An Instance of the Fingerpost

1 admit that the servant suffered less than the children, whose inadequacies were publicly and frequently acknowledged so vilely that once I saw the eldest break down in tears under the barrage, but nonetheless even Matthew had to put up with constant carping and malice; only with a man like Wallis could this be a way of expressing love. I had nothing but disgust for him. On one occasion when I saw his face twisted and purpled with rage at the lad and told Sarah of it, she chided me gently.

“Do not think badly of him,” she said, “he wishes to approach love, but does not know how. He can only adore an idea, and has to castigate the reality when it ca

“But it is so cruel,” I said.

“Yes. But it is also love. Can you not see that?” she replied. “And it is surely his only route to salvation. Do not condemn the one spark in him that was given by God. It is not for you to judge.”

Then, however, I cared little for any of this—I wanted access to the archives, and Wallis quite literally had the key to them. So, as the king returned and tried to reestablish himself on the throne, as plots and counterplots swirled over the country like a snow blizzard, I left my room in Merton Street and went to the library, where I unbundled and catalogued and read and a

There were five of us who used to meet together twice a week and sometimes more frequently to play, and a most delicious harmony it was. We rarely talked, and scarcely even knew each other, but would meet and pass two hours or more in the most perfect friendship. I was neither the best nor the worst of the players, and by dint of practicing hard frequently appeared the superior. We used to meet where we could, and in 1662 settled in a room which we took above a newly opened coffee house next to the Queen’s College, further down the High Street and on the opposite side from Mr. Boyle’s rooms.

It was here that I first met Thomas Ken, whose companionship led me into the acquaintance of Jack Prestcott. As Prestcott says, Ken is now a bishop, and a very grand man indeed, so full of circumstance that his meager origins would astonish all who did not know him at that time. The thin, pinched cleric anxious for advancement, the ascetic concerned only to commune with Christ, has transformed himself into a portly ecclesiastical grandee, living in his palace with forty servants, dispensing his charity and a loyal devotee of whatever regime happens to hold his income in its grasp. It is a form of principle, I suppose, this willingness to transform the conscience for the common peace, but I do not admire it greatly, despite the comfort it has brought him. I remember with much greater affection the earnest young fellow of New College, whose only leisure was to scrape away at the viols in my company. He was an execrable musician, with little aptitude and no ear, but his enthusiasm was boundless and our group was short of a viol, and so we had little choice. I was truly shocked to learn that he had malevolently invented a tale about Sarah which took her one step closer to the gallows; so many people seemed to desire her death that even then I sensed a malignant fate taking pleasure in her destruction, turning people into her enemies for no reason that I could discern.

It was through my intervention that Sarah began to work for Dr. Grove, as Thomas (quite i

I said that I knew just the person, and asked Sarah the next time I saw her. One day a week to tidy his rooms, carry up his water and coal, empty his pots and see to his laundry. Sixpence a day.

“I’d be glad of the work,” she said. “Who is this man? I won’t work for anyone who thinks he can beat me. You know that, I think.”

“I don’t know him at all, so I ca

“A Laudian, then? Am I to work for a stalwart Royalist?”

“I would find you an Anabaptist Fellow if there were any, but people like this Grove are the only ones liable to make an offer these days. Take it or not, as you please. But go and see him—he might not be as bad as you fear. After all, I am a stalwart Royalist myself and you manage to contain your disgust, more or less, when you are around me.”

That earned me one of those lovely smiles I still remember so very well. “There are few as kind as you,” she said. “More’s the pity.”

She wasn’t eager, but her need for work overcame her scruples, and eventually she went to Grove and took the position. I was pleased for this, and saw what a delight it is to be able to patronize others, even if in a small way. Through me, Sarah had enough work to live and even to save, if she was careful. For the first time in her life she was living a settled, respectable existence, in her place and apparently content. It comforted me greatly, as it seemed a good omen for the future; I was glad for her and thought maybe the rest of the country would prove equally tractable. My optimism was, alas, badly misplaced.

3

I run ahead of myself. My eagerness to put all down on paper means that I leave much out which is vital; I should measure out my facts, so that all who read can discern the pattern of events with clarity. This, in my opinion, is what proper history should be. I know what the philosophers say, that the purpose of history should be to illustrate the noblest deeds of the greatest men, to give examples for the present generation of debased inferiors to emulate, but I do believe that great men and noble deeds can look after themselves; few, in any case, stand up to much close examination. The view is not unchallenged anyway, I think, as the theologians wag their fingers and say that truly the whole purpose of history is to reveal the wondrous hand of God as He intervenes in the affairs of man. But I find this a doubtful program as well, at least as it is commonly practiced. Is His plan truly revealed in the laws of kings, the actions of politicians or the words of bishops? Can we easily believe that such liars, brutes and hypocrites are His chosen instruments? I ca