A Fine Madness

I wanted to see more of Christopher. I confess to you now that I felt a fondness for Christopher, I always had. I felt drawn to him as if he needed protecting, a notion he would have scorned, of course. Not in the sense in which protection is normally understood – he was well capable of looking after himself in this world – but I felt he needed protection from himself. For all his knowingness and cleverness, for all his readiness to attack or defend with wit or blade or fists, there was something vulnerable about him. I cannot even now say precisely what it was but it had to do with honesty, honesty regardless of consequence, and a curious gap in his self-awareness. God spare us for it, sir, but I think you will agree that most of us are frequently dishonest in small things, sometimes in big things? But not Christopher. He would deceive only with deliberation, only to higher purpose such as the security of the state in the work he did for us, never to his own advantage. In himself, in his beliefs and natural reactions, he was as spontaneous and unguarded as a child. Perhaps that was why he seemed vulnerable, as if he needed saving from himself. As indeed his end proved. But why I felt I had to protect him, I cannot say. In view of that end, you might say I failed.

And so I worshipped that morning in Corpus Christi with all the scholars. The singing was lusty and Dr Norgate preached a good sermon on obedience to God and the Queen, to our parents, to the teaching of the Bible and to conscience. He argued that submission is key, submission to God’s will, and that only in renouncing ourselves do we truly find ourselves. He could not have intended this for my benefit since he did not know I would be there, but I thought it merited favourable report to Sir Francis. Would such a sermon find favour now, sir? You think so? I hope you are right. I hear that Dr Donne, Dean of St Paul’s, preaches a goodly sermon, though I believe he has also penned some scandalous verses. He was a Catholic, you know, before repenting. I regret that my circumstances prevent me from hearing him though I fear my soul may be past benefitting now.

It was another fine morning and after the service people stood talking in the quad. I had spotted Christopher near the front of the chapel but lost him as we came out, then saw him again walking rapidly out of the college, alone. I caught up with him on the street, which was filling with dispersing congregations. He acknowledged me curtly, without slackening his pace.

‘A good sermon,’ I said.

‘Keeps the sheep happy.’ He walked on, looking straight ahead.

‘But it’s true, is it not? That only by renouncing ourselves do we find our true selves?’

‘The truth of it doesn’t matter. So long as it stops you thinking for yourself its purpose is achieved.’

I stopped in the street. ‘You really think that is its purpose?’

He turned to me with a sigh, forcing others to step around us. ‘I am sorry, Thomas, I am not in a giving mood this morning. I’ve no time for these hypocrites. Follow me to the river if you wish. Walking by water is balm for the soul.’ He turned again and walked on.

I was surprised and affronted. It was ungracious, given what I had just done for him, and there had been nothing in the sermon to which any good Christian could take exception. But I decided he should be taken to task and hurried after him into one of those alleys leading to the river. It was busy with worshippers, mostly gowned scholars spilling like plagues of beetles from court and quad, and was too narrow to walk two abreast, so I was forced to follow until it broadened out and we could talk again. He did not acknowledge me at first but strode on, looking neither right nor left, his face set hard. It was as if he had received an insult and was on his way to give someone a beating.

‘Forgive me, Thomas,’ he declared suddenly, still without looking at me. ‘It is the Devil in me. That is all. It will pass. He will leave while we walk.’

‘The Devil possesses you? Does he visit often?’

‘Only in worship. Divine service prompts rebellion in my breast. It has since childhood. I kneel, I sing, I pray with the rest but my heart rebels within me. It is not the message but being preached at. And being expected to believe the impossible.’

‘What is impossible? You are not suggesting that Our Lord—’

‘I am suggesting that every day since God created the world the sun has risen in the morning and set in the evening. But we are asked to believe that one day it set at the sixth hour and rose again at the ninth hour, a unique event in nature coinciding with the crucifixion of Our Lord. Do you believe that, Thomas? Do you? Tell me honestly.’

He turned to face me now, his dark eyes challenging. For a few moments I was lost for an answer, which prompted him to launch a sermon of his own. He queried the age of the world as estimated by the Fathers of the Church, then said that holy scripture suggested that Jesus had a mistress, then that He had an unnatural relationship with the disciple John and finally that if we gave all our goods to the poor as the scriptures urge us then the poor would become the rich and we the poor. They would then be urged to give back to us what we had given to them and we would go on changing places for ever. ‘So the Kingdom of Heaven on earth is nothing more than a perpetual dance, a merry-go-round,’ he concluded.

We were by then at the