 | Mary Stuart |  |
SCENE II.
A Chamber in Ruthven's House.Ruthven reclining on a couch, Catherine standing by him.
CATHERINE.
My father, are you better now?
16
Look out
O'er yonder hill, where winter, breaking up
His snowy camp, is hastening to be gone.
Such is my state!
CATHERINE.
And yet, that gentle sleep,
From which you've just awakened, gives me hope,
The crisis past, you will be well again.
RUTHVEN.
It may be so; but what have I to wish for
In life?—My country's past a sick man's help,
And past a sane man's hope! 'Tis gone to ruin!
I've nothing left to wish—to care for, now.
CATHERINE.
Am I then nothing to you? O, my Father!—
Let me not lose your love—or, if I must,
Let it be some time hence,—that I may play
The cheat for once, and die before it come.
RUTHVEN.
Talk not of dying—even in fancy talk not.
I may not be a gentle father, Kate,
But I'm a loving one. The bird, that feeds
Her young with her own flesh, is harsh of note,
Compare her with the lark that quits her brood
To sing in upper air—O Kate—you know not,
How dear you are to me.
CATHERINE.
I do—I do,
My father—and I bless you for't! But come—
For now I know you love me, will not leave me,
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The Queen desires my presence at the Court;
'Twas but a moment since, her mission reached me.
RUTHVEN.
It must not be:—I cannot spare you, Kate:
I cannot part with you. She has her friends
From every region of the quartered globe:—
Let that content her. But, of this same Court
You spoke of, prythee tell me what in all
Its rare attractions pleased your fancy most,
When you were there? The ball! the tournament!
CATHERINE.
Of all I saw or heard, the Signor's music
Was that which won my heart.
RUTHVEN.
Indeed!
CATHERINE.
Oh, had you heard him too!
You would have said, he was of Orpheus sprung,
Or taught his art by syrens, or had traced
The mermaid's plaint at sea, and caught it on
His harp from the wild wave—or, bolder still,
Had mounted to the spheric harmonies,
And, where the rolling planets hymn to Heaven,
Touched the wrapt choir.
RUTHVEN.
Give o'er this ill-judged praise;
It sounds unseemly from a maiden's lips.
Mark me. I hate that Rizzio from my soul.
I hate him for his country; his religion:
He's a magician too, and practises
Upon the Queen with spells. Imp of the devil!
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And sells us all to Rome. Beware of him!
[A knocking at the door.
How now! more visitors?—Who is't that knocks?
MORTON
(without).
Commend me to Lord Ruthven.
Enter Servant.
CATHERINE.
'Tis your friend's
The Earl of Morton's voice.
RUTHVEN.
I'll see the Earl.
[Exit Servant.
Leave me, my child: I'll call you soon again;
My heart will miss you.
CATHERINE.
O my dear, dear father!
'Tis joy to see you thus revived.
[Exit.
RUTHVEN.
Revived!
Disease hath worn me from a giant's bulk
To an anatomy; melted my flesh,
Like wax away at the slow fire of pain;
And that incurable malady, old age,
Sits on my heart, and sinks me to the grave.
Ha! Morton, welcome!
Enter Morton.
MORTON.
How is't with my friend?
RUTHVEN.
He lives.
MORTON.
Improves, too. Hope's a good physician;
If art should fail, there's strength in nature still.
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Yes; when the limbs are young, the sinews free,
The very bones elastic; but, in age,
Weak, withered, and though bent, unbending age,
The healing office of the blood is o'er,
And nature's self is on the side of waste
And dissolution.
MORTON.
Talk not so, nor think so;
Remember what you have been.
RUTHVEN.
That's my torment:
For now what am I, grovelling in the dust
Even of mine own decay? My sword is bent,
My helmet rusted, and the standard brave
That, like a skirt of Mars, shook overhead,
In the high wind of battle, clings with mould.
I have no strength: what can the dying do,
But, in the base gradation of their fate,
Become the dead, and rot?
MORTON.
'Tis on record
That Cæsar was addict to faintings, fits,
When he made Rome his footstool:—But remember,
His strength was in himself:—his weakness was
A thing of earth:—he spurned it as an alien,
And, standing on the summit of the Age,
Looked down upon infirmity!
Ruthven! the nobles of this once proud realm,
Abandoned by the King, detested by
The Queen, opposed by fortune, and forsaken—
I grieve to say it—by the people's love,
Which lives not longer than prosperity—
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There is no single chance for Scotland, but
Submit to Rizzio's yoke!
RUTHVEN.
Fate strike the land
With famine first, or with the spotted plague!
Rizzio's! to Rizzio's yoke! you should not talk
Of Mountebanks, as you would talk of Kings;
Nor mix the lofty crime of power's abuse
With rascal vices, such as crawl about
The heart of such a wretch as Rizzio!
MORTON.
I speak my fear.
RUTHVEN.
Then cease to fear, and speak
More like yourself.
MORTON.
The fire of that rebuke
Shows Ruthven still alive: I will have hope
For Scotland now.
RUTHVEN.
Whatever I can do
To roll back ruin from my native rocks
Into the sea, I will adventure with you.
We must not be the slaves of sycophants,
Nor crouch to fiddling tyrants, while we have
A spot of ground to stand on, or lie under.
From this time forth I'm one of you again.
MORTON.
I thought it would be so: I said it would.
Ruthven, your hand: I thank you for our country—
But to the end in view. There are petitions
From Edinburgh—from Dumfries, Perth, and Glasgow—
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If, when your health allow, you would present,
And by your speech enforce their argument—
RUTHVEN.
Nay, 'tis not that alone can save the state.
Rizzio must be got rid of—Does the Queen
Distinguish him, as she was wont to do
Before her marriage?
MORTON.
More so still, her bounty
Heaps riches, favours on him.
RUTHVEN.
Then 'tis plain
We must be rid of him—I see the way.
We must search out the guilty secrets of
This court, and bare them to the public gaze—
The hidden story of the Bayonne league
Must be unravelled; and whatever tends
To set the King and Queen at variance nursed,
And cherished into life.
MORTON.
'Twere well to do't—
But how is't to be done?
RUTHVEN.
As every thing
That's great and difficult, is done by patient
And persevering toil. You've seen a pebble
Washed whiter than the fleeces round the moon,
And made a thing of cost and ornament,
By the untiring wave. There's a deep moral
In that small truth: the wave, the ceaseless wave,
Hints to the mind the secret of its energy.
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We look to you, my friend, for help and counsel.
RUTHVEN.
Morton, those same petitions, that you spoke of—
Are they yet come?
MORTON.
By this time some of them
Must have arrived—I'll go and see to 't, quickly.
RUTHVEN.
What is't o'clock?
MORTON.
The last that struck was four.
RUTHVEN.
That's late i' the day;—yet, without further pause,
See there be sent a trusty messenger
To Holyrood. Let him entreat o' the Queen
A private audience for an ailing man.
I'll make the prayer of those petitioners
Speak out.
MORTON.
So soon, my Lord?
RUTHVEN.
It cannot be
Too soon. Is not our country sinking—gasping?
When Ruin's ireful tooth is in the flesh,
An instant is an age. But go—I have
Another scheme to manage in your absence:
It flashed across my mind, while we were speaking.
MORTON.
This is indeed a happiness: 'twill cheer
Our drooping friends.
RUTHVEN.
Let them be comforted.
Farewell,—no words—they fill the place of action.
[Exit Morton.
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Now, Kate! come hither, Kate! and hear good news.
Heaven and the lively peril of the times
Have righted me.—Your father lives again.
CATHERINE.
O, not with words, but in my silent heart,
I thank the Heavens for this.
RUTHVEN.
And thank them too
For other joys, than old men's lives can give.
You must to Court, my girl.
CATHERINE.
To Court!—I thought
'Twas not your wish.
RUTHVEN.
But now, my mind is changed.
CATHERINE.
Yet why dismiss me from my duties here
So suddenly?—'Tis true, your health revives:
But in a little time 'twill more revive,
And I be happier, without the fears
That now would haunt me—I should dream of you,
And see you on your sick bed languishing,
And I not near to chafe your aching brow,
Or kiss your burning hand.—Let me not leave you!
RUTHVEN.
Come, come, shake off this weakness: get you ready.
A maid like you should learn to look abroad—
And where the great are found, be found amongst 'em—
Besides, I have my motives—what they are
You need not now be told: But go, and henceforth
Consider Holyrood your home.
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Oh, no—
My home is with my father.
RUTHVEN.
So it is.
Here, in his heart, where you and life are one.
But there are claims affection's self must yield to.
Mark—as you love your country, and the order
Of nobles in whose station you were born,
And the religion in whose path you walk:
In short, as you love all that should be loved,
And in that all include myself, your father,
'Tis fitting you should lend a helping hand
To those great interests.
CATHERINE.
What can I do,
A trembling maid, incapable and weak,
To serve such interests?
RUTHVEN.
Have you not eyes
And ears, to see and hear? Observe what passes
At Court. Observe the Queen and Rizzio.
CATHERINE.
Ha!
Am I to act the spy?
RUTHVEN.
By Heaven, you drive
My temper past the stretch of patience!—Spy!—
The word was coined to frighten fools from truth.
CATHERINE.
But is't an office that becomes your daughter?
RUTHVEN.
To save a nation, we must not be nice
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Themselves, their wives, and children, to deserve
The name of patriot, 'tis a proof that rules
Of common life are abrogate, and void,
In this o'erwhelming claim. Go, do as I
Command you.
CATHERINE.
Sir, you are
My father: I must needs obey your mandate.
RUTHVEN.
Now that's well said; 'tis like my gentle Kate,
My own obedient Kate. But you look pale.
I cannot bear such looks from you, my child;
'Tis not what death can bring to me, but what
It may take from me, fills my soul with fear.
Look better, Kate.
CATHERINE.
I will in time, my father.
RUTHVEN.
I hope you will!—In very selfishness
I hope you will—or I shall soon be nothing.
[Exeunt.
| Mary Stuart | |