ELIZABETH AND ESSEX: a tragic history (10 page)

No advice could have been more brilliant or more pertinent. If Essex had followed it, how different would his history have been! But - such are the curious imperfections of the human intellect - while Bacon's understanding was absolute in some directions, in others it no less completely failed. With his wise and searching admonitions he mingled other counsel which was exactly calculated to defeat the end he had in view. Profound in everything but psychology, the actual steps which he urged Essex to take in order to preserve the Queen's favour were totally unfitted to the temperament of the Earl. Bacon wished his patron to behave with the Machiavellian calculation that was natural to his own mind. Essex was to enter into an elaborate course of flattery, dissimulation, and reserve. He was not in fact to imitate the subserviency of Leicester or Hatton - oh no! - but he was to take every opportunity of assuring Elizabeth that he followed these noblemen as patterns, "for I do not know a readier mean to make Her Majesty think you are in your right way." He must be very careful of his looks. If, after a dispute, he agreed that the Queen was right, "a man must not read formality in your countenance." And "fourthly, your Lordship should never be without some particulars afoot, which you should seem to pursue with earnestness and affection, and then let them fall, upon taking knowledge of Her Majesty's opposition and dislike." He might, for instance, "pretend a journey to see your living and estate towards Wales," and, at the Queen's request, relinquish it. Even the "lightest sort of particulars" were by no means to be neglected - "habits, apparel, wearings, gestures, and the like." As to "the impression of a popular reputation," that was "a good thing in itself," and besides "well governed, is one of the best flowers of your greatness both present and to come." It should be handled tenderly. "The only way is to quench it
verbis
and not
rebus
." The vehement speeches against popularity must be speeches and nothing more. In reality, the Earl was not to dream of giving up his position as the people's favourite. "Go on in your honourable commonwealth courses as before."

Such counsels were either futile or dangerous. How was it possible that the frank impetuosity of Essex should ever bend itself to these crooked ways? Every one knew - every one, apparently, but Bacon - that the Earl was incapable of dissembling. "He can conceal nothing," said Henry Cuffe; "he carries his love and his hatred on his forehead." To such a temperament it was hard to say which was the most alien - the persistent practice of some profoundly calculated stratagem, or the momentary trickery of petty cunning. "Apparel, wearings, gestures!" How vain to hope that Essex would ever attend to that kind of tiresome particularity! Essex, who was always in a hurry or a dream - Essex, who would sit at table unconscious of what he ate or drank, shovelling down the food, or stopping suddenly to fall into some long abstraction - Essex, who to save his time would have himself dressed among a crowd of friends and suitors, giving, as Henry Wotton says, "his legs, arms, and breast to his ordinary servants to button and dress him, with little heed, his head and face to his barber, his eyes to his letters, and ears to petitioners," and so, clad in he knew not what, a cloak hastily thrown about him, would pass out, with his odd long steps, and his head pushed forward, to the Queen.

And, when he reached her, suppose that then, by some miracle, he remembered the advice of Bacon, and attempted to put into practice one or other of the contrivances that his friend had suggested. What would happen? Was it not clear that his nature would assert itself in spite of all his efforts? - that what was really in his mind would appear under his inexpert pretences, and his bungling become obvious to the far from blind Elizabeth? Then indeed his last state would be worse than his first; his very honesty would display his falsehood; and in his attempt to allay suspicions that were baseless he would actually have given them a reality.

Essex, no doubt, read and re-read Bacon's letter with admiration and gratitude - though perhaps, too, with some involuntary sighs. But he was soon to receive a very different admonition from another member of the family. Old Lady Bacon had been keeping, as was her wont, a sharp watch upon the Court from Gorhambury. Shortly after the Earl's return from Cadiz, she had received a surprisingly good report of his behaviour. He had suddenly - so Anthony wrote - given up his dissipated habits, and taken to "Christian zealous courses, not missing preaching or prayers in the Court, and showing true noble kindness towards his virtuous spouse, without any diversion." So far so good; but the amendment, it appeared, was not very lasting. Within a month or two, rumours were flying of an intrigue between the Earl and a married lady of high position. Lady Bacon was profoundly shocked; she was not, however, surprised; such doings were only to be expected in the godless world of London. The opportunity for a letter - a severely pious letter - presented itself. As for the lady in question, no words could be too harsh for such a creature. She was "unchaste and impudent, with, as it were, an incorrigible unshamefacedness." She was "an unchaste gaze and common by-word." "The Lord," she prayed, "speedily, by His grace, amend her, or" - that would be simplest - "cut her off before some sudden mischief." For Essex, such extreme measures were not yet necessary; he was, of course, less guilty, and there was still hope of his reformation. Let him read 1 Thessalonians Chapter IV, Verse 3, and he would see that "this is the will of God, that ye should be holy, and abstain from fornication." Nay, more; he would find "a heavy threat that fornicators and adulterers God will judge, and that they shall be shut out; for such things, says the Apostle, commonly cometh the wrath of God upon us." Let him "take care, and 'grieve not the Holy Spirit of God.'" "With my very inward affection," she concluded, "have I thus presumed ill-favouredly to scribble, I confess, being sickly and weak in many ways."

Essex replied immediately, in the style of pathetic and dignified beauty that was familiar to him. "I take it," he wrote, "as a great argument of God's favour in sending so good an angel to admonish me; and of no small care in your Ladyship of my well-doing." He denied the whole story. "I protest before the majesty of God that this charge which is newly laid upon me is false and unjust; and that, since my departure from England towards Spain, I have been free from taxation of incontinency with any woman that lives." It was all, he declared, an invention of his enemies. "I live in a place where I am hourly conspired against, and practised upon. What they cannot make the world believe, that they persuade themselves unto; and what they cannot make probable to the Queen, that they give out to the world.... Worthy Lady, think me a weak man, full of imperfections; but be assured I do endeavour to be good, and had rather mend my faults than cover them." The Dowager did not quite know what to make of these protestations; perhaps they were genuine - she hoped so. He had begged her, in a postscript, to burn his letter; but she preferred not to. She folded it carefully up, with her crabbed fingers, and put it on one side, for future reference.

Whatever may have been the truth about the story that had reached her, it is clear that she no more understood the nature of her correspondent than she did that of her younger son. That devout austerity had too little in common with the generous looseness of the Earl, who, no doubt, felt that he might justly bow it on one side with some magnificent asseverations. His spirit, wayward, melancholy, and splendid, belonged to the Renaissance - the English Renaissance, in which the conflicting currents of ambition, learning, religion, and lasciviousness were so subtly intervolved. He lived and moved in a superb uncertainty. He did not know what he was or where he was going. He could not resist the mysterious dominations of moods - intense, absorbing, and utterly at variance with one another. He turned aside suddenly from the exciting whirl of business and politics to adore alone, in some inner room, the sensuous harmonies of Spenser. He dallied dangerously with court beauties; and then went to meditate for hours upon the attributes of the Deity in the cold church of St. Paul. His lot seemed to lead him irrevocably along the paths of action and power; and yet he could not determine whether that was indeed the true direction of his destiny; he dreamt of the remoteness of Lanfey and the serene solitudes of Chartley Chase. He was sent for by the Queen. He came into her presence, and another series of contradictory emotions overwhelmed him. Affection - admiration - exasperation - mockery - he felt them all by turns, and sometimes, so it seemed, simultaneously. It was difficult to escape the prestige of age, royalty, and success; it was impossible to escape the fascination of that rare intellect, with its alluring sinuosities and all the surprises of its gay vitality. His mind, swept along by hers, danced down delightful avenues. What happy twists! What new delicious vistas! And then - what had happened? The twists had grown abrupt, unaccountable, ridiculous. His head span. There was the way - plain and clear before them; but she insisted upon whisking round innumerable corners, and all his efforts could not keep her straight. She was a preposterous, obstinate old woman, fluctuating only when she should be firm, and strong in nothing but perversity. And he, after all, was a man, with a man's power of insight and determination; he could lead if she would follow; but Fate had reversed the rôles, and the natural master was a servant. Sometimes, perhaps, he could impose his will upon her - but after what an expenditure of energy, what a prolonged assertion of masculinity! A woman and a man! Yes, indeed, it was all too obvious! Why was he where he was? Why had he any influence whatever? It was not only obvious, it was ludicrous, it was disgusting: he satisfied the peculiar cravings of a virgin of sixty-three. How was this to end? His heart sank, and, as he was about to leave her, he caught sight of something inexplicable in those extraordinary eyes. He hurried home - to his wife, his friends, his sisters; and then, in his great house by the River, one of those physical collapses, which from his boyhood had never been long absent, would come upon him; incapable of thought or action, shivering in the agonies of ague, he would lie for days in melancholy and darkness upon his bed.

But, after all, he could not resist the pressure of circumstances, the nature of the time, the call to do and to lead. His vital forces returned to him, bringing with them the old excitements of adventure and jealousies of ambition. Spain loomed as ever upon the horizon; she had not been crushed at Cadiz; the snake was still dangerous, and must be scotched again. There was talk of another expedition. Francis Bacon might say what he would; but if there was one how would it be possible for the "noble Peer" of the Prothalamium to keep out of it? How could he leave the agitation and the triumph to Walter Raleigh? How could he stay behind with the hunchback secretary, writing at a table? In private, he pressed the Queen eagerly; and she seemed more amenable than usual; she agreed to the principle of an armed attack, but hesitated over its exact form. The news began to leak out, and Francis Bacon grew uneasy. The event, he saw, would show whether his advice was going to be taken: the parting of the ways was at hand.

In the meantime, while the future hung in the balance, that versatile intelligence was occupied in a different direction. In January, 1597, a small volume made its appearance - one of the most remarkable that has ever come from the press. Of its sixty pages, the first twenty-five were occupied by ten diminutive "Essays" - the word was new in English - in which the reflections of a matchless observer were expressed in an imperishable form. They were reflections upon the ways of this world, and particularly upon the ways of Courts. In later years Bacon enlarged the collection, widening the range of his subjects, and enriching his style with ornament and colour; but here all was terse, bare and practical. In a succession of gnomic sentences, from which every beauty but those of force and point had been strictly banished, he uttered his thoughts upon such themes as "Suitors," "Ceremonies and Respects," "Followers and Friends," "Expense," and "Negociating." "Some books," he wrote, "are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested"; there can be no doubt to which category his own belongs. And, as one chews, one learns much, not only of the methods of politic behaviour, but of the nature of the author, and of that curious quality of mingled boldness and circumspection that was native to his mind. "Mean men must adhere," he says, in his essay on "Faction," "but great men that have strength in themselves were better to maintain themselves indifferent and neutral; yet," he adds, "even in beginners to adhere so moderately, as he be a man of the one faction, which is passablest with the other, commonly giveth best way." The book was dedicated to "Mr. Anthony Bacon, his dear brother"; but what did Anthony, with his instinct for uncompromising devotion, think of such an apophthegm?

Whatever Anthony might think, Francis could not help it; in the last resort he must be swayed not by his brother but by his perception of the facts. It was clear that one of those periodical crises, which seemed to punctuate the relations of the Queen and the Earl with ever-increasing violence, was rapidly approaching. It became known that a naval attack upon Spain had actually been decided upon; but who was to command it? Early in February, Essex took to his bed. The Queen came to visit him; he seemed to recover after so signal an act of favour; and then once more was prostrate. The nature of his ailment was dubious: was he sulking, or was he really ill? Perhaps he was both. For a fortnight he remained invisible, while the Queen fretted, and rumour after rumour flew round the Court. The signs of a struggle - a quarrel - were obvious. It was declared on good authority that the Queen had told him that he was to share the command of the expedition with Raleigh and Thomas Howard; and that thereupon the Earl had sworn to have nothing to do with it. At last Elizabeth's vexation burst out into speech. "I shall break him of his will," she exclaimed, "and pull down his great heart!" She wondered where he got his obstinacy; but, of course, it was from his mother - from Lettice Knowles, her cousin, that woman whom she hated - the widow of Leicester. Then the news came that the Earl was better, so much better that he had risen, and was about to depart from the Court immediately, to visit his estates in Wales.