SIR THOMAS MORE.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.
VIII.
Meanwhile, a great agitation prevailed in the heart of the kingdom, at the court, and in every mind. The new favor of the new favorite; the discontent, ever growing but more and more repressed, of the queen’s partisans; the restless and shifting humor of those who in secret held fast to the new religious opinions; the uncertainty of events, new fears, new hopes, seemed to have communicated to the intriguing and ambitious of every degree a boldness and activity hitherto unknown. Delivered from the yoke imposed on him for so long a time by a man at once adroit and yielding, Henry VIII. had at last encountered a vile and abject creature who would gradually encourage him to display all the natural ferocity of his character. Already he was no longer able to separate himself from Cromwell, who, artfully flattering each one of his passions, constantly said to him: “To please you, to obey you—that is the sole end toward which all should aim, or they should fall!”
Every day, in consequence of their determined efforts, new complaints against the clergy were reported to the House of Commons. The time had come, they said, to distribute among the truly poor the treasures accumulated by the priests, and to destroy the abuses they had made of their power. These accusations, together with calumnies of a blacker character,
emanating from sources always scrupulously concealed, were artfully disseminated among the people, circulated from mouth to mouth, and served wonderfully to irritate the stupid and ignorant masses; while in the House of Lords nothing was left undone to secure the influence and suffrages of the most influential members of that body.
Confident of success in all their designs, Henry VIII. and his favorite decided that it was time to strike the first blow; and while the attorney-general was in receipt of the order to carry to the King’s Bench an accusation which included the entire clergy of the kingdom as having become amenable to the penalties attached to the Præmunire statutes, a measure and petition were presented to Parliament to prohibit every bishop from paying dues to the see of Rome; secondly, that for the future their body should neither promulgate nor execute any of its laws without the co-operation of the royal authority; and, finally, that all those laws which had been in force until that time should be re-examined by a committee whose members would be named and chosen by the king, in order that he might abolish them if he deemed expedient.
These measures at first excited universal murmurs of dissatisfaction; but people were not slow to perceive that such expressions could
not be indulged in without danger, for it was no longer a matter of doubt that Parliament would yield to the slightest wish of the king. The fear inspired by this prince, together with his incessant threats and menaces, secured him the submission of those even whom avarice had not been able to corrupt.
Henry triumphantly congratulated himself on his success. The courageous firmness of one single man, however, sufficed to embitter all his pleasure; for, since the king had openly and boldly announced his intention of compelling the divorce to be granted, no matter by what means, More had scrupulously held himself aloof, no longer appearing at court, except when summoned by the king or when the duties of his office obliged him to be formally present. This was a source of deep chagrin and displeasure to Henry VIII., and the cold and reserved manner of the lord chancellor kept him, when in his presence, in a state of painful restraint.
“What!” he said to himself, “everything goes according to my wishes, and yet the silent reproaches of this man alone annoy me unceasingly. It would be better for him to yield,” he cried in his frenzy, “or I shall be compelled to force him into submission!”
But when More again appeared before him, he listened to the report of affairs which he had to submit, no longer knowing what to say to him, and he dared not even pronounce the name of Anne Boleyn in his presence. This day, however, he had summoned Cromwell at a very early hour, and appeared to be in an exceedingly joyful mood; he laughed aloud, then, suddenly resuming a serious expression, he exclaimed, slapping the
head of a superb greyhound that held his black nose extended across his knees:
“You will see, Cromwell, what a good effect this will produce on the people; because it is useless to conceal that More is a man of such exalted character and brilliant worth that all the eyes of my kingdom are fixed upon his conduct.”
“Ah!” said Cromwell, whom this very just opinion of the king displeased mightily,” I do not believe it will be thus when your majesty has spoken.”
“Yes, yes,” replied the king; “and that is why I congratulate myself on the expedient which suggested itself last night. How can you imagine, after he has read in open Parliament the decisions of the universities in my favor, that the people will believe he does not favor the divorce? And it is most necessary to counteract by this means the effect produced by the promulgation of the papal bull.”
“Bah! that bull,” said Cromwell, “is no more than a scrap of waste paper. The pope forbids any of the clergy from celebrating your marriage before the queen’s suit is decided. Now, marry Lady Anne to-morrow!”
“To-morrow!” exclaimed the king.
At that moment the curtain of scarlet silk which hung in heavy folds before the entrance of the royal apartment was drawn aside, and Sir Thomas More appeared.
The king paused surprised; his fingers were entwined among the links of the gold chain suspended around the neck of Cromwell, and he was familiarly patting the breast of that base-born creature, now seated close beside him.
“Ah! it is you, Sir Thomas,” said Henry, affecting an air of unconcern;
“you are always most welcome here. I believe this is one of your friends,” he added, pointing to Cromwell.
More made no reply; he simply inclined his head in response to the king’s salutation.
“Yes, yes, you understand each other very well,” continued the king, without appearing to remark that More made no reply. “Is it not so, Cromwell?”
“I hope so,” replied Cromwell, casting a furtive glance around him. For he was not able to encounter the penetrating gaze of More, whom he secretly feared and detested; and from the time he believed that More could no longer be of use to him he had ceased to overwhelm him with visits and continual solicitations, as he had formerly been in the habit of doing.
“Well, good Sir Thomas,” continued Henry, always indulging in badinage, “what would you have with us?”
“I would speak with your majesty alone for a few moments,” replied More.
“A reasonable request,” answered the king; “and you know we always grant anything you ask.”
He made a sign to Cromwell, who immediately withdrew, his heart fired with rage at the welcome always extended by the king to More.
“If ever I come into power,” murmured he in his heart, “More, thou shalt know me!”
“What, then, is it, More?” asked the king, and he regarded him with an impatient expression.
“Your majesty,” replied More, “this morning sent me an order to present myself in the House of Commons, and carry thither the decisions of the universities. Up to this time I have been loath to speak; but to-day, at the moment of giving
such authenticity to these documents, I consider it my duty to make known to your majesty that they have been extorted by force and are far from being regular; a great many of the signatures are wanting, while others are counterfeit.”
“Counterfeit!” exclaimed the king angrily.” Who has told you that?”
“I am sure of it,” replied Sir Thomas quietly and in the calmest of tones; “and I have thought it my duty to inform the king of the fact before asking his permission to retire.”
“You retire!” cried Henry VIII.
“I had already requested the Duke of Norfolk,” continued More, “to express to your majesty how painful it was to me to quit your service and to find myself obliged to cease from fulfilling the office with which you have honored me; but my health is so feeble as not to permit me to hold it longer.” And he was silent.
The king sat stupefied. But surprise very soon changed into extreme displeasure; for he saw perfectly well why More retired, and felt that he had nothing to hope from a man so firm and as inaccessible to fear as to self-interest. It was for this he dissembled and evinced none of the vexation he felt.
“I am sorry,” he said coldly, “that you should leave me; because you were that one of my servants whom I have most esteemed and loved. But, nevertheless, since you wish it, I will not oppose your going. I shall always remember the services you have rendered me, and be assured that any request you may make shall certainly be granted.”
More made no reply, but the
tears came into his eyes; he loved the king sincerely, and would have made any sacrifice to have saved him from the unhappy passion that had enchained him.
“You weep, More,” said the king. “If it gives you pain, why do you leave me?”
“Because I cannot do otherwise.”
“As you please,” replied the king curtly. “I force nobody to remain in my service. You will one day, perhaps, repent this step. You are rich now, I suppose?”
“Your majesty knows very well to the contrary,” replied More. “In losing the salary of the office I now resign, I am not sure that I shall have sufficient means remaining to provide becomingly for the wants of my many children. During the time I filled a lucrative employment at the bar, I saved enough to purchase a small tract of land which I now own; but when your majesty called me into your service, I was naturally obliged to abandon my profession, and since then I have saved nothing.”
“What!” said the king, “you have nothing remaining from the income of your office?”
“Not so much as one hundred gold crowns,” replied Sir Thomas.
“More,” said the king thoughtfully, “you are an honest man.”
“I endeavor to be so, sire.”
“It grieves me that you leave me. Why approve not of my marriage?”
“Because, sire, you may not have two wives at once.”
“Begone!” said Henry VIII.…
And Cromwell found the king in a state of excitement impossible to describe.
“I regret it! I regret it!” he exclaimed. “This will work me evil! A man of such integrity, such worth! No one can doubt it. I have done wrong in sending him to
the Parliament; it was plain that he would refuse me.”
“What says he?” thought Cromwell to himself, surprised and anxious.
“Cromwell,” said the king, “he leaves me!”
“Who?”
“More.”
“More!” cried Cromwell, scarcely able to conceal his delight. “Well, is it only that that troubles you? It is a happiness rather. The hypocrite unmasks himself at last; it has been long since the happiness of his sovereign was that for which he cared the least.”
“You are mistaken, Cromwell; he loved me sincerely.”
“Ah!” cried Cromwell, “this is the way in which your majesty’s goodness of heart unceasingly opposes itself to your own interests. Sir Thomas More has never lost an occasion of sustaining the ridiculous pretensions of Queen Catherine. I heard him myself exclaim aloud in the presence of the legates assembled to try her: “May the queen triumph over all her enemies!” Would he have done this had he not presumed (if I may dare to say it) upon your majesty’s weakness? This is the opinion expressed to me by the illustrious Machiavelli: ‘It is always safer for a prince to inspire his subjects with fear than with love’; love holds men by that very feeble link called gratitude, while the bond of fear it is almost impossible to sunder.”
“And where has the fuller’s son known Machiavelli?” asked Henry VIII. disdainfully. “Truly,” he continued, with that ironical smile which was habitual with him, and that haughty and scornful tone with which he often chose to crush those who believed they stood high in his favor, “I was not aware that you
had studied politics under Machiavelli.”
“I knew him in Italy,” replied Cromwell, profoundly humiliated. The recollection of the lowliness of his origin was a continual torment to the soul of this parvenu; nevertheless, without permitting the slightest emotion to appear in his countenance, he continued the conversation. “We often,” he said, “walked together in the gardens of the Oricellari Palace, which Machiavelli was in the habit of frequenting, and where multitudes of young men of the most distinguished families of the city eagerly came to listen to the words of this celebrated man. He had the kindness to notice me among them all, and received me with particular affection. He sometimes spoke successively of all the princes of Europe; but in mentioning the name of your majesty he could not conceal his admiration. ‘I do not know,’ he said, ‘any prince of our day who can be compared to him, either for courage or exalted ability.’”
“I feel flattered,” replied the king; “for he was a man of great discernment and superior judgment.”
And Henry’s gratified vanity brought to his features an expression of pleasure that did not escape the notice of the adroit liar. There was no truth in the statement he had made to Henry VIII. of having met the Florentine secretary, at least in his own society, as he wished to insinuate to the king, but in a public drinking-house where Machiavelli (whose tastes were not always the most elevated or refined) went to enjoy the amusements of the common people, in order to be relieved of the ennui that devoured him when at his country seat and not absorbed in business.
“These gardens of the Oricellari Palace have a great reputation,” said Henry VIII. carelessly, after a considerable silence.
“Very great and very justly,” replied Cromwell with enthusiasm, “since they have been embellished by the famous Alberti—he who introduced again into Europe a taste for the pure and beautiful Grecian architecture. The celebrated Bernard Rucellai, to whom they belong, has collected there besides a great quantity of the precious fragments of antiquity—”
Cromwell paused—he thought the king was going to speak; but, finding he said nothing, he continued:
“Your majesty has seen, in the beginning of Machiavelli’s book on the art of war, the portrait he has drawn and his eulogies on the young Count Rucellai, the same to whom he has dedicated his discourse on Livy.”
“Possibly,” said Henry VIII. He turned his head and slightly yawned.
Cromwell was silent immediately and racked his brain for another subject of conversation, regretting that the one he had already introduced had been so speedily exhausted.
* * * * *
After leaving the king Sir Thomas More returned to the bank of the Thames, wishing, as soon as possible, to reach his home at Chelsea. In going down to his barge, which awaited him above Westminster bridge, he saw a crowd collected on the quay inspecting the boat, which, glittering gorgeously in the rays of the sun, seemed in every respect worthy of the exalted rank of her illustrious owner. Eight rowers dressed in uniform managed her with great dexterity; a large pavilion of purple silk protected the
interior against injury from light and air; the bottom was covered with a heavy tapestry carpet; and the spacious seats, capable of accommodating a large number of persons, were supplied with rich crimson velvet cushions. The exterior was not less rich, and the ivory and little bands of gold with which the stern was encrusted gave it the appearance of being enveloped in a delicate network, each mesh of which seemed to sparkle with gems and gold. The heavens were serene and cloudless, and a multitude of small boats, painted green, darted rapidly over the river, propelled by their light sails of gleaming white. It was a festival day, and they were filled with citizens enjoying the revivifying country air, and resting from their labors to refresh themselves on the verdant and flowery lawns of Richmond, Twickenham, or Greenwich. Arrayed in their most elegant robes of worsted and silk, the women waved their handkerchiefs or sang to amuse their children, while groups of sailors in varied costumes representing different nations were engaged in playing boisterous games, or, gathering around one of their older companions, listened eagerly to the stories he told of expeditions he had joined or shipwrecks he had escaped.
“To-day these people are happy!” thought More, saddened by the contrast presented by their joy and the interior oppression he himself experienced. “Let me return to a life of peaceful obscurity like theirs, find again my plain wooden boat, take my seat on the straw matting which covers the bottom, and row in my turn without a fear of to-morrow; always sure of seeing my Margaret and my other children coming along the bank to give me a joyous reception, and
hear them exclaim, ‘Here is our father!’ But why all these apprehensions?” he continued, passing his hand across his brow, as if to dispel some sad and painful reflection. “God reigns in heaven; and have I not this day experienced his divine protection? The king has given me a kinder reception than I had hoped to receive; he has, at least, not permitted his wrath to break forth in all its violence. Perhaps in the end it will only be more terrible; but never mind, the will of the Lord be done! Nothing can happen on the earth without his permission. I abandon myself to him; and when man, his creature, casts himself into his arms, he will not withdraw nor permit him to fall.”
In the meantime the tide began to rise, and the waves of the sea, flowing into the great bed of the river, very soon extended it to the surrounding banks. Carried along by the waves, More’s barge no longer required other care than the slight attention necessary to guide it. The tired sailors rested on their oars, while their eyes wandered over the charming borders of the Thames.
“My lord,” said one of the sailors, turning towards Sir Thomas, “here we are in front of Seat-House Gardens. We are passing the village of Nine Elms.”
But More heard them not; he seemed entirely absorbed in his own reflections.
The men were astonished, because ordinarily he conversed with them when he was alone in the boat, and questioned them about such subjects as interested them. Sir Thomas More thought it was his duty as a master and a Christian to take especial care not only of the bodies but also of the souls of his servants, in enlightening their
minds by good advice and wise exhortations. Consequently, they were astonished at his silence, and, loving him as a father, they were fearful some misfortune had befallen him of which they were not apprised.
“There is the little point of Chelsea spire,” said the pilot, observing him with an anxious eye.
“My lord, here is Chelsea,” they exclaimed all together.
“Well, my children,” he replied, “land me at the foot of the crossroad.”
Sir Thomas thought, as it was the hour for evening devotion, his family would surely be at the parish church, and he would take his children back in the boat with him. He landed, therefore, and, ordering the sailors to wait, slowly ascended the beach by a rugged road, beyond which he encountered a worthy old peasant woman driving a number of cows to the river. On perceiving Sir Thomas an expression of satisfaction overspread her features, tanned and furrowed by age and hard labor. She stopped to salute him as usual.
“My good lord,” she exclaimed, “I am very glad to see you. We every day pray to the Lord to preserve you. Since you have been in this country everything has prospered with us. We have not lost a single calf nor had a bad crop since you rebuilt our barn, which was burnt at the same time as your own; and the other day we were talking among ourselves, and we said that you must be very rich to be able to make so many around you happy.”
“The barn is a strong and substantial one, at least,” said More, who could not avoid smiling at the idea of his reputed wealth.
“Oh! as to that, yes,” replied the
simple woman; “it is of good stone, and very much stronger and better than it was before. It will outlast us all a long time.”
Having said this, she passed on, as she saw Sir Thomas wished to be detained no longer, and the cows had wandered from the road to graze on the surrounding pasture.
“Here comes the good lord chancellor,” said the village children in a suppressed tone. The crowd kneeling without on the pavement of the church, too small to accommodate the entire congregation on festival days, opened respectfully, and Sir Thomas proceeded down the aisle of the church to his pew, where he found all his family seated.
He remained standing near, as the service was almost over, and he did not wish to make any disturbance by opening the door of the pew; but Margaret soon discovered the presence of her father, and heard his voice mingling with those of the other faithful who sang the praises of God. Her heart throbbed with joy, and she looked around to try and get sight of him.
“William,” she said immediately to young Roper, “my father is here; give him your seat.”
But Sir Thomas motioned him to sit still; and when the devotion was ended, and the priests had left the altar, he approached, and, opening the door of the pew where Lady More was seated, presented his hand to lead her out, and said:
“Madam, my lord is gone.”
This woman, as disagreeable as she was coarse, raised her dull eyes to her husband’s face.
“What do you mean?” she asked sharply.
She always received in this ungracious manner the pleasantries
More was so fond of indulging in, and it was customary for one of her husband’s retinue to open the pew door in his absence and say: “Madam, my lord is gone.”
“Come with me, nevertheless,” replied More, with imperturbable gentleness; “I will explain to you now my lord is gone.”
Lady More followed him, still, however, murmuring between her teeth because of this unusual mode of departure; and when they had passed through the crowd, and More had returned the salutations with which all greeted him, he called Margaret to his side.
“Listen, my child,” he said. “Your mother here cannot understand how my lord can be absent. Explain to her that I have conducted him this morning to London, where I have left him for ever; in a word, that I am no longer lord chancellor, having resigned my office into the hands of the king. Do you understand now, my good Alice?” he added, turning toward his wife.
Margaret, on hearing this explanation, looked at her father in dismay. She immediately understood there was something behind that she did not know, and her penetrating mind was filled with alarm; but Lady More flew into an ungovernable passion.
“What is this you say?” she cried,” and what have you done? More of your scruples, I warrant me. That tender conscience of yours will land us all in the ashes yet. Is it not better to rule than to be ruled? We are ten times worse off now than we have ever been before, and here are you about to strip us of everything.”
“Dear heart,” said Sir Thomas, without being moved in the least, “it would be impossible, I think,
for me to strip you of your possessions; because, when I married you, you brought me no other dowry than your virtues and the qualities of your heart. Of this dowry I hope, indeed, never to see you deprived by any means in the world, much less by myself.”
“At least,” cried Lady More between her sobs and tears, “I was beautiful and young, and certain it is I might have easily found a husband more interested in his own affairs, and who would have profited more by his learning and the favor of the king.”
On hearing her express herself in this manner Margaret was unable to restrain a gesture of indignation; she idolized her father, and could not tolerate the coarse manners and selfish motives of her step-mother. This woman, narrow of mind and filled with vanity, had succeeded, singularly enough, by manœuvring and flattery, in winning the esteem of More at a time when, having had the misfortune to lose his wife, he saw with great sorrow his daughters deprived of the good example and tender care of a mother. It then seemed to him he could not better replace her than by selecting a widow lady of mature age whose beauty, if it had ever existed, was more than faded, and could no longer be (so, at least, he supposed) a subject of pretension or distraction. But, unfortunately, Lady More, he found, was one of those indifferent, selfish beings who only feel what touches themselves, who consider nothing but their own interests, and fear nothing but what may deprive them of the high social position to which they have been fortunate enough to attain. She could not endure, therefore, the thought of being deprived of the honor she was accustomed to receive as the wife
of the lord chancellor. She never for an instant reflected on the possible difficulties experienced by her husband, or the reasons that might have determined him to resign his office. She at once divined, from the knowledge she possessed of his extreme scrupulousness, that his conscience had been the first cause of this step, and the thought only served to irritate her more, because she insisted that such a difficulty ought to have been avoided.
She continued to utter the most piercing cries, refusing to listen to anything More could say. At length, despairing of bringing her to reason, he began to ridicule her on her absurd conduct.
“My daughters,” he said, calling Elizabeth and Cecilia, “see to your mother’s dress; something has probably stung her under her garments, causing her to cry out in this manner.”
When the silly woman found her husband assume this tone of raillery, she immediately became silent; but, full of anger and spite, she seated herself in a corner of the boat and took no notice of anything around her.
Margaret then took her place beside her father; she drew close to him, and, seizing his hand, pressed it to her lips, without being able to utter a word; her heart was full, and her soul alone silently interrogated that of her father.
Endowed with an extraordinary superabundance of feeling and sentiment, Margaret was enthusiastic in doing good, and repelled evil, when she encountered it, with a degree of inflexibility amounting to severity. Beautiful beyond all expression, her beauty was never for a moment made the subject of her thoughts. Possessed by nature of a very strong mind, she felt unceasingly, and endured
with restless impatience, and almost without being able to submit, the disadvantages which weakness and conventionalities imposed upon her sex. She possessed all the great qualities of her father, but none of his bright cheerfulness and admirable resignation—fruits of the long-continued exercise of the most exemplary virtue. The poor were always sure of finding in her an earnest and faithful friend; the afflicted, a comforter full of eloquence and sympathy; the vain and presumptuous man, a frigid scorn and piquant irony which concealed from him entirely the knowledge of her true character, replete with integrity, frankness, and simplicity. Scarcely emerged from childhood, Margaret felt she had arrived at mature age. The accuracy and loftiness of her judgment, united to that delicacy and exquisite tact which belong naturally to some women, rendered her worthy of becoming the most intimate and reliable friend of her father, whose entire joy and happiness centred in her alone. Educated by him with extreme care, she was familiar with all the sciences, and several works written by her in Greek and Latin of great purity have come down to us from that period.
“My daughter,” said More, “why distress yourself about me, since I am to remain with you?”
“Father,” answered Margaret, fixing her beautiful dark eyes on his face, “there is something behind all this that you have not told. Why conceal it from me?”
“No, dear daughter, nothing. Your father is old; he desires to leave you no more, to see you always, until the Lord shall call him to himself.”
Seeing Margaret’s eyes fill with tears, Sir Thomas repented immediately
of what he had said, fearing to excite in her the nervous sensibility he had always vainly attempted to moderate.
“Father,” she answered, “let it be as you wish; I ask nothing more.”
“On the contrary, you shall know everything, dear child. God has blessed us; be assured of that. And see how green and fresh our garden looks from here.”
They were coming in view of their house at Chelsea, and soon found themselves opposite the small green gate opening, at the end of the garden, upon a path descending to the river. One of the men, taking a large silver whistle from his belt, blew several shrill notes as a signal to those in the house to come and open the gate for their master. Nobody appeared, however, and the family began to feel surprised, when at length they perceived some short and deformed creature advancing with irregular bounds, breaking the bushes and overturning the pots of flowers that he encountered in his passage.
“Ah!” exclaimed Sir Thomas, “there is my poor jester playing his pranks and spoiling all my garden.”
“Henry Pattison!” cried the children, laughing.
“Himself,” said Sir Thomas.
At that moment the little fool, dressed in a scarlet coat all covered with gold lace, opened the gate, and, putting out his great, flat head, made a thousand grimaces, accompanied by roars of laughter and savage cries, which he endeavored to render agreeable, in order to express the gratification he felt at the return of his master.
“Ah! well, what news do you bring us?” said More, looking at him.
“Master,” replied the fool, opening a mouth so wide that it might have better fitted a giant than a dwarf, “father is sick.”
“What! my father sick?” cried More, greatly alarmed.
“Yes, my lord,” replied the jester.
But Sir Thomas, without awaiting his response, rushed into the house and disappeared.
* * * * *
On learning the accusation brought against them in the court of king’s bench, the members of the convocation were seized with consternation, for they understood by the very mention of Præmunire that the king had resolved to make them feel the weight of his authority, and to avenge himself for the opposition he had encountered in the affair of the divorce. They assembled, therefore, in all haste, and from the hour of prime[111] remained deliberating in one of the upper chambers of Westminster Abbey. After a lengthy discussion, they had sent, with unanimous accord, to offer the king the sum of one hundred thousand pounds in return for the pardon they solicited, never having doubted, they said in their petition, that Cardinal Wolsey had received the necessary letters-patent for exercising the authority of legate in the kingdom.
Hours passed away, and no response arrived from the king. Many became alarmed, and the greatest excitement prevailed in that venerable assembly, composed of all the archbishops, bishops, and abbots of the monasteries, who formed, by right of their ecclesiastical rank, part of the House of Lords or, by election, of the Commons.
Conspicuous in the midst of them was the learned and celebrated Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of England. His head, entirely bald, was bowed on his breast. He seemed to take no part or interest in the numerous discussions which were carried on around him, and no one knew whether a gloomy sadness had overshadowed his soul, or if his advanced age had weakened the faculties of his mind together with those of the body. The Bishop of Lincoln, the king’s confessor, who sat beside him, vainly endeavored to attract his attention. Further on, arranged around him, were the Bishops of Durham, Worcester, Norwich, Salisbury, St. David’s, Hereford, Carlisle, Bath, Bangor, and others; the Archbishop of Armagh, near whom was observed the mild and noble physiognomy of the Dean of Exeter, young Reginald Pole, born of the royal blood of the house of York, and descended by Margaret, his mother, from the illustrious family of Plantagenets. The king, his relative, had tried in every way to bring him to approve of the divorce; but neither supplications nor reproaches, nor the fear inspired by Henry VIII., could induce him to act contrary to the voice of his conscience. Later on Henry VIII. taught him, by making the two brothers and the aged mother of Reginald Pole mount the scaffold, how far the excess of his revenge could carry him.
Already had the young Dean of Exeter fallen into disfavor with the king, who closed the door of his palace against him, at the same time that he was forced by the manifest respect of Pole, and the proofs he gave of his devotion, to acknowledge secretly the integrity of his heart and the rectitude of his intentions. At this moment he was
talking to a man whose character was precisely the opposite of his own—the Abbot of Westminster, intriguing, active, and ambitious, well known to Henry VIII., whose spy he was, and to whose will he was entirely submissive.
With them also conversed Roland, chaplain to his majesty, and the poor secretary, Gardiner, whose simplicity and small aptitude for business had been alone sufficient to make his selfish master regret the indefatigable perseverance and the strong mind of Cardinal Wolsey. At this moment he wearied his colleagues with a lengthy recital of all the apprehensions which the violence of the king’s character caused him.
And now a sudden commotion made itself felt throughout the hall. They stood up, they leaned forward; the folding doors were thrown open. “In the name of the king!” cried the usher who guarded the entrance.
Cromwell stood on the threshold. He paused to salute the assembly.
They scarcely dared breathe!
“My lords,” he said in a loud voice, looking slowly around him, and endeavoring to give his sardonic features an expression of benignant persuasion, “the king, our master, always full of clemency and benevolence toward his unworthy subjects, deigns to accept your gift. He makes but one, and that a very slight, condition; which is, that you acknowledge him, in the act of donation, as the supreme and only head of the church and clergy of England.”
He paused to observe, with a malignant joy, similar to that of the demon when he dragged the first man into sin, the effect of these words on the assembly. But a
gloomy silence was the only response they gave him. He again looked slowly around him, and proceeded in a lower tone:
“My lords, let not this either trouble or alarm you; the church, our mother, has not a child more faithful or submissive than our most gracious sovereign. Does he not prove himself such each day by the care he takes to choke up the seeds of heresy which the malice of the devil is trying to sow among us? You also know very well, and even better than I, that he devotes his nights to writing in defence of our holy faith, and nothing could ever induce him to deviate from it. Why should you feel any scruples about honoring a prince so virtuous by placing him at your head as your defender and most firm supporter? Remember, moreover, honored lords, that he who should refuse this title to the king will be regarded by him as a traitor and disloyal subject.”
He then seated himself in their midst, in order to take in the words of the first who should dare raise his voice in opposition to the will of the king.
All the bishops sat in silent consternation. Several wished to speak, but the presence of Cromwell seemed to freeze them with terror; for they were beginning to understand the base manœuvres of this man, and each one felt as though he was on the point of being seized by that wicked wretch, ready to spring upon the first unhappy victim who might present himself.
They looked from one to another, while a profound silence reigned among them.
Archbishop Warham seemed to be seized with a lively grief, but his voice was no more audible, and
his pale lips remained silent and motionless.
Cromwell felt his heart thrill with malicious delight; beneath the frigid expression of a profound and calculating indifference this obscure intriguer exulted in seeing these men, the most learned and honored in all England, trembling and recoiling before him as before the genius of evil.
But suddenly a man whom nothing could intimidate, a saintly man, whose heart knew no fear except the fear of God, arose in the midst of them. An involuntary shudder ran through the assembly. All eyes were directed alternately toward Cromwell and him, as though to defend the one from the malice of the other. It was the Bishop of Rochester, the friend of Thomas More, who was about to speak; and all knew that no cowardly consideration of prudence could stop him.
“My lords,” he cried, as he stood up in their midst, “what impious voice is this that is raised in your presence to propose to us a thing which has never been heard of since the foundation of human society? What is it they wish to exact from us at this moment, if it be not to raise ourselves to the level of God himself by conferring the supremacy of his church on a temporal prince, a man who can have no possible right thereto? Shall we, then, say to-day, as our Lord Jesus Christ said to St. Peter: ‘I give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; and whatsoever you shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatsoever you shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven’? And if we should have the pride and audacity to say it, where would be our power to execute it? Listen,” continued the holy bishop, inflamed
with zeal, and turning toward Cromwell. “Go, and say to the king, our master, that he has been led into error; that he should remember the words of the Holy Scriptures: ‘As my Father hath sent me, so I send you,’ and ask him if he has been ordained one of the pastors of the church; if he has chosen her for his only spouse; if he is an apostle, if he is a doctor, or if he can build up with us the body of Christ; and say to him, moreover, that even though he should possess all these qualifications, yet, before he could be appointed supreme head of the Catholic Church, it would be necessary for her to acknowledge him as such, and that we cannot—we, a feeble fraction of the Christian world—impose a chief on the universe! Go, and let not the king’s majesty be compromised; for he has suggested a desire that cannot be accomplished.”
Cromwell, subdued by the power of this exhortation, arose and immediately withdrew. The Bishop of Rochester, turning toward the assembled prelates, continued:
“My lords, let not the fear of men blind us. Let us reflect well on what they demand of us to-day; for we are not only called on to renounce Clement VII., but also to cast ourselves out of Peter’s bark, only to be submerged in the waves of these countless divisions, sects, schisms, and heresies which it has pleased the mind of man to invent. Yes, I hesitate not to say to you that, in order to give the king the title he demands, it would be necessary to abandon all laws, canonical and ecclesiastical, the authority of the holy councils, the unity of the world and of Christian princes, the traditions of the church, by which we would at the same time acknowledge
that we have never yet received the true faith or the veritable Gospel of Christ, since we openly revolt against the immutable doctrine which it teaches, and turn aside voluntarily and for ever from the one and only true way of salvation which it has marked out for us. During the fifteen hundred and thirty years that the Gospel has been preached throughout the world, have we seen a single prince make such a pretension? And when, in the fourth century, Constantine the Great assembled in his own palace, in the city of Nice, and for the first time since the apostles, the entire body of the universal Church, did he establish himself in the midst of them as their head and sovereign—he who wished, in spite of their deference and their request, to remain, without guards and without the pomp befitting his rank, in the meanest place of the hall wherein they were assembled? ‘No,’ said he, ‘I will not sit in judgment where I have no authority either to absolve or to condemn.’ … And who, my lords, were the men composing that illustrious assembly, if not the flower of all the saintly and learned who flourished among the nations of the earth? The patriarchs of Constantinople, of Antioch, of Alexandria, of Jerusalem, and of Carthage; the bishops of Africa, of Spain, of the Gauls, of the land of the Scythians and Persians—in a word, of the East and West—who gathered there in crowds, almost all had confessed the faith before tyrants, and bore on their mutilated bodies the glorious marks of the cruel tortures they had endured rather than renounce it. Well, you behold these holy pontiffs place at their head Vincent and Vitus, two simple priests, because they recognized them as the representatives
of their chief, the Bishop of Rome, whose advanced age prevented him from being among them. And this regulation has been invariably followed through all ages even until the present day, and through all the storms and heresies which would have been sufficient to annihilate the church had she not been born of God himself. Far from us, then, be this culpable cowardice! To renounce his laws is to renounce Jesus Christ. We renounce his laws? No, my lords, we cannot! Nay, we will not.… Again, what would become of this sublime doctrine, if a temporal prince had power to make it yield to the whim of his vices and passions? To-day it is, to-morrow it is not; it changes with him, with his creeds, his opinions, and his wishes. His caprices would become our only laws, and vice and virtue be no longer but words which he would be at liberty to change at will. No, again and again no! If we love our king, we will never concede what he demands; because it is for us to enlighten him with regard to his duties, and, on the contrary, we should only be dragging him down with us in our unhappy fall.”
A murmur of applause rose from all parts of the hall, drowning the voice of the speaker. The Abbot of Westminster alone maintained a silence of disapproval. Many, however, while they acknowledged the truth of what the Bishop of Rochester had proclaimed, could not but reflect with dread on the terrible consequences of the king’s displeasure if they openly resisted him; while others, with less foresight and sound judgment, thought Fisher’s zeal carried him too far, and that it would be possible, without at all compromising their consciences, to grant their prince something which
would be sufficient to satisfy him. Among this number was the Bishop of Bath, who immediately arose. After rendering public testimony to the esteem and deference due the Bishop of Rochester, he added that it appeared to him impossible that the king could think seriously of having himself acknowledged as the one and only head of the church “And, as for me, I believe,” he said, at the conclusion of his discourse, “this is only a snare that has been set in order to afford a pretext for punishing and despoiling us of all we possess. The king is always in need of money; his confidants have suggested this means for him to procure it, and make him distribute the greater part of it among themselves.”
“I agree with my lord of Bath,” cried the Bishop of Bangor, “the more especially as the king knows how absurd the accusation is of offence against the Præmunire, since he has compromised himself by appearing before the legate in the eyes of the whole kingdom. It was impossible to have acknowledged the legate’s authority by an act more authentic, and which surpassed in importance all the letters-patent that could have been demanded.”
“That is just and true,” exclaimed several voices: “and yet, although we may be able to prove it, if the king presses the accusation, we shall be most unjustly though most certainly condemned.”
“Oh! yes, most certainly,” said Gardiner in a low voice. He was cruelly frightened, being aware of the measures the king had taken, in conjunction with Cromwell, to secure for himself the influence of the judges of the court of king’s bench.
“Well, my lords,” said the Abbot of Westminster, who had used every effort to induce them to yield
to the king, “consider also if our most gracious sovereign is wrong in making this demand, he will be responsible before God, and I do not see in what manner we could be considered guilty. In reality this title will be illusory, since he cannot ordain the humblest priest. When the Roman emperors had themselves declared gods, think you it ever entered the minds of the people that they were such? Just the same in this case: no one will ever consider the king as head of the church.”
“That is most sure,” exclaimed several other ecclesiastics, struck by this reasoning, and to whom this pretension began to appear more ridiculous than criminal.
“I assure you positively,” replied the Abbot of Westminster, “that this is an absurd humor which will fall through of itself.”
“You deceive yourselves, my lords; you deceive yourselves,” cried the Bishop of Rochester. “When the king shall have received from us the title he demands, it will be confirmed by Parliament, and afterwards he will believe himself invested with the right of deciding everything and making any innovation. Will there then be time left us to repent of our pusillanimous submission? Will you then command this supreme head to be so no longer, and to obey after having been invested with supreme authority?”
New tokens of assent were breaking out, when they were suddenly interrupted by the entrance of Cromwell, who returned, accompanied by Viscount Rochford and Thomas Audley.
With an air of the coolest effrontery he advanced to the centre of the hall and stood in the midst of the bishops. He then said in a
loud and arrogant tone, pointing to the two men who followed him:
“My lords, here are the king’s commissioners; they come to hear your reply. But the personal devotion I feel for the interest of our holy mother church and the safety of your reverend lordships induces me to warn you that the king has resolved to punish with all the severity of the statutes of Præmunire those among you who shall not have signed by to-morrow the act acknowledging him as supreme head of the church.”
On hearing these last words all grew pale and consternation seized on all hearts.
Meanwhile, the Archbishop of Canterbury seemed to be making a desperate effort; a convulsive movement contracted the furrowed brow of the old man. He fixed his eyes on Cromwell, and, rising, stood before him.
“Knave!” he exclaimed.
The advanced age of Warham, and still more his learning and the high reputation he enjoyed, surrounded him with respect and strength; but a secret sorrow was gnawing at his heart, and hastening the destruction of a life that time had respected. He arose fiercely, although tottering, to his feet. “My brethren,” he cried, “my brethren!—no, I am not worthy to be seated in the midst of you, and yet you have accorded me the first place. I know not if the weight of years may not have partially unsettled my reason; but I have to reproach myself with having inclined to favor the king’s divorce. To-day I foresee all the evils that will fall upon my country because of the discord and heresies that will spring up and multiply among us. How far, then, have I been from anticipating the fatal consequences of the opinion I
expressed in good faith! Meanwhile, I trust that God, before whom I must very soon appear, will pardon me for what I have done. My dear brethren, number me no more among you; for the anguish I feel oppresses me to such a degree that I can no longer endure it! Alas! why is it a man must feel his life extinguished before death has entirely benumbed his enfeebled members? I vainly seek within my soul the life and strength that have abandoned it; that energy I would wish to recover, if but for a single moment, to use it in opposing the ruin of religion, and repairing in an open and fearless manner the scandal I have given. But the time for action has passed for me. It is to your hands, young prelates, that the care of the flock is committed. Be firm; die rather than let it be decimated! The most violent persecution is about to burst upon the English Church; yes, but you will resist it, even unto death! Death is glorious when we suffer it for God! But, O my brethren! it is not death I fear for you; it is falsehood and treachery, the silent and hidden influence which undermines in the dark; far more dangerous than tortures or imprisonment, it destroys all, even the last germ of good which might expand in the soul! No, it is not death that kills, but sinful deeds. My brethren, pardon me all and pray for me!”
The aged prelate, as if exhausted by the last effort he had made, fell back in his chair, entirely deprived of consciousness. He was immediately carried out, but the anxiety and excitement redoubled in the assembly.
“We are all lost!”… cried the Abbot of Westminster. “My lords, let us obey the king, if we would not see all our goods confiscated!”
“What!” cried the Bishop of Rochester, with an indignation he was unable to restrain, “is that the only argument you pretend to bring forward? What benefit will it be to keep our houses, our cloisters and convents—in a word, to preserve our entire possessions—if we must sacrifice our consciences? What will it profit a man to gain the whole world, if he lose his own soul? Yes, it is but too true: we are all under the rod of the king, we have all need of his clemency, but he refuses it to us! Well, then, let him strike; we shall be able to endure it!”
Electrified by these words, and still more by the wisdom and commanding presence of him who uttered them, the assembly arose and unanimously exclaimed:
“No, we will not sign it. Let the king do as he will. Go, Cromwell, say to his majesty that we are all devoted to him, but we cannot do what he asks.”
A wrathful light gleamed in Cromwell’s eyes, the while an ironical smile played upon his lips. Two ideas prevailed in the mind of this man; the one encouraged and supported the other.
“My lords,” he replied in a loud voice, “just as you please. The king, your lord and master, convokes you to-morrow at the same hour, and you will consider the subject in a new conference.”
He then turned on his heel and hastily withdrew.
TO BE CONTINUED.
[111] Eight o’clock in the morning.