University of Virginia Library

Scene VII

—Holyrood; a misty, dismal morn: the Queen paces her bed-chamber distractedly
Queen
How the great theme has shattered me! The bride
I put to bed is coy, reluctant, dull;
I could not give her counsel as a wife—
One who is disenchanted, tolerant,
Gentle to imperception—who am still
Aggressive and audacious in desire
As any unsunned girl, and, since my marriage,
I know not why, more full of reverie.
She wearied so and vexed me that there was
No mood in me to sleep; but, lying down
In my loosed ruffles for a little rest,
I dropped so sheer off into fantasy
That I began i' the middle of a dream,
Where I was dancing fast to give the tune
To one who touched a deaf, worm-eaten lute,—
Until there came a booming through the air;
And then it seemed that we were thrown together,
Stepping most blithely, and I turned to greet
My sunny David—but the face was Bothwell's,
And with a bitter shrieking I awoke.
They said my baby had been laid to rest
I' the dressing-room; it will remove my thoughts
From all that happened at that bloody stair
If I no longer face the tapestry
Of Venus' bleeding Love.
(Going to the cradle)
How soft he sleeps,
Scotland's small king—a lovely, lusty lad!
And now he opes his eyes and smiles,—a sweet,
Young, morning welcome.
(Taking him up)
As the blessed Queen,
Although the sword has pierced her very heart,
Can take her babe to sport upon her lap,
And see him catch at cherries, we will laugh
And love together till the angels come
On tiptoe to espy us.
Enter Mary Seton
Mary, Mary!
What terror strikes you? I have nearly dropped
The child; there is a mortal agony
About your lips and eyes. Deliver us
Your message, and remember we are royal,
We can give audience to calamities,
And keep our state.

Mary Seton
Lady, the king, the king!
Lord Bothwell comes.

Enter Bothwell
Bothwell
With sudden, fearful news.
(To Mary Seton)
Take the young cub away.
Exit Mary Seton with the child
My queen, the heavens
Have thought upon your wrongs, and by the shock
Of earthquake, or by sulphurous thunderbolt
Blasted the Kirk o' Fields. You are a widow.

Queen
The king is dead? Let me take thought awhile—
My husband . . .

Bothwell
David Riccio's murderer
Is lying in his night-shift on the ground.

Queen
How slain?

Bothwell
(Apart)
The marble creature! But she caught
Her breath; ’tis not all horror.—I was roused
From my new rest by a great, breaking cry,
Not of men's voices—as it seemed, a nightmare
Of heavy earth that cried out in her sleep,
Convulsed with struggle: then the roaring crowd
Pressed up to me; I ran out in the streets,
And found men swarming round what seemed the mouth
Of an abyss, for ’mid the tumbled walls
Few dared to pass: but I broke through the ring,
And, groping wildly with my torch, half-stumbled
Against a body, which the slanted light
Showed lying scarless.

Queen
I had supped with him,
But for remembrance of the bridal hour.
Oh, horrible! he lies there as one murdered,
(Pacing away and throwing open the door of the supper-room)
Flung from his bed dishonoured.
(Apart)
Heaven has crept
Into my ancient thoughts, and done the deed,
I, David—I half-prompted in my prayers
When I besought God's pity on your soul.
I am a guilty woman. At the hour
I learned the truth, that the king's missing sword
Was found stuck deep in Riccio's breast, I nurtured
A hope that waxed, almost as waxed the bones
Of my young child, that he might be exposed
To some vast ignominy and distress.

Bothwell
(Coming nearer)
He lies, a heap, ’mid dislocated beams,
And nether stanes cast sunward.

Queen
(Apart)
I forgave him;
Yet at my heart there was a reticence,
A strange dissatisfaction.

Bothwell
You rejoice
The elements have granted this divorce
Without your stir?

Queen
I am more pitiful
Than aught beside. I feel his jewelled hand
That held mine at the altar.

Bothwell
(In a low mutter)
Fire of hell!
Talk not of trifles! I can see him lie,
Just his white back, beyond the muddled heap
Of stones, and mould, and rafters.

Queen
We are dazed.
Hepburn, a death makes terrible, new knowledge
For brains to hold. This stroke has overthrown
All constancy of reason: I am blind.
Yet, earl, there is no storm-cloud in the sky;
A mist that drizzles, seeming innocent
Of flame as old men's tears, mere wretchedness,
Inept and with no rage.

Bothwell
True, true! Perchance
It was some accident.

Queen
How? With what means?

Bothwell
Some stores of gunpowder are thereabouts;
The clap was rather earth-born in its voice,
Methought, than of the air.

Queen
It burst on slumber,
As judgment on the dead. I seemed to hear
It leap upon the hill-tops, gather breath,
Then shout a zigzag ’larum—while a sickness
Came o'er me as of earthquake, though the posts
O' the bed stood rigid round me as I woke.
My ears yet rumble. But I could not know
The kernel of that uproar was a corpse,
Which called me wife and dearest yester eve,
A sick, close-clinging boy: this makes me shudder
More than the hideous ground-swell. I have loved
Its victim: God, who registered our troth,
Can make good my affection; it was tried
By wild devices on my husband's part,
Repulse of the outgoings of my love,
If I but leant his way. Oh, I am shaken
To think of my late rancour and impatience,
That found relief in a futurity
Which was without him, brighter, unimpeded,
And blank from his affronts.

(She throws herself in a chair and covers her eyes, tearless)
Bothwell
She feels some guilt,
Soon shall we be incorporate in the crime,
This woman and myself. At Kirk o' Fields
Our banns have just been published. Ha, the thump
And mettle of my blood!
(Aloud)
He, who is stark
Amid the shrubs, was by all sorts contemned,
Contemned by the indifferent ’mong your subjects—
A despicable husband.

Queen
In his eyes
Last night a ruined youthfulness asked pity,
His kiss had soft demands. For many weeks
In disposition he has altered; humble
And penitent he has been tossed from sleep
To death.
(Rising)
My lord of Bothwell, I had rather
Lose life and throne than that this cruel deed
Should stay unpunished. Vengeance rigorous
For God's grace and my comfort shall be dealt:
By witnesses the fact shall be confronted,
And have clear trial.

Bothwell
’Tis impossible
That anything but accident or bolt
From out the sky is guilty.

Queen
Could I think so!
My thoughts misgive me.

Bothwell
Fie, there is no treason
Has ever wrought a pomp of such destruction
As only comes by thunder.

Enter Huntly
Huntly
Madam, madam,
Words have been scared away.

Queen
And tears as well;
Something is rolled against the gates of weeping.

Huntly
You press the bed-post. I shall send your Maries
To nurse this sorrow.

Bothwell
(To Huntly)
You and I will hasten
To guard the spot, and see the body laid
Within some private house.

Huntly
(To Bothwell)
It was a mine
That did the business.

Queen
Traitors among men,
Not the mysterious sky! Their punishment
Pertains then to my birthright as a queen.
Make strict examination.
(To Bothwell)
You, my lord,
Our flawless subject, think our crown dishonoured
Until the authors of this factious mischief
Be brought to law and judgment.

Bothwell
(Apart)
She has looked
Her old way at me, not a broken glance,
But full and straight, a jasper seal of favour,
With no complicity.
(Aloud)
Your will is law.
Come, Huntly, I will join you in a moment,
When I have had some drink. Exit Huntly
(As he moves to the door)

I never felt
My courage cold like this, nor firmer too:
I see no future but the shaken ground
On which I march to kingship.

Exit
Enter the Maries
Queen
How I change!
Tears soak my calm—a river with the ice
Turning to river also. It is early.
Light the fire: do not speak. I must lie down,
And think of a great nothing. Is this grief?
I shiver and am conscious of the light,
As if ’twere yesterday begun again,
And yet forgotten. Beg them in the house
To make no noise; that is lord Bothwell's step,
A sounding tread. Death sets such bitterness
In conscience; ’tis his sting! My Maries, kiss me;
Ye put my black dress on when I was married.
We said his hair curled gallantly. Your mouths
Make the past warm that haunts me as a ghost.
Unwrap my sables.

Mary Fleming
Now the fire springs bright!