Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

Now that it is so many years ago, many people assume that the restoration of the kingdom was a simple matter. Cromwell died and in due course the king returned. Would that it had been that straightforward—the secret history of that momentous event is known only to a few. At the beginning I thought that, at best, the king might last six months, a year if he was lucky, before the passion of faction erupted once more. It seemed to me that he would have to fight for his inheritance, sooner or later. The country had been in turmoil for near twenty years; there had been war and strife, property had been trampled on, the rightful rulers of the country killed and expelled, all stations of men upturned. “I have seen the wicked in great power, and spreading himself like a green bay tree” (Psalms 37:35). Were people who had become used to authority and riches simply going to renounce these baubles? Was it really to be expected that the army, unpaid and discarded, would quietly accept the king’s return and the defeat of everything they had striven to establish? And could it be hoped that the king’s supporters would remain united, when the opportunities for dissent presented to them were so great? Only men without power do not desire it; those who have felt its touch crave ever more of its embrace.

England was a country on the edge, surrounded by enemies within and without—the least spark could have rekindled the flames. And in this powder keg the most powerful men in the kingdom were engaged in a struggle for the king’s favor which only one person could win. Clarendon, Bristol, Bennet; the Duke of Buckingham, Lords Cavendish, Coventry, Ormonde, Southampton—there was not room for all in His Majesty’s favor and only one person could run his government for him, for none would tolerate partners. The battle was fought in the dark, but its consequences sucked many men in; I was one, and took upon myself the task of damping the flames before all was consumed. I flatter myself that I succeeded well, despite the efforts of Marco da Cola. He says at the start of his manuscript that he will leave out much, but nothing of significance. That is his first great lie. He puts in nothing which is of significance; I will have to do that to expose his perfidy.

My involvement in the matter which this Cola tries to hide began near two years before he arrived on these shores, when I traveled to London to attend a meeting of like-minded natural philosophers at Gresham College. This organization, which later became our Royal Society, is not now what it was, despite the presence of luminaries like Mr. Newton. Then it was a ferment of knowledge, and only someone who attended could know what a buzz of excitement and endeavor attended those early meetings. That spirit has gone now, and I fear it will never return. Who now can match that band—Wren, Hooke, Boyle, Ward, Wilkins, Petty, Goddard and so many more names which will live forever? Now its members are like a bunch of ants, forever collecting thek tawdry rocks and bugs, always accumulating, never thinking, and turning away from God. No wonder they come to be despised.

But then all was joyful optimism; the king was back on his throne, the country was peaceful once more, and the whole world of experimental philosophy was there to be explored. We felt, I think, like Cabot’s crew when they first caught sight of the New World, and the excitement of anticipation was intoxicating. The meeting itself was very fine, as befitted the occasion; the king himself attended, and graciously presented a mace to signify his royal condescension in supporting our endeavors, and many of his most powerful ministers came too—some of whom were subsequently elected to our ranks when the Royal Society was officially formed, although, it must be said, they contributed little but luster.

Afterward, once His Majesty had made a pretty speech and we were all given the opportunity of bowing personally to him, and Mr. Hooke had demonstrated one of his more ingenious (and showy) machines to entrap the royal imagination, I was approached by a man of middling stature, with quick, dark eyes and a supercilious manner. He wore an oblong black patch over the bridge of his nose, which covered (so they say) a sword wound received when he was fighting for the late king. Personally I am not so sure; no one ever saw this famed injury, and that patch drew attention to his loyalty more than it covered a wound. Then he was known as Henry Bennet, although the world later knew him as the Earl of Arlington and he had just returned from the embassy of Madrid (though this was not yet common knowledge). I had heard vague reports that he was charging himself with maintaining the stability of the kingdom, and I was swiftly to receive full confirmation that this was, indeed, the case. In brief, he asked me to attend on him the following morning at his house on the Strand, as he wished to make my acquaintance.

The next day, accordingly, I presented myself, half expecting to be hurled into the midst of a formal levee, surrounded by petitioners and claimants all wanting the attention of a man close to the court. There were indeed a few people there, but not many and they were ignored. I concluded from this that Mr. Bennet’s star had not yet risen too far or, for reasons of his own, he was keeping his connections, and even his presence in London, fairly quiet.

I cannot say that he was pleasant; indeed, he had a formality of manner which verged on the grotesque, so keen was he to observe all the niceties of protocol, and maintain rankings in a clear form. It came, I believe, from spending too long in Spain, which is notoriously prone to such excesses. He took the trouble to explain to me that he had provided a chair with a padded seat, as befitted my dignity as a doctor of the university; others, it seemed, had to make do with a hard seat or remain standing, depending on their station. It would have been unwise of me to hint that I considered such punctiliousness absurd—I did not know what he wanted and the government was about to send a visitation to the university to eject members inserted by the Commonwealth. As I had been so inserted, Mr. Bennet was not a man to annoy. I wanted to keep my position.

“How do you consider the state of His Majesty’s kingdom?” he said abruptly, not being a man to waste too much time putting his guests at ease or winning their confidence. It is a trick often played by men in power, I find.

I replied that all His Majesty’s subjects were naturally delighted at his safe return to his rightful throne. Bennet snorted.

“So how do you account for the fact that we have just had to hang another half dozen fanatics for plotting against the government?”

“ ‘This is an evil generation,’ “ I said. (Luke 11:29.)

He tossed a sheaf of papers over to me. “What do you think of those?”

I looked at them carefully, then sniffed dismissively.”Letters in cipher,” ï said.

“Can you read them?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Could you read them? Tease out their meanings?”

“Unless there is some particular difficulty, yes. I have had some considerable experience in such matters.”

“I know that. For Mr. Thurloe, was it not?”

“I provided no information which might have injured the king’s party, even though it was in my power to do it considerable harm.”

“Are you now prepared to do it any good?”

“Of course. I am His Majesty’s loyal servant. I trust you remember that I took great risks with my fortune in protesting against the murder of the late king.”

“You satisfied your conscience in the matter, but not to the point of leaving office, or turning down preferment when it was offered, I recall,” he replied coldly, and in a manner which gave me little optimism about winning his favor. “No matter. You will be pleased at the opportunity of demonstrating how great your loyalties are. Bring me those letters deciphered tomorrow morning.”