CHAPTER SEVEN
You may notice, Rob, that I have ceased to complain of my health and have put off dying for a while. The truth is, I am feeling better and can get about again, though no further than St. Paul's. They say that the King's body still lies at Denmark House and that the funeral is to be on May 7th. The players will rejoice that the reopening of the theatres will not be long delayed. It is well that I am out of my chair, as I must be measured for my blacks and practise the music for the ceremony.
~
A year later, I left Elizabeth's court. It was a wet November day that Sir Philip, his brother, Robert, and the young Earl of Essex landed near Flushing, one of the ports the Netherlanders put in pawn to the Queen in return for the task force she now grudgingly sent to oppose their Spanish oppressors. Among the new Governor's train were his friends, Henry Unton and Henry Noel, his new secretary, William Temple, and your humble servant, doubling the role of Walsingham's intelligencer and lutenist to the party, Daniel Batchelor remaining for the time being with Lady Frances Sidney. Our landing was typical of the disasters to come. The wind was too high for us to disembark at Flushing itself and we had to make port at Ramekins,trudging for three miles in mud up to our boot tops before Sir Philip could make his undistinguished entry.
Of the six-hundred strong garrison, we found a third were sick in hospital. I went among the stinking, close ranked pallets, playing any tunes requested and, for those too weak to speak, my Orpheus music, commanded by Sir Philip, in the hope that it might give them easy passage into the next world. Poor souls, we knew it was food and medicine they needed more than music. The troops had been unpaid for months and the seven thousand pounds Sir Philip brought over was soon used up in meeting the arrears. I crossed to England time after time begging for money but Walsingham could do nothing to move the Queen's parsimony.
The English captains were at sixes and sevens and many of their starving troops had absconded and, to the indignation of the country folk, were living off the land. "Soldier" was a swear word in every language I had learned. Things were even worse after Leicester's long-awaited arrival in December. He went on a grand progress, not only accepting Dutch hospitality, but the Governorship of the United Provinces, which the Queen had expressly forbidden.
He did, however, obey her in pursuing a purely defensive policy so that the attack which Sir Philip worked so unceasingly to prepare was long delayed. When his friend, the Master of Gray, offered to bring over a body of troops, he replied, "I cannot, considering how things stand over here, wish any friend of mine whom I love, as I have reason to love you, to embark yourself in these matters until we are assured of better harbour." (How did I know the contents of the letter? All Walsingham's spies learned to break and replace a seal without trace and my fingers were feater than most.)
We had some good nights, drinking, singing and dancing and the common soldiers joined in, from a respectful distance,of course. Claude Le Jeune had written 'La Guerre' for the idle French Court, but my 'Battle Galliard' had at least the merit of being hummed and whistled by men who might be called upon at any moment to lay down their lives.
Master Robert still thought he had first claim to my services and often requested my 'Susanna Galliard' to which I added a joke ending for two to play upon one lute, a poor attempt at a bawdy jest. He never knew we did not share my 'wife'. Sir Philip was sick with impatience for the fighting to begin. He had been prevented by the Queen from sailing with Drake to the West Indies, where there would have been a fine chance of singeing the King of Spain's beard, and now it was spring, two years later, and nothing done. He fell into one of his melancholy states and begged the aid of Orpheus music. Now was no time for flights of fancy and rainbow colours and I played with solemn seriousness for his betterment.
The prospect of action brought him to life as, at last, the Queen allowed the fighting to begin. However, she blamed Sir Philip for every mishap and he was too loyal to place the onus where it belonged - on his uncle, who still pranced about in fine clothes, attending shows and banquets in his honour. To make things worse, news came of Sir Henry Sidney's death, and Elizabeth, whose dislike of that family knew no bounds, refused permission for his sons to attend the funeral, not even the youngest, Thomas, who had not long left Shrewsbury School and had come over in Leicester's train.
Better news followed, in a letter from Doctor Dee in Leipzig, inviting Master Daniel Rogers and myself to join him at Luneberg, where, to Sir Philip's delight, there was to be a meeting of Protestant princes to discuss the union he had worked for so long. The Doctor had been travelling all over Germany and was, no doubt, the moving spirit behind the assembly. It was to take place in the thirteenth century Town Hall of Luneberg in the province of the Duke of Brunswick, himself and other representatives of German states about to gather there. When we arrived, we found also in the Furstensaal, with its wooden carvings and fine stained glass windows, a Danish official and du Plessis Mornay on behalf of the King of Navarre. I wondered what were Elizabeth's instructions to Sir Philip's friend, Daniel Rogers.
When the talking was over, Doctor Dee found the time to speak to me. I had a small package for him from Sir Philip, which he peeped into, nodding his head. Recalling our last meeting, he asked if I was still free of my nightmare. I embarked on the story of my doings since I saw him last. He was a man in whom one could confide.
"I have a question for you," he said, after listening patiently to my tale. "When you play what you call your 'Orpheus music' for yourself alone and are carried away by swirling colours into another world (yes, I have heard of this from Philip) what colour is it that you then perceive?" I told him that I saw no colour but a sort of white shiningness that meant to me utter bliss. He nodded, seemingly satisfied and added, "What do you know of Alchemy, John Dowland?"
I had to answer that I was ignorant of it but had recognised the laboratory at Mortlake with its roaring stove as a centre of alchemy and that some of his books resembled those of the Earl of Kildare, whom folks named the 'Wizard Earl'. Unfortunately, that remark reminded Doctor Dee of the loss of much of his library at the hands of the mob which had ransacked his abode when he set out on his European travels.
"Ignorance and fear were the cause of that," he reflected sadly, shaking his white head. "Precisely the subject I wish to address with you now. Though I would give the world to possess your gift of prescience, I believe it to be a source of dread to you, is that not so? I nodded miserably and Doctor Dee went on, "We are here today to remove that fear but, first, we must talk of Alchemy, which is the oldest art, dating back to the Babylonians, handed down to the Persians and Indians and, through them to Alexander the Great and to Greece. Nor must we forget Egypt and, later, the Sufis in Alchemy, which is, indeed, an Arab word. From them it passed to Spain, Southern Italy and thence to France. So you see, it forms a brotherhood of all nations, but so much is the world in the power of evil that the alchemical secrets have to be kept 'sub rosa'. In fact, the Rose is the symbol of Alchemy, which the Roman church has sought to usurp.
"There are two sides to the great work, material and spiritual. The first consists in heating base metals to a high degree and much skill is required as well as patience since the undertaking often goes awry. With success, a black putrefaction occurs, which we call the 'nigredo'. From this, at the next stage of firing, all the many colours unfold in the 'cauda pavonis', the peacock's tail. More work brings about the next transformation to the white colour which contains all colours, the 'albedo'. This is the colour of the White Rose Queen, the daybreak which has to be raised to the sunrise, the 'rubedo', formed by heating the fire to its highest intensity, which brings into being the Red Rose King. When the King and Queen are joined in the union of opposites called the Chemical Wedding, then pure gold is formed. To give an example, the marriage of Henry V11, represented by the Red Rose of Lancaster and Elizabeth of York, the White Rose, heralded the peaceful reign of the Tudors, which many have called a new Golden Age. Lesser alchemists seek the mere metal but we seek spiritual gold."
"But what has this to do with my 'seeings'?" I demanded.
"Can you not understand the likeness to your colours? Say the nigredo represents that melancholy to which all sensitive souls are prone. When you play your 'Orpheus music', the blackness for you is transformed into rainbow colours, the cauda pavonis, then, as you continue to play, the albedo. But if, as so often happens in the great work, the firing fails, then, instead of attaining the rubedo, you regress into blackness and the painful 'seeing' takes place such as you have learned to dread. I intend to use your prophetic power at the stage of the albedo but without the music. Trust me."
Doctor Dee opened the small packet sent by Sir Philip and withdrew the gold and diamond ring worn at Mortlake. He placed it on the little finger of his right hand with the great sparkling stone to the inside.
"You will see no nightmare scenes," he assured me. "I shall ask a question and you will reply with a number only. There will be no pain or terror. Gaze on the diamond." As I stared, he passed his palm to and fro before my eyes. I became drowsy but fixed my eyes on the bright stone as long as I could. I heard the questions and also my answers which came from my mouth sounding distant and strange.
"How many years will the Queen of England live?" "Seventeen."
"The Duke of Brunswick?" "Three."
"The King of Denmark?" "Two."
"Henry of Navarre?" "Twenty-four."
I woke fully and without discomfort as Doctor Dee snapped his fingers.
"That was a successful procedure, was it not? You have used your gift to give me useful information which will greatly assist our future plans. If my helper, Edward Kelly, and I are able through Abbot Trithemius's angel magic to obtain further guidance from above, all will go well and so I pray. Say nothing to a soul of these happenings, which I assure you mean no evil. Remember, if you wish to use your gift of prescience righteously, first gaze on a sparkling object. I have a scrying glass for Edward's use. Would that I had the same power but my mind is clouded by many years of study and I am unable to 'see'."
He went on to tell me not to confuse my gifts. I was to use the Orpheus music for healing and the power of 'seeing' for the benefit of others, remembering that evil seeks to disguise itself as good and that even he, in spite of constant prayer, oftimes found it difficult to distinguish one from the other. I knew that Doctor Dee's wise words were intended to free me of fear but it was still a mystery to me that the alchemical process should explain the terrors unleashed by the tapping sounds, although I had not told him of that. Best put it out of my mind.
"One more admonition," said Doctor Dee. "To achieve the rubedo, and that time will come, you must go through material and spiritual fire."
With this strange prophesy, he wrapped up Sir Philip's ring, wrote somewhat on the package and bade me deliver it directly on my return to the Low Countries.
~
I rejoined the army at the end of July to find that Sir Philip had organised a successful attack on Axel, where thirty or forty men had swum the moat and unlocked the city gates. He had rewarded them out of his own pocket, as his father had so often done in Ireland. Unfortunately, such success was fleeting. To add to his troubles the news came that Lady Mary Sidney, who had lived apart from her husband in their last years, had been laid in his grave with only the Countess of Pembroke as family mourner.
The troops were ready to mutiny for lack of pay, yet no appeal to the Treasury was answered. Did the Queen and Burghley not realise that a Spanish invasion must be hindered at all costs? I could have told Sir Philip of the rumour in the spy trade that those two had their own ideas. While Leicester was at last planning to meet in the field the Duke of Parma, Spain's able commander, desperate efforts for peace were made in England. Lady Arbella Stuart (then twelve years of age, if I remember rightly) was to be dangled as marriage bait for Parma's son, Rainutio Farnese, with the promise of the throne of England one day, thus frustrating Leicester's plans for his base-born son.
Though ignorant of this, sweet Robin felt insecure away from court where intrigues against him were certainly afoot. He needed victory in the field to end the war swiftly. Disillusioned with the Dutch, as were they with him, he longed for home comforts. He decided to mass his army at Arnhem and prevent Parma's advance down the Rhine. After some manoeuvring, Leicester tried to draw off the Spanish by attacking the town and fortress of Zutphen.
Every Englishman knows that fatal name and how Sir Philip Sidney threw off his leg armour when he saw Sir William Pelham without his cuisses, was badly wounded in his unprotected thigh, lodged at Arnhem, where Lady Frances joined him, at first improved, then worsened and died.
I have a story to tell, known to none but myself, the dying man and one other, and it appears in no history. One day in early October, Sir Philip raised his bed cover and smelt the unmistakable stench of gangrene, which he knew, and seemed not to care, was his death warrant. That same night, he dismissed all but myself from his bedchamber, telling his wife and friends they were in sore need of sleep and that I would play to ensure his rest. He was a pathetic figure, worn almost to skin and bone and his voice came as a whisper.
"I know you can play with closed eyes, John. Snuff out the candle. I wish none to look on me. We are of the new religion, yet I long for the comfort of a confessor and I have chosen you to give me relief before I die. I know you will not betray my trust as long as any in this sad story live.
"You know that I was bidden by my masters to write to the Queen, hoping to dissuade her from the French marriage. John Stubbes, who spoke against it in public, lost his hand. Worse befell me...I lost my name..." The Queen summoned me in one of her furious tempers in the course of which she screamed out that I was a bastard and a Spanish one at that. I thought at first that, in her anger, this was mere bluster. I was wrong. "How do you suppose your Dudley uncles escaped the block?" she asked and answered her own question. "Your precious mother gave her body to Philip of Spain and he influenced my besotted sister, Mary, to pardon them." ...I will not describe to you the rest of the interview. All know what filth Elizabeth can give tongue to when a black mood takes her.
"Banished from court, I hid myself away to lick my wounds. In all the turmoil, I found my pride was hurt most. On those two journeys to Europe when I felt myself worthy to be the equal of princes, it was not for my own qualities they feted me, Languet and the rest. They saw me as the base-born son of the King of Spain, nephew to the Earl of Leicester, fit to be used as the 'Prince of Europe' and unite the two religions,wearing the gold and diamond ring that was nothing more than a love token. How John of Austria must have smiled to himself when we met, two royal bastards together, and I, like a child, kept in the dark as to my origins. And now, like him, I am to die in this accursed country, all my hopes unfulfilled. Held he, as do I, a hidden desire for death?....." His voice trailed away and I relit the candle to hold cordial to his parched lips.
"No more light. Worse is to come. I rode to Wilton to Mary, always my best comforter. I told her all and, in her wisdom, she made me understand my mother's sacrifice and tried to give me back feelings of self worth and dispel my misery, though she herself was deeply unhappy with her cruel husband, no fit mate for her.
"What came about and took us by surprise was a true, pure love between us, more than that of fond brother and sister. When consummated, it never seemed to us a sin, yet, when Mary knew she was with child, she sent me away. We knew the world would mock us and denigrate our love, but what has racked us with guilt unbearable and caused Mary to make amends by giving her husband a second son is the knowledge that we have committed..." here he took a deep and anguished breath, so that the word emerged as a whispered shout... " INCEST! How can I leave her to live with this burden? How can I die in peace with such a sin on my conscience? How can I charge you, John, with this dark secret?"
I ceased my quiet playing and dared to take his wasted hand in mine. "The secret of your birth I have known and kept in silence since the year you took me to Europe and I will never divulge it knowingly. First I must confess a misdemeanour of my own. You remember at that time we visited Penshurst to bid farewell? I had entrusted my Orpheus book to Lady Mary, your mother, but had such a desire to view it once more that I crept to her chamber in her absence and was trapped behind a curtain when she and your uncle, Leicester entered and spoke together in anger. Lady Mary revealed that she whom you thought your sister is by no means your sister in blood but the child of your uncle and Queen Elizabeth, given to your mother and brought up as her own. The sin you dread most you need not bear. The Countess of Pembroke is your cousin."
Sir Philip had raised himself in the bed as he listened to my words and now fell back on the pillow, more exhausted seemingly by my disclosure than by his own confession.
"Play your healing music once more and leave me to think awhile." He lay silent for what seemed an age. "Now, some light and bring me pen and paper. I must write of this to my... to Lady Mary."
I lifted my poor master as gently as I could and supported him as he wrote slowly and painfully with many pauses for rest as his strength failed him. Yet his lips were curved in a smile and the fading light around him now shone with the blue of the true poet, untouched by the red of anger, as it had sometimes been in the past.
"Seal the letter for me, John, and, when the time comes, take it with the news of my death to Wilton. Stay with Mary and comfort her with your music. She will thank you with all her heart, as do I, for the service you have done this day."
He fumbled under his pillow and withdrew a small bag, saying, "Do not think of this as a reward. I have meant it for you since I read John Dee's message. Often and often I have sought to cast it away but Mary made me understand that, given as a token of love, however fleeting, it deserved respect as we would wish for my pledge to her, the 'Arcadia'. My lasting regret has been that, though I have known my son, he must never hear of his true father. Bastardy is too heavy a burden to bear....." He took my hand, palm upwards, and closed my fingers over the diamond ring that had played its part at Mortlake and at Luneberg. "I shall sleep now with a clearer conscience. I thank you again for bringing me peace."
He wished me to go to my own rest but I stayed and kept vigil with him until the doctors came bustling into the sick-room. They insisted to the end that Sir Philip would recover but, though he wrote to his German doctor, John Weier, to come in haste, perhaps no longer wishing for death, he seemed resigned, come what might. He made his will, naming as his executors Walsingham and his brother, Robert, charging them to pay his debts. He even had Daniel play his song 'La Cuisse Rompue' to show his young wife, now heavy with their second child, that he was still in good spirits. Having made his peace with the world and the God of the reformed religion, he died on October 17th, to our sorrow.
~
By November 2nd, I was at Wilton with the letter and the first news of Sir Philip's passing, happy to inform the Countess that the last word on his lips was a whispered 'Mary'. While she retired to read her letter, I played with her sons, William, aged six and Philip, two. (I never saw you that young, Rob, to my regret.) I had brought the boys sweetmeats and it was as if they had known me all their lives.
When the Countess reappeared, she was white faced but composed. She took my hand and thanked me, saying that, as Sir Philip suggested, she would be grateful if I would stay as her lutenist for a while. To have lost in a few short months those whom she had all her life regarded as father, mother and brother were heavy blows for which her jealous, old husband could provide small comfort. I was glad to give what solace I could by playing the Don Luys Milan music, which she loved. As she listened, she followed the music in the other Orpheus book, which Lady Sidney had bequeathed to her. I attempted to give her Sir Philip's diamond ring but she insisted it was mine by his wish.
One day, she asked, "Tell me, Master Dowland, how came you by your own copy of 'El Maestro'?" I could never tell a story except in detail, and, at last, she said, thoughtfully, "Then it was the picture of Orpheus, even more than the music, which first held your attention. When you played and danced and had your first flash of 'seeing', you held the face of Orpheus in your mind?"
"More than that, madam. Foolish boy that I was, I felt I became Orpheus as I played."
"Cast your mind back to that vision. You saw the Earl of Kildare in strange garments?" "Which I now know were Greek draperies," I interrupted. "And I was clothed in the same way."
"You say you saw yourself, yet not yourself, kneeling for a blessing. Was it not your own face you saw?"
I made a mighty effort to recall and then, as though all my strength had gone into the remembering, I whispered, "Mine was the pictured face of Orpheus." And, with a strange feeling of awe and misgiving, I buried my present face in my hands.
~
The next day, Lady Mary spoke to me again. "I know from my reading with Philip that there was not one Orpheus, but many. As one bard and seer neared death, he passed his title to his best pupil to whom he imparted his sacred musical knowledge. Many a false Orpheus has been so named in flattery, but there are also those who, over the centuries, have learned and kept the true secret, which is only revealed to the chosen one by word of mouth or other means through the notes of the sacred strings."
"The tablature, a recent invention, is now our only means of learning the music of the past and it is capable of many interpretations. How may we learn the true sacred music?" I asked. "I have learned in France and Italy of the attempts to rediscover the lost Greek music, the very hymns of Orpheus, but, now the thread of oral transmission is broken, what chance have they of success?"
"You have a gift which Doctor Dee envies," urged Lady Mary. "You can transport yourself into another age and 'see'."
"Seeing is of no avail," I replied angrily. "I must HEAR, and my visions have been silent but for a word or two. Nor can I be certain whether it is the past or the future that I see. I am not capable of controlling time!"
~
Have I scared you, Rob? We were on the verge of planning magic, which James called 'treason to the Prince' and punished by death. Elizabeth was made of sterner stuff. She was unafraid of Doctor Dee's magic, and, when an image was found of her, pierced to the heart to cause her death, she trusted to his stronger spells to counteract the threat. Yet, I am convinced he had no evil in him, only an overwhelming curiosity as to the cause of things and an absolute lack of fear in his own peculiar voyages of discovery. He helped the explorers, Raleigh and the rest, find distant lands across unknown oceans, while himself attempting to fly to the high heavens and back with his angel magic.
~
It was Sir Walter's half brother Master Adrian Gilbert, Lady Mary's alchemist and designer of her beautiful gardens, who showed me the way. He had visited the house at Mortlake many a time and knew Doctor Dee better than most.
"The old man has had a bee in his bonnet for years. How old are you, John? Well, he obtained a manuscript in Louvain the year before your birth and has only now come to understand it, which shows you what a tussle it has been. At first, he thought it was merely a book of cryptography and that was hard enough to disentangle, but the third volume, he says, treats of angel magic and so, he found, do the first two in an enciphered form. All secret knowledge must be shadowed, you know. As Dante says, 'O, ye, who have sane intellects, mark the doctrine, which conceals itself beneath the veil of the strange verses.' However it seems to the world, and I myself often jest about it, my friend, John Dee, is a man of the sanest intellect and can penetrate the most obscure writings.
"What is the work I speak of called, you ask? Abbot Trithemius' 'Steganographia', if you can swallow that mouthful. And now Doctor Dee is wandering in foreign parts with that villainous looking Edward Kelly, who has twisted our trusting John round his little finger with tales of talking with the angel Gabriel and who knows what else. Do you know what they actually believe? That if you stare hard enough at a picture, thinking deeply at the same time, your question will reach the subject of the portrait and, within twenty-four hours, an answer will be returned without the use of words, writing or messenger. Myself, I deem that leaves too much room for deception and, if Kelly is that way inclined, I feel sorry for my dear, old friend."
~
The Countess of Pembroke resumed her translation of the Psalter, of which Sir Philip had already Englished the first forty two Psalms. They believed, as many others had done, that a great secret was hidden in the songs of King David.
"Philippe de Mornay said that David lived before the civilisation of the Greeks and was, perhaps, the first Orpheus, combining the art of healing with that of prophecy. To bring his words to life, we need the true music, lost, alas, like the music of the Greeks."
"I know that in Paris Claude Le Jeune is composing 'musique mesuree' for a French version of the Psalms. I dearly wish that I could confer with him, though we have lost touch since I left the Embassy. Unless....." A wild idea had entered my head and, with some trepidation, I confided Adrian Gilbert's conversation to Lady Mary, who was immediately fired with enthusiasm.
"Why we have the 'Steganographia' here in the library with Philip's commentary written in his own hand. Come with me at once. I have never studied it and now is the time to begin."
We could make little ourselves of the cryptography, but Sir Philip's glosses gave us the main part of the instructions. It seemed it was not needful to have an exact portrait of the recipient, as long as it roughly resembled the person intended - the imagination of the participants would make up for any defects in the execution. A short invocation (which I may not quote in full) ending 'in nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti' must be repeated and the pictures of the recipient and the sender wrapped together and buried under a threshold.
"It repeats what Master Gilbert told me, that the message will be returned within twenty-four hours, without the use of words, writing or messenger, though it says nothing of music," I cried. "Oh, madam, let me make the attempt to exchange messages with Claude Le Jeune and then, if music comes to me and it is the same as his own, we will have proof that it is a true and harmless magic with no hateful 'seeings' and no ill after effects."
Lady Mary's face lit up and she was eager to proceed. If nothing else, this gave her a fresh interest and might help her to forget her mourning. "Have you a picture of your friend, John, that we may begin straightway?"
When I admitted I had none and we realised that neither of us could draw a stroke, we were nonplussed. Then Lady Mary tapped her head, "How foolish of me, we have the very man we need under this roof - Abraham Fraunce, Philip's protege, who was at Shrewsbury School the year my brother left for Oxford. He is an excellent limner and we shall begin by asking him to make a portrait of you."
It proved a fair likeness and the face that emerged on my description of Claude Le Jeune was indeed recognisable. Wrapped in a cloth, we placed them beneath the carpet at the door of my chamber. Lady Mary was gleeful. "I can hardly wait for twenty-four hours to see if we have success. This venture gives me a new lease of life and I am grateful to Adrian for suggesting it. To put you in the right frame of mind, I think you should wear the ring and gaze into the diamond as you recite the invocation. God speed the work, John," and, after shaking my hand solemnly, she slipped away.
I remained in my chamber with the lute Luca gave me (the one signed by Laux Maler, however marvellous to play, had unhappy memories of 'seeing') and pen and music paper ready to hand. Having recited the invocation and put my question in French, I propped my eyes open, as it were, in case the message came and I not ready to record it. The hours ticked slowly by, then, just as the last candle began to gutter and the sky lightened, music came into my mind. I listened with bated breath, grateful for my power of instant recall, and, as the light increased, played the psalm (I knew it for that) over and over until I could see to record it on paper. I began to doze but kept waking to wonder if it had come to me out of my own imagination and had nothing to do with Claude Le Jeune. By the time I met Lady Mary, I was a prey to doubt and slow to accept her reassurances.
"We shall soon have proof," she said. "You will send the tablature with a letter to your friend in Paris and I will have it despatched with all speed through Sir Francis Walsingham's good offices and the messenger shall be told to stay for the reply."
Thus it was that, within the week, I received an amazed letter from Claude, asking by what witchcraft I had invented the very same music he had composed some days previously and he questioned, in jest, if I had stolen it from him in a dream. I had to reply that great minds think alike and that he should keep my copy, which, in the circumstances, showed no great generosity on my part. Lady Mary was gleeful at our success but I determined , much as I was tempted, never again to question another living musician in this way , eschewing any hint of plagiarism. My confederate in musical magic agreed.
"I wonder, though, if we could reach musicians from the past? Do let us try. What recent 'Orpheus' would you wish to hear?"
"I have those manuscripts of Albert de Rippe which John Heywood presented to me. It would be wondrous to hear his touch on the lute and compare it with my own. But how can Abraham make a drawing of a man we have never seen?"
"In the library there are lute books Philip brought home from his travels in Italy and I am sure I have seen there a lutenist wearing the costume of that period. Abraham will copy the picture and if we write the Italian name, Alberto da Ripa, very clearly and you think only of him, I am sure you will have success."
"And I will fast for the time of my vigil and take only wine or water, as was needful before Doctor Dee chanted the hymn to Apollo. I must confess to a feeling of trepidation in attempting to speak with the dead, though I know it is a marvel not to be missed."
Without the enthusiastic assistance of the Countess of Pembroke, none of it could have come about, but I assure you in truth that I did hear Alberto Musico perform his own work so that I was able to change some points of my playing to match the master's. It was an exhausting experience, however, and what was strange was that, though I could hear the words of the songs with perfect clarity, speech came to my ear in so confused a fashion as to be no clearer than the buzzing of a whole hive of bees. Still, the music was what I most sought.
At Wilton, I heard also the magical touch and the singing of Don Luys Milan, but I could exchange words with him no more than with Alberto. Thus, the magic was purely musical. As well, perhaps, for had I been asked to summon up spirits as Doctor Dee attempted with his angel magic I might have run mad. Though Lady Mary must have had a great desire to receive messages from Sir Philip, she never put this burden on me, though what she attempted in her own quiet hours was not for me to know.
Our fruitful time was over all too soon. Without warning, I was summoned into the presence of the Earl of Pembroke.
"I cannot imagine why the Countess spends so much of her time in your company, Dowland, nor do I wish to know. You are dismissed her service from this moment."
