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.
Bacon could hardly doubt any more where all this was leading. He made up his mind. He was a beginner; and it was for him “to adhere so moderately, as he be a man of the one faction, which is passablest with the other.” He wrote to Burghley. He wrote with deliberation and subtle care. “I thought,” he said, “it would better manifest what I desire to express, if I did write out of a settled consideration of mine own duty, rather than upon the spur of a particular occasion.” He mingled flattery and gratitude, touching upon “your Lordship’s excellent wisdom,” and adding, “My singular good Lord, ex abundantia cordis, I must acknowledge how greatly and diversely your Lordship hath vouchsafed to tie me unto you by many your benefits.” In a tone of deep respect and humility, he pressed his services upon his uncle. “This causeth me most humbly to pray your Lordship to believe that your Lordship is upon just title a principal owner and proprietary of that, I cannot call talent, but mite, that God hath given me; which I ever do and shall devote to your service.” He even begged for forgiveness; he even dissociated himself - with an ameliorating parenthesis - from his brother Anthony. “In like humble manner I pray your Lordship to pardon mine errors, and not to impute unto me the errors of any other (which I know also themselves have by this time left and forethought); but to conceive of me to be a man that daily profiteth in duty.” And he closed with a final protestation, cast in a sentence of superb rhythm, with a noble and touching fall. “And so again, craving your Honour’s pardon for so long a letter, carrying so empty an offer of so unpuissant a service, but yet a true and unfeigned signification of an honest and vowed duty, I cease; commending your Lordship to the preservation of the Divine Majesty.”
Burghley’s answer is unknown to us; but we may be sure that he did not repel these advances, nor fail to note their implications. Events were now moving rapidly. The death of old Lord Cobham, by leaving vacant the Wardenship of the Cinque Ports, brought the crisis to a head. His son, the new Lord, hoped to succeed to the office; but he was hated by Essex, who pressed the claims of Sir Robert Sidney. For a week the conflict raged, and then the Queen announced her decision: the Wardenship should go to Lord Cobham. Thereupon Essex declared once more that he would leave the Court - that he had pressing business in Wales. All was prepared; men and horses were ready, and the Earl was only waiting to bid farewell to Burghley, when he was sent for by the Queen. There was a private interview, which ended in a complete reconciliation; and Essex emerged Master of the Ordnance.
So this was the consequence of Francis Bacon’s advice! He had told the Earl to pretend a journey, in order to be able to waive it gracefully at the request of the Queen; and the foolish man had done the very opposite - had used it as a threat with which to force the royal hand. And to what end? To pursue what was most to be avoided - to emphasise that “militar dependence” which was at once so futile and so full of danger - nay, even to get possession of that very office, the Mastership of the Ordnance, which he had been particularly recommended to shun.
Clearly, the letter to Burghley was justified; it had become imperative for a “beginner” to acquire some other aid to the good things of this world besides what was offered by the dubious fortune of Essex. Yet it would be foolish to abandon the old connection altogether; it might still prove useful, in a variety of ways. For instance, Sir William Hatton was dead; he had left a rich widow - young and eligible; to marry her would be an excellent cure for that disease from which Bacon was still suffering - consumption of the purse. Negotiations were set on foot, and it seemed as if all might end happily, if the lady’s father, Sir Thomas Cecil, could be brought to agree. Bacon begged Essex to use his influence; and Essex did all that he was asked. He wrote to Sir Thomas, expatiating upon the merits of his “dear and worthy friend” who, he had heard, was “a suitor to my Lady Hatton, your daughter.” “To warrant my moving of you to incline favourably to his suit, I will only add this, that if she were my sister or daughter, I protest I would as confidently resolve myself to farther it, a
s now I persuade you. And though my love to him be exceedingly great, yet is my judgment nothing partial; for he that knows him so well as I do cannot but be so affected.” Yet, once more, the Earl’s influence was unavailing; for some unknown cause, Bacon was again disappointed; and Lady Hatton, like the Attorney-Generalship, went to Edward Coke.
Essex had not only been made Master of the Ordnance; he had also been given the command of the expedition against Spain. For months it had been known that the Spaniards had been busy with elaborate naval preparations in their great adjoining harbours of Corunna and Ferrol. The destination of the new Armada was unknown - perhaps it was Africa, or Brittany, or Ireland; but there were persistent reports that an attack was to be made on the Isle of Wight. It was decided to forestall the danger. Essex, with Raleigh and Lord Thomas Howard under him, was to take the fleet and a powerful armed force to Ferrol, and destroy all that he found there. The Cadiz adventure, in short, was to be repeated; and why not? The Queen herself believed that it might be done - cheaply, effectively and quickly. Even the Cecils agreed. Reconciliation was in the air. Burghley acted as peace-maker, and brought his son and the Earl together. Essex gave a little dinner at his house, to which was bidden not only Sir Robert, but Walter Raleigh as well. The enmities of years were laid aside; and, in a private conclave of two hours, the three great men bound themselves together in friendship. As a final proof of good-will, it was agreed that Elizabeth should be persuaded to take Raleigh once more into her favour. She yielded, readily enough, to the double pressure; he was summoned to her presence, graciously received, and told that he might resume his duties as Captain of the Guard. Raleigh celebrated the occasion by having made for him a suit of silver armour; and so once more, superb and glittering, the dangerous man stood in the royal antechamber at Whitehall.
And now it was summer, and the great fleet was almost ready to depart. Essex was on the coast, superintending the final preparations. He had taken his farewell of the Queen; but for a fortnight more he was in England, and the adieux were continued till the last moment in an impassioned correspondence. Difficulties, dangers, griefs there might be in that ambiguous relationship; but now absence seemed to make all things clear. Elizabeth was at her benignest. She sent off a stream of gifts and messages, she sent her portrait, she wrote constantly with her own hand. Essex was happy - active, important, excited; the great Queen, with all her majesty and all her affection, appeared before his imagination like some radiant fairy. She was his “most dear and most admired Sovereign.” He could not express his feelings; but, since “words be not able to interpret for me, then to your royal dear heart I appeal, which, without my words, can fully and justly understand me. Heavens and earth shall witness for me. I will strive to be worthy of so high a grace and so blessed a happiness.” He was tied to her “by more ties than ever was subject to a prince.” His soul was “poured out with most earnest, faithful, and more than most affectionate wishes.” He thanked her for her “sweet letters, indited by the spirit of spirits.” She had heard a report that his ship leaked, and wrote to him in alarm to bid him take precautions against the danger. He was in Plymouth, on the eve of departure, when her letter reached him. “That infinite love,” he wrote, “which I bear your Majesty makes me now love myself for your favour’s sake; and therefore, be secure, dear Lady, that I will be as useful to bring myself home to you, as you would have me be.” There was no danger, he assured her; the wind was favourable; all was ready; they were about to sail. “I humbly kiss your royal fair hands,” he concluded, “and pour out my soul in passionate jealous wishes for all true joys to the dear heart of your Majesty, which must know me to be your Majesty’s humblest and devoutest vassal, Essex.” The fleet set out to sea.
IX
King Philip sat working in the Escurial - the gigantic palace that he had built for himself, all of stone, far away, high up, amid the desolation of the rocky Guadarrama. He worked incessantly, as no monarch had ever worked before, controlling from his desk a vast empire - Spain and Portugal, half Italy, the Netherlands, the Western Indies. He had grown old and white-haired in his labours, but he worked on. Diseases had attacked him; he was tortured by the gout; his skin was cankered, he was the prey of a mysterious and terrible paralysis; but his hand moved over the paper from morning till night. He never emerged now. He had withdrawn into this inner room of his palace - a small room, hung with dark green tapestries - and there he reigned, secret, silent, indefatigable, dying. He had one distraction, and only one; sometimes he tottered through a low door into his oratory beyond and kneeling, looked out, through an inner window, as it were from a box of an opera, into the enormous spaces of a church. It was the centre of his great building, half palace and half monastery, and there, operatic too in their vestments and their movements and their strange singings, the priests performed at the altar close below him, intent upon their holy work. Holy! But his work too was that; he too was labouring for the glory of God. Was he not God’s chosen instrument? The divine inheritance was in his blood. His father, Charles the Fifth, had been welcomed into Heaven, when he died, by the Trinity; there could be no mistake about it; Titian had painted the scene. He also would be received in a similar glorious fashion; but not just yet. He must finish his earthly duties first. He must make peace with France, he must marry his daughter, he must conquer the Dutch, he must establish everywhere the supremacy of the Catholic Church. There was indeed a great deal still to do, and very little time to do it in - he hurried back to his table; and it must all be done by himself, with his own hand.
His thoughts rushed round, confused and crowded. Not one was pleasant now. He had forgotten the fountains of Aranjuez and the eyes of the Princess of Eboli. Obscure incentives obsessed and agonised his brain - religion, pride, disappointment, the desire for rest, the desire for revenge. His sister of England rose before him - a distracting vision! He and she had grown old together, and she had always eluded him - eluded his love and his hate. But there was still just time; he would work more unrelentingly than ever before; and he would teach her - the unspeakable woman, with her heretic laughter - before he died, to laugh no longer.
That indeed would be a suitable offering with which to meet the Trinity. For years he had been labouring, with redoubled efforts, towards this end. His great Armada had not succeeded in its mission; that was true; but the reverse had not been an irreparable one. The destruction of Cadiz had also been unfortunate; but neither had that been fatal. Another Armada should be built and, with God’s blessing, should achieve his purpose. Already he had accomplished much. Had he not been able, within a few months of the fall of Cadiz, to despatch a powerful fleet to Ireland, with a large army to succour the rebels there? It was unluckily a fact that the fleet had never reached Ireland, owing to a northerly gale, that more than twenty ships had sunk and that the remains of this second Armada had returned discomfited to Spain. But such accidents would happen, and why should he despair so long as the Trinity was on his side? With incredible industry he had set to work to have the fleet refitted in the harbour of Ferrol. He had put Martin de Padilla, the Governor (Adelantado) of Castile, in command of it, and Martin was a pious man, even more pious than Medina Sidonia. By the summer of 1597 it seemed as if the third Armada should be ready to start. Yet there were unaccountable delays. The Council sat in solemn conclave, but its elaborate discussions appeared, for some reason or other, not to help things forward. There were quarrels, too, among the commanders and officials; all were at loggerheads, without any understanding of the great task on which they were engaged. King Philip alone understood everything. His designs were his own secret; he would reveal them to no one; even the Adelantado, enquire as he would, should not be told the destination of the fleet. But there was to be no more of this procrastination. The Armada must sail at once.
Then came most disturbing news. The English fleet was being equipped; it was being assembled at Plymouth; very soon it would be on the high seas. And there could be little doubt of its objective; it
would sail straight for Ferrol, and, once there - what was to prevent it? - the story of Cadiz would be repeated. The Adelantado declared that nothing could be done, that it was impossible to leave the harbour, that the preparations were altogether inadequate, that, in fact, he lacked everything, and could not face an enemy. It was exasperating - the pious Martin seemed to have caught Medina Sidonia’s tone. But there was no help for it; one must face it out, and trust in the Trinity.
News came that the fleet had left Plymouth; and then - there was a miracle. After a terrifying pause it was known that a south-westerly gale had almost annihilated the English, whose ships, after ten days, had returned, with the utmost difficulty, into harbour. King Philip’s Armada was saved.
The storm had indeed been an appalling one. The Queen in her palace had shuddered, as she listened to the awful wind; Essex himself had more than once given up his soul to God. His escape was less fortunate than he imagined; he was to be overwhelmed by a more terrible disaster; and the tempest was only an ominous prologue to the tragedy. With the fatal freshening of that breeze his good luck was over. From that moment misfortune steadily deepened upon him. By a curious coincidence the storm which ushered in such dreadful consequences has received a peculiar immortality. Among the young gentlemen who had sailed with the Earl in search of adventures and riches was John Donne. He suffered horribly, but he determined to convert his unpleasant sensations into something altogether unexpected. Out of the violence and disruption of a storm at sea he made a poem - a poem written in a new style and a new movement, without sensuous appeal or classic imagery, but harsh, modern, humorous, filled with surprising realistic metaphor and intricate wit.
ELIZABETH AND ESSEX: a tragic history Page 10