He especially enjoyed his essay on censorship “Areopagitica” in light of the present situation.
John understood one thing almost immediately. He had succeeded. His life’s goal was to become a… No. Not “become a,” as in one of many, but to become the master of the English language. His desire was to write the most important works ever written, for the glory of God and England. For as long as he remembered, that was his goal. Lofty, to be sure. But he always believed. To meet that goal, he had sequestered himself away for as long as it took, cultivating his mind for the task ahead. From the looks of the publication dates, he had stayed in his father’s house for several more years, doing little else except study. So much so that his eyesight began to fail. Study. Study more. Study until he was ready. Ready to write. To write the definitive poems of the English language.
He achieved his life’s goals.
He looked at the thin book with the original two articles Wentworth gave him. He did not want to refute them. They were right. A tyrant is not a worthy leader, whether it be Charles or Cromwell. To recall a tyrant from power is a right all thinking men should have. He sat with a blank pad of paper in his lap, and tried to write a refutation to his articles. He tried sketching notes. He tried to outline his arguments. He tried writing them in Latin, then German, then French. He tried to argue them through in his head, but he always came back to the same conclusion. After some hours of this inaction, he tossed the book aside.
There was a rattling of keys in the hallway, and the door opened. Wentworth entered, smiling. John rose and bowed stiffly to his captor, who bowed in return. Wentworth’s eyes flicked to the book lying on Milton’s pallet, then quickly to the walls and their writings, and then back to Milton. “How is your refutation coming, John? Well, I hope.”
“It’s coming along. It is difficult to refute oneself, especially when one has been so eloquent. It presents unique challenges.”
Wentworth nodded and began to look at the other books collected in the cell. “You have everything? All of your works?”
“Near as I can ascertain. I am frankly embarrassed by some of the early works. But there they are, for the entire world to read.”
“One should be cautious about what one writes, John. You never know how it can be interpreted in the future.” Wentworth pulled one of the books from a makeshift shelf and looked at it with a wry smile. “Or the past, for that matter.” He slid the book back, and turned to Milton, looking him directly in the eyes. “Do you know why you are still alive, John?”
“To refute these two articles.”
“More than that, John. I want you on my side. The king’s side.”
Milton’s face remained impassive. “Go on.”
“I would rather have your powers of persuasion and writing on my side, than have them wasted by removing your head. It would seem such a loss. A manageable loss, yes. But still a loss.” Wentworth paused, his focus burning into Milton’s brain.
Milton was quiet for a moment. He looked past Wentworth, staring at the lock on the cell door. He had come to the conclusion that he had achieved his goals. He had written the definitive poems of the English language. He had said all that needed to be said. He had soared to heights unimagined, even by him, with his poetry. What other works could he possibly write? What else could he do?
It was grossly unfair, he felt.
On the other hand, how many men know their work will live for hundreds of years? He sighed a long heavy sigh, and finally made his decision. His father would not be pleased, nor would his mother. But he was his own man, and understood the consequences. He took a deep breath, broke his stare at the lock, and looked Wentworth in the eye. “I–I cannot refute them. I will not refute them. My life is already written.” He broke eye contact and laughed. “What a dilemma, eh, Wentworth? A real Calvinist dilemma. It will have theologians arguing for centuries as to what predestination really means.” He stopped his laughing, and a smile lingered as he again looked at Wentworth. “I strove for great things, and I achieved them. That was my destiny. The proof is all around you, in these volumes. But what am I to do now? My destiny is achieved. Should I continue to live? Am I an anomaly of God? And you ask me to go against everything I have done, every word I have written, and every argument I made? You want me to ignore my life’s work, as if nothing had happened? How can you-”
“You are a coward, Milton. More of a coward than I thought. Disgusting.” Wentworth turned to the door and raised his hand to knock.
“What do you mean, a coward? I am not a-”
“But you are, Milton. Why did you think I gave you all of your works to read?”
John stopped for a moment to think. He shook his head as if to clear a fog. “I thought it a mistake on your part; you were being over generous to me for some reason.”
Wentworth’s mask broke slightly and he looked exasperated. “You must give me more credit than that, Milton. Really.”
“Then why?”
“If you just refuted this book…” He picked up the first volume of the arguments and waved. “…then what would have happened when you were allowed out into the world, and discovered the presence of all of this writing?” He swept his hand around the small cell. “It is simple, Milton. You would have failed me. Publicly.” His tone changed from that of a chastising father, to a seemingly loving one. “I need all of you, John, not just part of you. I need a tower of literary strength.” He shrugged and continued. “I am not that sort of a man. I am efficient, I serve my king well, I have my mind-a political mind, that keeps me in power. But I lack-what do the Americans call it? Ah, yes. P.R. I lack P.R., Public Relations. Good press.”
John looked at the older man incredulously. “I will not do it. I cannot do it.”
“You disappoint me with your cowardice.”
“Cowardice! How can you call me a coward, I have just walked into certain death in an act of defiance. How can that be cowardice? You are a fool, old man.”
“No, John Milton. You are fleeing from your future. You think you cannot match these works. So you choose to become a martyr. A coward. You cannot face what you might become. A mediocre poet.”
There was a pause as John stared. Wentworth met his gaze with unfathomable confidence.
John’s eyes wavered under the fierce stare, hesitated, and finally looked at the ground. “Get out,” he whispered. “Just get out.”
Wentworth changed to a softer tone. “You have three days until the deadline, John. Use your time wisely. You have a choice. What will it be? Cowardice?” Wentworth gestured with the original volume towards the bookcase. “Or will you be a Milton who achieves more than this one dreamed of?” He paused a moment then spoke softly. “The Puritans tend to look at the world in two colors, John, like their clothing. Black and white. Right and wrong. Our earthly existence is not that simple. The world has many shades and colors to it. Messy. Unpredictable. Marvelous.” He turned and rapped on the cell door, and then looked back. “I hope you do not choose to be a coward, John. It would sadden me.” Wentworth tossed the volume onto the end of the pallet. The door creaked open, Wilson ushered Wentworth into the passage, and the cell door closed.
John slept little that night. He finally nodded off for what seemed like a short blink of the eyes, before waking again. Faint light streamed into the slit near the stone ceiling. He lay on his pallet and looked around, staring at the volumes on the makeshift bookcases. The work in the volumes was impressive. The poetry soaring. His pride at what he had done filled him with tears in the semi-darkness. The books around him told of a life, a life of unhappiness, pain, self satisfaction, insight, brilliant radical thought, deep religious beliefs, blindness, and marriages. What a life it was- would have been- might have been- could have been- should have been. He buried his face in his hands and mumbled to himself.