by Henry Kamen
Bound to his desk, he tried to emerge from time to time for fresh air. ‘I would like to go out into the country a bit today,’ went one note, ‘but I don't know if I can with what has come today, which is a great deal.’52 In April 1575 he passed a little scribble to the secretary: ‘I wasn't able to call you because I was finishing off some little things, and now it's rather late, and I'm going to take a much-needed spin round the countryside.’53 His papers are full of messages informing others that he has had enough and is going to take a break.
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Decision-making in sixteenth-century government was not what it is today. Modern governments have a ‘policy’ which they attempt to put into effect. At that time governments had no policy. They simply responded to events as the need arose. Because Philip is often credited with having a firm and aggressive policy, we should glance at his part in the decision-making process.
Top-level affairs of war, peace and rebellion were never in practice the sole preserve of the king. He referred everything, down to the smallest detail, to his councils and advisers. He never made decisions based only on his own opinion or preferences,54 but always insisted on adequate information and consultation before proceeding to action. Ambassador l'Aubespine stated that in 1559 when he raised a matter with the king, ‘he asked me (acting wisely, for fear of being caught in matters of which he has no information or instructions) to refer to his council for them to decide’.55 In the same way, Philip hesitated to make grave decisions until the force of events pointed in that direction. A subsequent French ambassador, Fourquevaux, commented that ‘he decides according to the way things turn out’, but that he preferred to judge matters from a distance rather than be pushed into them.56 ‘Very rarely does he depart from the advice of his ministers,’ ambassador Tiepolo noted, ‘but in the business of Flanders he has shown that he has little confidence in his councillors and has made many important decisions all by himself’.57 On this last point the Venetian ambassador was absolutely wrong. Important decisions were always referred to many people. The king never acted by himself, and never failed to consult before acting. A classic example is his intervention in the affairs of Aragon in 1591. From the outset, he consulted every relevant official throughout Spain, and did not move a finger without favourable advice. The point at which he did not shirk decision-making was when he had to choose between conflicting opinions. But it never occurred to him to make all decisions by himself.58
Low-level decisions were not always easy to arrive at. Much government activity was in response to petitions from subjects. The task of sorting through petitions was a formidable one, carried out initially by officials in the different realms or by secretaries in Madrid. Petitions which passed this first hurdle had to be accompanied by reports and information before they could be allowed into the relevant council. The process could be long. In nearly all cases, firm recommendations were made to the king. His decisions seldom reflected ‘policy’. More precisely, they were responses to the opinions of his advisers. The councils were in theory advisory bodies only, in the sense that the king was not obliged to follow their views. In practice, they made very many firm decisions, usually in administrative matters. In 1567 a diplomat complained that the king ‘never decides anything by himself but refers everything to his council; it is completely futile to go back to him over something the council has decided’.59
Whether decisions were big or small, the king of course accepted ultimate responsibility. Like many executives, he disliked this. He saw no reason, for example, why he should be held responsible for the quality of the bishops he appointed. Some other method of appointing them should be devised, he felt. Inevitably, he would often try to shift the responsibility, and blamed his advisers if things went wrong. This happened with finance, with Flanders, and with the Armada.
It is difficult to exaggerate the enormous range of commitments which the king took on his shoulders. The task, a superhuman one, could not be done without the help of a reliable network of officials and subordinates. At least three main levels of official made up the network of control and information in his monarchy. First, there were the governors or viceroys, located in regional capitals such as Brussels, Saragossa or Naples. They took orders directly from the king, but also linked up with the appropriate council in Madrid, and liaised directly with local organs of government. Second, there were diplomatic personnel, such as Bernardino de Mendoza or Francés de Álava in western Europe, Granvelle or Zúñiga in Rome, the count of Monteagudo in Vienna, who collected information, recruited agents and tried to defend Spain's interests. The diplomatic payroll also included diplomats from other nations, notably Imperial officials such as Dietrichstein and Wolf Rumpf,60 who cooperated with Philip and thereby extended Spain's influence into the German-speaking lands. Finally, there was a large team of unofficial agents, such as Martín de Acuña in Istanbul, who carried out specific missions when nobody else was available. Fray Lorenzo de Villavicencio falls into this final category. Thanks to all these, Philip was able to carry out an active foreign policy which was not limited to the Atlantic or Mediterranean, but extended even into the Baltic, Poland and Russia.
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Philip's only working language was Castilian; in this he was unlike his father, who spoke several languages fluently. He was conscious all his life of the deficiency, but never remedied it. It contributed to the tight-lipped impression he gave Italians, Germans and Netherlanders during the tour of 1548. In England in 1554 he ‘never departs from his native Spanish’. Once when a lord wrote to him in English, he replied saying that to avoid the need for translation all confidential letters should be in French or Latin.61 His situation was not unusual. The Castilian elite were extremely poor linguists.62 When Philip was in the Netherlands in 1550, the Castilian students at Louvain university stuck to speaking Spanish among themselves instead of trying to learn French or Dutch.63 Secretary Zayas in 1574 could find nobody suitable to appoint as ambassador to the emperor, since not a single Castilian grandee knew German and none could speak Latin. Eventually they had to appoint the Valencian Juan de Borja, who was not a grandee but at least could speak Latin.64 For sensitive diplomatic contacts where a knowledge of languages might be an advantage Spain tended to use Netherlanders (like Jean Baptiste de Tassis),65 Franche-Comtois (like Chantonnay), Catalans and others who habitually spoke more than one tongue.
Italian ambassadors spoke to him in Italian and he understood (they said) ‘without difficulty’.66 French ambassadors (and also his wife Elizabeth) spoke to him in French, which he understood for the most part. Germans addressed him in Latin, but the more proficient quickly learned Spanish. In Augsburg in 1550 the princes and electors were ordered by the emperor to address Philip only in French, since some had maliciously addressed him in German. The prince for his part replied only in Latin.67 Then and later, he normally conversed with foreigners in Castilian. He himself spoke no Italian or French, though he read both without problems. Years later, commenting on his lack of French, he said: ‘it was for lack not of will but of ability. I understand it well enough but never dared to speak it.’68 His spoken Latin was of very average quality. The Venetian ambassador in 1557 judged charitably that it was ‘superior to what is habitual among princes’.69 We may presume that he understood some Catalan, since he had links with the Requesens household and also sat through debates of the Corts, where the Catalans always spoke in their own language. He picked up the essentials of Portuguese from his mother, and understood it well, but avoided speaking it. He told his children, all the same, that ‘you should try to understand Portuguese’.70
When it came to studying very long memorials and letters in French and Italian, he seldom coped. He preferred such papers to be translated. In any case, translations were essential if other members of the government were to be able to read the text. When in 1577 just after the death of Hopperus a document in French came from Flanders, neither the king nor any of his ministers could read it, and it had to be set aside until someone c
ould translate it.71 Now and then he indulged his vanity by correcting French words in letters. On one occasion, he disagreed with a secretary translating the word ‘head’ by ‘tayte’: ‘head,’ he noted, ‘is not tayte but tête.’72 Inevitably he used his secretarial staff when documents had to be composed in other tongues. Some of his Latin letters, however, he composed himself. One night he called Gracián in to correct a letter he had just written to the duke of Bavaria.73 Merely to have composed it was, in Castile, an achievement. Among the Castilian aristocracy of his day few could handle Latin, and almost none Greek.74 On occasion, Philip put his hand to translation. In 1574 when the Imperial ambassador, Hans Khevenhüller, came to Madrid with a sheaf of confidential documents written in Latin, king and ambassador sat down together and translated the lot into Castilian, ‘because of the confidentiality and importance of the subject’.75
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Philip's personal character cannot be separated from his role as king. He was called ‘prudent’ by his biographers because they saw in him the quality of caution. His slowness in making decisions was, with reason, strongly criticised by those who worked with him. It was part of his nature. ‘He who rushes matters in difficult circumstances,’ he advised his ambassadors, ‘loses credibility (reputación)’.76 His caution and slowness were, clearly, dictated by the circumstances in which he had to rule. Elizabeth of England was also criticised for the same reasons. But Philip was not indifferent to the value of time. His repeated comments show it. He had in his bedroom two ornamental clocks ‘that faced him by day and by night and that dictated all the actions of this king’.77
Philip was by temperament tranquil, subdued and always in control of himself. For the rest, his character was utterly normal. The point must be made because of the vast quantity of writing, from his day to ours, that has affirmed the contrary.78 He lacked neither humour nor vivacity. He enjoyed celebrations, feasts, dances and jousts. He delighted in the outdoor life, in riding, hunting and walking. His fondness for women was evident (he was scrupulously faithful to only one of his wives, Anna), but all his pleasures were indulged in discreetly. Some observers referred to his subdued nature as ‘melancholic’, but the king seems not to have suffered serious melancholy or depression. The outstanding exceptions to this are his reactions to the arrest of Don Carlos, and his response to the Armada defeat.
His reticence has sometimes been seen as indicating a feeling of inferiority. Philip has been presented as essentially shy and withdrawn, afraid of stronger personalities.79 There is no substance whatever to this. All his life he was a man of silences. He spoke little, and when he did he always expressed himself carefully and courteously. It was precisely his silence that unnerved others. In audience with him, they were given the right to speak first, which made them feel immediately under scrutiny. Worse, the king never interrupted, waiting until the end before he responded, no matter how long the speech.80 ‘He listens patiently,’ a diplomat observed in 1567. ‘He is amiable to those who speak to him, and accompanies his replies with a friendly smile.’81 More than one French ambassador was thrown off balance by this politeness. His perfect courtesy was natural and habitual. If addressed by a lady of degree, he immediately removed his hat. On his way to Saragossa in 1585, he was received by the duchess of Infantado and her ladies at the ducal palace in Guadalajara. The speeches of welcome from the duchess, and then from her daughter, were long. ‘His Majesty took off his cap and remained uncovered with all the courtesy in the world’ while the speeches lasted.82
His quietness was also disconcerting. In his audiences, he spoke ‘in such a low voice that although we were very close we could not hear him’.83 Unlike other rulers of the day, such as the pope, Elizabeth of England or Henry IV of France, who gave vent in their audiences to a whole range of emotions, Philip remained always quiet and courteous. Confronted by this silence, even Teresa of Avila was unnerved. ‘I began to speak to him when his penetrating gaze, of those that penetrate to the soul, settled on me, so I lowered my eyes and rapidly stated what I wanted.’ The king's reserve was natural, not affected. He was aware that it made others uneasy, and usually avoided looking at petitioners,84 in order not to confuse them. On several occasions the poet Alonso de Ercilla tried to express himself to Philip but was disconcerted by the royal gaze. The king told him finally, ‘Don Alonso, speak to me on paper.’85 His courtesy was genuine. He tried to be available for consultation. Once when he had to cancel an appointment he hastily told the secretary to inform the petitioner that ‘I am not angry, but simply do not have the time I wanted in which to see him’.86
His reserve in speech probably arose from his hyperactive mental processes, for his mind had an enormous capacity for storing and using information. He absorbed data from an incredible number of sources, as his ministers and officials never ceased to point out with wonderment. In the course of his letters, he would come across little things, errors of fact or of phrasing, which he could not comment on verbally to those responsible and would therefore annotate. His irritated comments were not a concern for the trivial, as is sometimes assumed.87 He talked through his pen, and trifles had their normal part in the discourse. Details were never, for him, crucial, and never indulged in to the detriment of the broad view. He seldom lost the overall vision of his strategy. With so much material in his head he was, almost literally, lost for words.
The reticence made an unfavourable impact on some foreigners during Philip's first European visit. But it did not signify timidity. He stood up to his father from the moment he was competent to make his own decisions, and to every other personage he disagreed with. If he distanced himself from his half-brother Don Juan, it was not (as legend would have it) because he feared him, but because he did not sympathise with his highly volatile character. His own self-control in matters of public behaviour was exemplary. His external serenity complemented his natural taciturnity.
There is no evidence to justify the image of a grave and solemn, almost funereal, Philip. Legends about his melancholy extend to his manner of dress.88 A common view, based it seems on his portraits, holds that his state of mind made him prefer to dress always in black. He can be seen in black in the splendid portrait (c.1575), now in the Prado,89 by Sofonisba Anguisciola. Throughout his life he had a preference for the colour for solemn occasions. On his grand tour in 1548, when he was barely in his twenties, he frequently dressed in a combination of black and gold. Black helped to set off the Golden Fleece round his neck and the colours of other ornaments on his person. When he went to Barcelona in 1564 he was dressed in black velvet, with a white feather in his cap. When he received the Venetian ambassadors in an audience in Madrid in 1571 he was dressed partly in silver, with a black silk doublet surmounted by the Golden Fleece. But his equally frequent use of other colours, such as red and white for his wedding to Elizabeth, disprove the theory of melancholy. Black, in any case, had a special significance in Spain. It had to be worn for at least a year whenever there was a death in the family. Philip had more than his fair share of mourning. When the rest of Seville was celebrating his visit in 1570, he was still dressed in black for his son and his wife, deceased two years before.90 But his smile, observers in the city noted, could not have been happier. The truth is that it was difficult for artists to catch the king at a moment when he was not in mourning.
He gave no priority to wearing the colour and on one occasion he positively disapproved. The ambassador of Savoy, who came to the Escorial in 1583 with the proposal of his master's marriage to the Infanta Catalina, happened to be wearing black in mourning for the death of his wife that month. Philip received the proposal happily enough, but later took the ambassador aside and criticised him sharply for wearing a colour quite unbecoming to the good news he was bringing.91 The miserable ambassador fled to Madrid. It is possible that the king took to wearing black more habitually after the death of Anna. A notable exception to this, however, would be the colourful portrait, for which he presumably sat, of him as king of Portugal.
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Although he was uniformly courteous to his colleagues and subordinates he never exuded warmth. His contemporary Henry IV of France had an expansive, affable personality which aroused both love and devotion in his comrades. Philip was different. He refrained from confiding too closely in any of those around him. Well aware that they too had their own volatility and shifted their allegiance, he preferred not to identify with them. He extended his total confidence only to his sisters María and Juana. Of his subordinates, the only one to whom he possibly opened his thoughts was Mateo Vázquez. The king's annotations on correspondence were a manner of thinking aloud, rather than a deliberate baring of feelings. He did not invite an answer. ‘There is no need to reply,’ he scribbled once to Vázquez. ‘I am writing only to relax from weighty matters with you.’92 ‘I am writing only to relax’ was a phrase repeated more than once. Complaining to paper was good therapy. He probably expressed the naked truth only to his confessor Diego Chaves. Their correspondence was seized and destroyed shortly after Chaves died.