“I go to Westminster to see the last of one of our swans,” Bacon calls out. “A black swan, it is true. But, then, black swans are very rare.”
All that is behind him now in time. Melancholy is memory. He is returning to York House, relieved that it was so easy.
Lord Bacon prefers to dine in the latest fashion, in one of the smaller chambers rather than in the vast hall. But he must surrender to necessity. Almost every dinner at York House is a feast. Such comings and goings of the great and those hungry for greatness at his water gate and gatehouse. And most of them accompanied by a retinue of servants, clerks, and others. And all with suits to press, favors to seek. And each, according to custom, with something to offer in return for Bacon’s consideration.
Never, even in the tall memories of his childhood, has York House seen such thronging. It is in keeping with the times. Bacon, unlike His Majesty, insists upon more ceremony and decorum from these suitors; his own little court becoming, as it were, a more elegant and suave shadow of the gaudy and uncontrollable Court of the King. Who—keep this a secret—may enjoy reassurance, a restoration of his oft threatened kingly esteem, by observing gentlemen and ladies turn into pigs before his eyes; who, if they cannot be ruled, can be shown to themselves to be the unruly victims of gross appetite. But Bacon’s little court at York House defends old customs. A conscience to the realm, like a Puritan conscience, though clothed in a surpassing brilliance and never disguised in sober blacks.
Shadow and conscience; yet more substantial than the Court itself. For it is here where men of affairs must come now.
When Bacon feels need of recreation and sweeter air he’s off to St. Albans, a score of miles northwest in Hertfordshire. Repairs to one of two houses on his father’s land: Gorhambury, which Sir Nicholas raised up and then added to extravagantly after the late Queen observed it was well situated and delightful, but too small for such a large man. And Francis Bacon’s smaller, new place, separate by a mile, Verulam House. There are oak groves, parks, and gardens. Ponds and pools, atingle with ripple and color of fish and waterfowl. Themes of shade, mazes in gardens, and the poetry of water. Sweet water comes, as his father wished, by pipes to each chamber of Gorhambury and Verulam. Gorhambury for fall and winter, Verulam for summer. Gorhambury as his father’s monument, not so grand or curious as Burghley House, to be sure, but magnificent with its windowed portico, its tall, slender, separate clock tower, richness of furnishings and hangings, the small perfect banquet house in the garden, where the theme of the frescoes celebrates the Liberal Arts; its gallery with colored glass depicting the flowers, birds, and beasts of India. No, not so imposing as Burghley House, just as Verulam is overtopped by both Theobalds and Hatfields. But neither place is so liable to catch the eye or spark the envy of the King or one of his favorites. Important men with suits to press are suitably impressed. Arriving at Gorhambury they may come and go on any of three parallel roads he has built from the highroad to Verulam, seven coaches abreast if need be.
But now the world comes to York House. To enter an ancient doorway, where, as upon the doors at Gorhambury, Bacon has fixed polished mirrors. Not merely extravagance and delight. But so all who enter may experience a recognition of themselves. A moment which can be of advantage; for Bacon insists upon not only elegance of appearance, but also an honest cleanliness. He will purse his lips and wrinkle nostrils at the least indication of slovenly indifference.
A last look at the door to be sure that all—seam of hose, line of doublet, lacing of sleeves, starched rigor of ruff and cuff, composition of curls, head, and beard—is correct and clean.
But Lord Bacon is more subtle. Mirrors serve to divert them to the inspection of themselves. So that at their entrance they may be filled with a sense of themselves reflected, seen by others, not as they imagine themselves to be. Not, in truth, as they may be, in naked body, quintessential soul, but in appearance only. Mere appearances, decorative figures from a painting, an arras, a painted ceiling.…
None so lacking in vanity that he (or she; for the ladies come also to seek favor or redress) will not be pleased at the image. Pleased and reassured. Yet even as they smile to greet themselves, they are touched by a cold, inward sinking.
A lesson in humility at the threshold, Bacon thinks, seeing himself in his fine robes, in his own mirrors.
There is no good lesson in humility to be learned by hair shirts, in sackcloth and ashes. Job in his nakedness, albeit blessed with a decorative pattern of boils and sores to relieve the uniform tallow of old flesh, naked amid ashes and potsherds, studied still to make himself perfect and was not humbled until at last a voice in the wind roared out the truth that the Almighty found no pleasure in his study. No, humility can easier be learned by and through indulgences of vanity. To see, and know in seeing, that nothing, not even literal perfection, is sufficient to merit anything beyond the brief attention of a powerfully busy man.
This truth underscored by the haughty usher, tallest servant of the household, clad in splendid livery, his Spanish boots six times scented in the making and scented daily in cleaning and polishing, his spotless gloves, with exquisite Flemish lace worked at the wrists, one hand casually, languidly beckoning, the other holding a white delicate ash wand. And not, as now, smiling and bowing, obsequious and deferential in greeting his master, who enters; but then a cold mask, a schoolmaster’s, reserved for them. Exactly—a schoolmaster’s. Making them small children in terror of having forgotten hard lessons committed to memory, feeling tardy, no matter how punctual. As with that languid glove in a practiced gesture he directs them to tiring rooms where they may hang coats and mantles on hooks and change from their boots or cork-soled shoes to soft slippers of velvet and ribbon before entering the hall and being directed to wait there or sent up the stairway to do a penance of patience in the gallery or in the isolation of some chamber. Until his lordship can see them, or, perhaps, send some clerk or servant, to hear them out in his behalf.
Bacon is neither much given to vanity, except the vanities of the mind, nor feels superior to all of these suitors. But he has been schooled by adverse Fortune into believing that, large or small, granted, denied, or deferred, suits must be heard in a theater of proper grandeur, in which they must whisper shyly like children at church; for their own satisfaction. It is not so much the outcome of suit, plea, petition, or cause that matters, though it may seem so to them. Nor, indeed, is it only the sense that they must be taken seriously. Rather the opposite, if the truth be known. They must be reassured that their suits are delivered at the proper place. As once men had spent the wealth, sweat, and half the stones of England to raise huge cathedrals, still standing, so that God Almighty could be properly housed. So that prayers might rise either to be heard or ignored, but always in a fitting and proper setting.
As the King is God’s Viceroy, so is Bacon the viceroy of the King. The King himself lacks stature and grandeur. Because of that Bacon must strive the more to increase his own; doing so in behalf of the King. Just so Mother Church long ago had embraced grandeur, with stained glasses and images and precious metals and odor of incense, seeking thereby to convey hints of grandeur of Paradise.
To what purpose and with what hope would anyone offer his prayers up to a carpenter, penniless, ne’er-do-well, who ended his days on a wooden cross so rudely made that any carpenter would disdain it?
It is not pride alone, but duty which demands that York House be worthy. Not for Bacon’s pleasure; for his deepest pleasure is in the company of men with quick minds and tongues to match, and, most of all, with books and the wonder of his own thoughts. It is little ease to dine at the raised table in the hall, tables packed with suitors, their servants, and his own, eager to be served a feast.
Though there is a design of pleasure in his choice, not quite an afterthought. Bacon loves music. And he has his musicians playing quiet accompaniment to his thoughts when he withdraws to his most private chambers, here or in the country, for meditation. Since he must have
a daily feast at York House, he might as well do so in the hall, where he can hear musicians playing from the minstrels’ gallery, screened above the stairway.
Good music is much solace. Medicine against the sight of knaves feeding off his abundance as if it has no end. Music’s a cordial against the thought of that abundance ever imperiled by more debts. Music can empty his mind from grievous consideration of ravenous mouths, of the greed with which the world seeks to devour itself.
No unseemly haste. Bacon’s dinner will not be hurried. Will last beyond two hours, possibly three.
Musicians are playing in the minstrels’ gallery. The larger number of guests and his own retinue are standing in an easy gathering, talking idly, separate from the hall by the fixed wooden screen: fine-carved, rich-worked, fit for nothing less than a cathedral, if its designs—conventional dolphins and other sea beasts, mermaids and Neptune, story of Jonah and the whale, our Lord walking upon water, and all embellished with scrolls and classical figures—are somewhat different. Candlebranches throw patterns of light, scrolls of shadow upon these carvings, the work of Italians. Whose craft, to his taste, though exceedingly dear, has more delicacy than Dutch work, which has been too much copied and become too commonplace.
There must be a wealth of light, twice the candles the King would require. For Lord Bacon cannot bear much shadow. When the moon is darkened, or that rarer thing, the sun, he is taken with fainting fits.
Near the foot of the stairway, separate from the lesser herd, shepherded by the usher, stand the favored few who will join him at his raised table.
Music fit for light dancing—though no dancing here—plays. Odors rise over the top of the screen to whet appetite and curiosity.
And who are the favored guests today waiting at the foot of the stairs? A group only Bacon can have joined together: one country Bishop, known for sermons, together with his canon; the Ambassador of a German duchy, together with the younger half brother of the Duke himself, a Spaniard; an old scholar from Cambridge, in academic robes; an herbalist from France of much repute, though as yet untranslated, here to see Lord Bacon’s planting; a knight born in Yorkshire and back from a year’s travel in the Levant, odd with his squat bluff figure, his seamed and sunburned Yorkshire face, a beetroot from alien air and sun, clad in a motley of English and Persian fashions; a young Venetian, dark and thin, his brave silks and jewels proclaiming him a bravo, said to be of the nobility, though traveling incognito here, said also to know much of music and musicians on the Continent; a portly London merchant with his wife, fat from his dealings in Flemish lace, German stoneware, Norwegian timber, Russian furs, Azores wines, the modest sobriety of their clothing belied by the few expensive stones she wears, the coif of her curls, the rings on his large hands—and he may not know it, but will perhaps one day pay the reckoning for this occasion, even others to which he was not invited.…
Through the narrow entrance of the screen, impeccable, most immaculate of all servants, clean as a virgin bride, the butler appears. He has seen to the setting of places, the linen and napery, the bread and salt. With utmost care he has set Lord Bacon’s table.
The crowd, apart from the few at the foot of the stairs who cannot see him, quiets as the butler tips a nod to the imperious and, by an hierarchical hair, inferior usher. What the usher does, then, no one can see, but the music fades away. And now the voices of those by the stairs seem loud. They glance at each other, then speak in whispers. The city merchant, with whom the French herbalist has been trying to converse in a bastard tongue of French and mispronounced English, coughs and catches the eyes of his wife, her round face, partly veiled and perfectly placid, and shrugs. And he tugs a chain to reveal a gold watch, half the size of a coconut shell.
The others who have seen this and the mild annoyance in the purse of his lips, gasp. The late Queen, who loved watches and clocks of all kinds, had nothing so grand. Perhaps it has chimes.… But if the chimes ring now, they will be wasted; for the sound of brass horns comes from the gallery, ripple of drums, and then in broken consort the musicians begin to play a pavane, stately and solemn.
There at the first landing, as if created by the usher’s pointing wand, stands Bacon. He has put aside robes of office. He is a surprising delight in a matching jerkin, winged with limp-hanging sham sleeves, and the new-style cloak-bag breeches, fringes hanging at the knee. All made of richest stuffs, and though sober of hue, shot and shimmering with patterns of gold and silver. The sleeves of his doublet beneath the jerkin are a startling tawny satin; behind the cuffs are a rank of tiny pearl buttons, and the cuffs wide and loose; and his falling ruff is snowy below the ends of his beard. The shoes are velvet mules, fur-trimmed, tawny rosettes of the same satin, each set in a flower pattern with a star of silver at the center. His hat is high-crowned, of narrow brim. Silk bands of ribbon brighten it above the brim, and an exquisite thing of feathers, made of a peacock’s tail, falls casually away, drooping with excess, behind his right ear.
For one moment he seems still as a picture portrait, but now descends, fixed smile, eyes shifting to the crowd by the door in greeting, as hats are doffed.
Behind him on the landing comes his steward and the steward’s wife, a secretary with a brace of pretty young ladies to make more pleasure and variety at table, and last of all his master of horse.
Bacon greets the favored guests, but his words are lost in the music. Turns then and leading the Bishop and Ambassador, the others following respectfully, moves toward the screen, and enters the hall.
His chief ewer steps forward, and liveried prentice boys assist him. They offer silver basins of scented hot and cold water and gleaming white cloths. Lord Bacon dips, carefully washes his hands, and wipes them dry. His guests follow suit. Lesser servants bear large basins of burnished brass and coarser cloths for the crowd of others who enter now behind Lord Bacon and his group. Who, strolling in time to the music as if idle in an April garden, move toward the raised table, where, nearest to the fire, they will face the others.
Deftly the usher guides each to his place.
Bacon stands before the salt, Florentine silver a foot high, set before his place. Eyes all in easy inspection. The tablecloth is a field of fresh snow in which, glittering in many-colored threads, has been worked the mythic story of Venus and Adonis. For the satiric sake of the huge boar, thus honoring his crest. Napkins are neat folded. Knives and spoons and, amazing, forks, polished like new-minted. No smudge or fingerprint upon them, no fleck of tarnish on the great salt. Likewise the silver plate. At this table each guest has one small loaf of the finest manchet bread, the crust scraped smooth and brown, not a fly-size burnt spot on any loaf.
Bacon sits down and the others follow. He turns to the Bishop on his right and speaks to him. The music eases out of hearing. The room is silent. Lord Bacon doffs his hat as does every man in the hall. The Bishop, nodding, as if speaking directly to the silver salt, says a grace:
“O Lord, who hast given us this day to enjoy the full abundance and bounty of harvest, the riches of Thy Creation, hear now our humble thanksgiving. Let the brightness and order of this ancient room, the light we here see brightly by …
not much light from windows of colored stained glass today save reflection of fire a multitude of silver candlesticks on lesser tables candlesticks (which even the King reserves for himself preferring wall candles and chandelier for general lighting) and oil lamps of sweet oil and bright flames brought from Italy
“… the untarnished richness of plate and glass …
behind him on buffets banked gleaming pieces of plate delicate gold rimmed Venetian glass and cups wrought of agate like seashells
“… all serve to remind us of the sweet order and brightness and the ineffable richness of Thy heavenly Kingdom.
above the mantel of the fireplace Bacons arms cunningly done in plaster and painted huge behind the praying Bishop’s head
“Let us, ever mindful of Thy Love and everlasting goodness, giving special thanks fo
r this day named in honor and celebration of the Apostles Simon and Jude, to whom all honor and glory in Paradise is due in Thy name; let us take comfort and spiritual sustenance even with our earthly nourishment, remembering that, as we feed flesh, we feed corruption to feed worms; but as we feed the famished spirit so do we grow tall toward eternity. For these, Thy corruptible gifts we are humbly grateful, O Lord, but most deeply for Thine own everlasting Love, the bread and wine of Thy body and Thy blood, salt of Thy Gospel, which shall never lose savor. We offer thanks and pray forgiveness for our manifold sins, trusting forever in our advocate and mediator, Jesus Christ. Amen …”
Before the muttered echoes of Amen have died the butler approaches Bacon’s chair, bows deep, uncovers Bacon’s loaf of bread and sets it beside the salt. Bacon breaks bread. Then a company of servants enters with the salads.
Noise of music, soft now, a lute or two, a viol, a virginal.…
Bacon turns to the Bishop.
“I must confess that my duties have distracted me. Until your prayer I had clean forgotten today is the feast of Simon and Jude.”
“I’ll wager that with your turn of mind, it is only the fixed feasts that slip the leash of memory.”
“It is true,” Bacon says with a laugh. “I can name you each movable feast for ten years to come.”
“Let us pray we shall both be here to enjoy them.”
“I’ll say Amen to that.”
“Tell me, what is the wine for today?”
“A Spanish red, a kind of Alicante. We have added to it a certain recipe of our own, spices, sugar, and ambergris.”
The Bishop is given an agate cup, holds it admiringly and sniffs the light aroma of spiced wine.
“When I was a boy we still drank from a wooden cup passed round the table.”
“And so do many who are not bishops,” Bacon says. “Taste it.”
The bishop takes two swallows and returns the cup to the servant.
Death of the Fox: a novel about Ralegh Page 41