by Peter Walker
During this speech, Bembo had forgotten me and turned all his attention to Pole.
‘This pertains to you more than to anyone,’ he said. ‘Not only is your country ruled by a single prince, but he is one who has loved you, lavished expense on your education, and is therefore entitled to expect extraordinary gratitude. How are you to repay him? With lies? With flattery? With silence? Of course not! You know your duty. You know your debt!’
Pole listened to this exordium with grave attention and concern. I was reminded of a war horse which pricks up its ears and stirs uneasily at the sound of a bugle, and I realised that Bembo was at that moment encouraging Pole to take a drastic and dangerous step with regard to the King, to whom Pole must very soon send his book.
‘I know it is easy for me here in my retirement and ease,’ said Bembo, ‘to urge action on someone else. But you are young and now you stand at the crossroad of your life. What, in short, are you going to say to your prince? Everything depends on that.’
‘I have not yet decided,’ said Pole. ‘There are so many different considerations that my thoughts go round and round in circles and I can see no way forward. How I can state my true opinion of the King’s actions, when he has been so loving and generous, not only to me but to all my family, my mother and brothers? Who, by the way, are still in England, and in his power. What would happen to them if I were to offend him?’
There was a silence, and then Bembo rose from the table and ushered Pole out on to the portico, and thence led him down the steps into the garden. I followed behind discreetly, with my hands behind my back and a serious expression on my face, as befits a young secretary accompanying his master. In truth I was anxious to hear what would be the outcome of this discussion and hoped that I would not be sent away so that they could talk with greater candour. Bembo however seemed to forget the topic; he began to show off his garden, his salad herbs and strawberry beds, his roses, both red and white, which grew in abundance, his chestnut trees, soughing and bending in the hot wind that was blowing across the plain from the south that day, and a single rare tree, called a plane, which he said no one else has ever managed to grow outside its native Sicily as it needs the smoke of a volcano in which to flourish. Finally, standing on the bank of the river towards the end of the afternoon, Bembo began to talk again where he had left off.
‘I have often thought,’ he said, ‘about that night a few years ago when you saw certain magnificent figures in marble, in the church of San Lorenzo in Florence. It has always stayed in my mind although I was never sure why. But now I see it. It is quite clear. That night you saw a sign of your destiny.’
At this Pole looked startled, as is only natural, but Bembo went on imperturbably.
‘And who are those splendid figures gathered at the tomb of Lorenzo?’ he said. ‘There is Dawn and Dusk, of course, of whom all the world has heard, but who is the third? Don’t imagine that it depicts young Lorenzo himself, whom I used to know, and who was, frankly, something of a fool. No, it is an image of the Thinker, of the Contemplative Life; it is Contemplation itself that the artist meant to portray. That night in Florence, I believe, you saw an image of yourself and your own destiny. How many years have you spent in study of the ancient writers, the prophets, the philosophers? And what is the point of a contemplative life? Was it for your private pleasure? Of course not. Does a man sail around the world and come back and keep secret what he has seen? All your study, all your learning – all your travels, as it were, into the past – wasted, unless you put it to use in the hour of need. This the great paradox: it is not only your prince and your nation you serve by telling the truth, but you yourself. And remember Isaiah, who saw his people loaded with chains and injustice. The time has come for you, too, to be unsparing, and lift up your voice like a trumpet!’
I could see at once that this speech served its purpose. Pole’s demeanour changed. He looked pale and resolute. And then Bembo, having got his way, changed as well and he began to talk in a more gentle way as we set off walking along the bank, where the sound of the running water seemed more pleasing as the dusk fell. The wind had dropped, as well, and the light of sunset began to colour the sky.
‘It is a very beautiful conception, of course, the whole thing,’ he said, ‘that splendid figure, with Dawn and Dusk as his attendants. After all, those are the natural companions of thought. Look about us now, for instance. Here we are: the sun is about to set, those birds flying above the river are on their way home to their nests. Yet if you tell yourself a lie, and say that it is dawn, and the sun has just risen – see how everything changes! The birds seem to be setting off on great adventures, and those peasants crossing the field over there take on quite a new air, and even the river seems to roll towards the sea more gaily. So you see the power of a thought – even a wrong thought – over the mind! And more than any other creatures, men are misled by illusions. That is the real task of wisdom: to tell the difference between things that appear roughly the same. And all of this, he – I mean, Michelangelo – constructed for the tomb of poor young Lorenzo, who was a budding tyrant and committed folly upon folly, and then died an absurd death . . .’
At this thought, Bembo looked quite cheerful.
‘I must tell you,’ he said, tucking Pole’s arm under his own and turning back to the house, ‘what Michelangelo said when someone plucked up courage and told him that the statue of Lorenzo looked nothing like the real Lorenzo. “Him?” he said. “In five hundred years no one will give a damn what he looked like.” ’
Chapter 6
When summer was over, Pole came back to the city and our household resumed its former rhythm. By that time we had moved to the big house on the Grand Canal belonging to M. Donato. Even with the constant threat of the Turks, every day was carnival day in Venice, the canal was crowded with boats day and night from St Thomas’s ferry as far as Charity. And we were at the centre of it all, in the middle of the web. Ambassadors and other grandees came in and out the door every day. Pole held banquets twice a month. The French ambassador came to stay, and then the English agent, Edmond Harvel – Siggy, we called him – moved in as well, his own house being small, cold and foul and filling with water at the least provocation. We knew everything that was going on in the world. And the news that year was tremendous, every day brought prodigies. The Turk was defeated in the east: crossing the Euphrates he lost 150,000 men and all his treasure and baggage. The King of Persia had a second great victory against the Tartars of the Green Cape. From England came word of more executions. Thomas More and old Bishop Fisher of Rochester lost their lives for refusing to accept the King as spiritual lord. The Emperor made plans to attack Tunis. The Jewish corsair beat Canaletto, captain of the galleys, in a great sea battle off Corfu. At home the cook died, throwing even more responsibility on Sandro. To make things worse, the French ambassador moved in at the same time.
Sandro, down in the kitchen late at night, made terrible declarations. He had been serving Pole for years: who were these newcomers and nobodies?
‘We now keep an open house,’ he said. ‘Contarini and M. Matteo are here every night after dinner. Bonamico, Lampridio, Bembo and Priuli come and go as if it they own the place. Priuli stopped a whole month – but then he’s obviously in love with my master: at the last place, he came and stayed and wouldn’t leave until he lured him to Padua. And then we all had to follow. Mind you, I myself haven’t set foot out of this kitchen for a month. You’ll see: some great ill will come of it, especially to us poor servants.’
‘Yes, Sandro, it is terrible, we are all in grave danger,’ we said, winking at one another. By then the winter was setting in, and Pole at last had set to work writing his book for the King. Days, indeed weeks, passed and there was no sight of him; he scarcely emerged from his chamber. Food was sent up to him and at night we gathered in Sandro’s kitchen so as not to disturb him.
‘What a work it will be!’ said Harvel, pointing upwards to indicate Pole’s whereabouts and genius. ‘Not
hing like it will have been seen in our time.’
‘He has given himself up to meteorologezei: all the highest things in heaven and earth,’ said Friar.
‘The King himself is afire with impatience to read it,’ said Lily.
‘Yet only a short book was asked for,’ said Harvel. ‘I know that from Starkey, who writes from England to find out why it is taking such a time.’
‘It has to be long,’ said Friar. ‘It is written for the English. We are not Athenians. We do not like to be convinced only by what is relevant.’
‘Long or short, it will be a glory to England and posterity,’ said Lily.
‘A monumentum aeternum to his genius,’ said Harvel.
‘He is certainly one of the most learned men alive, and a very great friend of mine,’ said Morison, who by then had come to live with us. ‘My God!’ he added. ‘What would have happened to me this winter if Polonus had not taken me in? Look at me, in another man’s breeches and with all my books, good as they were, a prey to the cruel Jews, and for very little, truly. No man could ask for a better friend. Let me tell you’ – here he struck the table and tears started from his eyes – ‘there is no punishment good enough for a man who says “Oh yes, so and so used to be my friend, but is no longer”. Such an insult deserves to be wiped out in blood. Whoever has been a friend of mine is one still, and ever will be.’
Outside, an icy fog made halos around the lanterns of the few boats that were on the water. I was glad that Morison was with us in the warm kitchen and not in some attic with bare tiles over his head. On clear nights it was so cold that if you could have reached the stars and tapped them with a hammer the sky would have rung like an iron bell.
The new year came in, bringing more astounding news. The old queen, Katherine of Aragon, had died. And then, not long after that, we heard that the new queen, Anne, was also sentenced to die. The King revealed he had been under a bewitchment when he married her, the marriage was annulled and she was executed for many grave crimes.
Then we heard that Princess Mary was restored to favour. For two years she had been locked up without even pen and paper. She was now a young woman of eighteen, and, so it seemed, very beautiful. A poem about her arrived from England:
In each of her two eyes
There smiles a naked boy
It would you all suffice
To see those lamps of joy
If all the world were sought full far
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.
Everyone rejoiced at this rehabilitation: beauty and virtue rescued from disgrace and bastardy . . .
‘Our country suddenly brings forth such events, such comedies and tragedies,’ said Lily, ‘there is no place to compare with it. I am quite homesick, I can hardly bear to stay here another day.’
‘You may not have to,’ said Harvel. ‘We may all be going home soon.’
By this time, Pole had completed his book. Everyone had been eagerly looking forward to this moment. With Katherine and Anne both dead, and Pole back home, in favour and in high office, everyone hoped to be swept along with him.
Morison left first for England. He had been asked to join Cromwell’s staff. Starkey, who was by then the King’s chaplain, had had a hand in this. Morison’s excitement was wonderful to behold.
‘My joy and thanks cannot contain themselves,’ he wrote to Starkey. ‘They burst the banks, flood the fields of my friends, the more witnesses I have of my felicity the more it grows. To be praised by Cromwell! Who will not love the man whom you praise so in your letters to me, to Harvel and to the accomplished Pole.’
But for a long time Pole still hesitated to send his book. Things were changing so fast, it seemed, that whatever he had written was already out of date. The delay went on for months. In fact, it might have lasted indefinitely, but then there was an unfortunate turn of events. Early one morning, Pole appeared in my room at the top of the house. He had never been up there before and he came in, stooping under the low beams and looking all around, and then went to gaze out the window as if assistance could be found there. Finally he turned and faced me. His agitation was clear. The trouble was as follows: certain quires of his manuscript he had written for the King had vanished. The thief had chosen them carefully: they were the critical part of the argument, and the most personal and sensitive.
There was one suspect: a Frenchman, one of the ambassador’s servants, who had just left the house.
‘Those roosters!’ I said. ‘I never trusted them. I don’t know why you have them in the house.’
He held up his hand to silence me, and then came to the point. At that very moment, he believed, the missing pages were on their way to Paris for the amusement and delectation of the King of France. It was essential that the King receive the book before any word of it reached him from that mischievous quarter, the French court. I had to hurry to London with the full text.
‘I had planned all along to ask you to take it,’ he said, ‘if I ever sent it, that is. As everything is moving so fast, I have had some doubt whether my opinion is needed at all. But this calamity changes everything. Now the book must go. I have watched you for a year and I know you are discreet. I was right to trust you. And I know you ride fast. But there is one thing—’
‘What is it?’
‘There may be some danger involved in this task,’ he said. ‘The King perhaps will dislike what I have written. You should know that I have used some stern and bitter words. I had no choice. Flattery has been the cause of all the problems. The King is so used to hearing only hymns of praise, it is probable that he will hate me, like a patient who hates the surgeon approaching with the knife. You should know this – and yet there is danger in that as well. The best thing I think would be to take the middle path: you know a little about what I have written, but care for nothing in the world but hunting and hawking and riding across borders.’
I agreed to this and accepted the commission. In fact there was some truth in this disguise I adopted. People may wear masks which resemble their own faces. The very next day I set off with the greatest delight. It was early June, 1536. I was on my way home after more than four years away. In a few hours I reached the foot of the mountains and raced up into the pine forests; everyone I passed on the way seemed to be plodding along like beasts treading the straw as I flew by. And yet there was also some little dread in my heart. What did I have in my saddlebag? A book of stern reproaches which might cause the King to hate the writer. And I was the only one of the household who knew this. All the others had seen me off with great cheerfulness. Lily, Harvel and Friar came to the ferry and promised to see me soon in England.
‘It is time for us all to go,’ said Harvel. ‘Cromwell has sent me a most benevolent message. You can tell Starkey I will soon visit him at court and that he must not be ashamed of me because I am a merchant.’
Lily and Friar said they were going straight home to pack their books. I waved to them from the deck as I set off, with no sign that I had any disquiet. But I did not believe we would soon all meet in England.
It was a long time before I ever read Pole’s book, but my instincts were right. This, for instance, is what he wrote about the death of Reynolds, and the other three, the first, I think, to lose their lives under the new laws in England.
Thieves die on the gallows, others by fire or by the axe, but these men were tormented in so many ways that they suffered the pangs of death three times over. Oh, faith of men and of God! Where in the world are we? What crime was alleged? Were they charged at all? Yes they were – their crime was that they would not agree to a new proposition contrary to their belief. You want to be Vicar of Christ, to take the place here on earth of the Son of God, and you plunge a sword into anyone who does not agree. How many men, in the name of God, have you slain? The whole world is amazed. I do not exaggerate when I say that not only in the barber-shops but in every gathering of men, of stati
on high and low, your name is mentioned with horror. When the news first came to me I thought I was dreaming, and those who wrote seemed to be narrating their own terrible dreams… The axe by which you thought to snatch these men’s lives away in fact brought your own spiritual death.
Chapter 7
The most curious thing about all of this was that the quires had not been stolen at all. They were not on the way to Paris nor to Fontainebleau in its forest full of wolves but were just where Pole had left them, safely in his own library in a volume of Aristotle. Selecting the most vehement passages of his writing, those pages he least wished anyone else to see, he had put them there for safekeeping. And then he forgot. He forgot not only where he had hidden them but that he had hidden them at all.
You see how odd this is. In one sense the quires were in fact stolen – Pole stole them from himself. Perhaps – who knows? – there are many selves in a man: the bold spirit, for instance, who wrote the book for the King, fully intending the King to read it. Then a second, more cautious Mr Pole delayed and prevaricated until it looked as if what had been written would never see the light of day. The bold spirit then crept up on the cautious subject, put a blindfold over his memory, and proceeded to alarm him thoroughly with the imagined sound of laughter in the court of the King of France.
Thus the book was sent off and reached its intended reader.
The quires were discovered about a month or two later by Priuli, browsing through Pole’s library. By then it was far too late for Pole to change his mind. I had long since crossed the mountains and reached England and the book was in the hands of the King. And here is a little more, for the inquisitive reader, of what appeared in
