To dance and to capture buttons is good exercise for eye and hand, but has not much to do with the craft of carving and killing.
In the last years of our Queen, after shrewd Burbage rebuilt the playhouse in an extraordinary grand style and brought the Children of the Chapel to play there, Ralegh came often to see them perform the plays of Jonson and Chapman and Marston.
And in ’17, fresh from the Tower but forbidden the Court, he could be where the Court often was. Came there to witness work of new men like Massinger, Beaumont and Fletcher. It was only then, when it would serve him to be seen, that he paid the high price and sat among gallants on the stage.
Plays were better seen in the suburb playhouses. But if you wish to see a play in the city—and how proper Londoners, those few, hate the stage!—you must settle for children. Who can sing and dance well, and be observed in comfort, with an intermission between the acts. And there at Blackfriars is the machinery for any kind of scenery and for daring celestial flights. But you must go back to Bankside for cannon fire and fireworks and booming of bass voices.
The end of London’s wall at the bank, River Fleet pouring sluggish water into the Thames.
Next Bridewell Palace, whose stones include those of Montfichet’s Norman castle. Bridewell rebuilt by Henry to house Charles V in splendor. But the Emperor preferred Blackfriars, and put his company and retainers in Bridewell. Its two courtyards and apartments now serving as a hospital, workhouse, prison, and a little Bedlam for fools and mad. So many these days that Bedlam will burst like a windy corpse wrapped in tight lead.
Almost a tavern for the district; for with the ancient sanctuary rights still reserved at Blackfriars and Whitefriars on either side, the place would soon be a new Bedlam if bishops and judges still lived there. Sign of the Stark Bedlamite, Bare-Arsed.…
It was this wildness and the stink of muddy lanes and the river rising by the moon in January and February (you could float a fair-size wherry in the hall, then plant a crop in the mud left behind when the river withdrew to its course) made Kings Henry and Edward give over Bridewell and Savoy Palace as well to charity.
Look left and south now to see, already behind as we cling close to the north bank, the landing of Paris Garden stairs leading up from the river. And near there the theater called The Swan.
Then, as the bank begins to bend south and west, that wide space of low ground, Lambeth Marsh, crossed by the track of the Roman road to New Haven. Tops and towers of Lambeth Palace.
Nearer to hand, rowing close by the bank now, is Whitefriars. Once friary of Carmelites, the brick now broken and repaired into lodgings for gentlemen of the Court. And the private playhouse, as in Blackfriars, there for pleasure.
Pleasures of Whitefriars are dimmed by the site. Lower and just below the terraces of Temple Garden, Whitefriars suffers from damp and fog and flooding. And in the press and crowd of old buildings the privilege of sanctuary has gathered an assembly of rogues of every kind. There are more alehouses and taverns than dwellings. By pitch dark the shouting and singing and tumult can guide a man here as safe as any burning beacon.
From one of these taverns, in the early days of James’ rule, two servants of the Scots Lord Sanquhar waited to follow the English fencing master, John Turner, to his house and to waylay him. Not with sword and dagger. For John Turner, though drunk as a wheelbarrow, could have carved them up like capons. No, they murdered him with pistols.
They were quickly found and taken. Confessed they were paid by Sanquhar. Who had by accident lost an eye, and with it, he imagined, his honor, in practice with Turner.
A great scandal, then; for the English were much outraged at the swarm of Scots nobility who had come down, like a flock of hungry corbies, upon them.
“The beggars have come to town,” the London rhyme went. “Some in rags and some in tags. And some in velvet gowns.”
And all the skeptical-minded, meaning every man jack and knave in London and Westminster, waiting to see what action the King would take.
The King, weary of the Scotsman and needing a bone to throw to English pride, gave Sanquhar over to English law. Whereupon all learned a thing or two.
Lord Sanquhar learned he might hold title in Scotland, but none in England. He stood trial as Robert Crichton, to hang as a common felon.
And the King learned that his gesture was not taken as a generous gift but a right.
And the English learned that the King would let a man of his own hang if the death served a turn.
What James had not learned then—and who could learn it unless it was already part of the marrow of his bones?—was the paradoxical nature of Englishmen. Who would not, will not, cannot be reasonably pleased. They might have been half pleased by clemency. For no man but a savage brute is a steadfast opponent to mercy, the more so since mercy is the King’s right. And, curious, though muttering against his mercy, they might have begun to love him more. For he would have confirmed their doubts and skepticism.
To flatter a man’s worst opinion of yourself may be an end to distrust, if not the beginning of friendship.
They might have honored, even as they professed contempt for it, the common humanity which will sometimes permit a man to ignore principles and policy out of loyalty to old friends.
The English are most difficult for strangers to understand. The trick being that at bare-arse bottom they are single- and simple-minded.
Poor James, he will die without knowing the English are easy to please.…
Now here are Temple Gardens, sloping down toward the bank. With the water gate of Temple Stairs ahead. Where a few scholars in gowns are calling for watermen.
Why, come aboard this barge, young gentlemen. We are for Westminster, where you may learn some law not taught in readings and moots. Come join us at Westminster Hall, where a suit may hang for half a year before a half-hour’s hanging at Tyburn will end it.…
Temple Stairs, where so many times he has stepped to shore to walk up the lane to Middle Temple. Where, for a time, scholar or no, he kept commons regular, even attended readings and moots when he could not avoid it. But was never called by the benchers to be a barrister.
Now thinks he would willingly bid his present companions farewell to walk up that lane and turn in at the gate with the arms of Cardinal Wolsey above it and, on the sides, the arms of Middle Temple, a red cross on a white ground with an image of the Paschal Lamb center. Arms of the Knights Templars.
The Christmas revels, commencing with learned benchers and judges and the Lord Chancellor of England himself, are led by the Master of Revels, to dance three times around a smoky sea coal fire.
And we drank deep, and at Middle Temple there was more playing at dice than any tavern in London. With London on the one side and the Court upon the other a young man need not stir far to divert himself.
A most pleasant place to be for a time. Unless, like Edward Coke, of Inner Temple, you must chain yourself to a seat, as rarest volumes are locked and chained, and squint yourself half blind in study.
Wonder now, those years ago at Winchester, whether Coke was lightly pricked by one oblique dart—“Is it not strange for me to make myself Robin Hood or Kett or Jack Cade?” Coke must have cursed Jack Cade one thousand times over. Having found the trace of his crude hand in many blank spaces. For that traitor hated all lawyers. And when his men came to London they prowled the Temple and the lawyers’ chambers and houses, burning every piece of paper they could find.
Old Coke in his studying must forever picture flames and fountains of smoke rising up to the sky. And, hidden in that smoke, a multitude of lost words.
Was it Cade or Wat Tyler? No matter. All traitors play mischief with the law. Yet, Sir Edward, the law is always the victor. Finding a precedent for even these.
Arms rightly taken by Middle Temple, for we alone of the Inns preserve the order of those military monks and dine, as they did, with the benchers at the raised table like knights, barristers ranked as brothers, and those who merely
keep commons as novices. Their ancient cow horn still calls to dinner. And we gather to dine in the hall, newest and finest of all the Inns. High and wide, all strutted with beams of best oak and gilded pendants. Oak paneling all around, and those panels glittering with arms and devices of famous men. Four large windows all around, glazed and decorated and one larger one stained, as it were, with the arms of men from here who have been Chief Justices of England.
Not so rich, nor so crowded, as Inner Temple. And, Lord, we were strict with rules and fines and observances! Must never fail in attendance at chapel. Must not wear more than three weeks of beard. Must ever be seen in the sad-colored gown with more pleats in the back than the wrinkles of Medusa. Must wear no silver buckles or velvet caps, boots or spurs, silk or furs or great ruffs and such. Though at Middle Temple we were permitted both sword and dagger.
I would willingly walk there now. Though I fear the porter would not admit me, not even to serve as a washpot.
If strict in observance of rules, we were equally exact in our pleasures. Especially in customs of revels at All Hallow’s Eve, Ascension, Candlemass, and, most fully, every night from Christmas Eve to Twelfth Night.
Now they have passed by unseen Temple Bar and are alongside the liberty of the duchy of Lancaster.
Here begins a splendid row of palaces, built along the river. Each with landing place and water gate, high-arched and ornamented. Each with gardens and muster of buildings and outbuildings. Each holding space between the strand and the river.
First Essex House—once Leicester House and before that the place of the Bishop of Exeter; now called after the rash Earl who rallied his men to go forth from here, then sadly returned to end this farce of rebellion. All in a day’s work.
Next comes Arundel House, built of and upon the palace of the bishops of Bath. Much repaired and amended by the young Earl as a place to contain his treasure of paintings and strange sculptured figures of unpainted stone.
Has he returned from Italy yet? He was a friend and may be yet, though he has lost his investment in the Guiana venture.…
Newer built, in trim, symmetrical Italian fashion, the stones of Somerset House. Not so high—the odd old towers of Burghley House behind it seem to sit upon the roof of this one—it is spacious enough to have needed the grounds once accorded to two bishops, Chester and Worcester. Its prospect is toward the river and the south, not being built Janus-faced like the others of this row.
The King has given it to Queen Anne, and all are commanded now to call it Denmark House. But many forget the new name. The Queen herself, out of forgetfulness or modesty or both, calls it by the old name.
And here’s the Savoy, the hospital built into the shell and ruins of the palace of John of Gaunt, once looted and pillaged and burnt by Wat Tyler’s men.
At Ivy Bridge is Robert Cecil’s house, which some call Salisbury for his title, newest built of all along this row. Fine brickwork and timber and a wonder of windows.
And each and all of these, excepting, of course, the Savoy, if not new-built, then all rebuilt and repaired and furnished in the finest fashion. With tapestry for the walls, paintings and portraits and carved figures. Kingly displays of plate and jewels and curiosities. All furniture of fine wood and veneer and inlay; turkey carpets enough to clothe half of London’s poor. Plastered ceilings and painted and gilded timbers. With least sunlight or lighting of candles, these rooms spring to life and dance with color as if to music, composed not of notes and harmonies, but of the colors of the rainbow.
Wide stairways made for easy, proud walking. Heavy and solid as ship timbers with their rich-carved banisters and newel posts.
Floors strewn with clean fresh rushes and the rushes scented with herbs—saffron, rosemary, meadowsweet—to sweeten the air.
Places created for feasts and dancing, music and singing, and late hours with cards and nuts and fruits and good wine.
Each made to represent the image of earthly paradise, salute to, symbol of lost Eden. In keeping with which image, each has its enclosed garden with the trees and flowers, fruits and herbs of all England and half the world growing, well tended there. Each with paths and mazes of hedges, its sundials and figures and fountains and ponds, secret jets d’eau for laughter’s sake.
Stroke by stroke, even and steady, the oars rise, dip, pull, rise, and feather again. Moving in concord together. Moving to another music of time.
Two times are a counterpoint. His own, a lifetime in little, a walk and a turn in the gallery of his mind. And the future sits silent beside him, written upon the faces, set like masks, of Apsley and Wilson.
And even as oars mark time, there is the sum of the time of the bargemen, looking past him, back toward the dwindling tops of the Tower and the shrinking bridge. Pulling strong together as they ride with the still rising time of the tide and against the time of the river’s flowing. As they stroke and pull they are the inhabitants of past and future. Or perhaps they think nothing at all, feeling only strain of sinew and muscle, fresh sweat on their faces.
Stroke by stroke they are easing past the water gate and Durham House. Which—and that’s another time indeed—was his.
Outwardly built in the fashion of castles, for the Bishop, with round towers, turrets, and battlemented plain walls of gray stone. And Ralegh kept it that way. His concession to fashion being the marble arch in bastard Italian style at the water gate. Kept the face and expression of Durham House as he found it.
Because it pleased him. And also because he enjoyed the contrast with the others along the row. At a great distance, from any direction, his house, just within bounds of Westminster, would, by contrast, catch the eye.
And kept it so, as well, for the sake of increasing the pleasures of surprise. For behind those walls he ripped out and gutted the innards and spent a fortune in building and furnishing until, in truth, nothing except the chambers of the Queen shone so bright or bold.
Outside a kind of disguise. Within the secret was revealed with stunning surprise and delight. Those stones of Durham House told nothing. Just as an oak or cedar chest, locked and dusty, tells nothing of what it may contain—a king’s ransom in treasure, or rags and tatters and broken things.
Likewise the garden. Where he planted and kept strange fruits and flowers, shrubs and trees from all the world. His covered and carefully tended orange trees gave good fruit. And one was a marvel, a single tree growing oranges and lemons and limes and all their sweet kin, hanging like many-colored baubles there.
Bess never liked Durham House. Too damp for her there. Too close to Court, from which she was barred.
Yet he spent happy hours alone in the small turret which he had remade into a kind of shore cabin, with books and charts, paper and pen and instruments, and a powerful eyeglass to enjoy a long view of the river and a closer look at the heavens by night.
Perhaps that was the reason Durham House made Bess unhappy. With one sweep of a glass from the turret he could see the ships coming and going. She would feel him catching a seafarer’s itch to be off again.
In his best days he lived there lordly, with a host of good-weather friends, and some true ones as well. Had forty serving men to wear his colors and arms. Which was more men, twice over, than the warders of the Tower.
Well, thanks to the wheel of Fortune and the King’s whim, it belongs to the bishops of Durham again. Thanks to Robert Cecil’s speculations, the New Exchange now stands on part of the grounds.
Comes now York House, home of lord keepers and lord chancellors. And again the residence, after a sojourn in the wilderness, of Sir Francis Bacon.
At last, here is Whitehall. Spacious palace and buildings. Splendid tower of the chapel rising. Largest of palaces in Christendom, they say. And it will be larger by far if Mr. Inigo Jones has his way and the King finds the money to humor the builder.
The late Queen loved this place in its season. There were festive times here all through her reign. Even into the fading twilight.
Sound the t
rumpets to announce the feast. For she loved the tones of the trumpet. Games in the gardens. And some of them were innocent enough. Sport in the afternoon—bowling and fencing, fortunes wagered on the bounce of a tennis ball. Masques and pageants, feasts in the old banquet house. Coming and going, with flourish and ruffles, great ones from all the world. Cards and dancing and music and long walking in the gallery in the evening and in times of bad weather. What a wonder it had been!
Memory of Christmas Revels there, like a string of prayer beads, waking dreams interrupted only by real ones. And a young man seldom need sleep alone.
Giving of gifts to the Queen upon Twelfth Night. All in the Court, from Lord Chancellor and Keeper of the Great Seal to lowliest servant, striving to catch her eye and win approval with the finest gift they could, each exceeding his means. Tables groaning with the weight of gifts and the Queen, like a child, laughing and touching and counting. Never forgetting the giver, for good or ill.
The Queen recovered her fire that Twelfth Night at the end of the century. Twelfth Night was the last night of Revels in those days. James, they say, will one day soon have to abolish Lent to prolong Revels until Easter.
Twelfth Night in Whitehall Palace the whole Court was there and likewise two most distinguished strangers. A befurred and thick-bearded Muscovite lord, a man disguised as a bear, come to be the new Ambassador. The other, young and trim, slim of waist, broad of shoulder, tuned and well-turned of leg, dressed like a prince and perfectly tailored, an Italian, the Duke of Bracciano. He brought some light back into her eyes.
After a feast, they gathered in the hall to see a play by William Shakespeare. Who, if he lacked the learning and thunder of Kit Marlowe or the careful, calloused hands of Ben Jonson, had sweetness in his lines, could make a scene fit like a shoe or a glove, and could always turn a phrase as easy as he turned a profit. He could shake the platform with clowns and heroes and villains. Mr. Shakespeare, though solemn and correct, was ambitious. When he walked the boards as an actor, he played kings.
Death of the Fox Page 18