The Mirror and the Light

Fiction | Novel | Adult | Published in 2020

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Symbols & Motifs

Cat of Many Lives

Early in the book, Cromwell has purchased a striped Damascene cat. She becomes a kind of double for Cromwell in much the way the character of Cromwell is a double of the king. Within a page of her introduction, Cromwell notes, “I am the Damascene cat. I have travelled so far to get here, and nothing they do disturbs me now, nor disquiets me, high on my branch” (19). This comparison also invokes the oft-told fairy tale that cats have nine lives. Cromwell has certainly lived his share, from his childhood in Putney to his time overseas to his English wife and children to his patronage of the Cardinal—whose cat, Marlinspike, Cromwell recalls fondly—to his service to the king. This presages his entry into the last, tumultuous life he will lead. This is made explicit later in the book, as Cromwell recounts his many lives: “His sixth life was as Master Secretary, the king’s servant. His seventh, Lord Cromwell, now begins” (57). Later, as his wealth and influence are at the peak, he is again compared to a feline: “Lord Cromwell settles himself inside his furs, with a soft grunt like a heavy cat” (449). He is content, until he is caught.

In addition, the striped cat’s presence among the nobler cats of England gives pause: “She is supposed to stay indoors, or she will breed with the London cats,” Cromwell tells his servants (18). Cromwell’s mixing with the nobility of England is also a constant source of conflict throughout the book. Later, Cromwell claims these men, his enemies, are “[a]ll men who drown kittens for their pleasant recreation” (218). He will be their victim, as well.

Finally, Cromwell is gifted a wild leopard from some foreign dignitary seeking his favor. This wild cat, confined within the walls of Austin Friars, echoes the figure of Cromwell trapped within the Tower of London. His household at Austin Friars has been given over to the treasonous Wriothesley, who roams the rooms freely by day, “[b]ut by night the leopard pads the floor, smelling the fur of long-dead animals, spaniels and marmosets, gazing upward at the nightingale, mute in her cage” (745). The place will never truly be the home of the upstart traitor—not, at least, while the leopard prowls during the long, dark nights.

The Currency of Rumor

In a time before technology provides quick and easy communication, the currency of rumor, gossip, and outright lies carries much force. Miscommunications take time to clear up, and messages can go undelivered due to unforeseen circumstances. Rumors can engender legend, require blackmail in return for silence, ruin reputations, and even end lives. Throughout the novel, Cromwell and his king are on the receiving end of numerous treacherous rumors. For example, Ambassador Chapuys creates the rumor that Lady Mary requests Cromwell for her bridegroom; it will be one of the many pieces of gossip used as evidence against him while he awaits his fate in the Tower. But the purveyor of such rumors suffers no similar fate: “Luckily for Chapuys,” Cromwell thinks, “gossip is not a capital crime” (251). Later, Mary is apprised of the rumors, which are dangerous to them both: “Someone has made her aware that we are linked, if only by rumour. She is warning me off” (306). Cromwell makes every attempt not to act in ways that give credence to the tale.

The author also makes the point that rumors and gossip amount to political leverage and financial gain: “The common folk of England live on songs and tales and alehouse jokes” (275). This is what makes them susceptible to the priests, who “warn their flock that if they do not send tribute to Rome, trees will walk and crops will blight” (275). It is difficult for the peasants to hear that they “cannot buy salvation” (275). It is much easier to listen to tales of the king’s death and of Cromwell’s seizure of power: As his son Gregory informs Cromwell after his arrest, “Henry believes—but I do not know how he can believe it—that you meant to wed her [Mary] and then thrust him aside and become king yourself” (703). It is in the best interest of Cromwell’s enemies that the king starts to take seriously these vicious rumors which, in the end, signify death—not for the propagator of the gossip but for its target.

The Price of Truth and Lies

Just as rumor comes at a ghastly cost, so too does the price of truth. This is made clear from the very beginning of the book when Cromwell defends the decision to keep Thomas Boleyn, Anne’s father, alive, claiming that the man has already been defeated by events. He feels justified in daring to deflect the objections of his superiors: “But if you cannot speak truth at a beheading, when can you speak it?” (6). In explaining his actions to his son, Cromwell says, “It is not wrong to speak your mind. On selected occasions. They make it painful for you. But you must do it” (7). This view will eventually cost him dearly.

The king, in contrast, believes in charm: “Lying gives him a deep and subtle pleasure, so deep and subtle he does not know he is lying; he thinks he is the most truthful of princes” (55). Cromwell’s commitment to the truth, skillfully deployed, is no match for the self-deception exercised by the king. When encouraging Mary to sign the oath, knowing she will never renounce Catholicism in her heart, Cromwell counsels that she betray her conscience for expedience: “Yes, of course she will despise herself afterwards. But that is the price. Tell her time will ease the sting of it” (107). What Henry will accept is what is given at face value; he expects the appearance of obeisance more than the act itself. Thus, truth is compromised by loyalty; loyalty is compromised by truth.

Henry complains frequently, “As soon as you are king, nobody tells the truth” (309). The trap for Cromwell is rigged by the very forces he serves. When he is being interrogated in the Tower, Cromwell knows that truth and treason are only two sides of the same compromised coin: “Treason can be construed from any scrap of paper, if the will is there. A syllable will do it. The power is in the hands of the reader, not the writer” (723). There is no truth; there are only versions of the truth, once power corrupts and self-interest dominates. “The truth is,” Cromwell goes on to confess, “he has meddled in so much of the king’s business, that it is impossible even for a man of his capacity to recollect everything said and done” (723). Though this carries the whiff of modernity about it—as an accused repeats “I do not recall” during the course of a deposition—Cromwell’s dedication will come at a fatal price.

Ghosts and Other Haunting Presences

Throughout the book, Cromwell is haunted by the ghosts of his past. Anne’s presence bothers him—and her demise serves as a foreshadowing and echo of his own—as does Katherine’s, Henry’s first wife. Rumors abound that when Anne miscarried, it was Katherine who caused it: “The corpse had risen from her bier, and bounced her supplanter till her teeth rattled: shaken her, till the king’s son had come loose” (46). There is also the more dangerous fact that Katherine’s memory stirs up rebellion: “Katherine is dead and not dead. Her cause flourishes, its taproot deep in acid soil” (125). Her connection to the Holy Roman Empire haunts the newly formed Church of England.

But some ghosts are welcomed by Cromwell, such as that of his mentor, Cardinal Wolsey, and even his former enemy, Thomas More. When Cromwell begins to lose touch with Wolsey’s ghostly presence, it marks the beginning of the end of his power: “Wolsey never speaks to him now. [...] Since he came back from Shaftesbury he is without company or advice” (299). Later, when he is facing his sentence in the Tower, Cromwell “feels he is dragging corpses, shovelling them up” (735). He remembers all of the men whose deaths he had his hand in, as well as those who perished through no fault of his own. His conscience is heavy with their spectral presences.

Some ghosts even become martyrs, more haunting in death than threatening in life: “They speak of More as a martyr now, instead of a man who miscalculated the odds” (736). Cromwell thinks of his own predicament: “But most will not think me a martyr for anything, except the great cause of getting on in life” (737). However, the author deliberately leaves this possibility open for interpretation. Several times earlier in the book, Cromwell is explicitly associated with Christ. Contemplating his service to the king, Cromwell thinks, “I could have kept walking. Like Jesus, walked on the water” (133). But that comparison is immediately complicated by another reference: “Or deployed my wings” (133). This refers to the myth of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun—to which King Henry is often compared—and subsequently plummeted to his death as his wings melt. Later, Cromwell talks of himself “walk[ing] abroad with solemn countenance, looking chosen by Jesus” (186). Again, the reference is ambiguous: Cromwell could be Matthew, or he could be Judas. Regardless of whether Cromwell dies a martyr or a traitor, it is clear that his outsized presence will haunt English history forevermore. The author closes the book with a quotation from Petrarch, a kind of epitaph for the Master Secretary and Lord Privy Seal: “When the darkness is dispelled, our descendants will be able to walk back, into the pure radiance of the past” (754). With this book, Mantel has illuminated Cromwell’s story.