An Instance of the Fingerpost (81 page)

‘Not unless I have good reason to.’

‘And what does a learned man like yourself account a good reason?’

‘The proof of my own eyes, or the report of someone whose word can be trusted. But it depends on what you mean. I know that the sun exists because I can see it; I believe that the earth goes around it because logical calculation concludes that, and it is not contradicted by what I can see. I know that unicorns exist because such a creature is possible in nature and reliable people have seen one, even though I have not myself; it is unlikely that fire-breathing dragons with a hundred heads exist because I cannot see how a natural creature can breathe fire without being consumed. So it all depends, you see.’

Such was my answer and I still think it was a good response, presenting complicated ideas in a simple way for her benefit, although I thought it unlikely she would understand. But, far from being grateful for my instruction, she continued to pursue me, leaning forward in her eagerness to dispute like a starving beggar who had been offered a crust.

‘Jesus is our Lord. Do you believe that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because His coming was in conformity to the predictions of the Bible, His miracles proved His divinity and His resurrection proved it still more.’

‘Many people claim such miracles.’

‘And in addition I have faith, and hold that to be better than all reason.’

‘A more earthly question, then. The king is God’s anointed. Do you believe that?’

‘If you mean, can I prove it, then no,’ I replied, determined to keep my distance. ‘That is not a certain belief. But I do believe it, because kings have their position, and when they are thrown off the natural order is disturbed. God’s displeasure with England has surely been manifest in past years, in the suffering it has borne. And when the king was murdered, did not enormous floods demonstrate the disruption of nature that had taken place?’

She conceded this obvious point, but added: ‘But if I said these prodigies were because the king had acted traitorously to his subjects?’

‘Then I would disagree with you.’

‘And how would we decide who was correct?’

‘It would depend on the weight of opinion of reasonable men of position and character who heard both propositions. I do not wish to belabour it or give undue reproof, but you cannot be called of position and character. Nor,’ and here I made another attempt to switch the conversation to a more appropriate topic, ‘nor could someone so pretty ever be mistaken for a man.’

‘Oh,’ she said, dismissing my kindly warning to mind her own business with a toss of her head, ‘so whether the king is appointed by God, or justly a king at all, depends on the decisions of men? Is there a vote?’

‘No,’ I said, slightly flushed at finding myself apparently unable to halt this increasingly ridiculous encounter, ‘that’s not what I’m saying, you ignorant girl. God alone decides that; men merely decide whether to accept God’s will.’

‘What’s the difference if we do not know what God’s will is?’

It was time to bring this to an end, so I stood up to give her a physical reminder, so to speak, of our respective positions. ‘If you can ask questions like that,’ I said sternly, ‘then you are a very foolish and wicked child. You must have had a very perverted upbringing indeed even to think of such things. I am beginning to see that your father is as evil as they say.’

Instead of being sobered by my reproof, she leaned back on her stool and let out a peal of laughter. Very angry now at being answered back in such a way, I left her, feeling a little shaken and took refuge in my books and notes for the rest of the morning. It was merely the first of many occasions when she reduced me to such a display of foolishness. Do I have to say again that I was young? Does that excuse the way her eyes fuddled my thoughts and the fall of her hair tripped my tongue?

I INTEND TO
break my own rule about propriety and talk much of Sarah Blundy: it is necessary. I do not intend to cause distress by libertine discourse on matters of the heart, a subject which, as all but courtiers know, does not belong on the public page. But there is no other way of explaining my interest in the family, my concern over her fate and my knowledge of her end. I must be regarded as a competent witness where my personal recollection is important, and therefore must provide proof of my knowledge. Words without fact are suspect: so I must provide the facts. They are simply stated.

At that time the Wood family was still in funds and I lived in a house on Merton Street with my mother and sister, in which I kept the top floor for myself and my books. We needed a servant, as sluttishness had forced my dear mother to discharge the one we had, and I (having discerned the Blundys were in sore straits) suggested Sarah. My mother was far from happy about the idea, knowing something of the family’s reputation, but I persuaded her that she would be cheap, having resolved that I would make up her wages myself out of my small competence. Besides, I asked, what was so terrible about her? To this she had no specific answer.

Eventually, the thought of saving a half penny a week brought my mother around; she consented to interview the girl and (reluctantly) conceded that she did indeed seem properly modest and obedient. But she let it be known that she intended to watch the girl like a hawk and at the first sniff of blasphemy, or sedition, or immorality, she would be out the door.

And so she and I were brought into close proximity, hindered, naturally, by the necessary distance that must exist between master and servant. Though she was no ordinary servant: indeed, she soon
achieved an ascendancy in the house which was all the more remarkable for being largely uncontested. Only once was battle joined, when my mother decided (there being no man in the house except me, and my mother always regarding herself as the head of the household) to give the girl a beating, expecting that the child would submit placidly to her chastisement, as she ought. I do not know what the offence was, probably very little, and my mother’s irritability was more likely due to the pain she received from a swollen ankle that had afflicted her for several years.

Sarah did not think this was a good enough reason. Hands on hips, blazing with defiance, she refused to bend. When my mother advanced on her, broom in hand, she made it clear that if my mother so much as laid a finger on her, she would thrash her back. Thrown out the house instantly, you might think? Not a bit of it. I wasn’t there at the time otherwise the incident might never have occurred, but my sister said that within half an hour, Sarah and my mother were both sitting in front of the fire talking, with my mother almost apologising to the child, a sight never witnessed before or since. Thereafter, my mother said not a word against her and, when Sarah’s time of trouble came, it was she who cooked food for her and took it to the prison.

What had happened? What did Sarah say or do which made my mother so charitable and generous for once? I did not know. When I asked, Sarah just smiled and said that my mother was a good and kind woman who was not as fierce as she seemed. More than that she would not tell, and my mother said nothing either. She always grew secretive when caught out in a kindness, and it may be that it was simply that, shortly after, her ankle stopped giving her pain: it is often the case that simple things like this can bring remarkable changes in demeanour. I often wonder if Dr Wallis would have been less cruel had he been less afraid of the blindness that began to creep up on him in this time. I myself have been unreasonably offensive to my fellows when blighted by toothache, and it is well known that the mistaken decisions that ultimately led to the fall of Lord Clarendon were taken when that nobleman was racked with the agonising pain of the gout.

I have mentioned that I occupied two rooms on the top floor, from which other members of my family were excluded. I had books
and papers everywhere and was constantly afraid that someone, in a misguided act of kindness, would tidy them up and set my work back by months. Sarah was the only person I allowed in and even she tidied up only under my supervision. I came to dream of those visits to my scholarly eyrie and, more and more, I passed time in conversation with her. My room got dirtier and dirtier, it is true, but I found myself waiting eagerly for the tread of her footsteps on the rickety stair that led to my attic. Initially, I would talk about her mother; but that soon became a pretence to prolong her presence. Even more so, perhaps, because I knew little of the world and less of women.

Perhaps any female would have interested me, but Sarah quickly had me entranced. Slowly the pleasure turned to pain, and the joy to anguish. The devil came to visit me at all hours; at night, while I was at my desk working, in the library, turning my mind from my work and leading me on to foul and lubricious thoughts. My sleep suffered, my work also and, although I prayed mightily for help, there was no answer. I begged the Lord to spare me this temptation, but in His wisdom He would not, but allowed instead ever more demons to come and taunt me with my weakness and hypocrisy. I woke in the morning thinking of Sarah, spent the day thinking of Sarah, and tossed myself to sleep at night, thinking of Sarah. And even when I slept there was no respite, for I dreamed of her eyes and her mouth and the way she laughed.

It was intolerable, of course: no respectable connection was possible, so great was the distance between us. But I thought I knew enough of her to believe she would never consent to be my harlot; she was too virtuous, no matter what her origins. I had never been in love, nor even shown half as much interest in a woman as in the least of the books in the Bodleian Library, and I confess that I cursed God in my heart that, when I did fall (and the similarity with the fate of Adam I never felt so strongly) it was with an impossibility, a girl of no fortune or family, scorned even in taverns, and with a villain for a father.

And so I remained tongue-tied and miserable: anguished when she was there, worse when she was not. Would that I had been a robust, thoughtless man like Prestcott, who never bothered with the complexities of affection, or even like Wallis, with a heart so cold
that no human being could warm it for long. Sarah, I believe, was not without affection for me either. Although always respectful in my presence, I still felt something in her: a warmth, the way she looked and leant forward as I showed her a book or a manuscript, which indicated some regard. I think she liked talking to me; she was used to masculine conversation because of her father, who had instructed her and she was hard put to confine her mind to topics suitable for women. As I was always ready to talk about my work, and was easily distracted into discussing anything else, she seemed to regard her visits to clean my quarters with as much eagerness as I did myself. I think I was the only man then who spoke to her for some reason other than to give her orders or make lewd remarks; I can find no other explanation. Her childhood, her upbringing and her father, however, remained something of a blank to me; she rarely spoke of them except on those occasions when a chance remark slipped from her lips; when I asked directly she generally changed the subject. I hoarded these occasional comments like a miser hoards his gold, remembering each chance phrase, and turning them over in my mind, adding each to each, like coin in a casket, until I had a good supply.

Initially I thought her reticence due to shame at the degradation to which she had descended; now I think it merely caution, lest it be misunderstood. She was ashamed of little and regretted less, but accepted that the days when people like she might hope of a new world were over: they had tried and failed miserably. I will give one important example of how I garnered my evidence. Shortly after the restoration of His Majesty was proclaimed in the town, I came back from viewing the preparations for the festivities. Celebrations erupted all over the land that day, both from Parliament towns which felt the need to demonstrate their new loyalty, and from towns like Oxford which were able to rejoice with more genuine feeling. We were promised (by whom I cannot recall) that the fountains and gutters themselves would run with joyous wine that night, as in the days of ancient Rome. I found Sarah, sitting on my stool and weeping her heart out.

Whatever is the matter, that you sob so on a glorious day like this?’ I cried. It was some time before I got an answer.

‘Oh, Anthony, it is not glorious for me,’ she said. (This being our secret intimacy, that I permitted her to address me so in my room.) Initially, I had thought that she had one of those mysterious womanly complaints, but quickly realised that grander matters were on her mind. She was never immodest or gross in her talk.

‘But what is there to be so sorrowful about? It is a fine morning, we can drink and feed at the university’s expense, and the king is coming back to his own.’

‘And everything has been in vain,’ she said. ‘Does so much waste not make you want to weep, even as you celebrate? Near twenty years of fighting, trying to build God’s kingdom here, and it is all swept away by the will of a few greedy grandees.’

Now, to refer thus to those great men whose wise intervention had been crucial to the recall of the king (so we were told and I believed until I read Wallis’s manuscript) should have alerted me, but I was in too good a mood.

‘God works in mysterious ways,’ I said cheerfully, ‘and sometimes chooses strange instruments to work His Will.’

‘God has spat in the face of His servants who worked for Him,’ she said, her voice falling into a hiss of despair and rage. ‘How can it be God’s will? How can God will that some men be subject to others? That some live in palaces while others die in the street? That some rule and others obey? How can God will that?’

I shrugged, not knowing what to say or how to begin saying it, just wanting her to stop. I had never seen her like this, clutching at herself and rocking to and fro as she spoke with a passion that was as disgusting as it was fascinating. She frightened me, but I could not walk away from her. ‘He obviously does,’ I said eventually.