The negotiations concerning the marriage, the suitors and the right of succession dragged on for two years. Strangely enough, these women, who were both, so to say, cheating at cards, unconsciously played into one another’s hands. Elizabeth’s supreme purpose was to restrain Mary from marriage; and Mary, unfortunately, was mainly bargaining with the most slow-moving of the monarchs of his day, Philip II Cunctator. Not until there seemed to be an insuperable hitch in the chafferings with Spain, and one of the other conjugal possibilities had to be seriously considered, did Mary deem it expedient to make an end of her own policy of procrastination and to put a pistol to her dear sister’s head. She bluntly asked Elizabeth which member of the English aristocracy the latter had in mind for her as a husband.
Elizabeth never liked a plain question demanding a plain answer, and such a proceeding was particularly uncongenial in this instance. She had long been holding counsel within herself as to which among her nobles would be best suited for Mary, and she had ambiguously declared her determination to give her cousin someone whom none could expect. The Scottish court, however, said that these dark hints were incomprehensible, and pressed for a positive proposal, a specific name. With her back against the wall, Elizabeth could no longer evade the issue by unintelligible allusions. Through clenched teeth she allowed the name to escape her—Robert Dudley.
Now the diplomatic comedy seemed, for a moment, to be degenerating into farce. Elizabeth’s proposal must be regarded either as a monstrous affront or else as a stupendous bluff. According to the notions of the day, it was almost an outrage to ask the Queen of Scotland, who was also Queen-Dowager of France, to wed the subject of a sister queen, a man without a drop of royal blood in his veins. Still more preposterous was the actual personality of the chosen suitor, since it was common talk throughout Europe that for years Robert Dudley had been as near to becoming Elizabeth’s lover as was physically possible, so that now the Queen of England was suggesting as consort for the Queen of Scotland a man who was tantamount to a cast-off article of clothing for which Elizabeth had no further use. Earlier, no doubt, in the days of her liveliest passion for him, she had thought of marrying Dudley herself. She was bound by extremely intimate ties, half of friendship and half of love, to him who had been the companion of her youth during those fateful days in the Tower. Year after year she had irresolutely toyed with the notion (it was her way with notions); but when Dudley’s wife, Amy Robsart, died by an accident under highly suspicious circumstances, Elizabeth hastily withdrew from the scene in order to escape inculpation in the affair. Thus Dudley was compromised, first by the inexplicable strangeness of his wife’s death, and secondly by his notorious erotic relationship with Elizabeth, whose proposal of this castoff lover as husband for Mary was, perhaps, the most amazing of all the amazing deeds of the English Queen during her long reign.
It is not likely that we shall ever know every thought in Elizabeth’s mind when she brought forward this perplexing scheme. Who can fathom the wish-dreams of a woman of hysterical temperament, or formulate them in logical terms? Was she still honestly in love with Dudley, and did she wish (since she did not dare to marry him herself) to bestow upon him, as the most precious of possible gifts, the succession to her realm? Or did she merely want to rid herself of a gallant who had become a nuisance? Or did she fancy that by palming off a confidant on her ambitious rival she could keep Mary’s actions the better under control? Was she simply putting Dudley’s fidelity to the test? Did she entertain dreams of a persistent triangle, a ménage à trois? Or was the absurd suggestion made only in the firm conviction that Mary would refuse, and would thereby put herself in the wrong? All these possibilities are conceivable, and it seems even more probable that this capricious woman did not herself know what she wanted. It is likely enough that she was toying with the idea, just as she loved to toy with persons and with resolves. Futile to discuss might-have-beens, or to enquire, in this instance, what would have happened if Mary had seriously considered the acceptance of Elizabeth’s discarded lover. Perhaps in that event Elizabeth would have taken a sharp curve, would have forbidden Robert Dudley to marry the Queen of Scots, and thus would have heaped upon her rival the shame of a rejection following upon the shame of such a proposal.
To Mary the idea that she should wed anyone who was not of the blood royal seemed little short of blasphemous. In the first flush of anger she scornfully asked the English ambassador whether his sovereign lady could be in earnest when she put forward “Lord Robert” as suitor. Speedily, however, she mastered her indignation and assumed a friendly aspect, for it would be inexpedient to offend her dangerous adversary by a blunt refusal. If she could secure the heir to the Spanish or to the French throne as husband, this would be vengeance enough for Elizabeth’s insult. In Edinburgh, therefore, Dudley was not rejected as a possible suitor. Mary entered into the spirit of the farce, supplying to it an admirable second act. Sir James Melville was thereupon sent to London, ostensibly to negotiate about the Leicester marriage, but really that he might involve the complicated issues in a further tangle of lies and misrepresentations.
Melville, the most loyal and trustworthy of Mary’s courtiers, was a skilful diplomatist. He also wielded a facile and descriptive pen, for which posterity owes him thanks. His account of his visit to London has handed down to us the most vivid picture we possess of Elizabeth’s personality, and is at the same time an extraordinarily amusing historical comedy. Elizabeth was well aware that Sir James, a highly educated man, had lived for years at French and German courts, and she therefore set great store on making a good impression upon him, never suspecting that his infallible memory would enable him to set on record all her weaknesses and coquetries. In the case of Elizabeth Tudor, feminine vanity often played havoc with her royal dignity. So was it now when the Queen of England, instead of trying to produce a political effect upon the ambassador of the Queen of Scots, was mainly concerned to show off her airs and graces before the man. She strutted forth one antic after another. From her extensive wardrobe (after her death it was found to contain three thousand dresses) she selected the most expensive gowns, attiring herself by turns in the English, the Italian and the French fashions of the day; some of these costumes were cut so low in the neck as to effect an extremely liberal display; at the same time she showed off by turns her Latin, her French and her Italian, luxuriating in the courteous admiration of the ambassador. Still, none of his superlatives satisfied her conceit. It was not enough for Melville to assure her that she was beautiful, clever and well informed. In the spirit of the question, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is loveliest of us all?” she was eager to hear from Melville that he found her more admirable than his own sovereign lady, handsomer, abler, more cultured than even Mary Stuart. Pointing to her wealth of naturally curling red-gold hair, she asked him whether Mary’s locks were as splendid—a thorny question to put to a queen’s envoy! Sir James was equal to the occasion, declaring with the wisdom of Solomon that Elizabeth was “the fairest queen in England” and Mary “the fairest in Scotland.” But such praise was too half-hearted to gratify her foolish vanity. Again and again she paraded her charms, playing on the virginals and singing to the lute. At length Melville, whose business it was to lead his hostess by the nose in political matters, thought it expedient to admit that “the Queen of England was whiter”, that he “gave her the praise as the better performer on the lute and virginals”, and that his “Queen danced not so high and disposedly” as Elizabeth did.
Amid this peacocking, Elizabeth had forgotten the matter in hand. When, at length, Melville broached the thorny topic, the Queen, now wholly the comédienne, took a miniature of Mary out of a drawer and kissed it affectionately. With a thrill in her voice, she assured him how much she longed to become personally acquainted with Mary, her beloved sister (although in reality she had done everything in her power to hinder such an encounter); and anyone who was swept off his feet by this bold actress could not fail to believe that Elizabeth’s chie
f desire on earth was to make her Scottish neighbour happy. But Melville had a cool head and a clear vision; he was not taken in by these languishings and prevarications, for on his return to Edinburgh he reported: “Ther was neither plain dealing nor upricht meaning, but great dissimulation, and emulation, and fear.” When Elizabeth asked him point-blank what Mary thought of the Dudley proposition, the trained diplomat was equally careful to avoid a decisive No or an irrevocable Yes. He talked round the subject, saying that Mary had not yet given full attention to the possibility. But the more evasive the envoy, the more insistent the Queen, who remarked that Melville “appeared to make small account of my Lord Robert … but ere it were long she would make him Earl of Leicester and Baron of Denbigh,” and that Melville “should see it done before his returning home; for she esteemed the Lord Robert as her brother and best friend, whom she would have married herself if she had been minded to take a husband; but being determined to end her days in virginity, she wished that the Queen her sister should marry him, as meetest of all other, and with whom she might rather find it in her heart to declare her next in succession to her realm than with any other person; for, being matched with him, she would not then fear any attempts at usurpation during her own life.”
Actually, a few days later (third act of the farce), the promotion of Dudley thus announced took place with great pomp and ceremony. Lord Robert, under the eyes of the court, knelt before his sovereign and lady-friend, to be created Earl of Leicester. Once more, however, Elizabeth’s feelings ran away with her, and the woman in her played the Queen a prank, for, says Melville, while she was “herself helping to put on his ceremonials … she could not refrain from putting her hand in his neck to kittle him, smilingly, the French ambassador and I standing beside her.” What an amusing detail to report when he returned from his embassy!
Melville had not come to London in order to divert himself as chronicler of a royal comedy; he played an independent role. His diplomatic portfolio had some secret compartments whose contents he was by no means inclined to disclose to Elizabeth, and his civil chatter with Her Majesty about the Earl of Leicester was only intended to camouflage the real objects of his journey south. The most important of these was to convince the Spanish ambassador that Mary Queen of Scots would not wait any longer for a decision in the matter of Don Carlos’ suit. Was it or was it not proposed that King Philip’s heir should marry her? Next, Melville was, with due discretion, to get into touch with a candidate of the second class, with Henry Darnley.
This stripling stood, for the moment, upon a loop line. Mary wished to hold him in reserve in case her chances of a better marriage should be frustrated. For Darnley was neither king nor prince, while his father, the Earl of Lennox, had been banished from Scotland as an enemy of the Stuarts, and the family estates had been sequestrated. On the maternal side, however, this young man of eighteen was of high descent, for he was of Tudor stock. As great-grandson of Henry VII, he was the first “prince of the blood” at the English court, and therefore of suitable rank to become consort of any queen in Christendom. As possible husband for Mary, he had the further advantage of being a Roman Catholic. Unquestionably then, Darnley could be considered third, fourth or fifth iron in the fire and Melville had a number of non-committal talks with Margaret Countess of Lennox, who was an extremely ambitious woman.
Now it is an attribute of genuine comedy that, though all the participants must best one another, they should not be wholly deceived, since from time to time each will get a momentary glimpse of the cards of one of the other players. Elizabeth, being no fool, never imagined that Melville had come to London solely in order to compliment her upon her hair and upon her touch on the virginals. She knew that the suitorship of her own cast-off lover was not likely to commend itself to Mary, and she was also acquainted with the ambitious designs of her dear cousin, Lady Lennox. No doubt, as usual, there were spies at work. During the ceremony at Westminster, when Robert Dudley was invested as Earl of Leicester, Elizabeth asked Melville what he thought of the newly created earl. Melville replied: “As he is a worthy subject, so he is happy in a princess that can discern and reward merit.” In his Memoirs, Melville continues: “‘Yet,’ said she, ‘ye like better of yonder long lad,’ pointing towards my Lord Darnley who, as nearest prince of the blood, bore the sword of honour that day before her.” Melville did not lose his nerve at this sudden invasion of one of the secret compartments of his portfolio. He would have been unworthy of his reputation as diplomatist had he not known how, on occasion, to lie like a trooper. Wrinkling his brows, and glancing contemptuously at the man with whom the day before he had been bargaining as Mary’s potential husband, he replied that “no woman of spirit would make choice of such a man that was liker a woman than a man, for he is lovely, beardless and lady-faced.” Sir James adds as comment: “I had no will she should think that I liked him, or had any eye that way.”
Was Elizabeth deceived by this feigned contempt? Did Melville’s adroit parry lull her suspicions to sleep? Or was she, throughout, playing a double game which to this day remains impenetrable? However this may be, the improbable happened. First the Earl of Lennox was granted leave to go to Scotland, and then, in January 1565, his son Henry Darnley. Strangely enough the go-between in securing these permits was none other than the Earl of Leicester, who had his own ends to serve, wishing to escape from the conjugal noose his royal mistress had spun for him. Now the fourth act of the farce could proceed merrily in Scotland, where, however, chance took a leading hand in the sport. The threads of the tangle were abruptly snapped, so that the comedy of the suitors was ended in a remarkable fashion which none of those concerned had expected.
For politics, a mortal and artificial power, was overridden on this January day of 1565, by an eternal and elemental force. The suitor who had come to woo a queen to his surprise found, in Mary Stuart—a woman. After years of patient waiting, she at length became aware of her own self. Hitherto she had been no more than a king’s daughter, a king’s wife, a queen and a queen-dowager—the sport of alien wills, a pawn in the game of diplomacy. At length, passion surged up from within. Ambition was discarded like a constricting garment. The awakened woman found herself confronted by a man. Therewith opened the history of her inner life.
Chapter Seven
Passion Decides
(1565)
NOW THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENED, and yet, though unexpected, it was one of the most ordinary things on earth—a young woman fell in love with a young man. In the long run Nature cannot be repressed. Mary, a woman with warm blood and healthy senses, was at this momentous period in her destiny on the threshold of her twenty-third year, the most appropriate age for an ardent passion. She had now been four years a widow, and fully abstinent, for her conduct in sexual matters was irreproachable. The time had come when feeling was to have its way with her, when the woman in the Queen was to demand her most sacred right, the right to love and to be loved.
The object of her first passion was, strangely enough, no other than the man who was a suitor for political reasons; no other than Darnley, whom his mother had sent to Scotland in this month of January 1565. Mary had already made the young man’s acquaintance. Four years earlier, when he was a lad of fifteen, he had come to France in order to bring his mother’s condolences to the widow of Francis II. At that time, however, Mary had been in a mournful mood; and in any case she would have been unlikely to regard this hobbledehoy as a possible future wooer. Since then, Darnley had grown into a tall and vigorous young fellow. He was (as Melville has told us) fair-haired, beardless, with a pretty, womanish face, from which two large, round eyes looked forth somewhat uncertainly into the world. “Il n’est possible de voir un plus beau prince”—It is not possible to see a more handsome prince—was the description given of him by the French ambassador Mauvissière; and the young Queen herself speaks of him as “the handsomest and best-proportioned long man” she has ever seen. Proneness to illusion was part of the fiery and impatient temperame
nt of Mary Stuart. As with all who are romantically inclined, she had little knowledge either of the world or of men. Daydreamers such as she rarely see things in their true light; facile enthusiasms making them discern, rather, what they want to discern. Sobriety is foreign to such unteachables, who vacillate between the extremes of delight and disappointment; and, on awakening from one illusion, they do so only to become victims of a new one—since illusion, not reality, is for them the real world! Thus it came to pass that Mary, in her quickly kindled liking for the tall, smooth-chinned young Darnley, failed to perceive that beneath the comely surface there was no depth, that there was no moral strength in this man of powerful muscles, no intellectual culture to back up his courtly manners. Unaffected by her puritan environment, she could see no more than that the young prince had a good seat on horseback, danced gracefully, was fond of music and of cheerful conversation, and could, on occasion, write pretty verses. Such artistic accomplishments always made a strong appeal to her. She was delighted to find in Darnley an agreeable comrade in the ballroom, at the chase and in her other amusements. His coming was a refreshment, since he brought an aroma of youth into this tedious court. Others besides the Queen took a liking to Darnley who, acting on his mother’s shrewd advice, behaved modestly. Soon he had become a welcome guest throughout Edinburgh, “well liked for his personage”, as Randolph, Elizabeth’s spy, reported to the latter. He played his part of wooer adroitly, courting the favour not only of Mary Stuart, but of all and sundry. He struck up a close friendship with David Rizzio, the Queen’s new private secretary and an initiate of the Counter-Reformation. Day after day Darnley and Rizzio played tennis together; at night they slept in the same bed. But while Darnley thus got into close contact with the Catholic party, at the same time he wanted to stand well with the Protestants. On Sundays he accompanied Prime Minister James Stuart to kirk, where he listened with well-simulated attention to the sermons of John Knox. To avert suspicion, he often took his midday meals with the English ambassador, and was careful to say soft things of Queen Elizabeth. In the evening he danced by turns with the five Marys. In a word, his obedience to his mother’s instructions making up for his lack of intelligence, he got on well at the Scottish court and, for the very reason that he was personally insignificant, it was easy for him to avoid suspicion.