Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

It was through work such as this that I met Dr. Wallis, as he was keeper of the university archives when I most needed access to them, even though, as professor, he should never have been allowed the post. Although I grant his methodical mind did impose some order on documents which had been sadly neglected for years, nonetheless I could have done better (doing most of the work, unrecognized) and better deserved the salary of £30 a year.

I had heard rumors, of course, about his occult activities—his abilities as a decipherer of documents were no secret; indeed, he rather boasted of them. But I knew nothing, until I opened his manuscript, of his dark work for the government; had I known the full extent, I think that everything might have become very much simpler. Wallis was defeated (even if he only realized it when he in his turn saw Cola’s narrative) by his own cleverness and his obsession with secrecy. He saw enemies everywhere, and trusted no one. Read his words and see the motives he imputes to all who came into contact with him. Does he say anything good about anyone? He lived in a world where everyone was a fool, a liar, a murderer, a cheat or a traitor. He even sneers at Mr. Newton, denigrates Mr. Boyle, exploits the weaknesses of Lower.

All men were there to be twisted to serve his ends. Poor man, to think of his fellows thus; poor church, to have him as minister; poor England, to have him as its defender. He lambastes everyone, but who caused more death and destruction than he? But even Wallis could love, it seems, though when he lost the one person in his life he held dear, his reaction was not to come back to God in prayer and repentance, but to unleash still more cruelty on the world, and find that it served no purpose. I had encountered this Matthew of his on several occasions, and always felt sympathy for him. The obsession was clear to anyone, for Wallis could never be in a room with the lad without constantly looking at him, and making comments in his direction. But nothing gave me greater surprise than to read of Wallis’s affection, for he treated the boy abominably and all wondered how the lad endured such cruelty.

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 cannot compare. He wants perfection, but is so blinded in spirit he can only sense it only through his mathematics, and has no place in his heart for people.”

“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 annotated until not even candlelight permitted me to work any longer. I worked in the icy cold of winter, when it grew dark in midafternoon, and in the boiling heat of summer, when the sun beat down on the lead roof just above my head and I grew half crazed from thirst. No weather or circumstance deflected me from my task, and I grew oblivious to all that was going on around me. I allowed myself to pause for an hour or so to eat, often in company with Lower or others like him, and in the evening would allow myself the greatest joy and solace of my life, which has always been music. Wine and music rejoice the heart, it can so mollify the mind, and soothe tempestuous affections, says Jason Pratensis, and Lemnius says it soothes also the arteries and the animal spirits, so that (here I cite Mr. Burton) when Orpheus played, the very trees tore up their roots that they might approach to hear better. Agrippa adds that the elephants of Africa are greatly pleased with it, and will dance to a tune. However sad and weary, an hour of the viol with good company nearly always brought me satisfaction and peace, and I would play, alone or with others, every evening an hour before prayer; it is the finest way I know of ensuring good sleep.

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 innocently) asked the assembled musicians one evening whether we knew of any servant wanting employment. Grove, recently returned to his fellowship, needed such a person and Ken was keen to help. He hoped to win the affection and patronage of the man, and initially tried hard to be obliging. Unfortunately, Grove could not countenance people like Ken in his college, and rebuffed all attempts at friendship; Ken’s courtesies were wasted, and an enmity grew which did not need a dispute over a parish to become acrimonious.

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 cannot vouch for his character. He was ejected long ago and is only just returned.”