So now I go forward again, and begin my tale in earnest. Around the middle of 1662, after I had known Sarah Blundy for nearly three years and the kingdom had been at peace for two, I was moderately contented with my lot in life. My routine was as unshakeable as it was rewarding. I had my friends, with whom I associated in the evenings, either at dinner or at music parties. I had my work, which was finally beginning to find the purpose which has occupied me ever since, bringing ever richer rewards in knowledge. My family was well enough established with no member, not even the most distant cousin, bringing anxiety, expense or dishonor to our door. I had secure and unchallenged possession of an annuity which, however small, was more than enough to provide food and lodging and such necessaries as my work required. I suppose that I would have liked more for, if I already realized that I would never take on the expense of marriage, I would happily have spent more on books, and engaged more completely in those acts of charity which illuminate the life of man when properly undertaken.
This was a minor concern, however, since I have never been one of those bitter and envious men who desire to be as rich as their fellows, and define insufficiency as what they themselves possess. All of my friends in those days have become far wealthier than myself. Lower, for example, became the most fashionable doctor in London; John Locke was supported in great style by generous and wealthy patrons and received countless pensions and annuities from the government before the enmity of the powerful forced him into exile. Even Thomas Ken battened on to a fat bishopric. But I would not change my life for theirs, for they constantly have to concern themselves with such matters. They live in a world where, if you do not perpetually rise, then you inevitably fall. Fame and fortune are of the most evanescent quality; I have, and can lose, neither.
Besides, none of the three gentlemen are contented, I know; they are too aware of the price of their money. All three regret the passing of their youth, when they thought they would do as they chose and dreamed of greater things. Without the demands of family—the incessantly open mouths of his own children and those children of his brother—Lower might have remained in Oxford and carved a name for himself deep into the tree of fame. But instead he went to practice as a fashionable physician, and has done no useful work since. Locke detests those who reward him so well, but was too used to good living to abandon the habit which now means he must live in Amsterdam for his own safety. And Ken? What choices he has made! Perhaps one day he will take a stand in public for what he truly believes. Until then he will remain in the torment of his own devising, assuaging the demons of self-criticism by his ever more extravagant works of benevolence.
As long as I have had my labor, I have been contented, and wanted no more. In those days particularly I believed myself to be delightfully set up, and suffered no melancholy longings to distract me. I was, as I say, pleased that I had established Sarah in a good and reliable position with Dr. Grove, and complacent that the comforting drift of my life would continue unabated. This was not to be, for bit by bit the events which are narrated in the three manuscripts I have been reading invaded my little world, and disrupted it entirely. It took a very long time indeed before I was able to reestablish something of the balance that sound scholarship and peaceful existence both require. Indeed, I think that I never did.
The first pinprick at my bubble of contentment came in late autumn. I was in a tavern, where I had paused one evening after a long day breathing in the dust of Bodley’s books. I was perfectly quiet and rested, having no thought in my mind at all to distract me, when I overheard part of a conversation between two low and verminous townsmen. I did not want, or intend, to listen but sometimes it cannot be avoided; words force their attention upon the mind, and will not be kept out. And the more I heard, the more I had to hear, because my body stiffened and was made icy cold by their gossip.
“That Leveller whore the Blundy girl.” That was, I think, the only phrase which initially my ears discovered amid the general hubbub in the room. Then, word by word, more of the conversation came to me. “Rutting cat.” “Every time she cleans his room.” “Poor old man, must be bewitched.” “Wouldn’t mind a chance myself.” “And him a priest. They’re all the same.” “You can tell just by looking, really.” “Dr. Grove.” “Spread her legs for anybody.” “Is there anyone who hasn’t?”
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.