The Sonnets. Warwick Collins

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       Chapter 7

      THERE WERE TIMES when my lord seemed to regard me with a certain wry amusement for my pains. In conversation one day, he deliberately switched the subject from the sonnet he had been reading towards another subject perhaps closer to his heart. At the time he was staring at the floor, as though gathering his thoughts. Now he turned to peer once more at me with his green eyes, flecked with gold. ‘My mother has spoken to you again?’

      ‘She has.’

      ‘And on the usual subject?’

      ‘The usual,’ I said.

      ‘And you take her side, as always.’

      ‘Her side is your side,’ I replied, and added, ‘She speaks for you.’

      He turned away. ‘Damn me, if she does.’

      I said, ‘There are matters which await you. That is all she says.’

      ‘Yes, yes, matters!’ This was fierce and fast. He seemed compelled to continue, for the rest of what he wished to say now streamed forth. ‘It is time, perhaps, that you knew something further of me, of my closer circumstances…’

      ‘Your closer circumstances?’ The phrase rang oddly, and I was at a loss as to this new departure.

      He said, ‘You know, for example, that my father died when I was eight.’ I nodded, nervous at his apparent continued excitation. Now, with an effort, he seemed to compose himself sufficiently to explain. ‘After my father had been buried, my Lord Burghley became my legal guardian. When I was still no more than a child, my great guardian caused me to sign a contract, promising to marry his granddaughter, Elizabeth de Vere, on pain of which refusal, on reaching my majority, I would pay a fine – a terrible fine, almost equal to the value of my entire estate. You know of this?’

      It was common gossip, so I said, cautiously, ‘I have heard rumours, nothing more.’

      ‘Then,’ he insisted, ‘you have heard of the disposition of my Lord Burghley?’

      I said only that I knew that he had the disposition of a lawyer, and the reputation of a courtier.

      ‘And what else have you heard of him?’ he asked.

      ‘That he is our Queen’s closest advisor, and the strongest voice in the Privy Council.’

      ‘Yes, yes, that is his political suit. But have you ever seen the man, in person?’

      ‘No, my lord.’

      ‘He is the coldest creature that ever walked upon this earth. He regards all art, all painting, all poetry, as vanity. The theatre in particular he considers both impious and seditious. They say he is not of the Puritan party, yet he has a puritan’s instincts. Whatever he touches, becomes ice. If he walks through summer, winter follows. And yet it was he who replaced my dead and lamented father – in nomine patris.’

      ‘In your maturity,’ I tentatively suggested, ‘You will grow away from him.’

      ‘If only it were so!’ He seemed a little calmer now, staring at the floor, but still biting his fist, his attention set in some other realm. ‘Even from a distance, from London, he still controls my household. My mother too is fearful of him.’

      ‘Why, my lord?’ I asked.

      He raised his eyes again to mine. ‘If I do not marry the one he has chosen for me, my mother too shall be ruined by the catastrophic fine that my Lord Burghley, in his wisdom, shall apportion on me.’

      He remained unusually excited. I did my best to calm him, saying, ‘Your mother thinks more of an heir from you than of your inheritance.’

      ‘Yes, yes! He blackmails her too, though at a remove. His reach is great. His claws are in everyone.’

      I was about to say something more, but my lord continued, ‘And then, of course, there is my tutor, Master Florio.’ He paused, raised his eyes towards the ceiling, adding with emphasis, ‘Master Florio.’

      I attempted emollience. ‘Master John Florio. A most eminent Italian scholar, to whom you owe your own achievement in learning.’

      ‘A fine tutor, and in that respect I perhaps am willing to accept your description. But we should not forget one thing – that he writes regularly to his own master.’

      ‘His own master?’

      ‘My Lord Burghley, who appointed him.’

      I halted, silenced in part by the strange complexity of my patron’s circumstances. ‘Perhaps he writes to apprise my Lord Burghley of your great advances in learning.’

      He laughed at this, with a dismissive air. ‘No, no, my dear Master William. He writes of my predisposition to marriage, of my carousing in certain company. And so, Master Florio, instructed by his master, admonishes me for my behaviour. Amongst his lessons he coldly arranges certain threats against me. Why, the man’s an Italian, of passionate mind. Yet he passes on the current of my Lord Burghley’s coldness as though it were his own.’

      I smiled at this, and said, ‘Machiavelli too was a Florentine,’ then added, ‘In Master Florio’s favour, he imposes upon himself the same discipline he would exert upon you.’

      ‘What discipline is that?’ he shot back at me.

      ‘He constructs a dictionary of Italian and English, a great and noble undertaking –’

      ‘In his own interest –’

      ‘And in my interests, too,’ I said, ‘for I find in his other translations of Italian works a rich source of stories and quaint dramas. It is, I admit, my own concern, but he is generous to me with his translations –’

      ‘And no doubt you are grateful to him, as you should be. And I am grateful to him, too. But why should a man play double if he is, as you say, of so single a mind? Why should he serve two masters if one master is enough?’

      ‘It sounds as though his other master – my Lord Burghley – is difficult to refuse.’

      ‘Don’t you see? He admires his master, just as Signor Machiavelli admired his prince…’ He paused, then burst out, ‘He is Lord Burghley’s flea!’

      I allowed the first clean wave of his anger to pass me by, swiftly and СКАЧАТЬ