school after her mother died. Now the students seemed as far from reach as a procession of clergy in church, and Williamina could only gaze at them with a distant reverence. She resumed her search for mussels. Soon she had filled her basket, and she returned to the cottage where she lived with her father. He was a widower who worked as a gilder, and evidence of his trade was apparent in the clutter of gilded picture frames and furniture. Though renowned for his skill, the father produced his goods faster than he could sell them, and he stu√ed the cottage 1 4 8 S C O T T Y with the overflow and then scolded his daughter for failing to...