“It is an even more perilous thing to set oneself against one's conscience, John. Tell me this: Should the King be allowed to impose such taxes on his people? You yourself have often said it should not be so. Come, admit it.”
“What we have said, we have said in the circle of our friends. It is another matter to say such things in Parliament.”
“I call to mind that there are those of my friends who have lectured in such manner as to attract multitudes. And this they have done in public places.” Thomas put his head on one side and lifted his shoulder in a manner which was characteristic of him. “I think of one friend, not so far from me at this moment, who has placed himself in high danger by too boldly expressing what are called ‘dangerous thoughts.’”
Colet said impatiently: “I talked of theology. You have talked of money. There was never a more avaricious king than ours. There was never one more vindictive when his darling money is kept from him. However, there is one thing that pleases me. You are a poor man, my friend. To rob you of your wordly goods would hardly be worth the time of the King's henchmen.”
“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.”