“Now there we see one of the great compensations in life. Poverty is my shield; it protects me from the onslaughts of mine enemies. But have done with this matter. It was of others that I came hither to talk to you.”
They walked through the orchards, where the fruit was beginning to ripen. “Ah, John,” said Thomas, “there'll be a good harvest this year if the wasps and the birds allow it. Hast heard aught of our friend Erasmus of late? Now, John, do not scowl. I know it was a grave blow to you when he would not stay in Oxford and lecture there with you. But it was compulsion that moved him to return to Rotterdam and poverty.”
“He disappoints me,” said Colet. “He could have stayed in this country. There was work for him to do. Could he not have studied here as much as he wished?”
“Remember what he said to you, John. He said it was you who disappointed yourself. You made a picture of him—far too learned, he says, far too saintly. He has not disappointed you, for he has always been himself; it is you who have disappointed yourself by making a false image of him. He is right, John. And I too have disappointed him. I rejoice that he does not love gold as the King does. For you know I told him it was safe for him to bring his money into England, and that he could safely take it out when he wished. My knowledge of the law was at fault—and I call myself a lawyer! Because of it my friend was deceived, and so … he was not allowed to take his money home. If he loved his few pieces of gold as the King loves his full coffers, Erasmus would hate me even as does the King. Hath it occurred to you that money bringeth much trouble to me? Now, that is an odd thing, for it is the love of money that is the root of evil; yet I pay so little court to it that I win the King's anger and, I fear, the scorn of my learned friend Erasmus, through my contempt of it.”
“It would seem,” said John Colet, “that my wise friends are fools. There is Erasmus who must return to poverty in order to perfect his Greek. There is you who must take great pains to provoke the King … like a boy with a stick bent on teasing a bull.”
“But such an insignificant boy… a boy who is not worth the tossing.”
“Believe it or not, even those whose passion is the accumulation of money can have other passions. Revenge, for one.”
“Enough, John. Let us speak of my affairs. I have made a decision which will alter the course of my life.”
John Colet turned to look at his friend. The blue eyes were twinkling, the usually pink cheeks were flushed a rosy red. May God preserve him, thought Dr. Colet, for his nature is the sweetest I ever knew, and there are times when I fear it will lead him to trouble.
“Come, let us sit on the seat here and watch the barges sail up the river to London. Then tell me of this decision.” They sat down and John went on: “You have decided to take your vows?”
Thomas was silent; he laid his hands on his knees and looked across the river to where the willows hung low in the water and the rose-tinted umbels of the flowering rush bloomed among the purple stars of loosestrife, the figwort, with its brown helmets standing guard over them.
Thomas was twenty-six years of age—an age, he had decided, when a man must make decisions. He was fair-haired, blue-eyed, of fresh complexion; and it was the sweetness of expression which people remembered.
Looking at him now, John Colet thought of the friends he loved; there was the great and learned Erasmus, the intellectual Grocyn, the reliable William Lily, and the keen-witted, kindly Linacre; all these men were the great scholars of the day; yet none of them could charm and attract as did Thomas More. Thomas was younger than either Colet or Erasmus, yet both these men counted him as their intellectual equal. He had a first-class brain; he could assimilate knowledge with astonishing speed; he could converse learnedly with humor and a sense of fun, and in the sharpness of his wit he never stooped to wound. Yet it was not only for these qualities that he was loved; it was the sweet kindliness of the man, his courteous manner even toward the humblest; it was the frankness mingling with the courtesy; it was the never-absent sympathy, the understanding of the problems of others and the ever-present desire to help any in distress.
“Nay,” said Thomas. “ 'Tis not to take the vows.”
John turned to him and grasped his hands. “Then I am glad that you have at last come to this decision.”
“I am a greedy man” said Thomas. “Ah yes, I am, John. I have discovered that one life is not enough for me. I want to live two lives … side by side. I would take my vows and be with my dear brothers of the Charterhouse. How that beckons me! The solitude of the cloisters, the sweetness of bells at vespers, the sonorous Latin chants … the gradual defeat of all fleshly desires. What victory, eh, John? When the hair shirt ceases to torment; when a wooden pillow has more comfort to offer than a downy feather bed. I can see great joy in such a life…. But, then, I would be a family man. To tell the truth, John, I find that beside this monk within me, there is another—a man who looks longingly at the fair faces of young maidens, who thinks of kissing and caressing them; this is a man who yearns for the married state, for the love of a woman and the laughter of children. I have had to make a choice.”
“I'm glad you have chosen, Thomas; and I am sure that you have chosen well.”
“Then I have not disappointed your hopes of me? I see you did not set me such a high standard as you did our friend from Rotterdam.”
“Nay; I think not of standards. I think how pleasant it will be when you are a family man and I visit you, and your good wife will greet me at your table….”
“And you will listen to my children, repeating their lessons, and you will tell them that you have never known children so skilled in the arts of learning. Ah, John, would it not be an excellent thing if we could live two lives and, when we have reached an age of wisdom, lightly step out of that which pleases us no longer into that one that gives us great pleasure.”
“You are a dreamer, my friend. Indeed, it would bring no satisfaction, for you would be as undecided at fifty as you are at thirty. Each road would have joy and sorrow to offer a man; of that I am sure.”
“There you are right, John.”
“But I'll swear the life you have chosen will be a good one.”
“But is it the right one, John? Is it the right one for me, do you think?”
“It is only at the completion of a man's life that such can be decided.”
“Then tomorrow I ride into Essex,” said Thomas, “to the house of Master Colt at New Hall. And I shall ask Master Colt for the hand of his eldest daughter in marriage.”
“The eldest! But methought it was one of the younger ones who had taken your fancy.”
Thomas frowned a little; then he smiled, and his smile was one of infinite charm.
“I changed my mind.”
“Oh… so you liked the looks of one of the younger girls first, and then … you fell in love with her sister. Methinks you are a fickle man.”
“It seems so, John, for first I fell in love with the Charterhouse and a life of retirement; and you see I could not be faithful to that love for long.”
“Ah, but that was not a true love. For all those years you lived with the monks; you fasted and did your penances; but did you take your vows? No. Always you postponed that ceremony. And in the meantime, to please your father, you continued with your law studies. The Charterhouse was never your true love. Then you saw young Mistress Colt, and you thought how fair she was; but you did not ask her father for her. It was only when you saw the eldest girl that you were successfully weaned from your desire to retire from the world. A long and fruitful married life to you, Thomas! May you have many sons and a few daughters … for daughters are useful in the house.”
“My daughters will be as important in my eyes as my sons. They shall be educated exactly as my sons will be.”
“Women educated as men! Nonsense!”
“John, what is the greatest gift the world has to offer? You will answer that as I would: Learning. Is it not what you plan to give to the world? How many times have y
ou talked of what you will do with your fortune when it is yours? You worship in the temple of Learning with me. Now would you deny it to one child because its sex is not the same as another?”
“I can see that you wax argumentative. Well, that is what I expect of you. It grows a little chilly here by the river. Let us walk back to the house whilst we talk of this thing. There is not much time, since you say you must ride on toward Essex tomorrow.”
“Yes, I must set out at sunrise.”
“On a mission of love! I will pray for you this night. I will remember the younger daughter on whom your fancy dwelt, and I shall pray that the husband will be less fickle than the lover.”
They walked slowly toward the house, and by the time they reached it they were deep in further discussion.
* * *
JOHN COLT welcomed his guest. He considered the lawyer of London a worthy suitor for his eldest girl. As he said to his wife, to tell the truth he had almost despaired of the girl's getting a husband.
Jane lacked something which her sisters possessed. It was not only that she was a little plain; she lacked also their vitality. She seemed to want nothing but to stay in the country, tending the gardens or working in the house; and she seemed to find the company of the servants preferable to that of her own family or their neighbors. It would be good to see her a wife before her sisters married.
“Welcome to New Hall, friend Thomas!” cried Master Colt, embracing the man he hoped would soon be his son-in-law. “There, groom! Take his honor's horse. Now, come you into the house. You'll be tired after your journey. We've put supper forward an hour, for we thought you'd be hungry. 'Twill be five of the clock this day. And Jane's in the kitchen. Ah! Knowing you were coming, she must be there to see that the meat is done to a turn, and the pastry of such lightness as was never known. You know what girls are!”
He nudged Thomas and broke into hearty laughter. Thomas laughed with him.
“But,” said Thomas, “it was to do homage neither to the beef nor to the pastry that I came, Master Colt.”
Master Colt broke into more laughter. He was a man of bucolic manners. He could never look at Thomas More without a chuckle. All this learning! It amused him. What was it for? “God's Body,” he often said to his wife, “I'd rather one of our boys was hanged than become a bookworm. Books! Learning! What does it do for a man? Ah, if our Jane were like her sisters, I'd not have her throw herself away on a lawyer from London, whose nose, I'll swear, likes better the smell of parchment than good roast beef.”
Now he said: “Come, Master More, we'll put some flesh on those bones before you leave us. We'll show you that a veal pie has more nourishment to offer you than Latin verse. Don't you agree? Don't you agree?”
“Take the roast beef of old England to nourish the muscles of the body,” said Thomas. “And then digest the wisdom of Plato to develop the mind.”
“Your mind won't build you a fine house to live in, Master More; it won't raise a fine family. A man must live by the strength of his body.”
“Or by the agility of his wits as do the King's ministers.”
“Bah! Who'd be one of them? Here today and gone tomorrow. My Lord this and that today, and tomorrow it's ‘Off with his head!’ Nay, fight your own battles, not the King's.”
“I see that you have gleaned much wisdom from your red roast beef.”
Master Colt slipped his arm through that of his visitor. Queer, he thought, he might be a bookworm, but he was a merry man, and in spite of his oddity, Master Colt could not help being fond of him.
He felt proud of his possessions as he took Thomas through the forecourt and into the house. In the hall which occupied the ground floor of the central block, the great table was already set for the meal. Master Colt had little time for new-fangled town manners, and all his household ate at the same table—those servants who were not waiting, below the salt. Thomas looked at the sunlight slanting through the horn windows, at the vaulted roof, at the two staircases and the gallery from which the doors led to the other wings; but he was not thinking of the house. He was wondering what he would say to Jane.
“Come to my winter parlor and drink a mug of wine with me. Can you smell the juniper and rosemary? That's our Jane. She knows much of the herbs that grow in the fields, and she is forever burning them in pomanders to make the air sweet.”
Master Colt still thought he had to impress on Jane's suitor the wifely qualities of the girl, as though Thomas needed to be impressed, as though he had not already made up his mind.
His host led the way to the winter parlor and called for wine to be brought.
The winter parlor was a cozy place; it contained hangings embroidered in rich colors by die girls, and there was a table about which were placed several stools; Master Colt was very proud of the polished metal mirror and the new clock.
They sat at the table and wine was brought, but Master Colt noticed that his guest merely touched his with his lips for the sake of politeness.
He sighed. Here was a man he did not understand, who did not care what he ate, and loved books better than wine. Yet any husband for Jane was better than no husband at all.
Then through the window he caught sight of Jane with her flower basket.
“Why,” said Jane's father, “there is Jane. You have seen her. You're thinking you'd rather have a word with her than drink wine with her father. Well then, slip out into the garden now. You can speak with her before supper is served.”
So Thomas went out of the house to Jane.
* * *
JANE KNEW he was coming. She was afraid. Her sisters laughed at her for her timidity. She should be grateful, they told her. At last she had a suitor. At last a man was thinking of marrying her. She had better be careful how she acted, for he was not caught yet.
I wish, thought Jane, that I could stay at home with my heartsease and snapdragons, my sweet williams and gilly-flowers. I want to stay and help salt the meat after the killing, and make the butter and cheese, and to see that the servants watch well the roasting meat, to make the bread and pies. I could stay at home and do these things.
But Jane knew that was not what was expected of a girl. She must marry. If she did not, she was scorned; her sisters would marry and shut her out of their confidences; they would laugh at her; they would pity her; even now they called her Poor Jane.
She was Poor Jane because, while she was afraid of marriage, she was even more afraid of not being married at all.
He was very old, this man who had selected her; he was twenty-six, and she was just turned sixteen. Still, it was better to have an old husband than no husband at all. He was very clever, so they said; and he knew much of what had been written in books. But her father did not think very highly of that sort of cleverness. As for June, it alarmed her greatly, for she could not understand half of what Thomas More said to her; and when he began to speak she would think, since he was fond of jesting, that she must surely smile; but she was never certain when die smile should come. Perhaps she would learn. She was sure there were many things which she would have to learn, and that was doubtless one of them.
Still, she continually repeated to herself, and she was sure of the wisdom of this: it was better to marry any man than not to marry at all.
When, in the kitchen, she had heard his horse, she had taken her flower basket and run into the gardens to hide herself. Today he had come to ask her to marry him. Her father had told her this would happen and that she must accept him and tell him that she would be very happy to become his wife.
Happy to become his wife …
Would her young sister have been happy to be his wife, and would he have been happy to wed her?
She wondered why he had suddenly turned from her sister to herself; her father had sent her sister away at that time, and again she wondered why.
Life was difficult to understand. If it were only as simple as tending the garden, how contented she would be!
Now she started, and her heart began to b
eat in real fear, for Thomas was coming toward her.
* * *
HE SAW her bending over the flowers, rosy color flooding her neck, for her head was bent so that he could not see her face.
I will make her happy, he swore. Poor, fragile little Jane.
“Why, Mistress Colt,” he said. “Why, Jane, I trust I find you well.”
She curtsied awkwardly, and the flowers fell from her basket.
“You tremble,” he said. “Jane, you must not be afraid of me.”
“I… I am not afraid.” She lifted her eyes to his face. They reminded him of her sisters and he felt a pang of regret. His feelings for the two girls were so different. The younger girl, whom her father had sent away, was a creature of charm and beauty; he had been fascinated by the smooth, clear skin, the childish line of the cheeks, a certain boldness in her eyes that proclaimed her aware of the fact that she was admired. There had been, in her face and form, a certain promise of carnal delight. It was she who had decided him, who had shown him clearly that he must not take his vows, that he must leave the Charterhouse and make a home with a wife.
Was that love? He thought of others who had attracted him. He was no monk; he was no priest. He was a sensual man, it seemed. God had made him thus; and he believed he would have to control such feelings during the course of his life. All his friends had taken orders: Colet, Linacre, Lily. And what were women to Erasmus? He could see that he himself was fashioned of different clay. He wanted to be a saint; but since women moved him, charmed him, he was right not to turn from them; for it was better to be a layman who knew his weakness and tried to make an ideal family life, than a priest who took his vows and afterward broke them.
He had loved young Mistress Colt until he had caught a look in Jane's eyes which had moved him—in another manner, it was true—as deeply as his desire for her sister.
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