the vows and enter what was
called _religio laxa_, a state in which she might live unincumbered by
obligations except the easy one of chastity, and free from all other
restrictions either of habit, diet, or order. The proposal was Wolsey's,
and was formed when he found the limited nature of Campeggio's
instructions;[156] but it was adopted by the latter; and I cannot but think
(though I have no proof of it) that it was not adopted without the
knowledge of the emperor. Whatever were his own interests, Charles V. gave
Catherine his unwavering support: he made it his duty to maintain her in
the ignominious position in which she was placed, and submitted his own
conduct to be guided by her wishes. It cannot be doubted, however, from the
pope's words, and also from the circumstances of the case, that if she
could have prevailed upon herself to yield, it would have relieved him from
a painful embarrassment. As a prince, he must have felt the substantial
justice of Henry's demand, and in refusing to allow the pope to pass a
judicial sentence of divorce, he could not but have known that he was
compromising the position of the Holy See: while Catherine herself, on the
other hand, if she had yielded, would have retired without a stain; no
opinion would have been pronounced upon her marriage; the legitimacy of the
Princess Mary would have been left without impeachment; and her right to
the succession, in the event of no male heir following from any new
connection which the king might form, would have been readily secured to
her by act of parliament. It may be asked why she did not yield, and it is
difficult to answer the question. She was not a person who would have been
disturbed by the loss of a few court vanities. Her situation as Henry's
wife could not have had many charms for her, nor can it be thought that she
retained a personal affection for him. If she had loved him, she would have
suffered too deeply in the struggle to have continued to resist, and the
cloister would have seemed a paradise. Or if the cloister had appeared too
sad a shelter for her, she might have gone back to the gardens of the
Alhambra, where she had played as a child, carrying with her the
affectionate remembrance of every English heart, and welcomed by her own
people as an injured saint. Nor again can we suppose that the possible
injury of her daughter's prospects from the birth of a prince by another
marriage could have seemed of so vast moment to her.