 | The Tragic Mary |  |
Scene VI
—Jedburgh; the Queen's Chamber. She lies, straight on her bed in a trance. Moray and LethingtonLethington
A crisis! You are rarely in at crises:
Lord Moray finds they tax the stoutest nerves,
Their mere approach dictates a change of air,
A distance from their neighbourhood.
Moray
My friend,
Face my position: the invidious chance
That gave me access to all state and grandeur—
Propinquity, no right—attaches blame
And ill-surmise to every word or movement
With which I wait on fortune. Oftentimes
To be away is the sole cleanness I
Can show to gaping libellers.
Lethington
You miss
The fine attractions of uncertainty,
Unless you wait upon her fluctuant face,
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Moray
'Tis a service
Too warm for me till now. (Going up to the bed)
Is this a corpse?
The lids are stony; in the opened mouth
The air stays idle.
Lethington
Ah, poor sovereignty!
A husband's little cruelties have brought her
Thus subject unto death. It startled me
When, like a snowdrift loosening from a wall,
She slipped adown her horse into my arms.
A heavy faint—such whiteness!
Moray
I had noticed
But slight indisposition as she rode;
It came on at the journey's end.
Lethington
The air
Was dark and bitter when we reached the town;
I caught a cold, a swimming rheum. For that
I have to thank his Lordship of the Marshes,
Whose wounds are quickly better, for they say
He rides here from his den.
Moray
To find her gone.
Lethington
A mirror, hasten! From her cap take out
That grouse's feather, which she blew upon,
And tucked into the velvet rim to please
Page Bastian who had found it. Bring it here.
Quick! A fair image, and some breath would soften
Its climate. Just a tremble on the plume,
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Moray
Did you find
A strange behaviour in her at the castle?
Lethington
He played to make her woman's sentiment
Dance soft attendance on him.
Moray
And the lead
Was taken; she was gracious and reserved,
Stung and yet frightened. All this comes about
Through hardness to God's word. I scarce may speak
What I believe of her. Adultery. . . .
Lethington
Preposterous conclusion! They have been
Indifferent and dissevered all the year;
What you have lately seen within her manner
Is but such stuff as turns all women poets
When sons of Adam bleed. The root of this
Her sickness is her sore fidelity
To that young fool who daily injures her
With taunts, neglect, and scandals. I have had
A sobbing confidence that so it is.
Moray
And you believe her word? Then must you swallow
That she and David, closeted for hours,
Talked only correspondence, and the turns
Of language in her letters.
Lethington
She had been
An idiot to have circumscribed discourse
To business, for her wit is fanciful,
And of familiar charm. We watch for hours,
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A fine persistency in life; she seems
Like one assaulted traitorously, and struck
With evil from without.
Moray
It will be safe
At last to make announcement of her death;
Let the attendants come to lay her out,
And I meanwhile will straighten her.
Lethington
Beware!
Still the firm knot of life secures her features,
In her expression there is unity;
Have patience and observe.
Moray
It is important
That you, her secretary, acquaint at once
The foreign courts with her decease, and further
With her entreaty that I take the rein
Of government.
Lethington
That was a private prayer;
I caught it not, a politic suggestion.
Her son? She made a sisterly request
You would befriend the lad. . . . I take your cue;
But should this be a catalepsy?
Moray
No,
Her sad physician prayed us not to hope
She could revive. The Lord has smitten her!
I am the queen's most near of kin, and stay
To render her my cold, fraternal duty.
Her face is rigid.
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Death has signed no bond
About it; for more certainty, before
I spread your tidings, I will fetch her leech
To touch her and give verdict.
Exit
Moray
The man-child
Of James the Fifth! Through all these stubborn years
What waiting and what triviality,
Waiting with perfect faculties and power!
A male—and without blemish. Margaret, dear
My mother, soon thy contract shall be published,
And the Guise offspring illegitimate.
Stewards and lawful stewards!—I was born
A king of as deep royalty as Christ:
Now, Scotland, will I cast in thee such seeds
As in their crescence will transform the land!
The godly shall find refuge in the branches
Which now are tender slips. From the beginning
I knew that she must perish, as a lie
Betwixt God's thumb and finger must be crushed;
Therefore abode His pleasure. Though there seemed
A moment when by gentle intervention . . .
Heaven would not suffer the least spot to fall
Across my conscience. (Going up to cupboard)
There is goodly plate
Within this cupboard, comfort that may swell
My English gold, and rings . . her stones will tempt
Elizabeth. If I can bribe her women!
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In gifts by which my precedence will shine.
(The Queen wakes)
Queen
How far at ebb I feel, how deep withdrawn!
Some one is moving slowly on a stage;
Methinks if he should come and handle me,
And stretch me for my burial, I should watch
As a mere witness; yet there is a pain
Beneath this solstice, for I long to speak.
Come hither! Wherefore do you leave my side?
How long ago I made request to you
When I lay dying to hold fast my hand.
Rub me a little.
Moray
Doth God give you speech?
Be not deceived, good sister, you are far
Beyond my ministry. Below they give
The order for your funeral.
Queen
Is it so?
'Tis well! For, dearly as I love my life,
I am content to die, so excellent
Seems now God's every motion with my soul.
Poor watcher, do I trouble you?
Moray
Prepare
To look upon your Judge. You must not lie
And smile as you were dying but in sport.
Queen.
I am so weak; God gives me leave to enter
His kingdom softly as a little child.
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Returns, not like a flicker, pressing deep
Up from my heart. If you would give me wine.
Moray
I dare not.
Queen
Would it overcloud my brain?
The dizziness returns; you are too fearful.
Go, summon Huntly, Bothwell, Lethington;
And fetch my women: death has granted me
A little grace to bid a last farewell.
Exit Moray
What love is in my heart! God finds the sole,
The royal use of love is clemency,
Remittance, pardon: it should be enough.
Re-enter Moray with Huntly and Lethington
There is a golden light before my eyes
That hinders me from seeing; pray for me,
I have short time to live.
Moray
Then will we pray
You be delivered from idolatry.
Abjure your Popish errors.
Queen
I will die
In my religion; 'tis the tempered way
To heaven—one cannot change one's habitude.
Let all men have free access to their God;
'Tis my desire for Protestants and those
Of my own faith, so sweet is liberty.
Put no enforcement on them.
Moray
You forget
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Queen
From east and west
They come who traverse it.
Moray
I shall not fail
To rear the prince, your son, in sanctitude.
Queen
Who keeps the child?—Your number is not full.
Where is the lord of Bothwell?
Lethington
He is riding
Across the hills to see you.
Queen
So I rode,
Through such a country as is that wherein
Our vague dreams are enacted: I grew dizzy;
And he has wounds.
Moray
You do appoint me regent,
And guardian of your son?
Queen
Plague me no more
To put my honours from me; you were ever
For abdication—I shall die a queen.
Huntly, the king has knowledge of my illness,
And yet forbears? Have you no kindly words
Of parting, James, my brother?
Moray
I await
Your trust and testament.
Queen
To live in peace
Is all the charge I lay on you. I heard
A footstep. Is it Henry come at last
To take my free forgiveness?
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Lethington
He refuses
Stoutly to come; you must not look for him.
Queen
I have a dying kiss I must deliver,
A message to him.
Moray
Sister, give it me!
Queen
Nay, you would poison it. When we were lovers—
Ah me, I hung on him as he lay sick—
You strove to part us.
Bothwell
(Aside)
Shall death ruin me
Before my very eyes, and turn my kingdom
To dust upon a bed? Prodigious loss!
Whom could I serve but her? How could I breathe,
My life's occasion gone, my forecast shrivelled,
My dower of fortune!
Queen
Who will mind my babe?
None answer me—then let them fetch my servants.
(Bothwell kneels, and takes her hand)
What, Hepburn? Will you lift my pillow up?
So! let me lean on you.
Bothwell
You are not wrapt
Warmly; your cheek is cold. (To the Lords)
Bid Arnauld come.
(To the Queen)
I swear you will recover. (In a low voice)
Dare you die?
(To the Lords)
The queen lacks tendance; I will be her leech,
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No moment to be lost. (To the Queen)
Give me your lips
To damp with wine, and swear that you will live;
My queen, a token!
Enter the Maries
Queen
Girls, take care of me,
For if you keep me with you through this day
I shall not die. Be comforted, my earl.
| The Tragic Mary | |