Master of Shadows (23 page)

Upon his return to Utrecht, with Gerbier back in The Hague and Sandrart still in tow, Rubens was treated to a ceremonial banquet at the Honthorst home. Catholics (like the Honthorsts and Bloemaerts) drank with Calvinists (like Bijlert and Ter Brugghen) in a convivial atmosphere of mutual respect, united by the arts. Matters of religion were discussed, if at all, with an air of intellectual decorum. For Rubens, it must have seemed almost a fantasy come alive, a tangible reproduction of the secularized Antwerp that his parents knew in their youth and that the city might even become again if the destructive war between the Spanish and the Dutch could be resolved. If that scene made a strong impression on Rubens, the artist similarly impressed his hosts, at least according to Sandrart. “As far as he is excellent in his art,” he wrote, “I also found him perfect in all other virtues, and I observed that he was highly esteemed by persons of the most exalted as well as the most humble rank.”

That hagiographic sentiment masked the reality that during their eight days together, Gerbier and Rubens had progressed no further in their negotiation than they had on their first afternoon together in Delft. Shortly after they separated, Gerbier wrote in
frustration, “Rubens had brought nothing in black and white, and all that he said was only in words.” Rubens, of course, had been specifically enjoined by the infanta and Spinola not to put anything down in writing—even their hands were tied until Messia’s long-delayed arrival. This, however, did not preclude Rubens from requesting that Gerbier supply
him
with the draft of a formal agreement, a proposal flatly rejected by Buckingham’s agent. With Messia still en route and Spanish intentions unknown, England was not prepared to offer up terms, for fear of revealing its hand and then being undercut. When the two envoys parted, they had achieved nothing of substance, though Rubens had convinced Gerbier to remain in The Hague for another month while Messia, now reported to be healing his injury in Paris, made his way north to Brussels. When Carleton heard about that, his native skepticism only increased. Writing back to England, he noted drily that Messia’s “long abode there under pretense of sickness must needs cover somewhat else … Why could not Messia, though sick, come as well forward from Paris to Bruxells as he did in the same estate from Burdeaux to Paris?” That was a reasonable question, and the answer would prove displeasing to all parties.

BACK IN ANTWERP
, Rubens found himself in an unpleasant limbo—in his words, “suspended between hope and fear.” A new Dutch offensive near the German border only amplified that sense of unease. Frederick Henry, the Prince of Orange, had placed his army in three siege camps around the fortified city of Groenlo, and rumors swirled through Brussels and Antwerp as to its fate. By the beginning of September 1627, the defenders had run out of ammunition and had taken to firing from their cannon whatever matériel could be requisitioned. The son of Maurice, the late Prince of
Orange, was killed by a pewter spoon. Eventually, even Groenlo’s kitchen cupboards ran bare, and the town was forced to surrender. It was a victory for the Dutch, though not a major breakthrough in the war.

Another military campaign, however, was proving to be an even greater impediment to the prospects of an Anglo-Spanish treaty. Back in early July, just as Rubens and Gerbier were haggling over the location of their meeting in Holland, the Duke of Buckingham landed with an assault force of more than six thousand English soldiers at Île de Ré, a well-defended island guarding the French port of La Rochelle. Buckingham’s attack on Spain at Cádiz, two years earlier, had been an utter fiasco. Now, with Spain still a declared enemy, he was trying his hand as a military commander once again, this time in support of La Rochelle’s Huguenot population, then under siege by French forces. Even with the duke’s history of political and military bungling, reports of this mission came as a surprise within Europe’s diplomatic community. Rubens himself commented that he “never believed the English would have the boldness to make war on Spain and France at the same time,” and astutely speculated that the move would bring about an alliance of convenience between Spain and France, traditional foes.

Buckingham and his forces were still bogged down on the French coast when Rubens wrote to Gerbier, on August 27, to apologize for stranding him for so long in The Hague. While admitting Gerbier had cause to be upset, Rubens suggested that Messia was now, finally, on his way to Brussels and that this augured well for their plans. That report, however, was inaccurate. In fact, Messia would not arrive for another two weeks, and when he did he carried with him news that would dash the hopes of all those who had been working to broker an Anglo-Spanish alliance. As Carleton had suspected, Messia’s prolonged stay in Paris did indeed “cover
somewhat else.” That, specifically, was news of just the alliance of convenience between Spain and France, the two great Catholic powers of western Europe, that Rubens had predicted. If that information wasn’t exactly shocking, what came next was: Spain and France had secretly agreed to their alliance a year and a half earlier, in March 1626. This was to be not merely a defensive pact, either, but an offensive treaty predicated on a joint invasion of England.

And so it was revealed that for the last several months Spain had been playing a double game, treating for peace with England through Rubens at the same time that it was planning to attack it with France. When Philip had granted his aunt Isabella permission to negotiate with England—albeit without Rubens—he simply backdated the authorization by fifteen months, to predate the already-agreed Franco-Spanish alliance. (So much for the “dignity” of his kingdom.) Messia’s mission, from the start, had been to travel to Paris to plan the joint Franco-Spanish invasion of England. Buckingham’s attack on the French coast, however, superseded the invasion plan. Instead of that grand operation, Messia agreed that the Spanish fleet would provide assistance to French naval and ground forces fighting Buckingham’s men at Île de Ré.

For Spinola and the infanta, this news came as a blow. Rubens reported that the two were “much grieved at the resolution” taken by Spain. For a week, the group worked to “disabuse” Messia of the error of Spanish policy, and to petition Madrid to continue the peace process with England. Their interest, of course, was primarily to end the war with the Dutch, which had such devastating consequences in Flanders. They strenuously objected to any close alliance with the French, who had been allies and financial supporters of the Dutch cause ever since the 1624 Treaty of Compiègne. In such straitened circumstances, with coffers so empty that work on the Fossa Mariana was already halted, it made more sense to forge
peace rather than instigate a war. Rubens was particularly upset. “It appears strange that Spain, which provides so little for the needs of this country that it can hardly maintain its defense, has an abundance of means to wage an offensive war elsewhere,” he wrote. He chalked up the Franco-Spanish alliance to “an excess of ardor for the Catholic faith, and hatred for the opposing party.”

The objections of the Flemish leaders did not go unheeded; Messia had particular reason to take the counsel of Spinola, his future father-in-law. But for the moment there wasn’t much choice but to officially notify the English of the new alliance, if not its ultimate objective. Negotiations would have to be put on hold, at least temporarily. In an official letter written on the morning of September 18, Rubens reluctantly informed Gerbier of the new state of affairs. “It is thought for the present the business cannot be proceeded with,” he wrote, “because the arrival of the Lord Don Diego Messia has enlightened us on the union of the kings of Spain and France for the defense of their kingdoms.”

That was the official response. But after so many months working with him, Rubens clearly felt he owed Gerbier more of an explanation. His reputation not just as a diplomat but as a gentleman was dependent on his integrity, here thrown into question by forces beyond his control. The alliance with France, he tried to assure Gerbier, would “be like thunder without lightning, which will make a noise in the air without producing an effect, for it is a compound of diverse tempers brought together in a single body against their nature and constitution, more by passion than reason.” For his own part, he regretted their failure and pledged that his intentions had always been sincere and that he had devoted all of his energies to their negotiations.

Even that apologia, however, was not exculpatory enough to assuage the guilty conscience of a man not normally given to bouts
of insecurity. Writing yet again on the same day, Rubens placed blame for the failed negotiations squarely on the shoulders of the Count-Duke of Olivares, Philip’s scheming and heedless
valido:

Gerbier appreciated Rubens’s efforts, but there was no escaping the reality of the situation. “The game is at an end,” he wrote in a disillusioned letter to Edward Conway, the English secretary of state. At the beginning of October, he was recalled from The Hague.

ENCLOSED WITH THE FINAL LETTER
of apology to Gerbier was a formal note of contrition from Rubens addressed directly to Buckingham, then still embroiled on the coast of France. “No change of fortune or violence of public destiny,” he wrote, “will be able to separate my affections from your very humble service, to which I have
dedicated myself, and vowed once for ever to be.” With brush or pen, Rubens was a master of the grandiose gesture of flattery. In this case, however, the pledge of eternal allegiance was disingenuous. Barely a week later, he wrote to his Parisian friend Pierre Dupuy, telling him frankly that Buckingham’s “temerity” in attacking France was altogether inexcusable. “He seems to me, by his own audacity, to be reduced to the necessity of conquering or of dying gloriously. If he should survive defeat, he would be nothing but the sport of fortune and the laughingstock of his enemies.”

Rubens’s prognostication, in the coming months, would prove deadly accurate. On November 8, after a summer of futility, Buckingham sailed in disgrace from Île de Ré, having lost nearly two-thirds of his 6, 884-man expeditionary force. By that time, he had also lost the respect and control of his men. The final English retreat was a chaotic, disorganized massacre, with the duke’s soldiers cut to pieces as they crossed an open, unprotected bridge. Upon his return to England, the duke was bitterly lampooned in barroom lyrics that expressed the national frustration:

Charles nonetheless treated the duke to a hero’s welcome, commending his bravery while blaming the loss on foul weather, which prevented the king from sending in reinforcements. Few believed that story, either at home or abroad. “Most impudent lies” was Rubens’s response. In fact, Charles had left his favorite high and dry. It was not wind and rain that had held up Buckingham’s reinforcements—it was paintings, and paintings Rubens knew well.

Just as the duke was bogged down on the coast of France, his sovereign was completing a two-year negotiation that would net him the finest fruits of the unrivaled Mantuan art collection, which had been put up for sale by the reduced Italian duchy. Charles, a connoisseur among princes, could hardly resist such an opportunity. But he’d been forced to make a choice: the paintings or the reinforcements for Buckingham. He could not afford both. The king was already in debt to the tune of 125,000 pounds, and his Italian banker, Filippo Burlamacchi, was ready to cut him off. “If it were for £2,000 or £3,000 it could be borne, but for £15,000”—the cost of the paintings—“besides the other engagements for his Majesty’s service, it will utterly put me out of any possibility to do anything in those provisions which are so necessary for My Lord Duke’s relief,” wrote the financier. “I pray let me know his Majesty’s pleasure.” His Majesty chose the Raphaels and Titians of Mantua, his friend be damned. When Rubens later found out about the purchase, he was appalled. “This sale displeases me so much that I feel like exclaiming,” he wrote. But it was the fate of those beloved Mantuan masterworks that concerned him, not the life of the duke. He hated to see the old city lose its artistic legacy.