Читать книгу History of the Reign of Philip the Second, King of Spain, Vols. 1 and 2 - William Hickling Prescott - Страница 20

ACCESSION OF ELIZABETH.

One of the first acts of Elizabeth was to write an elegant Latin epistle to Philip, in which she acquainted him with her accession to the crown, and expressed the hope that they should continue to maintain "the same friendly relations as their ancestors had done, and, if possible, more friendly."

Philip received the tidings of his wife's death at Brussels, where her obsequies were celebrated, with great solemnity, on the same day with her funeral in London. All outward show of respect was paid to her memory. But it is doing no injustice to Philip to suppose that his heart was not very deeply touched by the loss of a wife so many years older than himself, whose temper had been soured, and whose personal attractions, such as they were, had long since faded under the pressure of disease. Still, it was not without feelings of deep regret that the ambitious monarch saw the sceptre of England—barren though it had proved to him—thus suddenly snatched from his grasp.

We have already seen that Philip, during his residence in the country, had occasion more than once to interpose his good offices in behalf of Elizabeth. It was perhaps the friendly relation in which he thus stood to her, quite as much as her personal qualities, that excited in the king a degree of interest which seems to have provoked something like jealousy in the bosom of his queen.[256] However this may be, motives of a very different character from those founded on sentiment now determined him to retain, if possible, his hold on England, by transferring to Elizabeth the connection which had subsisted with Mary.

A month had not elapsed since Mary's remains were laid in Westminster Abbey, when the royal widower made direct offers, through his ambassador, Feria, for the hand of her successor. Yet his ardor did not precipitate him into any unqualified declaration of his passion; on the contrary, his proposals were limited by some very prudent conditions.

It was to be understood that Elizabeth must be a Roman Catholic, and, if not one already, must repudiate her errors and become one. She was to obtain a dispensation from the pope for the marriage. Philip was to be allowed to visit Spain, whenever he deemed it necessary for the interests of that kingdom;—a provision which seems to show that Mary's over-fondness, or her jealousy, must have occasioned him some inconvenience on that score. It was further to be stipulated, that the issue of the marriage should not, as was agreed in the contract with Mary, inherit the Netherlands, which were to pass to his son Don Carlos, the prince of Asturias.

Feria was directed to make these proposals by word of mouth, not in writing, "although," adds his considerate master, "it is no disgrace for a man to have his proposals rejected, when they are founded, not on worldly considerations, but on zeal for his Maker and the interests of religion."

Elizabeth received the offer of Philip's hand, qualified as it was, in the most gracious manner. She told the ambassador, indeed, that, "in a matter of this kind, she could take no step without consulting her parliament. But his master might rest assured, that, should she be induced to marry, there was no man she should prefer to him."[257] Philip seems to have been contented with the encouragement thus given, and shortly after he addressed Elizabeth a letter, written with his own hand, in which he endeavored to impress on her how much he had at heart the successes of his ambassador's mission.

The course of events in England, however, soon showed that such success was not to be relied on, and that Feria's prognostics in regard to the policy of Elizabeth were well founded. Parliament soon entered on the measures which ended in the subversion of the Roman Catholic, and the restoration of the Reformed religion. And it was very evident that these measures, if not originally dictated by the queen, must at least have received her sanction.

Philip, in consequence, took counsel with two of his ministers, on whom he most relied, as to the expediency of addressing Elizabeth on the subject, and telling her plainly, that, unless she openly disavowed the proceedings of parliament, the marriage could not take place.[258] Her vanity should be soothed by the expressions of his regret at being obliged to relinquish the hopes of her hand. But, as her lover modestly remarked, after this candid statement of all the consequences before her, whatever the result might be, she would have no one to blame but herself.[259] His sage advisers, probably not often called to deliberate on questions of this delicate nature, entirely concurred in opinion with their master. In any event, they regarded it as impossible that he should wed a Protestant.

What effect this frank remonstrance had on the queen we are not told. Certain it is, Philip's suit no longer sped so favorably as before. Elizabeth, throwing off all disguise, plainly told Feria, when pressed on the matter, that she felt great scruples as to seeking a dispensation from the pope;[260] and soon after she openly declared in parliament, what she was in the habit of repeating so often, that she had no other purpose but to live and die a maid.[261]—It can hardly be supposed that Elizabeth entertained serious thoughts, at any time, of marrying Philip. If she encouraged his addresses, it was only until she felt herself so securely seated on the throne, that she was independent of the ill-will she would incur by their rejection. It was a game in which the heart, probably, formed no part of the stake on either side. In this game, it must be confessed, the English queen showed herself the better player of the two.

TREATY OF CATEAU-CAMBRESIS.

Philip bore his disappointment with great equanimity. He expressed his regret to Elizabeth that she should have decided in a way so contrary to what the public interests seemed to demand. But since it appeared to her otherwise, he should acquiesce, and only hoped that the same end might be attained by the continuance of their friendship.[262] With all this philosophy, we may well believe that, with a character like that of Philip, some bitterness must have remained in the heart; and that, very probably, feelings of a personal nature mingled with those of a political in the long hostilities which he afterwards carried on with the English queen.

In the month of February, the conferences for the treaty of peace had been resumed, and the place of meeting changed from the abbey of Cercamps to Cateau-Cambresis. The negotiations were urged forward with greater earnestness than before, as both the monarchs were more sorely pressed by their necessities. Philip, in particular, was so largely in arrears to his army, that he frankly told his ministers "he was on the brink of ruin, from which nothing but a peace could save him."[263] It might be supposed that, in this state of things, he would be placed in a disadvantageous attitude for arranging terms with his adversary. But Philip and his ministers put the best face possible on their affairs, affecting a confidence in their resources, before their allies as well as their enemies, which they were far from feeling; like some half-famished garrison, which makes a brave show of its scanty stock of supplies, in order to win better terms from the besiegers.[264]

All the difficulties were at length cleared away, except the vexed question of Calais. The English queen, it was currently said in the camp, would cut off the head of any minister who abandoned it. Mary, the young queen of Scots, had just been married to the French dauphin, afterwards Francis the Second. It was proposed that the eldest daughter born of this union should be united to the eldest son of Elizabeth, and bring with her Calais as a dowry. In this way, the place would be restored to England without dishonor to France.[265] Such were the wild expedients to which the parties resorted in the hope of extricating themselves from their embarrassment!

At length, seeing the absolute necessity of bringing the matter to an issue, Philip ordered the Spanish plenipotentiaries to write his final instructions to Feria, his minister in London. The envoy was authorized to say, that, although England had lost Calais through her own negligence, yet Philip would stand faithfully by her for the recovery of it. But, on the other hand, she must be prepared to support him with her whole strength by land and by sea, and that not for a single campaign, but for the war so long as it lasted. The government should ponder well whether the prize would be worth the cost. Feria must bring the matter home to the queen, and lead her, if possible, to the desired conclusion; but so that she might appear to come to it by her own suggestion rather than by his. The responsibility must be left with her.[266] The letter of the plenipotentiaries, which is a very long one, is a model in its way, and shows that, in some particulars, the science of diplomacy has gained little since the sixteenth century.

Elizabeth needed no argument to make her weary of a war which hung like a dark cloud on the morning of her reign. Her disquietude had been increased by the fact of Scotland having become a party to the war; and hostilities, with little credit to that country, had broken out along the borders. Her own kingdom was in no condition to allow her to make the extraordinary efforts demanded by Philip. Yet it was plain if she did not make them, or consent to come into the treaty, she must be left to carry on the war by herself. Under these circumstances, the English government at last consented to an arrangement, which, if it did not save Calais, so far saved appearances that it might satisfy the nation. It was agreed that Calais should be restored at the end of eight years. If France failed to do this, she was to pay five hundred thousand crowns to England, whose claims to Calais would not, however, be affected by such a payment. Should either of the parties, or their subjects, during that period, do anything in contravention of this treaty, or in violation of the peace between the two countries, the offending party should forfeit all claim to the disputed territory.[267] It was not very probable that eight years would elapse without affording some plausible pretext to France, under such a provision, for keeping her hold on Calais.

The treaty with England was signed on the second of April, 1559. On the day following was signed that between France and Spain. By the provisions of this treaty, the allies of Philip, Savoy, Mantua, Genoa, were reinstated in the possession of the territories of which they had been stripped in the first years of the war. Four or five places of importance in Savoy were alone reserved, to be held as guaranties by the French king, until his claim to the inheritance of that kingdom was determined.

The conquests made by Philip in Picardy were to be exchanged for those gained by the French in Italy and the Netherlands. The exchange was greatly for the benefit of Philip. In the time of Charles the Fifth, the Spanish arms had experienced some severe reverses, and the king now received more than two hundred towns in return for the five places he held in Picardy.[268]

TREATY OF CATEAU-CAMBRESIS.

Terms so disadvantageous to France roused the indignation of the duke of Guise, who told Henry plainly, that a stroke of his pen would cost the country more than thirty years of war. "Give me the poorest of the places you are to surrender," said he, "and I will undertake to hold it against all the armies of Spain!"[269] But Henry sighed for peace, and for the return of his friend, the constable. He affected much deference to the opinions of the duke. But he wrote to Montmorency that the Guises were at their old tricks,[270]—and he ratified the treaty.

The day on which the plenipotentiaries of the three great powers had completed their work, they went in solemn procession to the church, and returned thanks to the Almighty for the happy consummation of their labors. The treaty was then made public; and, notwithstanding the unfavorable import of the terms to France, the peace, if we except some ambitious spirits, who would have found their account in the continuance of hostilities, was welcomed with joy by the whole nation. In this sentiment all the parties to the war participated. The more remote, like Spain, rejoiced to be delivered from a contest which made such large drains on their finances; while France had an additional reason for desiring peace, now that her own territory had become the theatre of war.

The reputation which Philip had acquired by his campaigns was greatly heightened by the result of his negotiations. The whole course of these negotiations—long and intricate as it was—is laid open to us in the correspondence fortunately preserved among the papers of Granvelle; and the student who explores these pages may probably rise from them with the conviction that the Spanish plenipotentiaries showed an address, a knowledge of the men they had to deal with, and a consummate policy, in which neither their French nor English rivals were a match for them. The negotiation all passed under the eyes of Philip. Every move in the game, if not by his suggestion, had been made at least with his sanction. The result placed him in honorable contrast to Henry the Second, who, while Philip had stood firmly by his allies, had, in his eagerness for peace, abandoned those of France to their fate.

The early campaigns of Philip had wiped away the disgrace caused by the closing campaigns of Charles the Fifth; and by the treaty he had negotiated, the number of towns which he lost was less than that of provinces which he gained.[271] Thus he had shown himself as skilful in counsel as he had been successful in the field. Victorious in Picardy and in Naples, he had obtained the terms of a victor from the king of France, and humbled the arrogance of Rome, in a war to which he had been driven in self-defence.[272] Faithful to his allies and formidable to his foes, there was probably no period of Philip's life in which he possessed so much real consideration in the eyes of Europe, as at the time of signing the treaty of Cateau-Cambresis.

In order to cement the union between the different powers, and to conciliate the good-will of the French nation to the treaty by giving it somewhat of the air of a marriage contract, it was proposed that an alliance should take place between the royal houses of France and Spain. It was first arranged that the hand of Henry's daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, should be given to Carlos, the son and heir of Philip. The parties were of nearly the same age, being each about fourteen years old. Now that all prospect of the English match had vanished, it was thought to be a greater compliment to the French to substitute the father for the son, the monarch himself for the heir apparent, in the marriage treaty. The disparity of years between Philip and Elizabeth was not such as to present any serious objection. The proposition was said to have come from the French negotiators. The Spanish envoys replied, that, notwithstanding their master's repugnance to entering again into wedlock, yet, from his regard to the French monarch, and his desire for the public weal, he would consent to waive his scruples, and accept the hand of the French princess, with the same dowry which had been promised to his son Don Carlos.[273]

Queen Elizabeth seems to have been not a little piqued by the intelligence that Philip had so soon consoled himself for the failure of his suit to her. "Your master," said she, in a petulant tone, to Feria, "must have been much in love with me not to be able to wait four months!" The ambassador answered somewhat bluntly, by throwing the blame of the affair on the queen herself. "Not so," she retorted, "I never gave your king a decided answer." "True," said Feria, "the refusal was only implied, for I would not urge your highness to a downright 'No,' lest it might prove a cause of offence between so great princes."[274]

In June, 1559, the duke of Alva entered France for the purpose of claiming the royal bride, and espousing her in the name of his master. He was accompanied by Ruy Gomez, count of Melito—better known by his title of prince of Eboli—by the prince of Orange, the Count Egmont, and other noblemen, whose high rank and character might give lustre to the embassy. He was received in great state by Henry, who, with his whole court, seemed anxious to show to the envoy every mark of respect that could testify their satisfaction with the object of his mission. The duke displayed all the stately demeanor of a true Spanish hidalgo. Although he conformed to the French usage by saluting the ladies of the court, he declined taking this liberty with his future queen, or covering himself, as repeatedly urged, in her presence—a piece of punctilio greatly admired by the French, as altogether worthy of the noble Castilian breeding.[275]

DEATH OF HENRY THE SECOND.

On the twenty-fourth of June, the marriage of the young princess was celebrated in the church of St. Mary. King Henry gave his daughter away. The duke of Alva acted as his sovereign's proxy. At the conclusion of the ceremony, the prince of Eboli placed on the finger of the princess, as a memento from her lord, a diamond ring of inestimable value; and the beautiful Elizabeth, the destined bride of Don Carlos, became the bride of the king his father. It was an ominous union, destined, in its mysterious consequences, to supply a richer theme for the pages of romance than for those of history.

The wedding was followed by a succession of brilliant entertainments, the chief of which was the tournament—the most splendid pageant of that spectacle-loving age. Henry was, at that time, busily occupied with the work of exterminating the Protestant heresy, which, as already noticed, had begun to gather formidable head in the capital of his dominions.[276] On the evening of the fifteenth of June, he attended a session of the parliament, and arrested some of its principal members for the boldness of their speech in his presence. He ordered them into confinement, deferring their sentence till the termination of the engrossing business of the tourney.

The king delighted in these martial exercises, in which he could display his showy person and matchless horsemanship in the presence of the assembled beauty and fashion of his court.[277] He fully maintained his reputation on this occasion, carrying off one prize after another, and bearing down all who encountered his lance. Towards evening, when the games had drawn to a close, he observed the young count of Montgomery, a Scotch noble, the captain of his guard, leaning on his lance, as yet unbroken. The king challenged the cavalier to run a course with him for his lady's sake. In vain the queen, with a melancholy boding of some disaster, besought her lord to remain content with the laurels he had already won. Henry obstinately urged his fate, and compelled the count, though extremely loth, to take the saddle. The champions met with a furious shock in the middle of the lists. Montgomery was a rude jouster. He directed his lance with such force against the helmet of his antagonist, that the bars of the visor gave way. The lance splintered; a fragment struck the king with such violence on the temple as to lay bare the eye. The unhappy monarch reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen but for the assistance of the constable, the duke of Guise, and other nobles, who bore him in their arms senseless from the lists. Henry's wound was mortal. He lingered ten days in great agony, and expired on the ninth of July, in the forty-second year of his age, and the thirteenth of his reign. It was an ill augury for the nuptials of Elizabeth.[278]

The tidings of the king's death were received with demonstrations of sorrow throughout the kingdom. He had none of those solid qualities which make either a great or a good prince. But he had the showy qualities which are perhaps more effectual to secure the affections of a people as fond of show as the nation whom Henry governed.[279] There were others in the kingdom, however—that growing sect of the Huguenots—who looked on the monarch's death with very different eyes—who rejoiced in it as a deliverance from persecution. They had little cause to rejoice. The sceptre passed into the hands of a line of imbecile princes, or rather of their mother, the famous Catherine de Medicis, who reigned in their stead, and who ultimately proved herself the most merciless foe the Huguenots ever encountered.