Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

I now know these vile and disgusting reports to be absolutely false, although I did not know until I read Prestcott’s manuscript that they had originated with him after his cruel rape. Even then I did not instantly believe what I heard, for many lewd and boastful stories are told in drink, and if they were all true then there could scarcely be a virtuous woman in the country. No, it was not until Prestcott himself approached me that my refusal turned to doubt, and the creeping demons in my mind began to gnaw at my soul, making me hateful and suspicious.

Prestcott has recounted our initial meeting, called in as I was by Thomas Ken to assist—Ken hoped that I would do what he could not, and persuade the lad to give up what was liable to be a hopeless quest. Ken had tried, I think, but Prestcott’s violent response to all criticism restrained his efforts. He hoped that a cogent detailing of the facts would produce a reasonable response, and that Prestcott would listen to me if I gave such an account.

It took only a short acquaintance, however, before I realized that I neither liked Mr. Prestcott, nor wanted to involve myself in his fantasies in any way. So when he saw me in the street later and hailed me, my heart sank, and I prepared a story about how I had not yet completed my investigation.

“That is of no matter, sir,” he said jovially, “since there is nothing I can do with it at the moment. I am shortly off on a tour of the country, to my people and to London. It will wait until I return. No, Mr. Wood, I need to talk to you on a particular matter, for I have a warning to give you. I know you to be of a respectable family, and no member more so than your much admired mother, and I am loath to stand by and let your name be tarnished.”

“That is kind of you,” I said in astonishment. “I am sure there is nothing we need concern ourselves with. What, exactly, do you mean?”

“You have a servant, do you not? Sarah Blundy?”

I nodded, a feeling of concern creeping over me. “We do. A fine worker, dutiful, humble, and obedient.”

“So she no doubt appears. But as you know, appearances can be deceptive. I must tell you that her character is not as good as you like to think.”

“It grieves me to hear it.”

“And it grieves me to tell you. I am afraid that she is engaged in fornication with another of her employers, a Dr. Grove, of New College. Do you know the man?”

I nodded coldly. “How do you know this?”

“She told me. Boasted of it.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“I did not. She approached me and offered herself to me for money in the grossest and coarsest fashion. Naturally, I spurned the offer, and she as good as said that her qualities could be vouched for by many others. Many, many other satisfied clients, she said with a grin, and added that Dr. Grove was a new man since she had taken to providing him with the sort of satisfaction the church could not offer.”

“You grieve me when you say this.”

“I apologize for that. But I thought it for the best…”

“Of course. It was kind of you to take such trouble.”

That was the essence of the conversation; there certainly was not much more to it, but what an effect it had on my mind! My first reaction was to reject absolutely what he had told me, and persuade myself that what I knew of the girl, and my sense of her goodness, were more valuable than the testimony of an outsider. But my suspicions gnawed at me, and would not be tamed, and finally consumed me entire. Could my own sense of her nature be counted more valuable evidence than the actual experience of someone else? I thought of her in one way, it appeared Prestcott knew her to be other. And did my own experience contradict what he said? Had not the girl given herself to me freely? I had not paid her, but what did that say of her moral nature? Surely it was mere vanity on my part to think she had lain with me out of regard? The more I thought, the more I perceived what had to be the truth. She, alone of all women, had allowed me to touch her, and I had become infatuated as a result, instead of seeing that I could have been anyone. The desires of women are stronger than those of mere men; this is well known and I had forgotten it. When in heat they are ravenous, and insatiable, and we poor men think it love.

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 a 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 burned 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 straightaway 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 favor, 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.