See them now in the long gallery of York House. A high-ceilinged room running almost the whole northeast length of the palace, affording a handsome view of the Thames. New-made by Bacon for such days as this, when there can be no walking in the gardens; though even now the Frenchman stalks there, guided by one of Bacon’s young men, whose politesse is being tested by wind and rain.
See the gallery fresh, for the first time, through the eyes of the merchant from London.
Who was impressed, in all five senses, by the opulence of dinner in the hall. He was duly impressed, but not awed. The halls of the Guilds, many of them, are finer. And he has been present at other feasts in halls of manor houses, in England and abroad. Has enjoyed the pleasures of an equal fare, every kind of dainty and delight. Moreover, he was prepared to be impressed. He has heard much of Bacon’s affectations, and he knows more than a little of his dealings.
Indeed, he was present at the ceremony of marriage at Marylebone Chapel, a little over ten years ago, when Sir Francis Bacon married Alice Barnham, the fourteen-year-old daughter of a city alderman and a draper. On that occasion Sir Francis was clad, head to toe, in purple, like royalty. And he furnished his young bride with a gown like a lady. At least, unlike some ladies of this age, she did not have to steal away with her new husband, disguised as a page. Though if gossip be true, which will be so when the Thames runs backwards and the seas go dry, she might have done better to pretend to be a page. These June and January weddings, though they may thaw the winter with one false spring, cannot bring back spent Maytime.…
At table he asked about Alice, and Bacon assured him she is most healthy and content in the country. Knowing the Barnham women, the merchant thinks she can be neither, but at least she can be safer there than here.
If the value of all things, from burnished weapons on the walls to silver spoons, from the plate and glass gleaming on the buffets to the stuffed velvet cushion of his chair—no simple stools for the high table—if the value is high, he could estimate it, within a mark or two, without troubling his mind with mathematics. A fortune in the sum of these things, true. But a fortune which was not beyond his own means, should he indulge himself in great luxury and greater debts. For no man, not even the Lord Chancellor of England, can afford such luxury long. It is a show, a stage play of wealth. He knows that, at present, new to power, Lord Bacon is skimming upon the thinnest ice. He lacks, as yet, even the inherited land of a first son. Anthony Bacon’s dead, but Lady Bacon owns the estate at St. Albans. And she bids fair to live long. Given time, Bacon can bring the coffers of truth into some balance with these expensive shows. There is his gamble. And this stolid merchant, with a thousand ears to hear with, has heard that Buckingham, the King’s young favorite, has set his heart upon the possession of York House as soon as Lord Bacon has finished all repairs and rebuilding. If so, then Buckingham will have it. Unless, of course, another favorite comes upon the scene.
Meanwhile a stage show, appearance of wealth, will draw wealth to it. As honey draws hungry flies.
And meanwhile these things have value regardless of who may possess them. They remain rich whether paid for or owned, or, like the robes and properties of rogue players of stage plays, are only borrowed or rented.
Great men have advantage of the merchant. He must hive, harvest, and spoon out his own money with caution. While they are permitted to play a game of higher stakes. But their stakes are borrowed and the risks compounded. Always a chance—else why play such games?—of gains far beyond the means of other men. But the possibility of profit upon a scale commensurate with the wager they must make is in proportion to the risk. In short, to make any gain they must do so by risking the most which raises the odds against them.
The fortunate are those who manage to end their offices no worse off than they were when they received them. Extraordinary are the few who accumulate sufficient to offset their losses. A merchant of means can grow more, gather more wealth in a lifetime than the sum and average of these.
The merchant, dining in the hall, could enjoy the pleasure of many fine things without envy. For in a sense they were his to enjoy, whether or not he shall lend any money to Lord Bacon, as much as they were Bacon’s.
Here in the gallery, however, is something new and strange for him. Calculation can be dismissed in favor of wonder and open admiration.
Only the few have been led here. The crowd at the lower tables is now dispersed. Some to the presence chamber, waiting, waiting. Some to the privy chamber, these with some reasonable assurance of seeing Bacon or one of his servants. Others, singly or in small groups, with certainty of presenting their suits to Bacon, though no surety as to when, this day or the next, led to a dozen chambers in the house. All waiting upon Bacon. Waiting upon his pleasure.
His pleasure is to entertain favored guests in the gallery. For, in a palpable sense, it is he who is pressing suit upon each of them. Though he need not do so overtly, can recline on his daybed of rosewood, covered with red damask silk, near the window, a wrought bronze brazier, red-hot with coals, warming him.
The room is as long as an open field. You could shoot a bow here. You could run a footrace. Indeed at the far end the two young ladies and the Germans, Ambassador and the brother of the Duke, are playing a game of shuttlecock.
There are one dozen windows—outdoing by one the windows Queen Elizabeth set into the gallery at Hampton Court, and these more perfectly symmetrical and larger too. And four of these are bay windows, each with covered seats and cushions, facing four large fireplaces all aglow with the flames and colored smokes of scented woods, each a different composition upon the theme of fire. The fire well framed in the fireplaces, wrought with figures and emblems to represent the four seasons of the year, the four humors of man, with entablatures of swirling plaster and fine woods, all painted and gilded to complement the color of flames.
Upon the twelve windows are etched and colored the signs of the zodiac. The floor’s a chessboard of gleaming marble, lightly covered with matting and at least a dozen turkey carpets, flung there instead of placed upon chests and tables. These depict scenes from the lives of the Apostles. The ceiling’s an airy masterpiece of plasterwork designs, gilded with spaces for the painted boar to be displayed.
When they entered, Lord Bacon led them on a turn and tour for digestion’s sake, unveiling the chief theme, the paintings of Dutch and Italian masters—the Twelve Caesars of Rome; moving on without comment by the new tapestries which offer as much beauty of the flesh as instruction of spirit: Venus and Adonis, Diana and Actaeon, David and Bathsheba, Susanna and the Elders.…
With some eagerness he pulled aside a curtain, damask and cloth of gold, covering the centerpiece of all: a portrait in oil of King James, shown as a hunter, all in green.
Bacon then left them to inspect things at their leisure. Which the merchant finds most pleasant.
There are fine chests and tables, of course. Along the wall stand cabinets of rosewood and walnut and cherry, polished and scented, brightened with patterns of marquetry or inlaid with rare, different-colored woods and bits of marble and precious stones. And here are displayed, the cabinets open wide, all shelves of drawers pulled open, extraordinary objects: rare gems and precious stones, ancient coins, medals and medallions, maps and charts and instruments of the new learning. All expected; for the merchant is familiar with Bacon’s essays, his Advancement of Learning, and knows something of his bent and interests.
It is not so much these as others, more elaborate, frivolous, and fantastic, which astonish him. Bacon in his works makes strong arguments for the plain and pure and practical. How, then, could the merchant ever have anticipated such things as these which he now is drawn to look to, fascinated?
A ship made of silver, beaten gold for corses, rigging of gold threads, silver mariners, and figures of Bacon and his wife in gold standing tall at the stern.
Rare volumes and manuscripts bound in thick velvet, hinges of gold, his crest set upon the velvet in cr
ystal, ebony, and ivory.
A golden machine to show the principle of Archimedes Screw, which raises by lowering itself; the head of the screw is of diamond.
An emerald frog with rubies for eyes poised to catch some jeweled flies.
Curious glasses which make the viewer fat or thin, distant or close, the glasses contained in velvet set with pearls, gold, and silver.
Lily pots of gold with tiny gold flowers, stems and petals brilliantly enameled. Flies of agate or set in amber. A butterfly of gold with jewels for colors.
Small nude figures of men and women, made of gold, eyes of jewels, each with a jewel at the navel.
Lockets, miniatures, all with a painting, watches of many sizes and shapes. His own watch, heavy and grand as it is, seeming suddenly nothing.
Curiosities—rocks found in form of hands or feet. Plants seeming to have human faces. The bones of a two-headed cat. Fossils of unknown fishes, gigantic footprints, much like a man’s, frozen into stone.…
He feels more delighted than diminished. To be here is to be alive, within a musical jewel box. His back to the fire, he observes the Italian playing the virginal. One of Bacon’s musicians has joined him, making accompaniment with a pandora lute.
The merchant’s wife is playing at cards with the wife of the chief steward. No doubt he will have dealings with the steward soon enough.…
Servants pass among them offering sweets. He may choose from marzipan or candied nutmeg or ginger in silver bowls. Even preserved green ginger. He can take comfits from gold and silver comfit boxes shaped like seashells, walnuts, hearts. He may, if he wishes, have whole candied oranges or lemons.
But he declines these, accepting instead the ivory pipe and sweet tobacco one servant offers while a second holds a long match flame for him to light it.
Puffs and wonders why he feels no envy, only admiration.
He drinks the smoke and thinks: Perhaps it is because I have never until now imagined such things, frivolous rich things without use or purpose, save leisure on a cold wet day, and cannot therefore conceive myself the possessor of any. The threshold of this marvel of a room, this little simulation of Paradise itself, being an invisible boundary and border which will always separate me from nobility.
He is relieved. He feels as warm toward Bacon as the fire on his back. He has no desire to possess the gallery or anything in it, but he can be content, knowing such beautiful things exist. He will not be displeased to lend Lord Bacon some money.
He moves toward a group around the daybed. A servant seats him in an armchair next to the Bishop.
“Your tobacco pipe reminds me,” the Bishop says. “What is to become of Ralegh?”
Bacon smiles and shrugs. “It is now in the hands of the King,” he says. “I venture, however, that he shall die on the morrow. Swift and quiet in the Palace Yard.”
“Swiftly, no doubt,” the merchant says. “But I cannot imagine it will be a quiet occasion.”
“Indeed?” Bacon frowns.
“I mean that tomorrow being Lord Mayor’s Day and the procession beginning early and at that very place, it seems there will be a large crowd of people.”
Bacon laughs now, swinging his legs around to sit up, touching the Bishop’s arm.
“Lord preserve me!” Bacon exclaims. “Do you see now where so much busyness can carry a man? Until you said the grace I had forgotten today was the day of Simon and Jude. And I’ll wager that no one paused to remember that tomorrow is Lord Mayor’s Day.”
“No one except the new Lord Mayor himself and all the people of London,” the merchant says.
“Excepting, as well, the Fox himself,” the Bishop says.
Bacon cannot contain his laughter.
“Well, I fear the King will surprise himself in this matter.”
“And the Fox?”
“We can never be certain of anything about him.”
Just then there is a soft tentative chiming noise. The merchant sighs and produces his watch, opening it as one would open the hinged section of a pomander, to check the hour.
He is startled by the sound of a louder bell. Turns to see that he has missed the most extraordinary object in this gallery. A wooden chiming clock, half as high as a man, on the wall. Bells in a miniature belfry toll, chimes announce the hour. On a platform of the clock, beneath the face, two painted mechanical knights come forth. One’s a Crusader with a red cross on his breast, the other a dark Saracen. They smite each other three mighty blows with broadswords.
Delighted, Bacon’s guests cry out and applaud. He rises, signals all to hush. Moves to the cabinet where the silver ship with sails of gold, and himself and young bride sailing, rests. Touches a hidden spring.
The ship begins to move. Cannon ports open. Three cannon fire each with a different colored smoke.
Now they can applaud to their hearts’ content.
He smiles, bows, and excuses himself to be about the King’s affairs and his own.
The picture, two knights of the clock striking each other with broadswords to toll the time, a silver ship and puffs of colored cannon smoke, fades, and he returns to himself at the window of the gatehouse. He is staring at a tree across the yard. A lone tree, bare to the bones, small birds roosting there, riding out the weather on twisted branches. Under the tree a guardsman passes, wet glinting the blade of his halberd, held down, aslant.
Ralegh turns from the window and says something to a servant.
There are things that must be done now. No more time for thought of others and elsewhere.
He will not think of his own future. Cannot allow that liberty now lest it should paralyze his will. Not considering his own future, at this time, he will not imagine the future of these others. Not Yelverton, Stukely, Wilson, certainly. Nor will he imagine the future of Francis Bacon.
Yet with Bacon he could do so without violation of will. For he has thought on Bacon’s present estate deep enough, and he sees how it is threatened.
What can happen is already here and now.
Just as the Kingdom of Heaven, though alien to any kingdom of earth, is eternal and therefore changeless, while we are wholly possessed by the powers of change, the Kingdom of Heaven is nevertheless here and now also, printed in each part and piece of the aging, changing, temporal Creation. But who can read that text? The Kingdom of Heaven is here and now within him and has always been so, his body a colony of a distant empire, his soul an ambassador or viceroy of the true King; unknowable, unsearchable, ineffable, here and now, that Kingdom will be not always alien but, brightly and suddenly, home, not a place dimly remembered and returned to; for we shall most assuredly discover that all our journeys elsewhere, our voyages and explorations, pilgrimages and crusades, all these were imagined and imaginary, unreal and unsubstantial; that we never left home but only dreamed a dream of faring forth and returning; that we shall not be welcomed as returning, but rather greeted as if waking from a sleep and a dream; and that we shall be greeted in a language we understand, having always known it.
Just so, the future of a man, in time and of this earth, is carried in him from his first breath, his first cries; though there has never yet been a wise man, not even Solomon, who could translate so much as a phrase of this unknown tongue. A few chosen ones have seen the signs and ciphers of eternal language, and these alone, but sufficient proof that it is all written down.
Not Solomon or Joseph or Daniel would be taxed, however, to discern the most likely future of Francis Bacon.
Bacon is most threatened not because he has already lost it, but because he cannot bear to face the future.
His present time, for all its satisfaction, is, as he is, most vulnerable. He can sense that acutely. There is—has always been—a deep strain of melancholy in his humor. And there is also a sense of dread, more painful because he cannot name it.
Who knows Bacon somewhat, as Ralegh does, will have discerned that his melancholy is never more dominant, his dread never more apparent, than at those moments when h
e seems most smiled upon by Fortune.
Who lives with dread has some cause to. For the secret lies in this: that, whatever the cause of dread, that dread becomes the cause and occasion of its own fulfillment. Thus a man might argue, if he chose to, that the source of dread is the knowledge of its fulfillment.
A dog biting its tail and whirling in a circle …
A circle, a wheel within Fortune’s wheel …
From this present time of comfort and security, power and eminence, never forgetting melancholy, dread and dreams, there is a pilot’s chart on which to trace Bacon’s course.
His extravagance, there lies a key to it.
And there is nothing new in that, for he has always lived beyond his means, always been in debt, even when his fortune added up to a sum of misfortunes. This is not without some wisdom. Fortune never smiles much upon a careful man. Fortune looks smiling upon that suitor who is most indifferent to her favors.
Or seems to be …
Or so it seems …
But Francis Bacon has never been indifferent to Fortune’s favors. He is well equipped to feign indifference, to confirm this seeming indifference by permitting carelessness to settle into custom. Hoping that Fortune, if not deceived, will at least be pleased by this self-sacrifice.
He has made of Fortune a god, an idol. False gods or true will not be mocked. Upon those grounds alone, he dreads what Fortune has in store for him. All the more so because, being of sound mind, he is not a true believer. He knows Fortune is a false god. Knows Fortune is a crude similitude, something wrought by men to represent in their own image something else they fear to name or think upon.
Death of the Fox Page 42
