During my first fifteen or twenty years I witnessed the winding down of the British Empire as more and more territories claimed their independence. My contemporaries saw our troops engaged in “policing” duties in countries where they were not welcome and in most cases never had been. The Empire was all over and we learned how unpopular we had made ourselves during all those years in which we had been told how grateful “lesser breeds without the law” were for the benign protection of the Union flag. Increasingly the media began to tell by what mixture of illusion and force that impression had been maintained.
When I began to write my own fiction it would half consciously be about ancient Empires (like Elric’s Melni-bone) which had reached the end of their power; about the pomp and ceremony that maintained them in their power and glory; about the lies and violence that had discouraged dissent. My stories of Lieutenant Bastable and the giant airships of the Pax Britannica, of Jerry Cornelius and the cynical arguments of discredited authority of the cruel empire of Gran Bretan, were all variations on similar themes, just as Gloriana told the story of a woman who personified the State in public but was full of pain, frustration and confusion in private.
By chivalry the State’s maintain’d, I had Montfallcon sing in the uncompleted musical version of Gloriana I wrote with Peter Pavli, deliberately keeping the title of the Britten opera but putting a very different twist on the material. The Statesman’s but a conjuror who magicks wonders for the Crown, to bow and to grin, to balance and spin, I continued, perhaps making one of the earliest references to political spin doctors, anticipating the illusionist skills of modern media and its efforts to employ our sentiments in its interest, justifying that interest, perhaps rightly, as our own. In a populist, apparently transparent democracy government has to go to greater and greater contortions to persuade us of the virtuous intentions of its realpolitik. In Gloriana I asked if the means ever justified the end or whether a glamorous construct ultimately destroyed that which it sought to defend, however successful it at first seemed.
Gloriana is not a moral tale in the narrower sense; in fact it offers an argument against the noble Spenserian ideal, against the notions of renaissance chivalry that are still offered on occasions by our great public figures. Few intelligent people these days are taken in by the rhetoric of noble imperial crusades or even of heroic self-sacrifice of the kind Alexander Korda or John Ford turned into movies during the 1930s. The realists in our seats of government have all read their John Le Carre novels or watched The West Wing. We understand enlightened self-interest, even if we don’t always understand some of the wars in which we involve ourselves. We even know something about zealotry and fanaticism and what they claim to defend. So Gloriana was not in that sense meant to be revelatory. It does deal to some degree with self-deception while it accepts the need for a balance between high morality and low realism.
Gloriana herself was based on an ex-lover of mine, a woman of aristocratic inherited power and liberal conscience, while Quire had something of Marlowe in him, and several other characters were based on a variety of friends, enemies and acquaintances. After Bunyan, Peake had been my chief inspiration to write adult fantasy, and I wanted to pay him homage, to say thanks for everything he meant to me. He had inspired many of my heroic fantasies, as well as my early allegorical novel The Golden Barge, but I did not feel I had done him justice.
Gloriana was intended to be my last fantasy. I was planning what was to become Byzantium Endures and the volumes that followed it, dealing with the world that had permitted the Nazi-holocaust. Also in the works was The Brothel in Rosenstrasse, about sexual obsession and the language that led us into war and its uncontrollable consequences, the understanding that control of the rhetoric is not control of the world, and Mother London, another homage, this time to the city of my birth. The fantasy I would write would increasingly become a kind of moral fable, with books like The Warhound and the World’s Pain or The War Amongst the Angels. In a sense Gloriana marked a watershed and remains something of a swan song, an affectionate farewell to the gorgeous and exotic, to Fancy of Coleridge’s classic definition, if not imagination. Almost everything I wrote afterward put Fancy in service of the Imagination. If Breakfast in the Ruins had been a deliberate attempt to confront whatever unconscious ghosts and demons drove me, so Gloriana was a way of saying good-bye to most of them.
Albion, with her Platonic temples and barmy alchemists like John Dee, is not an “alternate England” in any generic sense but a fabulous construct, a version of what the best of a nation might look like if written from a seventeenth-century perspective. I was not trying to imitate the language and thought of the Elizabethan age but was drawing on the attitudes and styles of late-Carolignian England. In this the likes of Defoe and Marvell were great influences. My parodies of Spenser (especially the Mutability Cantos) and court poetry of the sixteenth century were done from that perspective, when practical, commercial interests had come to dominate the thinking of incipient imperialists.
The book appeared, as I’ve said, to mixed reviews, some understanding, some not, but nobody, not even Germaine Greer (more vane than pulse) objected to a certain rape scene that makes a difference to events in the book. It was not in fact until a few years after it was published that I began to hear from women who objected to its unstated message. My dear friend and supporter Andrea Dworkin told me that she loved the book but was troubled by that scene. Accordingly, when I got the chance to rewrite it I did so. I would also reiterate here that nothing justifies rape! And since another of my characters was once invoked by a young man to commit such a crime, I have since done everything I can to make sure I do not, however inadvertently, compound the error. I am one of those who believes that writing is action and that we carry varying degrees of responsibility for our actions, dealing with their consequences as seriously as we are able. That scene, however, was the only one I altered, contrary to what some critics believe, and the rest of the book remained as originally written. For comparison, I have included both scenes in this edition, one as an appendix to the main text. Meanwhile, I reiterate that no rape is justified, but I do suggest that good can come out of evil, just as evil can come out of good.
Lastly I would like to take the opportunity to acknowledge the help, inspiration and support of some of those I associate with this book including Peter Ackroyd, Edward Blishen, Andrea Dworkin, Angela Carter, John Clute, Giles Gordon, Mike Harrison, Emma Tennant and Angus Wilson. The book’s argument, as I have said, is with Spenser and it remains, with great love and admiration, dedicated to the memory of Mervyn Peake.
—Michael Moorcock
Texas. December 2003
APPENDIX A
ALTERNATE CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
In Which the Past is Invoked Once More and Old
Enemies Resolve Their Struggles
ALBION, WITH WAR BANISHED and the Arabian fleet dispersed even before Tom Ffynne and the Perrotts could meet with it, knew optimism again as Chivalry was at least restored. The Queen made plans for a Progress, regretting only that the Countess of Scaith could not accompany her. Sir Orlando Hawes proposed marriage to Alys Finch and was accepted. He had found the innocent in her, now that Quire’s influence was gone. Sir Amadis Cornfield and his wife were invited to the palace and came, to receive token recrimination, though the Queen’s main purpose was to offer this new, sober Sir Amadis the position of Chancellor, which carried with it an earldom. Sir Amadis begged leave to return to Kent. He said he had lost his taste for statecraft. And Gloriana was alone, as she had never been alone before, and every night she pined for her villainous lover, and her voice was heard through the emptied tunnels and vaults of the hidden palace, the deserted seraglio, as she wept; though she never mentioned his name, even there, in the darkness of her curtained bed. The autumn grew gradually cooler, but the year was still unnaturally warm. Tatary drew back from foreign borders. King Casimir was re-elected Poland’s King. The Lady Yashi Akuya, having lost hope
of Oubacha Khan, returned to Nipponia. Hassan al-Giafar was accepted as bridegroom by the Princess Sophie, sister of Rudolph of Bohemia, and Lord Shahryar was recalled to Arabia for execution, seeming distressed when he was reprieved. The last leaves began to fall from the trees and lie in drifts on the paths. Sir Orlando Hawes was made Chancellor, head of the Privy Council, and Admiral Ffynne became, with him, the Queen’s chief adviser. Master Gallimari and Master Tolcharde arranged a further popular display, in the great courtyard, of the mechanical Harlekinade, attended by Queen, nobles and commons. Sir Ernest Wheldrake proposed marriage, in maudlin verse, to Lady Lyst, who drunkenly and cheerfully accepted him. The Thane of Hermiston, who had unwittingly encouraged Montfallcon’s final vengeance, disappeared in Master Tolcharde’s roaring globe and never returned to Albion. Doctor Dee remained in his apartments, refusing visits even from the Queen herself. His experiments, he said, were of major importance and should not be witnessed by the uninformed. He was humoured, though he was by now considered entirely mad. There was speculation about the fate of Montfallcon, whom most thought a suicide, and of Quire, who had evidently fled through the Spider’s Door and returned to the underworld before escaping abroad. The Queen would not speak of either. The Countess of Scaith, as she had promised, said nothing of Quire and refused to accuse him. Sir Thomas Perrott maintained the firm belief that Montfallcon was the villain who had imprisoned him. Sir Orlando Hawes kept silent on the matter for two reasons—his natural tact and his need to protect his bride’s reputation. Josias Priest emigrated to Mauretania.
The Court resumed its old merriment, and Gloriana presided over it with grace and dignity, though her laughter was never anything but polite and her smiles, when they came at all, never more than wistful. She was as loved as she had always been loved, but it seemed that the passion, which had led her to aspire to fulfillment, was now gone from her. She had become a goddess, almost a living statue, a steady, gentle symbol of the Realm. She took to walking at night in her gardens, unattended, and would spend much of her time in her maze, walking round and round until it became absolutely familiar. Yet still she inhabited it. Sometimes servants, looking from their windows, could see in the moonlight her bodiless head and shoulders drifting as if by levitation over the tops of the yew hedges.
Time went by for Gloriana, hour by slow and lonely hour, and she took no lovers. Her private time was spent with Sir Ernest and Lady Wheldrake and with her surviving child, Duessa, whose son, many years hence, would come to inherit the Realm. She counselled Duessa towards a moderation she had never herself experienced, to balance Romantic faith against realistic understanding.
One night, as she undressed for bed, a palace servant came to her door with a message. She read the wavering words. It was from Dr. Dee. He wished to see her alone, he said, because he was dying and there was that on his conscience he would communicate. She frowned, wondering whether to go at least part of the way with attendants, but then decided she wasted time, if indeed he was dying. So she drew a huge and heavy brocade gown over her shift, put bare feet into slippers, and went to the East Wing, towards Dr. Dee’s apartments, taking with her a candle. The way to Dr. Dee’s lay through the chilly old Throne Room, still known as Hern’s Chamber, which she had always refused to enter. She began to shudder, hating the place and its memories. She had not been here since her father’s death. In common with most of her generation she disliked the pointed or “Saracen” style of architecture, found it barbaric and inhuman. It was almost as if she entered the walls again, and only her regard for her old friend led her on. Save for a single shaft of moonlight, which struck the block and the surrounding mosaics of the floor to form a pool, the chamber was in darkness, dominated by the huge anthropoidal statues, the irregular, vaulted ceilings. She paused. There was nothing to fear now that the rabble had been transported to the new Oriental lands of the Empire, save imprecise memories. Yet, as she crossed near the brooding throne dais, she thought she heard a noise from near it and raised her candle to let yellow light fall upon the steps.
She had seen too much blood since the spring, particularly in the seraglio that dreadful night. She recognised the ragged, ruined face of the magus, the toothless mouth opening and closing, the eyes screwed tight shut as the light struck them. There was blood on his beard, blood on the torn nightshirt he wore, blood on hands and legs.
“Dee.” She climbed the dais and rested the candle down on a step so that she could take his head in her lap. “What is this? Some seizure?” But now she could see the little wounds all over him. He had been bitten as if by a whole tribe of rats. “Can you stand?” He must have been experimenting with animals, she decided. The animals had escaped and attacked him in the night.
He whispered. “I was coming to you. She is no longer in my control. With Quire gone…I feared that she would kill you, too.”
“What is it has done this? I must warn the palace.”
“You. She is you…”
Gloriana tested his weight to see if she could carry him. He was a heavy old man. Now he raved and would not be lifted. She smiled as she tried to get him to his feet. “Me? There is only one me, Dr. Dee. Come.”
He was sitting up, an arm about her shoulder. He opened his eyes and she saw in his expression the look of a lover who was intimately familiar with her expressions. She became afraid. He said: “She was you. But she went mad. She was so docile at first. Quire made her for me. Flesh. She was just like flesh. He was a genius. I tried the same experiment—in metal—but failed, as Master Tolcharde failed. Then Quire vanished. I could no longer pay him, I suppose, with potions, with poisons….”
“Quire made what?”
“He made her. The simulacrum. I was ashamed. I wanted to confess. But I was drawn in too deeply. She consoled me so well for so long, Your Majesty. I could not have you, but she was almost you.”
“Almost?” She remembered his passion. “Oh, dear Dr. Dee, what have you done and how has Quire ruined you?”
“She was mad. Attacked me. I stunned her. The philtres Quire gave me for her ran out and I was afraid to experiment, though I tried. She was already unstable. Now she wishes to murder me. For using her, she says. Yet she was made for that use. It was as if she woke up—became truly alive….”
“Where is she?” Gloriana did not attempt to follow his ravings.
“She followed me down. She is over there.” He made a movement with his head. She lifted the candle, saw a dark shadow on stone behind the anthropoidal statues. He began to shiver. “Come,” she said. “Rise.”
“I cannot. You had best go now, Your Majesty. I have given you my confession. Think not too ill of me. My mind was good and, until the end, always at your service, as you know. The poisons. I regret the poisons. I allowed Quire to convince me.”
There came a great noise, as if something heavy and metallic were dragging itself across the mosaic flagging, but the shadow remained where it was.
Gloriana could see nothing of the source until, of a sudden, into the shaft of moonlight which fell upon the familiar stone block, came an old man clad in iron, in antique armour, an enormous black sword, made for two hands, upon his shoulder. His red eyes were hot with the habit of rage. His grey face and beard were thin and his cheeks were hollow. It was Montfallcon, wearing the war-suit of his youth.
“He invented for me the most perfect simulacrum,” continued Dee, scarcely aware of the newcomer. “A soulless creature. I could worship it, however—have my way with it—and no guilt. Or hardly any…”
“Simulacrum!” Montfallcon’s frigid, heavy voice was loud in the hall as he turned to observe the shadow, which now, at the sound, began to stir. “You old fool! ‘Tis a real woman.”
Dee began to breathe rapidly and shallowly “No, no, Montfallcon. There could not be a twin. There was never any story of a twin or I should have heard it. And all witnessed the birth, did they not? Ah,” he smiled, “perhaps—from another world, as I once dreamed? Is that where Quire obtained her?”
“There is only this world.” Montfallcon clanked a few steps more, to lean himself against the block. “Dolt! It is the mother!”
“Flana?” Dee’s voice grew faint. “Flana died in childbirth.”
“She did not. I witnessed her rape and I witnessed the result of that rape nine months later. She was thirteen when she bore the Queen. We were all made to watch—both events. Hern was proud of himself. After all, it was the only time, up to then, he had been able to penetrate a woman. For some reason Flana, who was my daughter, was able to attract him. Flana?”
The shadow groaned.
Gloriana got to her feet. She did not wish to hear this tale. And she was terrified of all of them now. Montfallcon spoke wearily. “It was on this stone he raped my daughter, and on this stone he raped my granddaughter. Twice in his life was he capable of committing the act. I watched both. The blood was always bad, on all sides. I know that now. I sought to burn the knowledge from me. I willed Gloriana to her position. But the blood was bad. Now it is all over. And I am destroyed, hated by all now, because I loved Albion. History will remember your most loyal servant, Your Majesty, as a villain.”
The shadow began to rise, muttering to itself. Gloriana was frozen. Her mouth went dry and her eyes refused to close.
Montfallcon gestured to the mad woman. “Come, Flana. Come to your father and your daughter.”
Flana moved with peculiar grace into the light. She looked youthful, as mad people sometimes do, though her face was ravaged and her hair, auburn like her daughter’s, was dyed in places.
“Here she is,” said Lord Montfallcon. “She ran into the walls after you were born, Gloriana, and was there until Quire snared her, drugged her, gave her to Dee in exchange for his secrets and his philtres. I would have known, but I refused to have the walls investigated for the same reasons as you. I hid the fact of Flana from myself. She loved you. Perhaps she still does. Do you love your little girl, Flana?”
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