“And why,” he angrily exclaimed, dashing the earl’s letter as far as possible from him—“why have these flatterers surrounding me always assured me I would succeed in my undertaking? Why could they not foresee that it would be impossible? and why have I not found a sincere friend who might have admonished me? More!” he cried after a moment’s silence—“More, I am most miserable! What could be more unjust? I am devoted to Lady Anne Boleyn as my future wife; and now they wish to make me renounce her. The emperor’s intrigues prevail, and against all laws, human and divine, they condemn me to eternal celibacy!”
“Ah!” replied Sir Thomas in a firm but sadly respectful manner, “yes, it is indeed distressing to see your majesty thus voluntarily destroy your own peace, that of your kingdom, the happiness of your subjects, the regard for your own honor, so many benefits, in fact, and all for the foolish love of a girl who possesses neither worth nor reputation.”
“More,” exclaimed the king, “do not speak of her in this manner! She is young and thoughtless, but in her heart she is devoted to me.”
“That is,” replied More, “she is entirely devoted to the crown; she loves dearly the honors of royalty, and her pride is doubly flattered.”
“More,” said the king, “I forgive you for speaking thus to me; your severe morals, your austere virtues, have not permitted you to experience the torments of love, and that is why,” he added gloomily, “you cannot comprehend its irresistible impulses and true sentiments.”
“Nothing that is known to one man is unknown to another,” replied More. “Love, in itself, is a sublime sentiment that comes from God; but, alas! men drag it in the dust, like all else they touch, and too often mistake the appearance for the reality. To love anyone, O my king!” continued More, “is it not to prefer them in all things above yourself, to consider yourself as nothing, and be willing to sacrifice without regret all that you would wish to possess?”
“Yes,” said Henry VIII.; “and that is the way I love Anne—more than my life, more than the entire world!”
“No, no, sire!” exclaimed More, “don’t tell me that. No, don’t say you love her; say you love the pleasure she affords you, the attractions she possesses, which have charmed your senses—in a word, acknowledge that you love yourself in her, and consider well that the day when nature deprives her of her gifts and graces your memory will no longer represent her to you but as an insipid image, worthy only of a scornful oblivion! Ah! if you loved her truly, you would act in a different manner. You would never have considered aught but her happiness and her interests; you would blush for her, and you would not be able to endure the thought of the shame with which you have not hesitated to cover her yourself in the eyes of all your court!”
“Perhaps,” … replied Henry in a low and altered voice. “But she—she loves me; I cannot doubt that.”