An Instance of the Fingerpost (85 page)

What is this jealousy, this emotion which can overwhelm and destroy the strongest of men, the most virtuous of creatures? What alchemy of the mind can transmute love into hate, longing into repulsion, desire into disgust, in such a way? Why is it that there is no man alive immune to its hot embrace, that it can banish all sleep, all reason and all kindness in an instant? What hangman, says Jean Bodin, can torture so well as can this fear and suspicion? And not men alone, for Vives says doves are jealous and can die of it. A swan at Windsor, finding a strange cock with its mate, swam miles in pursuit of the offending beast and killed it, then swam back and killed the mate as well. Some say it is the stars which cause jealousy but Leo Afer blames climate, and Morison says that Germany has not so many drunkards, England tobacconists, France dancers, as Italy has jealous husbands. In Italy itself, it is said, men of Piacenza are more jealous than the rest.

And it is a changeable disease, shifting its form from one place
to the next, for what will drive a man into madness in one place will not affect another elsewhere. In Friesland a woman will kiss the man who brings her drink; in Italy the man must die for it. In England young men and maids will dance together, a thing which only Siena abides in Italy. Mendoza, a Spanish legate in England, found it disgusting for men and women to sit together in church, but was told such an occurrence was only disgusting in Spain, where men cannot rid themselves of lascivious thoughts even in holy places.

As I am prone to melancholy, I am more susceptible to jealousy, but I know many choleric or sanguine people just as afflicted; I was young and youth is jealous, although Jerome says the old are more so. But understanding a disease, alas, can never cure it; knowing whence jealousy comes no more attenuates the malady than understanding the source of a fever; less so, for at least in physick a diagnosis can produce a treatment, while for jealousy there is none. It is like the plague, for which there is no cure. You succumb and are consumed by the hottest of fires, and in the end it either burns out, or you die.

I suffered the cloak of jealousy, which burnt my soul as the shirt dipped in the blood of Nessus drove Heracles to agony and death, for near a fortnight before I could abide the torment no more. In that time everything I saw and heard confirmed my worst suspicions, and I grasped eagerly the slightest hint or sign of her guilt. Once, I almost brought myself to confront her, and went down to her cottage for that purpose, but as I approached I saw the door open, and a strange man come out, bowing in farewell and paying the most elaborate of respects. Instantly, I was sure this was some client, and that her shame and degradation was now so great she had taken to plying her trade in her own house, for all to see. My anger and shock was so great I turned around and walked away; my fear so consuming I straightway went to my room and subjected myself to the most intimate of investigations, for the danger of becoming pox-ridden loomed large in my mind. I found nothing but was scarcely reassured, since I did not know anything at all of the malady. So I summoned all my courage and, red-faced with shame, took myself off to see Lower.

‘Dick,’ I said, ‘I must ask you the greatest favour, and beg for your complete discretion.’

We were in his rooms at Christ Church, a commodious apartment
in the main quadrangle which he had occupied now for some years. Locke was there when I arrived, and so I forced myself into idle conversation, determined to wait as long as necessary before I got him on his own. Eventually Locke left and Lower asked what it was that I needed.

‘Ask away, and if I can oblige, I will willingly do so. You look in great distress, my friend. Are you ill?’

‘I hope not. That is what I want you to determine.’

‘And what do you think it may be? What symptoms do you have?’

‘I have none.’

‘No symptoms? None at all? Sounds very serious to me. I shall examine you thoroughly, then prescribe the most expensive medicines in my pharmacopoeia, and you will be well instantly. By God, Mr Wood,’ he said with a smile, ‘you are the ideal patient; if I could have a dozen like you, I would be both rich and famous.’

‘Do not joke, sir. I am deadly serious. I fear I may have caught a shocking disease.’

My manner of speaking convinced him I was in earnest and, good doctor and kind friend that he was, he instantly dropped his bantering tone. ‘You are certainly worried, I can see that. But you must be a little more frank. How can I tell you what your illness is unless you tell me first? I am a doctor, not a soothsayer.’

And so, with great reluctance and fearing his mockery, I told him all. Lower grunted. ‘So you think this slut may have lain with everyone in Oxfordshire?’

‘I do not know. But if the reports are correct, then I may be sickening.’

‘But you say this has been going on for two years or more. I know the diseases of Venus do commonly take some time to show themselves,’ he conceded, ‘but rarely this long. You do not notice any signs on her? No sores or pustules? No running pus, or creamy discharges?’

‘I did not look,’ I said, gravely affronted at the idea.

‘That is a pity. Myself, I always look very carefully and I would counsel you to do the same in future. It doesn’t have to be obvious, you know. You can hide it under a pretence of love with only a little practice.’

‘Lower, I do not want advice, I want a diagnosis. Am I sick or not?’

He sighed. ‘Drop your breeches, then. Let’s have a look.’

With the gravest embarrassment at the humiliation, I did as I was told and Lower subjected me to the most intimate examination, lifting and pulling and peering. Then he put his face close to my private parts and sniffed. ‘Seems perfectly fine to me,’ he said. ‘Pristine condition, I’d say. Scarcely taken out of its wrapping.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘So I am not ill.’

‘I didn’t say that. There are no symptoms, that is all. I would suggest you take remedies in large quantities for a few weeks, just to be on the safe side. If you are too bashful to get them yourself, I will buy some from Mr Crosse and give them to you tomorrow.’

‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

‘Not at all. Now, get dressed. I would suggest, by the way, that you avoid all intimate contact with this girl again. If she is as these reports suggest, then sooner or later she will become dangerous.’

‘I fully intend to.’

‘And we must make her character generally known, lest others fall into her snare.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I cannot permit that. What if these reports are false? I would not calumnise her unnecessarily.’

‘Your sense of justice does you credit. But you must not hide behind it. Such people as she are corrosive to any society and must be known. If you must be fastidious, then confront her directly and find out. At the very least, we must pass warning to Dr Grove, so he can act as he sees fit.’

I did not act hastily; I needed more than gossip and the testimony of Jack Prestcott before I was prepared to act. Instead, I kept a more careful watch on her, and (I admit with shame) followed her on occasion when her labours were done. I was greatly distressed to have my worst fears confirmed still more, for on several occasions she did not go home, or did so only briefly. Instead, I saw her leave the town, walking purposely on one occasion in the direction of Abingdon, a town full of soldiers where I knew that trollops were in great demand. I could see no other explanation, and I note with chagrin that Wallis, when he discovered the same information,
decided the only explanation was that she was carrying messages to and from radicals. I mention this to indicate the dangers of inadequate and partial evidence, for we were both wrong.

But I did not see this at the time, although I think I was prepared to listen openly and frankly to any explanation she might offer. The next day, after a sleepless night during which I wished fervently that I might be spared the encounter, I told Sarah to sit down when she came into my room and said I wanted to speak to her on a matter of grave importance.

She sat quietly, and waited. I had noticed that in previous days she had not been her usual self, and had worked less hard and been less cheerful than was her wont. I had not paid a great deal of attention, as all women are prone to these moods, and scarcely noticed that for her it was out of her normal character. I did not know then, and did not discover until I read Jack Prestcott’s memoir, that this was due to his cruel violation of her. Naturally she could not tell any of this – what woman’s reputation could endure such shame? – but she would not easily forget an offence once committed. I understand fully why Prestcott submitted to the delusion that she had bewitched him in revenge, however ridiculous the belief. For her hatred of the malice of others was implacable, so much had she been schooled by her upbringing to expect justice.

I had also noticed that she had spurned my affections, and moved out of reach quickly on the one occasion when I had tried to touch her, shrugging her shoulder in what appeared to be disgust at my hand on her shoulder. I was hurt by this initially, then I put it down as more evidence that she was turning away from me for the richer rewards offered by Dr Grove. Again, I did not know the exact truth until I saw it, scribbled down in Prestcott’s hand.

‘I must talk to you on a matter of the gravest importance,’ I said when I had prepared myself properly. I noticed, and remember well, that I had a strange pressure in my breast as I began to talk, and my words came breathlessly, as though I had run a great distance. ‘I have heard some terrible reports, which must be dealt with instantly.’

She sat and looked at me blankly, with scarcely any interest in her face at all. I believe I stuttered and tripped on my words as I forced myself to continue with the interview, and even turned to
examine my shelves of books, so I would not have to look her in the face.

‘I have received a grave complaint about your behaviour. Which is that you offered yourself brazenly and coarsely to a man of the university and have been fornicating in the most disgusting fashion.’

Again, there was a silence of some duration before she replied: ‘That is true,’ she said.

That my suspicions and the reports seemed confirmed did not comfort me. I had hoped that she would indignantly refute the charges, allowing me to forgive her, so we might continue as before. Even at that stage, however, I did not jump to conclusions. Evidence must be confirmed independently.

‘And who is this man?’ I asked.

‘A so-called gentleman,’ she said. ‘Called Anthony Wood.’

‘Do not be impudent with me,’ I cried in anger. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. Not only have you abused my generosity by seducing Dr Grove, of New College, and not content with that alone, you also threw yourself on an undergraduate, Mr Prestcott, and tried to get him to satisfy you as well. Do not deny it, for I heard it from his lips.’

She turned pale, and I take it as an indication of the foolishness of those who believe character can be read in the face that I assumed this to be shock at the discovery of her wiles. ‘You heard that?’ she said, her face white. ‘From his lips indeed?’

‘I did.’

‘Then it must be true. For a fine young man like Mr Prestcott could surely never lie. And he is a gentleman, while I am merely a soldier’s daughter.’

‘Is it true? Is it?’

‘Why do you ask me? You think it so. You have known me for what? Near four years now, and you believe it so.’

‘How can I not? Your behaviour is all of a piece. How can I trust you in your denial?’

‘I have not denied anything,’ she said. ‘I think it none of your affair.’

‘I am your employer,’ I said. ‘In the eyes of the law, your father,
responsible for your behaviour in all particulars. So tell me: who was that man I saw coming out of your house yesterday?’

She looked puzzled for a moment, then realised who I was referring to. ‘He was an Irishman, who came to see me. He travelled a long way.’

‘Why?’

‘That is not your affair either.’

‘It is. It is my duty to myself as much as it is to you to prevent you from bringing shame on this family. What will people say if it becomes common currency that the Woods are employing a whore in their house?’

‘Maybe they will say that the master, Mr Anthony Wood, also lies with the slut whenever he can? That he takes her to Paradise Fields and there fornicates a while before taking himself off to the library and making speeches about the behaviour of others?’

‘That is different.’

‘Why?’

‘I am not having an argument with you about abstract matters. This is serious. But if you can act thus with me, you can do so with others. That is obviously the case.’

‘So how many other sluts do
you
know, Mr Wood?’

I was red with anger at this time, and blamed her absolutely for what happened next. All I had desired was some sort of frank and open response. I would have liked her to deny everything, so that I might generously exonerate her. Or confess it frankly and beg my forgiveness, which I would have willingly conferred. But she would do neither, and instead had the insolence to fling my accusations back in my face. Very swiftly, it seemed, we plunged into the darkness of our association, for whatever may have transpired between us, I was still her master. By her words she made it clear she had forgotten this and was abusing our intimacy. No man of sense could admit there was any similarity between our behaviours, even had the accusation any substance, for she was beholden to me while I was free of any dependency to her. Nor could any man tolerate the foulness of her speech to me; even in the heat of passion I had never addressed her in anything but the most courteous terms and could not tolerate such language.

I stood up in shock at her address and took a step towards her. She fell back against the wall, eyes wide with anger, and pointed at me, arm outstretched from her shoulder, in a strange, frightening gesture.

‘Do not take a single step closer to me,’ she hissed.

I stopped dead in my tracks. I do not know what I intended. Certainly I do not think there was any violence in my mind, for I have never been one to behave in such a way. Even the worst of servants have never received a blow from me, however much it was deserved. I do not claim this as any particular quality; and in the case of Sarah I know I would have dearly loved to have beaten her black and blue, to revenge myself for the abuse I had suffered. But I am certain I would never have done more than try to frighten.