How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone.
Ophelia, in Hamlet
William Shakespeare
Popular ballad, to the tune ‘Walsingham’
‘In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets:
As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star
Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse:
And even the like precurse of fierce events,
As harbingers preceding still the fates
And prologue to the omen coming on,
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated
Unto our climatures and countrymen –
But soft, behold!…
‘Master William, what are you doing there?’
‘I’m going on stage. That’s my cue.’
‘Not a bit of it. I have at least ten lines before you enter.’
‘Absolutely not, Master Thomas! We revised the text, remember?’
‘Revised the text? Again?’
‘Yes, again. A thought occurred to me just now, when I was talking, and I told you…’
‘You told me the ghost was no longer a mere spectre, but Hamlet’s father. I thought it an excellent idea. But that’s no reason to cut my speech.’
‘My dear Thomas, I have cut nothing, merely revised the text, and I shall continue to do so as long as we rehearse. Now, you are to say: “Behold, lo! Where it comes again, I’ll cross it, though it blast me.”’
‘Is that new?’
‘Yes, it’s new. You were quite in favour of the idea, but a minute ago.’
‘Good, then. But I wonder how we can get any proper work done in these conditions. One never knows which text to keep to.’
‘Are you two done with your idle chit-chat? I’m the one who should complain. Transforming the ghost into my deceased father changes all my most important scenes in the first act, not to mention all the rest.’
‘Yes, but you, Master Richard, have a fine memory, whereas I…’
He stops short, pointing an accusing finger.
‘Who goes there? Gentlemen, we have been quarrelling before strangers! Have I not always insisted, there must be no one else present at rehearsals, for God’s sake!’
All eyes turn to the gallery, where I stand gazing down at the stage.
‘Strangers?’ Master Shakespeare is astounded. Then he sees me. ‘No! This is no stranger. He’s Master Morley’s Polyph… I mean, this gentleman brings us Ophelia’s music, since poor Master Morley cannot bring it himself, in his suffering. Do not consider him a stranger, gentlemen, but rather as an authority. This is Master Francis Tregian, cousin of the late Lord Ferdinando Stanley who was such a help to us in our earliest days; allow me to present Masters William Kemp, Richard Burbage, Thomas Pope, Augustine Phillips. And down there you see Masters George Bryan and John Hemminges, furiously correcting the text so that our revisions are not lost.’
We all bow, and they go back to their business.
The text they are rehearsing is a fine summary of the emotions I have experienced since returning to London: the mood is apocalyptic indeed. It seems Master Shakespeare is as affected by it as I. Sorrow lurks behind every smile and the people’s dismay is apparent, especially to me, coming from abroad. Barely three months have passed since Essex was sent to the scaffold; Southampton’s future is uncertain and, though his own execution has been stayed, it has not been discounted altogether. People speak in hushed voices of the Queen’s imminent death, or rather the question of her succession, for she has no direct heir. James VI of Scotland, the current Lord Derby and Madam Arabella Stuart – all great-grandchildren of the sisters of Henry VIII – have an equal claim to the throne. It falls to the Queen to choose from among them, as custom dictates. But she does nothing, and her silence is loud indeed, omnipresent and suffocating.
The only heir people know anything about is James VI and his reputation is execrable: proud, self-regarding and a poor statesman. I hear this (and worse) ten times over. As for the Infanta of Spain, I believe the island would rise up as one man if her candidacy were taken seriously.
I have left my card at Sir Robert Cecil’s office – he is now Secretary of State – and requested an interview. Jack, an expert these days in matters of surveillance, assures me that I have been followed for no more than two or three days, after which Cecil’s men lost interest in my comings and goings.
In Amsterdam, I was very far from all this. But upon arriving in London, I felt caught as if in quicksand, sinking slowly, unable to extricate myself. I needed to find a purpose.
The day before my visit to the theatre, I had been to see Thomas Morley, for whom I had copied out the parts of a great many recent Italian madrigals, knowing his passion for them. He has published several books of madrigals and canzonette – Italian airs in four parts, adapted into English, copies of which I have seen at Pierre Phalèse’s shop.
Morley greeted me with his usual enthusiasm, but I was alarmed at his appearance: emaciated and pale as a shroud.
‘So, you’re a father now?’ he exclaimed. ‘Children born to the strains of music, I hope?’
‘I was not present for the birth of my first child, but my young daughter heard her first music before she felt the holy water on her brow.’
I asked if he had written his book on the theory of music for young people.
‘Yes indeed, my dear Greyhound. And I have given it a clear, ringing title: A Plain and Easy Introduction to Practical Music.’
‘I shall acquire a copy for my son, though if the truth be told he doesn’t know a word of English. He speaks only French and Flemish, both perfectly. And Latin, of course.’
‘Here, give him this from me.’
He invited me to take a copy out of a nearby chest, opened it, dipped his quill and inscribed a dedication: To Francis Tregian, child of the seconda pratica, with the author’s profound respects. Thomas Morley.
We spent the evening reading, deciphering, commenting and singing the scores I had brought, with the help of Madam Morley and one of the Misses Morley. We pushed the invalid’s chair up to the virginal; his playing was finer than ever. When we parted – or rather, when I left, for Morley remained in his seat the entire evening – his eyes shone so brightly that I quite forgot his pallor.
‘Thank you for these splendid scores, sir. You could not have given me any finer gift. Have you seen Giles Farnaby since you’ve been here?’
‘Not yet. Do you have news of him?’
‘He comes regularly to take care of my plectrums and play me his compositions. The boy will go far, you know. He has a thoroughly original mastery of counterpoint. But with his father now passed on, and mired as we are in the gloom that cloaks these last years of our Elizabeth’s reign, he talks of leaving London to find fresh vigour somewhere in Lincolnshire, where he has been offered an advantageous post as a musician.’
‘Has he stopped building instruments?’
‘Not at all, thank the Lord! But he would prefer to concentrate solely on his music. I will send word to him that you’re in London, and invite him to meet you here. My legs have been playing me up lately and I would prefer it if my Polyph… But no, I really must find a better term. You shall be my Contrapuntal Greyhounds from now on.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My Contrapuntal Greyhounds had better come to me, than me to them. Which reminds me, would you be so kind as to do me a service?’
‘If I am able, with all my heart.’
‘Will you go to the Globe tomorrow, early, and take an arrangement of Walsingham I have done – to Master Shakespeare’s words – for their new play?’
‘With great pleasure.’
He explained to me how the air should be performed.
‘You’ll be sure to have them rehearse it for you?’
‘You may count on me, sir.’
‘Otherwise, he will massacre it, which would be a shame. Will you have time for that?’
‘I will have time. Would you like me to send my valet to invite Giles Farnaby here tomorrow night? Then I can tell you about the rehearsal and we can enjoy an evening with Master Farnaby too. How does that sound?’
‘Wonderful. You can see yourself out; you’ll forgive me if I don’t get up.’
Outside, Madam Morley took my arm, her eyes brimming with tears.
‘How do you find him, sir?’
Such questions are only asked in the hope of an encouraging answer.
‘I find him quite his usual self.’
Which was true, too.
‘He will surely die, sir. The doctor has given him from three weeks to a year.’
I was touched by her distress, and the news – which I had guessed – tugs at my heart. I am become very attached to Thomas Morley.
‘Madam Morley, I know this will be of no consolation to you, but when God has taken Master Thomas’s stricken body unto him, his music will continue to make many people happy, and even in four or five hundred years, he will live on when we have disappeared without trace. He is a great man.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She wiped her eyes and I left, full of a sense of my own futility. She would rather have her husband here and now, than his posthumous glory.
And so, this morning at daybreak, after the customary Mass at Clerkenwell, I have journeyed to Bankside by water – the first time I have set foot there since that glorious day when Adrian and I crossed the river for our illicit trip to the Bear Garden, when we were still schoolboys.
The Lord Chamberlain’s Men (the troupe belongs to George Carey now, who has succeeded his father) have built their new theatre with timber brought from Shoreditch, where James Burbage’s father has his own theatre. The story amused the whole of London two or three years earlier: with Burbage the Elder dead, the authorities took advantage of a dispute between the Privy Council and the actors at the Swan Theatre to close all the theatres in London. The Burbages’ landlord seized his opportunity, in turn, to throw them out. But the theatre’s timber frame was not his; in his absence, Cuthbert and Richard Burbage – helped by the actors and a handful of carpenters – took the whole thing down. When the proprietor returned, he found nothing but a patch of bare ground. He was furiously angry and tried, in vain, to take them to court.
As for the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, they rebuilt their theatre, even finer than before, not far from the Bear Garden and slightly nearer the river, on Maiden Lane in St Saviour’s parish, more or less opposite Baynard’s Castle and St Paul’s Wharf. The Rose Theatre is nearby, as is the church of St Mary Overie. The area has filled up in the space of fifteen years. But we are outside the City walls (theatres are still banned within) and despite the many cheap hovels and the rows of whorehouses, it remains a rustic scene, with small streams and gardens and orchards. Almost all the houses are reached by wooden bridges over the watercourses, as are the theatres. I look for the great door of the Globe, surmounted by a wooden pediment carved with a torso of Hercules carrying the world on his shoulders, and the troupe’s device: Totus mundus agit histrionem (‘all the world inspires the player’). From without, the building resembles a tower topped with a roof of thatch and a tall mast from which a flag is flown whenever a performance is in progress.
I arrive early in the morning. No one is there but William Shakespeare himself. The weather is fine and he is sitting at the very front of the stage, in the open air, his legs dangling over the edge. He is reading Montaigne’s Essays, and so concentrated on his book that I hesitate to disturb him. Eventually, he senses my presence and looks up. ‘What can I do for you, Sir?’ he says, jumping down from the stage.
‘My profound respects, Master Shakespeare. You cannot place me; but . . .’
‘Wait, yes I can. Master Tregian! I had to think for a moment, please excuse me. We haven’t seen each other in a long while.’
‘The first performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’
He sighs. ‘Carefree days. But let’s not dwell on all that. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Alas, Master Morley’s illness. His legs can no longer carry him. He asked me to bring you his arrangement for the young princess’s songs. He explained everything to me, and said he would like me to rehearse the young man playing the role of… er…’
‘Ophelia.’
‘Yes, Ophelia. That’s it. He asked me to rehearse the young man playing Ophelia, according to his instructions, which are very precise.’
‘But Henry Condell won’t be here until this afternoon.’
‘I’ll come back in that case.’ I replace my hat.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘No, as a matter of fact I haven’t.’
‘Do me the honour of accompanying me to the Pig and Whistle. The hostess keeps a splendid table and a passable ale.’
We exchange our stories, seated before a handsome feast in a corner of the almost deserted inn. Master Shakespeare tells me about Essex’s rebellion. The events took place some months before, but they are still the substance of every conversation.
‘I didn’t know Essex well,’ says Shakespeare. ‘I hardly ever saw him except at the theatre. He was always devilishly excitable. My instinct told me to be wary of him. Which left me looking an idiot at times, for he was irresistibly charming. My poor Southampton let himself get caught like a fly in birdlime.’
‘Do you think he will be hanged, too? Beheaded?’
‘No. They would have done it already. But he has lost his dearest friends. Sir Charles Danvers has been executed.’ He sighs. ‘On the eve of the rebellion, which of course we knew nothing about, he came here in a quite dangerous state of excitement. I had never seen him thus. And he asked us to play Richard II.
‘“Why in hell’s name Richard II?” we asked. “Most of us can’t even remember the lines, it’s been so long since we did it.”
‘“You will read it through,” he said.
‘“We no longer have the costumes, or the painted hangings for the scene,” we objected.
‘“My dear Will,” he said, “that is of no importance. What matters is that you perform that very play and no other.” He was accompanied by six or seven gentlemen: Sir Charles Percy, Lord Monteagle and others I have forgotten. We told them, too, that the play was so old it would attract scarcely any audience.
‘“No matter – we will be there. Here are forty shillings for your pains. We must see the overthrow and death of Richard II.”
‘We ought to have suspected something, when they said that. But how could we imagine… ? Essex was the Queen’s favourite. I know now that he had fallen from grace, but I was ignorant of it then. Looking back, I can see that giving him his freedom was a very great risk. But things weren’t so simple at the time. Essex was much adored by the mass of the populace: he dazzled them, and they forgot all reason. Had he succeeded, we would probably have had a civil war, a national disaster. But on the day of his execution, all London was in mourning.’
‘What about you, his accomplice’s protégé?’
‘We had witnesses who had heard us object to playing Richard II. For a moment, I truly thought we would be implicated in the disgrace. But not at all. On the eve of the execution, the Queen even summoned us to court to play The Comedy of Errors. One of the hardest things we have ever done. Indeed, it may have been a way of punishing us. The whole city held its breath, waiting for dawn the next day, and we still had no idea, yea or nay, whether Southampton would be executed too. He’s a hothead, but I’ve come to feel a strong affection for him. We danced the final ballet, but our feet felt as if they were in irons.’
‘My own life seems dull indeed, by comparison.’
Perhaps because Shakespeare has opened his heart to me, perhaps because my own heart is near breaking – I have been subjected to sermons and tirades from my family for days, but must hold my tongue – whatever the reason, this polite question from Will as to the state of my own affairs unleashes a torrent in reply.
‘In Amsterdam I am a respectable burgher, an associate of a silk-trading house noted for its fine quality. I have a wife and children, who speak not a word of English; the Tregian family’s preoccupations do not touch them in any way. I have my music, which fills my many leisure hours. My life is perfectly arranged. I seem to be another person, living in another world. And yet, when I come here, I lose all my mirth. I grow weary and my life seems stale, flat and unprofitable. My father looms like some terrible spectre. He has only to say, “Remember, my son… ” and I am lost. The trivial record of my life and business, all my wisdom, knowledge and reason, are wiped from the tables of my memory, and I hear nothing but the voice of a duty alien to me. I tell myself: the time itself is out of joint, and I was not born to set it right. And yet I am caught like a mouse in a trap.’
I feel the blood rise to my face. Shakespeare is staring at me so intently that I shudder.
‘What is it Master William?’
‘You consider yourself a man caught between two worlds, sir?’
‘A man caught between two worlds? Indeed I am. I envy a man who can still find excitement and exaltation, and throw himself into acts of folly, even unto death. We, who are not fanatics, are caught between two camps, two ways of life. We are omniscient, god-like in our apprehension. And so we cannot embrace one or the other. In musical terms, there’s the prima pratica and the seconda pratica: but the one does not exclude the other, they merely express different sentiments. They say music is the highest expression of the divine. Why then, is it so impossible for two different practices to co-exist in our spiritual life?’
‘Keep your voice down if you are placing music above religion, Master Tregian.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ I stop short. ‘Well, I implied it. It will go no further, I trust.’
‘We are gentlemen, sir. The secrets we confide and receive are not ours to divulge. How will you resolve your dilemma?’
‘I don’t know yet. Doubtless I shall have to do as… as a gentleman of my acquaintance has done. He made his family believe he is dead and rebuilt his life in the New World.’
‘The New World is full of people who thought themselves unable to bear the ills they suffered here, only to flee to others they knew nothing of. I have heard it said by returning travellers that in the end, they would rather not have crossed the ocean at all.’
I sigh. ‘I am caught in a duel with my own self. And I don’t know if I am up to the fight.’
‘Do you not have brothers?’
‘Yes, one. But I am the eldest son.’
‘You might renounce your right of primogeniture. Pass the torch to him.’
‘That’s true. I should give it some thought.’
‘Avoid thinking too much, or the trap will close around you.’
‘If it hasn’t already.’
‘Master Tregian, do you know the play for which you have brought me Master Morley’s arrangement?’
‘No. I don’t believe he told me the title.’
‘The music is for Hamlet.’
I look at him and raise an eyebrow. What of it?
‘You don’t know the play? Did you not see it at Newington Butts some seven or eight years ago: the story of the prince whose throne is usurped? And a ghost comes to encourage him to take it back, and he pretends to be mad, to secure his revenge…’
‘There’s a tale like that in Belleforest’s Histoires Tragiques, I believe. But I haven’t seen the play.’
‘Southampton and Essex are reckless men of action. But you and I are men of reason and thought.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Sir, I should like to ask you a great favour. No one must ever know that they came from you, but I should like to put some of your reflections this morning into Hamlet’s mouth.’
‘What manner of man is he, your Hamlet?’
‘A prince, caught between the modern world of Europe and the backward-looking court of Denmark.’
‘Yet the Danish court is very modern. Quite refined, in fact.’
‘You know it?’
‘Yes indeed.’
‘Well, then we shall have it torn between modernity and a vision of the world as it was a century ago. Hamlet is torn, too, between love and the demands of State, between his scholarly urge to explore the majesty of the firmament and his paralysis at the prospect of breaking free of earthly bonds, between his desire for freedom and the voice of his father, calling him to order and to remember his duty.’
‘Ah!’
‘You see – it is your story. And mine. You look quite thunderstruck.’
He is right. He speaks as if he has read my very soul.
‘I have a proposition. Come to the theatre at noon. I’ll make a few changes to the text before then. We’ll rehearse a few scenes – not in their proper order, sadly, for it depends on which actors are present. You will rehearse Ophelia. And this evening, you can try to read the manuscript. It’s full of corrections and revisions, for the moment; I must have it copied to make a clean book for the prompter.’
‘What if I were to copy it out for you, as I read?’
‘My dear sir, you demean yourself.’
‘I demean myself by peddling silks, by copying madrigals and having people sing them, by playing the organ and the virginal, even by knowing how to build instruments. None of these things befits a gentleman. But allow me, this once, to demean myself out of sheer curiosity.’
And so I find myself sitting in the main gallery, watching a rehearsal of various scenes of Hamlet.
I send Jack home.
‘Tell Lady Anne, and come back later with a very sharp penknife and some fine quills; you know how I like them. I’ll need your help. Get some decent rest this afternoon: it may take the better part of the night.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Jack is in the habit of seconding me when I copy music. Sometimes, when the original scores are available to us for no more than a few hours, we have to work at great speed. He has learned to imitate my writing to perfection and, on occasion – if we are in a great hurry and my hand is cramped – he copies in my stead. We also use the services of expert copyists, who can imitate our hand in all points.
I admire Master Shakespeare’s skill. A few hours later, my story is already incorporated into the text.
I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise; and indeed, it goes so heavenly with my disposition, that this goodly frame the Earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o’er-hanging, this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire: why, it appears no other thing to me, than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason? How infinite in faculty? In form and moving how express and admirable? In action, how like an Angel? In apprehension, how like a God? The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals; and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
My own sentiment, expressed that very morning. Or his – I can no longer tell. I am astounded by the speed with which Shakespeare has blended my words and feelings into the text of his play.
In passing, Shakespeare mentioned the problem of the Children of the Chapel, a highly fashionable troupe of actors at the time.
‘Your relative, William Stanley, is their patron. And Ben Jonson writes for them; he’s a young playwright – rich, turbulent stuff. We know him well; he has worked for us in the past. Jonson has them speak ill of our public theatres, as if those children will never grow up and become professional actors themselves. They’ll have need of us then, all right. They’re cutting the very branch on which they – and their author – sit. Tragedy is poorly conveyed by child actors.’
By five o’clock this afternoon, this is in Hamlet, too:
… an eyrie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question and are most tyrannically clapped for’t. These are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages (so they call them) that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither.
Jack makes his timely entrance just as I have finished teaching Henry Condell the airs he is to sing, which he does very prettily indeed.
How should I your true love know
From another one,
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone.
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
White his shroud as the mountain snow –
Larded all with sweet flowers
Which bewept to the grave did not go
With true-love showers.
The four of us set about making the clean copy for the prompter’s book. Shakespeare dictates, Jack cuts the quills, I write and Condell reads it all back. We stop for a while to take refreshment at the Pig and Whistle.
There is much merriment at our table:
‘You’ll be back tomorrow, Master Tregian? We’ll have revised the whole thing all over again, and we’ll need a complete new text for the prompter.’
‘You are admirably perceptive, dear friends. As soon as I fall asleep, the ideas flow free and the Ghost comes to dictate his own lines.’
‘Pinch yourself, Master Shakespeare, so you don’t fall asleep between now and the first performance!’
‘Truly, though, I feel sure we have it this time. The Ghost was bothering me. Why just any ghost, coming to speak to Hamlet? But if it’s his father’s ghost, it makes sense. No more revisions, I promise you. Which is not to say we won’t retouch the text a little, here and there.’
‘But… we might discover at the last minute that Hamlet has a brother, unbeknown to all, a bastard child fathered by Claudius, long before.’
‘Or that Old Hamlet had been tupping Polonius’ wife. Quite plausible. What does our Ghost here say to that?’
Everyone chuckles.
We return to our task. I am quite transported with delight. With the exception of a few details, the story dictated to me by the great poet is my own, and Hamlet’s many questions are the very same ones I ask myself. Golden is my Elsinore and I am no more attracted by the ‘rotten state’ of England than Hamlet by his Denmark. There are innumerable parallels.
Hamlet seems the finest of all Shakespeare’s plays, and I come to know it almost by heart. I revere it as much as the Essays of Messire de Montaigne.
A few days later, Giuliano returns from Cornwall.
‘So? What news?’
‘Master Francis, I do not know what to say. Golden is rented to an efficacious tenant farmer and the property is well kept. But I met the Careys’ steward, one Ezekiel Grosse.’
‘The man Old Thomas told us about years ago?’
‘The very same. And if you take my advice, you’ll keep well away from that man. I don’t trust him.’
‘He’s dishonest?’
‘Not really dishonest, but he has his eye on Golden. It’s a lordly manor of long standing and he believes it will enhance his prestige. I have never understood why people like him think that by taking possession of some property or other, their reputation will rise; in reality, they merely tarnish it. No one’s fooled in the country round about. Even now, so many years later, people still say your family were the victims of a plot. Everyone remarks that your father lacked diplomacy – the old refrain – but now they also say that he didn’t deserve such harsh punishment. Your property at Tregarrick – Old Thomas’s house and farm – is flourishing, and perfectly maintained. People would love to see you installed there. And to show you how little regard anyone pays to your being a Catholic, no one, not even the lawyer, who is a strict Puritan, has ever told Carey or Grosse that you are the heir to it. People know, but you would have to commit some truly dreadful act before they would breathe a word.’
‘Could we return by way of Cornwall?’
‘Yes. I have taken a passage back to Holland from Falmouth; I hope you are in agreement.’
‘Oh, perfectly. I am growing tired of London and, once I’ve seen Hamlet, I suggest we leave. Which means in three days, as far as I am concerned.’
I revisit my father. He has not shifted his position one jot.
‘Father, I will see what I can do when the time comes. I can promise nothing, and make no commitment now. I can give my word but once, and I cannot give it lightly.’
My father’s blessing is not easy to obtain after that, but I force it out of him at the last moment.
Two days before leaving, I go to see Richard Mulcaster. For four or five years now, he has been Rector of St Paul’s School, which is of comparable reputation to the Merchant Taylors’ but a much bigger establishment. Under his leadership it has become, like his previous school, one of the finest in the country. The man who has taught thousands of schoolboys recognises me immediately, as if we had parted only the day before. People tell me he recognises every one of his former pupils thus. He has less time for me than on my previous visit, but greets me nonetheless, brandishing the first volume of Montaigne’s Essays.
‘The reading matter of every honest and decent man, now that John Florio has translated these admirable volumes,’ he declares. ‘London is mad for Messire de Montaigne.’
I tell him I found Master Shakespeare reading it.
‘That doesn’t surprise me. People say he has reworked Thomas Kyd’s Hamlet.’
‘He hasn’t reworked it. I didn’t see the other play, but I know the story. He has created it afresh. I’m going to see it performed tomorrow. That’s one thing I simply can’t miss before I leave.’
I tell him of my discussions with Will Shakespeare.
‘I’ll go and see it next week, when I get a free afternoon. Everyone is talking about it and people are impatient to see it on stage at last.’
‘From the scraps I have seen and from reading the text, I believe it will be a truly great work.’
‘Tregian, I am happy indeed that you have not forgotten your old schoolmaster. Tell me, do you know your brother’s whereabouts?’
I hesitate. He smiles.
‘So you’ve found him but you prefer not to give him away to me.’
‘I will happily tell you, sir, if it stays between ourselves.’
‘You have my word, Master Tregian.’
I tell him everything. He does nothing but smile, nod and ask the occasional question.
‘I always said that boy would go far.’
‘That boy, always such a puny child, is now almost as tall as me and twice as broad.’
‘Has he started a family?’
‘I believe he has considered it recently. But it has not yet come about.’
‘Tell him his old schoolmaster never doubted his abilities.’
Before leaving, I keep two further appointments, with Robert Cecil in the morning and Hamlet in the afternoon.
‘I am greatly discomfited by your family,’ says Cecil, after the usual exchange of greetings and formalities.
‘As am I, sir. I am a loyal and constant servant of Her Majesty, ready to lay down my life for her, though I am still a Catholic; but my loyalty counts for nothing while my father dreams of installing Spain on the English throne.’
‘Precisely, Master Tregian. And as a result, your situation is such that I cannot do anything for you, unless you agree to conform to the Anglican faith. I know you are a loyal subject, that you have fled the Jesuits and our Anglican authority alike. But as for the rest of Her Majesty’s Privy Council, your conversion is the only thing that would give a sufficient guarantee.’
‘And that cannot be, sir. I am a man of peace, but no weathervane. My sword is Her Majesty’s but my conscience remains my own.’
The conversation continues in much the same manner, with a great deal of repetition.
‘My affection for you endures,’ says Robert Cecil, finally. ‘And I understand your refusal to convert. But things are difficult, very difficult.’
I try to hide it but my anguish must be visible in my face.
‘Believe me, Master Tregian, if I could change the current state of affairs, I would do so. I promise you that should the occasion present itself… Come and see me whenever you wish. And if you seek a place at court, I will take you into my service tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, sir, but I prefer to be my own master, for as long as that is still possible.’
He bows, smiling, with genuine goodwill.
A few hours later, I go to see the performance of Hamlet. I have reserved a private box, and bring Giuliano, Jack and my young sisters. The Globe is full to bursting.
… will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time; after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you lived.
The lines capture what I feel as I leave the theatre. I seem to have seen my whole life, the essence of our time, condensed. Impossible not to see Mary Stuart in Gertrude; the late Lord Burghley in Polonius; Essex’s wise and cautious friend, Lord Francis Bacon, in Horatio; and my father in Old Hamlet; as for the ‘mad’ prince, he might have been Essex or Southampton, or myself – or even Will Shakespeare. I am not the only one to see so much in it. The audience treats the players to prolonged and hearty applause, and the Globe is full for the days I remain in London.
In the early evening I return to Thomas Morley’s house, where Giles Farnaby is waiting, very much his usual self. I describe the performance in detail. Thomas Morley says:
‘The idea of making the Ghost the young prince’s father gives the play a universal aspect: everyone will have forgotten the earlier version in a matter of weeks.’
‘Did you see Kyd’s version?’
‘Yes. But it was concentrated on Hamlet’s madness as a ruse through which to wreak his vengeance. It was an adventure story, not the political and philosophical treatise you describe.’
‘Should you not like to see it, Master Morley?’
‘And how might I do that?’
‘On a litter. You can take Jack tomorrow, then, between him and your manservant, they can carry you there.’
The idea puts Morley in an excellent mood, and we spend a memorable evening. I find Giles Farnaby’s compositions enchanting. He does not have Morley’s perfect technique or Byrd’s fluency, but his originality and imagination are plain to hear.
‘Thank you for liking my compositions,’ Giles breathes.
His voice is full of humble gratitude. I am quite taken by surprise.
‘Are they not appreciated otherwise?’
‘They are not much heard, apart from the psalms and one or two of my canzonette. I spend more time building virginals than I do playing them.’
‘Would you allow me to copy down some of your pieces?’
‘It would be an honour, sir.’
I leave with his scores under my arm and spend half the night copying them. The task helps me overcome the profound sadness I feel, certain that I shall never see Thomas Morley again.
We reach St Ewe after a journey of five or six days. Our tenant farmers greet us with delight. The house is as scrupulously maintained as on my previous visit; time seems to have stood still. We stay for just two nights, but it seems to me I am drinking from the very source of life. My energies are restored. But the reminder of my deep attachment to Cornwall does nothing to clarify my thoughts.
I visit Golden. The road between the two houses, leading to Golden Mill, is quite well used, and I attach myself to a group of travellers both there and back. The properties are in good order: the Warren is laden with game, wheat is growing on the Roman Camp, the animals look well fed, and the people seem serene and content.
Giuliano suggests we go to the King’s Arms in Probus, a hostelry that Ezekiel Grosse likes to frequent. And so I see him for the first time, though he is unaware of my presence. He is a man of about forty, stockily built, with a loud voice, stout fingers and small, round, darting eyes. There is no refinement about him, and I immediately dislike his swaggering, disdainful air. I see straight away that I can be no match for him when it comes to striking a bargain. I am utterly defenceless against men of his kind.
‘Shall we make ourselves known to him?’
‘Sir, your reticence is written all over your face. You had better leave it to me, but another time, when you are not here. You will spoil everything.’
‘No doubt you are right. We shall leave it for now.’
And we leave. Questioned on the matter, the notary confirms that it would be almost impossible to take back the lands seized under the praemunire, until my father’s death.
‘Your family is a rather special case. The original aim was to dismantle the hegemony they feared would arise from a permanent alliance between the Tregian and Arundell families.’
‘My mother is not an Arundell.’
‘But her mother married old Arundell himself. Your grandfather John Tregian was married to Catherine Arundell. Two consecutive marriages united the two greatest fortunes in the region. Understandably, that worried some people. The fact that the two families were Catholic was the perfect pretext for their persecution. There is an element in the current hostile climate that goes beyond religion, and you will find it very difficult to reinstate the property as it was before your grandfather’s death. I would even venture that every precaution has been taken to make it impossible. In your place, I would content myself with the small property and farm that have come down to you as a personal legacy. I have mentioned it to no one, and it brings you an adequate rent by which to live.’
I find myself so undecided that I postpone any major resolutions on the matter.
We board ship at Falmouth that very evening, on the high tide.