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.

“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 pretense 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 calumnize 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 labors 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.