A work in which Strachey exercises his considerable talents as a prosateur; and it's not hard to see the story as a highly-coloured backdrop for his play of judgment, to some degree, but chiefly style. The account settles down into a chronological history of Essex's eleven years at court--his displeasure at Raleigh, his senior and infinite superior in military judgment and confirmed purpose; his growing into favouritism and intimacy with the virgin Elizabeth, who, at sixty-three, has passions but has lived moved by an adolescent revulsion from sex; the Don Lopez affair, prosecuted too hotly but not insincerely by Essex; the Cadiz campaign (where he earns glory through Raleigh's restraint); the fiasco of the Ferrol expedition; Essex's abortive and ambiguous campaign in Ireland; his wild arrival at court, making a show of menacing the Queen's person; and, finally, his bathetic and questionable rebellion, riding out into the City hoping to gather a popular following, only to be hounded back by river to his house. Strachey supposes that unlike Essex's friend and protege, the perpetually disappointed Francis Bacon, Essex lives in an inconstancy of contrary feelings, buffeted back and forth between pride, hot-headedness, devotion and Christian self-abnegation. He is not a rebel, or is at least subject to 'intervals of romantic fidelity and noble remorse'.
The most fascinating cast member in Strachey's impressionistic narrative history is Elizabeth, whose policy of endless deferrals and reversals, exploiting the perception of female weakness, conceals a core of steel. Mary Queen of Scots only learns how wrong she was to despise her cousin on the scaffold. For Strachey, Elizabeth, fluent in six languages, with all the acquirements of a prince, is content to palter on the Reformation for thirty years in order to be the leader of England's Renaissance. The best part of the book for me is the most purely fantastic, the harping on the spirit of the Renaissance, the nature of the Reformation, Elizabeth's character, contradictions between the structure and ornament of the baroque. These reflections on 'the bewildering discordance between the real and the apparent' are too abstract, perhaps too literary or broadly drawn, to carry any weight as historiography; they work best as a fantasia, or the outline of a theory of Elizabeth's strategic 'pusillanimity' that secures the kingdom for forty years and incubates a modern culture.