An Instance of the Fingerpost (58 page)

I will not have it thought that I entered into my role with enthusiasm or without thought. I was not going to tie my fortunes to a man who might drag me down with him should he prove to have only an unsteady purchase on power and position. I knew little enough about this Mr Bennet and so, the moment I had registered my appointment as Royal Chaplain with the appropriate offices, and dispatched the confirmation of my university position back to Oxford to confound my enemies there, I set myself to find out a little more about him.

He certainly had given ample evidence of his loyalty to the king, as he had shared exile with him and been entrusted with diplomatic missions of some importance. More to the point, he was a skilful courtier – too skilful, indeed, for Lord Clarendon; the king’s first minister had spotted his abilities and, rather than enlisting his support, had instantly seen him as a threat. The enmity grew, and Bennet grew close to other of Clarendon’s rivals while he waited his chance. He also attracted a circle of young men, all of whom went around praising each other’s brilliance. He was spoken of as a man who would rise to the very top – and nothing ensures success at court as an expectation that success will be forthcoming. To sum up, he had supporters below him, and supporters above him; but as long as Clarendon enjoyed the
king’s favour, Mr Bennet would rise but slowly. It was uncertain how long his patience would last.

Until it was clear whether he would continue to rise, or fall in the attempt, I had as much interest as Mr Bennet in making sure my connection to him remained unknown. Besides, he concerned me in other respects as well: his love of Spain was well known, and the idea of helping a man with such sympathies distressed me somewhat. On the other hand, I desired to be of service, and Bennet was the only conduit by which my skills and abilities could be put to use. Nor did I consider the manoeuvrings of the great to be my affair. Who reigned supreme at court, who had the ear of the king, made little immediate difference; the kingdom’s safety (strange days that we lived in) depended far more on the activities of those lower folk who were to win my attention. I have mentioned the discontented radicals, soldiers and sectaries who formed such a large well of opposition to the government. From the moment the king returned, there was constant turmoil from these people, who were never as meekly accepting of the manifest will of God as their professions suggested they should be. Venner’s rising was a mere squib of no great import, badly organised, funded and led, but there was no reason to think it would be the last, and constant vigilance was of the utmost importance.

The enemies of the kingdom had men of discipline and ability in their ranks: anyone who had witnessed (as I had) the triumphs of Cromwell’s armies knew that. Moreover, they were fanatics, ready to die for their delusions. They had tasted power, and ‘in their mouth it was as sweet as honey’ (Revelations 10:9). Even more dangerous was the fact that outsiders were ready to manipulate them and urge them on. My dealings with Cola (which I intend to narrate here) was a business more dangerous and more hidden still. A trust in God is very fine, but God also expects you to look to yourself. My greatest concern was that those in power would become complacent and underestimate their enemies. Although I cannot say I liked Bennet, we agreed that there was a real danger which needed to be confronted.

And so I returned to Oxford, resumed my mathematical enquiry, and began weaving a web in which to catch the king’s enemies. Mr Bennet’s perspicacity in choosing me was considerable: not
only had I some small skill in the matter already, I sat in the middle of the kingdom and, of course, had a network of contacts throughout Europe which could readily be exploited. The Republic of Learning knows no boundaries and few things were more natural than to write to colleagues in all countries to seek their views on mathematics, philosophy – and anything else. Piece by piece, and at very moderate expense, I began to have a better picture than anyone of what was going on. I did not, of course, rise to the level of Mr Thurloe, but although never entirely trusted by my masters, I pursued their enemies and largely succeeded in ‘heaping mischief upon them, and spending mine arrows among them’ (Deuteronomy 32:23).

I FIRST HEARD
of Marco da Cola, gentleman (so-called) of Venice, in a letter from a correspondent in the Low Countries, to whom the government paid a moderate competence to observe the activities of English radicals in exile. Particularly, this fellow was requested to watch keenly for the slightest contact between them and anybody close to the Dutch government, and to note any absences or unusual visitors. This man wrote to me in the October of 1662 (more to justify his gold than for any other reason, I suspect) and said nothing at all except that a Venetian, one Cole, had arrived in Leiden and had spent some time in the exiles’ company.

That was all; certainly there was no reason at that time to imagine that this man was anything other than a wandering student. I gave the matter little attention beyond writing to a merchant, then travelling Italy to acquire paintings for Englishmen with more money than sense, asking him to identify this man. I might mention in passing that picture dealers (now more common since it became legal to bring such works into the country) make excellent investigators, as they come and go as they please without causing suspicion. Their trade brings them into contact with men of influence, but they are so lowly and absurd in their pretensions to gentility and education that few ever take them seriously.

I received no reply until the beginning of 1663, my correspondent’s laxity and the winter posts both conspiring to cause delay. Even then, his response produced little of interest and, lest anybody think I was careless, I append here Mr Jackson’s letter:

Reverend and learned sir
,

In response to your request, while in Venice to acquire works of beauty for My Lord Sunderland and others, I had leisure to put in
hand those enquiries which you requested. This Cola is, it seems, the son of a merchant, who studied rhetoric at the University of Padua for several years. He is near thirty years of age, of middling height and well built. I have found out little about him for he left the Veneto so long ago several thought him dead. He is, however, reputed to be an excellent shot and fine swordsman. Reports have it that the father’s agent in London, Giovanni di Pietro, acts as observer on English affairs for the Venetian ambassador in Paris, while his elder son Andrea is a priest and confessor to Cardinal Flavio Chigi, nephew to Pope Alexander . . . Should you wish me to enquire further, I would be more than happy
. . .

The letter then concluded with hopeful remarks saying that if I wanted to acquire any paintings, Thomas Jackson Esquire (not that he had any right to call himself such, being a mere painter) would be most grateful for the privilege of obliging.

When I received this letter, I naturally wrote to Mr Bennet about this man Giovanni di Pietro – if the Venetians did have a correspondent in London, I felt the government should know who he was. Somewhat to my surprise, I received a curt note back: this di Pietro was already known to them, was of no danger to the government and Mr Bennet was sure I had much more profitable areas of enquiry. He reminded me that my task was the repression of sectaries; other questions were none of my concern.

I was too occupied to be other than thankful for this, as there were definite signs that the sectaries were indeed rumbling again and I had more than enough to keep me busy. Reports reached me of consignments of arms flitting about the country, of little conventicles of radicals meeting, then dispersing. Most dangerous of all, a solid report came that Edmund Ludlow, the most dangerous and able of the old generals still at liberty, had been receiving an unusually large number of visitors in his exile in Switzerland. The beast was stirring, but still it was like trying to measure the waters in the hollow of your hand (Isaiah 40:12). In several parts of the country I knew that trouble was brewing: I did not know why, or who was behind it all.

It should not be thought that my activities took place only in Oxford: I was, naturally, bound to be there during some of the
term but much of the year I was at liberty, and spent a good part of my time in London, for not only did this give me access to the Secretary of State (Mr Bennet received his reward that November), much of learned society was migrating there as well and I naturally wished to spend time in their company. The great venture of the Royal Society was under way, and it was vital that it was constructed along good lines, only admitting proper people and keeping out those who wished to pervert it to ungodly ends: papists at one extreme, atheists at the other.

Shortly after a meeting of the Society, Matthew, my servant, though far more than that, came to me. I will dwell much on this young man in my narrative, for he was as dear to me as a son; dearer, in fact. When I consider my own sons, doltish buffoons with whom no man of sense can converse, I despair of my misfortune. ‘A foolish son is the calamity of his father’ (Proverbs 19:13); how much have I meditated on the truth of this saying, for I have two such fools. I tried once to teach the elder the secrets of decipherment, but might as well have attempted to instruct a baboon in the theories of Mr Newton. They were left to my wife when young, since I was too busy on government business and in the university to attend to them, and she brought them up in her image. She is a good woman, everything a wife should be and brought me an estate, yet I wish I had never been constrained to marry. The services women provide in no manner compensate for the inadequacy of their company, and the liberties they curtail.

I have been greatly occupied at times of my life with the problems of educating the young; I have worked on the most unpromising material, persuading the dumb to speak and trying, from that, to arrive at general principles about the malleability of the infant mind. I would have young boys entirely removed from the company of women, especially that of their mothers, from about the age of six so that their minds might be occupied with lofty conversation and noble ideas. Their reading, their education and even their play should be directed by a man of sense – and by that I do not mean those wretches who habitually pass themselves off as schoolteachers – so that they might be excited to emulate what is great, and shun what is ignoble.

Had a boy such as Matthew come into my company but a few years earlier, then I believe I could have made a great man of him. The moment I saw him, I was struck with an inexpressible regret, for in his carriage and in his eyes I saw the son and companion I had prayed God to give me. Scarcely educated, and even less well trained, he was none the less more a man than those children of mine who had every care expended on their puny minds, and whose ambition extended no further than a desire to secure their own comfort. Matthew was tall and fair, and had such an expression of the most perfect compliance in his manner that he compelled the favour of all who encountered him.

I first met him when he was questioned by Thurloe’s office about a group thought to be too radical for the country’s peace; he was perhaps sixteen at the time. I merely attended, rather than conducted the interview (a business for which I never had much patience) and was immediately struck by the forthright honesty in his responses, which showed a maturity beyond both his station and years. He was, in fact, entirely innocent of any wrong-doing and was never suspected of such; but he was acquainted with many dangerous people, even though he did not share their opinions in any way. He was reluctant to give information about his friends and I found this innate sense of loyalty an admirable trait and thought that, could it but be redirected to more worthy ends, this ignorant child might yet be turned into a man of worth.

His interrogation was kept secret lest he lose credit with his friends, and I after offered to engage him as a servant at a decent wage; he was so astonished by his good fortune that he accepted with alacrity. Already he had some small learning, for he was the orphan of a printer in the city, and could read well and write with accuracy. And as I tempted him with knowledge, he responded with an enthusiasm I have never met, before or since, in any pupil.

Those who know me may find this incredible, for I know I have a reputation for impatience. I willingly admit that my tolerance for the idle, the stupid or the wilfully ignorant is swiftly exhausted. But give me a real pupil, one burning with the desire to learn, who needs only a touch of sweet water to yearn for the whole river of knowledge, and my care is all but infinite. To take such a boy as Matthew, to form
him and see his comprehension expand and his wisdom develop, is the richest of experiences, if also the most difficult and calling for unrelenting effort. The getting of children is the vulgar work of nature; fools can do it, peasants can do it, and women can do it. Framing those moving lumps into wise and good adults is a task fit only for men and only they can properly savour the result.

‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he shall not depart from it’ (Proverbs 22:6). I had no extravagant hopes but I thought that, in time, I would establish him in some position in the government and ultimately teach him my skills in cryptography, that he might be useful and make his way to position. My hopes were more than satisfied, for however fast Matthew learned, yet I knew he could go faster. But I confess this merely excited my own desires for him still further and I often lost my temper when he misconstrued a phrase, or bungled a simple proposition in mathematics. But I always thought that he knew my anger came from love and selfless ambition for him, and he seemed to try at all times to earn my approbation.

I knew this, knew his devotion to me was so great he would sometimes labour too much, and still I pushed him even when my desire was to tell him to rest and sleep, or give him some token of my affection. Once I got up and found him sprawled at my desk. All my papers were disorganised, candle fat had spilled over my notes and a glass of water had tipped on a letter I was writing. I was furious, as I am naturally fastidious in matters of organisation, and straightway pulled him to the ground and beat him. He made not one word of protest, said nothing in his own defence, but submitted patiently to my punishment. Only later (and not from him) did I learn that he had been up all night, trying to master a problem I had set him, and had finally fallen asleep through simple exhaustion. It was the hardest thing not to beg his pardon, to resist giving way to sentiment. He never suspected, I think, that I regretted my deed, for once a perfect submission is undermined and questioned, then all authority dissolves, and the weaker are the greatest losers. We see this everywhere we look.