Carlyle in his _French Revolution_ makes a contrast between two works
of imagination which mark the extremes of the forces that made for
the disruption of France, _Paul et Virginie_ and _Le Chevalier de
Faublas_. The former he calls “the swan-song of old dying France”; of
the latter he says “if this wretched _Faublas_ is a death-speech, it
is one under the gallows, and by a felon that does not repent.” This
double analogy may well serve for a comparison of Dr. Dee and the man
who was at once his partner for a time, and his evil genius. The grave
earnest old scholar, with instincts for good, high endeavour, and a
vast intellectual strength, contrasts well with the mean-souled shifty
specious rogue who fastened himself on him and leech-like drained him
“dry as hay.”
Such historians as mention the existence of the latter are even a
little doubtful how to spell his name. This, however, does not matter
much--nay, at all, for it is probably not that to which he was born.
Briefly the following is his record as far as can be discovered. He
was born in 1555 to parents living in Worcester, who having tried
to bring him up as an apothecary, sent him to Oxford when he was
seventeen years of age. There he was entered at Gloucester Hall,
under the name of Talbot. As however three men of that name were in
the Hall at the same time, it is doubtful what family can claim the
honour of his kinship. His college life was short--only lasting a
year--and inconspicuous. “He left,” we are told, “abruptly.” Then, as
if to complete the purely educational phase of his existence, he was
for a while an attorney, eking out the tenuity of his legal practice
by aid of forgery. Thus full-fledged for his work in life, he made
his first properly-recorded appearance in the pillory in 1580, for
an offence which is variously spoken of as forgery and coining. At
any rate his ears were cropped off, a loss which necessitated for
prudential reasons his wearing a skullcap for the remainder of his
days. This he wore with such conspicuous success that it is said that
even Doctor Dee, who was his partner for nearly seven years, did not
know of his mutilation. Kelley’s next recorded offence was one which
in a later age when subjects for dissection (necessary for purposes of
education in anatomy) were difficult to obtain, was popularly known
as “body-snatching.” The commission of this offence though a serious
breach of the law, came to be regarded as a necessary condition of
study; and even if punishment was meted out, it was not looked upon as
dishonour. But in Kelley’s case the offence was committed not for the
purpose of scientific education but for one of sorcery. It took place
in Walton-le-dale in Lancashire, where Kelley dug up a body buried
on the previous day, for purposes of necromancy, which, it will be
remembered, was, as the etymology of the word implies, divination by
means of the dead.
From this time on, he seemed to see his way clear to the final choice
of a profession. He had tasted crime and punishment, and considered
himself well qualified to accept the risks as well as the benefits;
and so chose fraud as his life work. He was still under twenty-five
years of age when he began to look about him for his next means
or occasion of turning his special talents to profit. After some
deliberation he fixed on the existence and qualities of the famous (as
he had then become) Doctor Dee, and carefully commenced operations.
He called on the mathematician at his house at Mortlake and made his
acquaintance. Dee was naturally impressed by the conversation and
ostensible qualities of the young man, who had the plausibility of the
born rogue and laid himself out to captivate the old man, more than
double his companion’s age and worn by arduous study. He fostered all
Dee’s natural weaknesses, humoured his fads, was enthusiastic regarding
his beliefs which he appeared to share, and urged on his personal
ambitions. The belief in occultism which the philosopher cherished
in secret, though he had openly and formally repudiated it a dozen
years before in his preface to Sir Henry Billingsley’s translation
of Euclid, gave the parasitic rogue his cue for further ingratiating
himself, and before long he entered Dee’s service at an annual salary
of fifty pounds. His special function was that of “skryer,” which
was his own or Dee’s reading of “seer.” His contribution to the
general result was to see the figures which did--or did not--appear
in the so-called “magic” crystal, an office for which his useful
imagination, his unblushing assurance, and his utter unscrupulousness
eminently fitted him. In fact he was in his designs of fraud a perfect
complement of the simple-minded scientist. Of course as days went on
and opportunities offered themselves, through Dee’s growing madness
and Kelley’s social enlargements, the horizon of chicanery widened.
This was largely assisted by the opportune arrival in England of the
Palatine Albert Laski in 1583. Laski was just the man that Kelley was
waiting for. A rich man with a taste for occult science; sufficiently
learned to keep in touch with the theories of occultism of that time;
sufficiently vain to be used by an unscrupulous adventurer who tickled
his intellectual palate whilst he matured his frauds upon him.
Kelley having worked on Dee’s feelings sufficiently to secure his
acquiescence, procured that Laski should be allowed to aid in such
operations and experiments as appealed to him. The result was that the
Palatine took the two men with him, promising a free field for them
both, each according to his bent. At Prague, in 1583, Laski presented
Dee and his companion to the Emperor Rudolph II. Encouraged by the
royal approval, Dee looked for a longer sojourn in eastern Europe, and
brought thither his wife and children from Poland, where he had left
them at Laskoe, the seat of the Palatine. Later on, in 1585,--again
through the influence of the credulous Laski--Dee with his companion
was presented to Stephen, King of Poland. Stephen was much interested,
and attended a _séance_ that he might see the spirits of which he
had heard so much. He saw too much, however, as far as Kelley was
concerned, for he penetrated the imposture. Thereupon Kelley, unequal
to carrying on the business single-handed, for he dared not let Dee’s
eyes be opened and he knew he could not induce him to be other than
a blind partner, contrived that a new confederate should be added to
the firm. This was one Francis Pucci, a Florentine, possessed of all
the address and subtlety of his race. But after the experience of a
year he was removed on suspicion of bad faith. Before that year was
out, the Bishop of Piacenza, Apostolic Nuncio at the Emperor’s Court,
had a decree issued that the two Englishmen should quit Prague within
six days. From Prague they went to Erfurt, in Thuringia; but despite
letters of recommendation from high quarters the Municipal Authorities
would not allow them to remain. So they moved on to Hesse-Cassel and
thence to Tribau in Bohemia, where the fraud of making spirits appear
was renewed. In 1586, it was intimated to Dee that the Emperor of
Russia wished to receive him in that country. He would receive a fee of
two thousand pounds per annum and would be treated with honour; but the
scholar did not see his way to accept the flattering offer. At Tribau,
Kelley experimented, but unsuccessfully, with some powder found at
Glastonbury, Dee’s young son being the medium. It was noticeable that
whenever Dee or his family failed in these experiments, Kelley always
succeeded. At this stage Kelley, who was a man of evil life, fell madly
in love with Dee’s wife. He was married himself, but that did not seem
to matter. His own wife was ugly and unattractive, whereas the second
Mrs. Dee was well-favoured and winning. In the madness of his lust
he tried to work on the husband’s credulity by telling him that it
had been conveyed to him through angels that it was the Divine wish
that the two men should hold their wives in common. Dee was naturally
sceptical and annoyed, and his wife was furious. Kelley, however, was
persistent, and stuck to his point so stedfastly that after a while
the woman’s resolution began to give way, and for a time some sort of
working arrangement came about. Kelley’s story, as elaborated to his
partner, was that at Tribau, in 1587, the crystal showed him a vision
of a naked woman who conveyed to him the divine message. To Dee’s
unhinged mind this seemed all natural and correct--probably even to
the suitable costume adopted by the angelic messenger: so the worthy
doctor gave way. After a time however the matron recovered her sanity,
and the vulture and the pigeon parted. Dee gave up to his late partner
all the “tools of trade” and “properties” of the fraud, and the two
never met again.
Kelley went to Prague where he was thrown into prison in 1589. He
remained in durance for four years after which he was released. From
thence on till 1595, he became a vagabond as well as a rogue, and
wandered about Germany. He again fell into the hands of Rudolph, to be
again imprisoned by him. He was killed whilst making a desperate effort
to escape.
There seems to be no record of Edward Kelley--or Talbot--having been
knighted, no authority save his own wish for the use of the title. It
may of course be possible that he was knighted by the Emperor in some
moment of absurd credulity; but there is no record of it. He had no
children.