CHAPTER NINETEEN
As time went by, the visits to Lindfield lengthened. It was not only the enjoyment of teaching my young ladies that kept me, but, I was ashamed to admit, the pain of the return journey that caused my delay. Kind Ninian Board divined my problem and offered me a permanent place in his household which I was sorely tempted to accept. However, I had to return to London, and this for the last time, to keep open your home in Fetter Lane and your place in the King's consort. For, at last, a rumour came that you were at the court of the Duke of Wolgast in far Pomerania, where you were working with a company of English actors. The war had not yet reached northern Germany so that I had good hopes of your safety. I sent letters to the Landgrave of Hessen, begging his good offices to transmit them safely to you but each time I was disappointed of a reply.
I had thoroughly enjoyed teaching my young ladies, achieving some success, but always I remembered that, since the day I knew you were my son, I had hoped to make you my Orphic pupil. Yet all had gone awry and through my hatred of Cecil and the use of you as the instrument of that enmity I fear I destroyed you as well as my adversary. Now I felt that, even if you returned to me at the age of near thirty and were able and willing to learn, it would be too late for success. 'Too late!' Day after day, those words echoed in my mind. I must find an heir to my knowledge while I still lived.
I had not even begun my search when the matter was taken out of my hands. A knock came at the door and, before I could shout my habitual refusal, Mall had admitted a dapper young man, whose 'colours', for once, did not jar on my sensibilities.
"I have a letter for you, Doctor Dowland, " he smiled, "from my master, Baron Brooke of Warwick Castle. I am William Davenant, at your service." And he gave me a courtly bow. I took the letter with some surprise and, excusing myself, read it through.
'To Doctor John Dowland at Fetter Lane give these - My messenger, a lad of humble origin in whom I take an interest, has some talent as a singer and lutenist. I am at present engaged in the important task of writing the life of my friend, Sir Philip Sidney, and, remembering how you prospered under his patronage, now propose that for the payment of (and here he mentioned a paltry sum) you give tuition, particularly in composition, to the bearer for one day in the week when I find it convenient to spare him. Davenant will return your immediate reply to me,
Fulke Greville, Baron Brooke of Warwick Castle.
I must confess that my temper boiled up at this haughty request. "Not a tactful letter, I surmise, " said my visitor. "I almost left it in my pouch and spoke to you first myself. I am so wishful to become your pupil that I could not bear it if my master's manner stood in my way. Did he tell you of his dream?" My face told him I knew nothing of that and he continued. "One night, he had a vision of the late Dowager Countess of Pembroke, who appeared to him as the young girl he once knew. She said that I was a youth of such talent that I deserved the best teacher and that, if he recalled the happy days at Wilton, he would know to whom she referred. He was so shaken by this dream that he forgot his usual reserve and confided it to me on waking. I could see that he once had a great fondness for the lady and was willing to obey her command."
This information gave me pause for thought and, while I was turning the offer over in my mind, I asked Master Davenant to tell me about himself. Nothing loath, he began. "I was page to the Duchess of Richmond and Lennox, the 'Duchess cut upon Duchess, as they call her....."
I remembered her, the poor orphan Howard girl, who worked her way up in the world, first by marrying a rich merchant, Pranell, then by entrapping the old Earl of Hertford and immediately on his death, taking on the King's cousin, Ludovic Stuart, so that, when her namesake, Frances Howard, was fallen from grace, she triumphed as first lady at the court of King James.
All this flashed through my mind as young Davenant continued, "What scenes she made after waking to find the Duke dead in bed beside her, cutting off her hair and screeching blasphemies. It was the loss of her position at court, not grief for her husband that moved her."
"And now you are in Fulke Greville's service. Satisfy my curiosity by telling me why he took the title of Baron Brooke? I am sure he felt entitled to be Earl of Warwick. I was once told that his mother was a Neville, descended from Warwick the Kingmaker."
"Oh, he had spent twenty thousand pounds of the fortune his father left him turning the castle into the most wonderful dwelling you could hope to see and I expect Lord Rich offered the King a better price for the earldom. I must say, it soured my master's temper and he has become very mean. What is the use of a fine home and a title when he has no family of his own and it will all have to go to his cousin, Robert? They say that, at one time, he courted Lady Hatton for her fortune but Sir Edward Coke forestalled him, only to find her with child, so my master might have got himself a ready made heir not his own! 'What, ' said Sir Edward, 'flesh in the pot?' 'Yes, ' replied his bride, 'or I would not have married a Cook!' I wonder who the father was?"
William had such an infectious laugh that I was loath to chide him. I even enjoyed the oft told joke against my old enemy who now had his just deserts, tormented by a termagant. However, I reminded William that his master would not pay me to indulge in talk and commanded him to take his lute so that I might judge his worth. Clever lad, he chose a merry song of my own and quite won me round. I was in need of cheer.
I must have smiled, for he at once said, his eyes shining, "Does that mean you have decided to take me as a pupil? Please say it is so." I replied that I supposed I had made up my mind but that it would not suit me if he only came on days when his master could spare him. There was much to learn and no time must be lost.
"Oh, pay no heed to that. We will fix on a day and a time to suit your convenience, Doctor Dowland, and I shall not keep you waiting. I shall regard lessons from such a master as the greatest privilege of my life."
We parted on friendly terms already. I felt that such a lively and willing pupil would brighten my dull days, particularly as I had for long known myself rejected by the youth of the court.
~
When Master Davenant had gone, I remained in my chair, fatigued by the conversation, however pleasant, drowsily remembering the past. Of the three friends, Sidney, Dyer and Greville, I had liked the last named least, though Sir Philip saw them as 'one mind in bodies three'. Now I recalled other verses from that poem which I had long ago set to music:
Ye hymns and singing skill
Of God Apollo's giving,
Be prest our reeds to fill,
With sounds of music living.
Sweet Orpheus' Harp, whose sound
The steadfast mountains moved,
Let here thy skill abound,
To join sweet friends beloved.'
At our next meeting, I sang the whole song to William in my cracked voice.
"My master of one mind with the poet who wrote those words! I can hardly believe that, " cried my new pupil. "In his household, the only reading permitted is from the Prayer book and King James's Authorised Version of the Bible."
"Can he have forgotten the days when Sir Philip and the Countess of Pembroke delighted in the treasure house of the Bible and used their gift of tongues to translate the Psalms, for King David was their Orpheus whose secrets they sought to fathom. King James's bible is a prison house where each word may only hold one approved meaning, thus losing all life. Yes, I realise, my boy, that you belong to the generation who has had to learn a passage from the book each day in school, but, I tell you, that bible will be his son's downfall before your life is ended."
William gazed at me open-mouthed. I felt embarrassed at my fervour though I hastened to pursue the subject. "That poem reminds me that, whenever I speak or sing of the Lord, it is great Apollo's name that fills my mind. His votary, Orpheus, has been my hero for over half a century. Indeed, long ago, I was named the 'English Orpheus' though the title was undeserved."
Now I had confronted my pupil with my true beliefs I knew the die was cast . I showed him my Orpheus picture, wondering how he would respond.
"Why, Doctor Dowland, his is your face as I see it when you smile." And he questioned me searchingly as to the rest of the picture. I must say that he knew his Ovid.
"That is surely not the Greek Underworld, " he decided. "That is a Christian Hell and the devils in the boat seem to be sounding the last trump, though I had thought it should have been angels. 'For the trumpet shall sound and the dead arise incorruptible and we shall be changed' said Saint Paul, as I got by heart in school. Yet I remember that, when the parson told us that on the Day of Judgement all should arise from their graves, I used to ask myself what of the martyrs whose bodies were burned to ashes and what of the soldiers blown to bits in battle? And now I ask, what of Orpheus, torn to pieces by the Thracian women?"
"Like all of us, when he abandoned his fleshly garment, his soul attained real life in another world, for this earthly life is as a living death from which we are released only with our last breath. Some spirits rise to more exalted levels and need only return to life if they choose to aid earthly sufferers. Most are bound to return and begin a new life here, where they may either atone for earlier sins or sink further into the mire until they learn better ways."
"All that is new to me and entirely opposed to what I have been taught, " said William, thoughtfully. "I have learned to fear death and the eternal fire as punishment for wrongdoing and have certainly come to believe that there is only one life on earth. I shall have to turn my ideas topsy-turvy to come to terms with all this."
When William was gone, I knew that I had not been frank with him. I was not ready to tell him of my visions which transported me to Paradise, then often into a fearful realm of darkness before a picture of death came to me. The terror of that blackness still lingered deep in my mind, even after that last happy occasion, when Barbara's voice issued from my lips. When I was tired or in pain, the nightmare of Father Campion's or of Annie's death came to haunt me. Others could gape at an execution without dread, could pass the rotting, swaying bodies on the gallows as if they were nothing but bare trees where rags blown in the wind had caught. I, who knew in my mind that I should rejoice at the escape of the soul from those poor bodies, still felt sorrow and distress. Nay, admit it, it was the terror of death itself that moved me. Should I never be whole, always a divided person? I was unfit to teach my beliefs.
~
Nevertheless, I gained much pleasure from my work with William who was a quick pupil and a joy to teach. Perhaps I had grown more understanding in my old age than I was with you, Rob. William had found his education at school and University tedious and restrictive. When he found that I would answer his questions, there was no stopping him.
"Tell me of Don Luys Milan, Doctor Dowland." To which I replied that I knew little, except that he was born in 1536, was self-taught and was a writer as well as a musician.
"Like Raymond Lull (of whom you will hear much later) he was a courtier in Spain and wrote a Book of the Courtier like the one Sir Thomas Hoby translated from the Italian, which I have given you to study. He likened 'El Maestro', which from a boy I have named my 'Orpheus Book', to a precious stone which would lose its value were he to keep it. He sent it to Portugal to enter 'the sea of music'."
"I have a Biblical quotation for that," said William, "'Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.' Tell me, how came you by your Orpheus Book?" I told him how the first one I owned came to me through my true master, Edmund Campion.
"I know that name," cried my pupil in horror, "he was a traitor and a Jesuit!"
"He was the best man I ever knew," I replied, rising above my anger, "the most generous and the least self-seeking. He loved teaching for its own sake or why would he have adopted an ignorant fisher boy like myself? You must learn that there are good men among those you have been taught to despise and that even those of your faction may do evil."
William looked dubious and was quick to change the subject. We often read in Latin and Greek together and I gave him some understanding of the other languages I had learned in my travels. When he complimented me, I replied that, to my sorrow, I knew little of my own language, which puzzled him.
"Did you not know that I am Irish?" I asked. (How many times earlier in life had I not sought to conceal this fact and that of my humble birth?)
William's reply was not unexpected. "Now I know you are jesting, Doctor Dowland. The Irish are savages, as is well known."
I told him I would have remained a savage had not Father Campion become my teacher and that if he himself had been born a beggar boy and not the son of an innkeeper he might by now be a Caliban instead of an Ariel. It was all an accident of birth and I had heard a queen say that.
"None other speaks with me as you do, sir, " said William thoughtfully. "I am more glad than ever to have you as a tutor."
Truly, I taught him much beside music and described my life as I have done to you, Rob, except for the seeings and the magic. With his Protestant upbringing, he would have found such revelations too much for him. Later, perhaps, when we had progressed a deal further. With music and in imagination I took him to Germany, France, Italy and Denmark. I told him of the Pleiade and of the Camerata. Henry Peacham, who had visited Italy more recently than I, had told me of Peri's 'Euridice' performed at Florence and Caccini's 'Il Rapimento di Cefalo' which were based on the theories I had heard discussed with them and with Vincente Galilei. They sought a divine union of words and music and called their works 'opera' as did a composer in Mantua, one Monteverdi, whose 'La Favola d'Orfeo' was inspired by Poliziano's play written long ago. How I longed to hear this new Orpheus music, which, one day, William might have the good fortune to know.
Meanwhile, we played and sang music from Don Luys Milan to Doctor Thomas Campion. We had great games and much laughter setting poems to music in the styles of different composers. William set two of John Donne's early poems in the style of John Dowland and it was featly done. He wrote an aubade of his own beginning 'The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest' and set it to music. The time passed quickly and I was happy as I had never thought to be.
William was fascinated by the Orpheus picture and returned to it time after time.
"There is one part of the story I cannot understand. Why did he lose Eurydice? Why do you suppose he turned around?" I replied that the question had often puzzled me and told him to seek his own answer.
"I suppose he turned his head to see if she was still following for fear some ill had befallen her."
"Now you have said the word that is the key to your mystery. I, too, can quote the Bible to you. 'There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.' Even though Orpheus was the epitome of love, he was human and, on that occasion, though he had been so courageous in harrowing Hell, he still felt a stab of fear for one moment and lost his love. My old friend, Doctor John Dee, explained all evil as being caused by ignorance and fear. I would add guilt to make three enemies of love."
~
I should tell you, Rob, that, as I worked with William, I did not forget you, my son. Telling him of my life made me determined to complete my story in full for you, as I have done in every spare moment this past year. After my last conversation with William, I turned to the beginning of my writings and, reliving my earliest days, fell into a kind of waking dream.
I am rocking in a boat out in the bay, terrified of the dark grey sea slapping its sides. Two small, dark men, my father and my uncle, pull at a great net and spill a shoal of sparkling fish over the boards, so beautiful that I forget my fear. The fish struggle, twist and turn, their silver scales fade, their glittering eyes dull. I am very young and have not yet learned that questions are dangerous. "Why do they struggle and then lie still?"
"Because they are dead you little fool. Every simpleton knows that, " growls my father. And to emphasise the word 'dead', he picks up a weighted stick and 'sca, sca, sca, sca!' strikes some fish that are still thrashing about on the bottom of the boat till they lie still, their blood staining my bare feet. The boat gives a great lurch and I spew up my guts over the dead fish. My uncle gives me such a buffet that I knock my head against the side and the world goes black.
When I come to myself again, I am lying on a pile of rags and my aunt Johan's face looms over me, larger than life, as when one is waking from a bad dream. "Sweet Jesus be praised, " she cries, "we all thought you were dead!"
So that was death - a blackness from which I was lucky to wake. I remembered now that when I asked for my mother, I was told, 'Dead and buried in the churchyard.' I pitied her greatly - her light gone out and her dull body beneath the earth.
I was in the present now, recalling that the men despised me and refused to have me in the boat with them of which I was glad. Now I saw myself in the past, standing stained to the elbows in scummy blood and scales, my unskilled hands wielding the sharp knife to chop the fish head then remove the guts with a sharp pull. The smell of fish was ever linked in my mind with the terror of death. From first waking till exhausted sleep, I lived in the miasma of decay.
When Master Campion and his friend Richard Stanyhurst took me in and my fishy cloak was burned, I truly came from death into life and when, after two happy years, Master Campion was lost to me, I learned to live in a world of my own - the realm of 'Orpheus music', though, often enough, when I was reminded of my father's blows - 'sca, sca, sca, sca'(which later became the sound heralding the thought of the dreaded scaffold) the rainbow Paradise gave way to darkness and death as I have described.
I had defined for William Orpheus' loss through fear and now I had found the source of my own terror. What a fool was Saint Paul with his 'when I became a man I put away childish things." A memory from my childhood had, to my shame, dogged my whole existence. Perhaps all men and women carried their past life around with them as a source of torment.
Now I at last knew the reason for my cowardice, that was not to say that my fears miraculously ceased. It was an uphill task to cleanse my mind of such deep seated panic. To face my demon was merely the first stage in a long battle.. Nevertheless, the day came when I realised my nightmares were a thing of the past and only the pain of the stone troubled my sleep.
From that time, I felt more honest in my discussions with William, which gave me so much pleasure, for I had been starved of conversation since Henry Peacham left London. I continued to avoid the subject of magic and began to think of the dangers of this chronicle I am writing for you, Rob. My greatest hope is that you will return before long and that, when you have read my story, we may sit together, tear the pages into shreds and consign them to the safety of the fire. The last thing I wish is that a selfish desire of mine should put your life in jeopardy. Mall guards my door and I keep my manuscript hidden for even the ramblings of a mad old man (if they choose to think it so) may lead to prison and the rack.
I feel a strong obligation that you should know of my gift, which, they say, returns in the second generation. I could not die happy, thinking that a son of your own might inherit the two sights unless I urged you to the sympathetic understanding of the perplexities that beset a young seer. How long-winded I am in my old age now there is little time to correct my wanderings. Yet I can speak now with ease of 'dying happy' which I will do gladly when this confession has come safely into your hands.
Some weeks since (time means little to me now) I called in a notary to draft my will. I could not venture forth myself, the most I can do these days is to take a few paces in my room, bent almost double when the pain takes me. I have made small bequests to the grandchildren and to Mall who is to have this house and the furnishings in trust against your return and is afterwards to have a home here for the rest of her days. My manuscripts are for William Davenant; my small library for Henry Peacham and for you Rob, as I have already said, the post of King's lutenist. You are also to have my lute, my Orpheus book, from which your son may learn to play as I have done, my story and my most precious possession, the miniature of your mother. How these secrets are to be transferred to you I have not yet decided. I do not wish to contemplate the thought that I may not be able to give them into your hands myself. Your mother's letter, now almost in shreds, I wish to be buried with me. You will know its contents when you read this story and it is too private for other eyes.....
Since Fulke Greville took William away from me, the long days are dreary. Did I not tell you how it happened? My pupil set some of Sir Philip Sidney's poems to music and played them pridefully to his master, who thought the lessons had shown so much benefit that there was no further need to waste money on them.
William came one last time to bid me farewell. "It is really because when he sent to ask you the future of Warwick Castle, you refused. I did not know that you told fortunes. Please, Doctor Dowland, tell me what my future will be."
"That was a boyish trick, " I said, dismissing the notion. And then I thought that I myself would wish to know of William's future life. I told him to play the fantasia of Don Luys Milan, sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. In perfect peace, Apollo be praised, the pictures came. I saw a young man gravely ill and I saw him recovered, his beauty lost. I saw him scribbling at his desk and then I saw royal masques he had written performed to great applause with Baby Charles, a dignified figure now, and his young French wife acting and dancing in them. I saw an older William wearing Ben Jonson's wreath of laurels on his brow and then I saw him as a soldier, knighted on the field of battle. I saw him a prisoner in the Tower.....then the vision faded and I woke to see William's enquiring eyes.
To his questions I gave only the happiest answers. Why burden him with troubles to come? I was delighted to know that he would have the success at the English court that had been denied to me. Perhaps even in the Tower, he might, like Sir Walter Raleigh, compose a great work. I felt he would achieve more as a poet than as a musician, enjoying great worldly success. Would he become an Orpheus in name only, as my flatterers had once given me that title? Time had run out for me to achieve more with my pupil, as in my own case.
"I will make you a promise, Doctor Dowland, " said William. "When I achieve fame at court, I shall see to it that 'The Tempest' is revived with your songs and your music so that you may receive your due at last. Also I will do all I can to learn of the Italian opera of which you have told me and I will make the most of the talents you have nourished so that I may do you credit." I had not told him of the war I foresaw, which would change his life and thought that he might have to forgo his promises. Never mind, it was enough for me that he cared to make them and they assuaged to some degree my grief at our parting.
Yet fate had saved one last gift for you, Rob. You, not William, are to be with me to hear the music of the first Orpheus for which I had waited so long. Only come soon, come soon.....
~
I have written nothing for several days. I begin to feel weak. When I see you, Rob, I shall exact your promise that you will never more play the false Orphic hymn. I have foreseen King Charles's dreadful end which I believe could have been avoided but for the precedent of Mary Queen of Scots cruel execution. However I would feel a great burden of guilt if I thought your playing of the false hymn for Charles might have some part in his misfortunes.
Would that I might read your future but, as I have told you, we cannot 'see' for those we love and, whatever you may think, I have not ceased to love you, though, all in all, our time together has been short. To have made a son with Barbara has been the crown of my life. I know she is now your guardian angel and watches over you and in that I must be content.
~
No strength to hold the pen for some days, yet I have thought the more on how this story may come safely to your hands. As if he knew my need, Henry Peacham has come to visit me and together we have made a plan. I now realise that I may not be able to wait for your coming much as I long to see you once more in this world. Henry knows somewhat of the content of these pages and agrees that they are dangerous indeed. As with John Heywood, an old man's selfishness seeks to impose on a younger one his secrets before death takes him. Yet I am certain that you and your son to come (or is he with you now?) will benefit from reading the life of old John Dowland whatever risks to you it contains.
~
This is the plan. With my lute, I will leave a message with old Mall that you must not delay to visit our old friend in Dublin. You will know that John Forster is the friend I mean. On my death, Henry will cross the Irish Sea carrying the rest of your inheritance - this manuscript, the Orpheus book and your dear mother's miniature. John has a safe place I know where he hides his most secret papers and, as a good friend, he will keep your inheritance safe until you come for it. I shall be eternally grateful to Henry for promising to undertake this dangerous task.
Now he and Mall, one on each side of the bed, tell me I must sleep and tire myself no more with writing.....
