 | The Tragic Mary |  |
Scene I
—Holyrood; a distant apartmentBothwell paces to and fro
Bothwell
She banished me, she did not like my manners;
She banished me, and yet a time shall come
When the dire fetters of a marriage-bond
Shall keep us ever locked.—How coldly March
Whistles through every chink! I hear the tread
Of stealthy feet which seem to move along,
As surely and as soothingly as wind,
Upward to Darnley's room: while far away
I catch the twanging of an instrument—
'Tis Riccio's lute—and, as a door swings back,
Her laughter. I shall win her! Yesterday
I rode my horse straight down a steep decline
With a clear rush: when I came round again
There was a look within her eyes that never
Had graced the sleek Italian, nor the boy
2
Of life's least sigh. A second, and she smiled
A glinting smile, and turned away, and talked
Half gaily of light things. My manhood feels
The terror it encloses.—All is silent,
The noise is shut away that seemed to mount
Up yonder.
(Opening a door at back and calling)
Boy!
Enter Paris
Paris
My lord!
Bothwell
Go to the foot
Of the great stair and listen, for I heard
Some unfamiliar movements, yet as slight
As if a bird had thumped against the walls.
Exit Paris
That fiddler Riccio, that smooth vagabond,
With ribboned lute, and fat, complacent cheeks,
Has ceased, methinks, his strumming.
Re-enter Paris
Well, what caused
The flutter?
Paris
I stood hearkening, sir: all seemed
As homely as most nights, until I heard
A shivering cry, and then a dull, hoarse roar,
With far-off cries repeated. I am certain
It is not in the court; it seemed to fall,
And fall from upper storeys on the ear.
3
Bothwell
Stand quietly! How it grows:
The doors are opened, and the turmoil leaps
On like a rush of heart-blood, deluging
The air. I will not meddle in the brawl,
For we but hear Lord Darnley in his cups;
This is a drunken bout; we will keep close
Till all is tranquil.
Paris
I have never heard
The king so loud.
Bothwell
Truly, to-night he seems
More quarrelsome than merry.
Paris
Now there rings
Great laughter through the darkness.
Bothwell
And I hear
Arms clanging like its echo: soon as steel
Is on the move a man may show his face,
Who hides it from mere riot. Quick, unbolt!
(He throws open the door at the back and discovers within the hall, Darnley, Morton, and the Conspirators dragging along Riccio's body)
Darnley
She loved him—hump and all. The foreign dog!
He had no manners when he came to die;
He whined and pulled her skirts. She does not know
A gentleman's true mark, has no perception
Of exquisite deportment. Why, this churl
Would chatter like an ape when I stood by,
4
To balance on his toe. It made me sick
Through all my body, and she only laughed,
And said the merry South was in his veins;
We have not left him much Italian blood
With which to smirk and wriggle.
Morton
As I set
My heel upon his clay, I feel my acres
Are sacred from spoliation.
Ruthven
Snuff and candles!
I feel my hatred eased, my lustful fire
Of vengeance on the flicker.
Darnley
All of you
Rejoice that your own injuries are ended,
Your fears assuaged, but no one thinks of me—
How they would talk together, till he made
Her lips shine with the ripple of her words,
She grew so fluent. When I dressed and came
To stand beside her, she would briefly give
Her eyes to admiration, and then seek
His place among the singers. He has curdled
My blood with spite, and, see! my hanger sticks
Midmost of all the weapons in his body.
Bothwell
(Apart to Paris)
Ker, Morton, yonder Ruthven, who is gaunt
As if the hollow night had yielded up
A ghost to do live crime—all are my foes;
And by the storm of feet about the courtyard
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Might turn to my annoyance. And the queen!
Is she in safety? Call my Borderers—ho!
(Paris steals to the door and is stopped. Bothwell advances)
Darnley
These men are mine, and they protect my person,
While I do tardy justice for my wrongs.
This fellow kept from me my crown.
Morton
From us
He well-nigh took our lands. We could no more
Endure his watchful envy.
Ruthven
I have flung
A deadly sickness off, and from my bed
Risen to exact my vengeance. Detestation
Coursed through my frame like health, and I am here.
Bothwell
Is the queen safe?
Ruthven
Unwilling to be rid
Of one who had bewitched her, she called out
And sprang before him. I have never seen
Such sight except in hunting, when a creature
Stands up against the hounds.
Morton
But no rebellion
Is dreamt of toward our sovereign, for her husband
Is leader of our enterprise and sanctions
With bond and promise everything we do.
Ruthven
They feasted—how unconscious of their fate,
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Morton
You stumble, man; go up and have a draught
Of wine; the bottles in the cabinet
Are not all broken, and with you the king
Shall reascend to give his wife some comfort.
Darnley
Now I have served him out, I shall possess
The matrimonial crown, which she withheld
To please the fellow's malice. Oh, revenge
Can satisfy more utterly than love;
It kills its object, and the thing is dead,
And cannot reassert itself, nor once
Dispute our triumph. 'Tis a cleanly issue,
That wipes away all foulness and prevents
A lingering stink from the putridity
Of vain abhorrence.
Morton
Ay, we kill the vermin
That injures or betrays: you realise
The sweetness of destruction. By and bye
Return and tell us how the queen is faring;
We would not wish her troubled.
Exeunt Darnley and Ruthven upstairs
(To Bothwell)
You, my lord,
Can have no reason for disquiet. Grown weary
Of this man's greed and influence, we ended
His life and our great danger. You shall please
The king if you retire; it is his quarrel
Fully as much as ours.
Bothwell
I will.
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(Coming from the central door)
Strip off
These furs, these silks and velvets from the clay.
He was but dirt when he was shovelled here
From over seas. He lay upon this coffer
The night of his arrival. Heave him up!
And let the old oak be a bed for him
The night he goes away. How shabbily
He slept in rusty cloth! Off with the trappings!
He looks the stranger now.
(Bothwell and Paris return and shut the door behind them)
Bothwell
Paris, I never
Have felt before just what a body is:
We need be full of schemes, resolves, pursuits,
Reckless adventure, master-strokes of passion,
While yet we live; since death annuls all zest
In slavish unconcern. That Riccio, boy,
Was of a teeming mettle and contrived
To grow in honours—now he couches yonder,
And cares for nothing. Paris, what a face!
It makes me greedy to exhaust desire,
And pack the years with enterprise.
Paris
My lord,
I never saw such dagger-work in France
As that which pierced him. Six and fifty wounds!
Bothwell
I have so much to hope, so much to do!
O happiness! I only look on death
To feel life's manifold inducements grow
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They were before; my every appetite,
Each mighty muscle in me seems to shout
As through a lifted trumpet: I will live,
I will possess, and let the universe
Endure my depredations! Paris, we
Have carried slaughter over tawny moors,
The bog-indented borderlands, and snatched
Their prey from felons: thus from destiny,
The robber-goddess of the world, brave spirits
Must capture what she rifles as she runs.
I will at once to work, to opposition,
To covert enmity, to sudden flight.
Those men are false; they make their queen their captive,
And I alone can save her from her doom,
By saving first myself.
Paris
God shield us, sir!
That is the city-bell.
Bothwell
A demon-crash
Of terror up above us; the black air
Reverberates with action—cries and peals.
We must not lose the moment. Let us thrust
The window open. Can yon jump the height?
Your supple age will help you.
Paris
Give the word!
Bothwell
Leap! I will follow. (Paris springs down)
Darnley's thanklessness
Pushes in my direction: she will scorn him
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Which wastes away all pity. I have felt
No being worth the trouble to my nature
That patience is, save her,—for whom I cherish
A fierce fidelity that means to cleave,
Until it grow to ownership. The winds
Rock about Arthur's Seat, and I could fancy
That in their sound my ancestors bewail
The unfulfilled ambition of their love
For queens—the high Jane Beaufort, and that Margaret
Whom Flodden made a widow. I will aim
Above their boldest mark, and will succeed
Because more mad. My race was amorous ever
Of sovereign figures. (Springs down)
From the little garden
Below, the lions are roaring through the wind,
Free-throated captives: on this further side
The tumult in the court is pigmy-toned,
And murder is unnoticed. To Dunbar!
| The Tragic Mary | |