University of Virginia Library

Scene II

—Stirling; Bothwell's private lodging. Lady Bothwell is seated reading. In a corner of the room Paris is folding up rich suits of clothing
Lady Bothwell
Ay, Paris, clear
Away the litter.

Paris
Madam, but my lord
Looked brave in his blue doublet. 'Twas the queen
Made choice of it.

Lady Bothwell
The show is over now,
The prince baptised a Catholic. Be careful,
Nor let the moths consume that Spanish fur—
Lay spices with it.

Paris
(Holding up a rich garment)
This is gaudier stuff:
If the dim, violet stitches were not blurred
On this gold ground, my lord, I warrant me,
Would not disdain to wear it at the court.
They say 'tis Flemish work.

Lady Bothwell
Peace, peace, I wander
From my good book—Legenda Aurea, this
My warning comfort through these vanities.
The sight of such fair clothing will recall
The day of my own marriage, when the queen
Herself attired me, sprinkling me with jewels
Of her own gift. 'Tis scarce a year ago.

Enter Bothwell
Bothwell
Jane, have you heard the latest stir at court?
The good archbishop of St. Andrews, he
Who gave us dispensation from the Pope
Is now restored to power. . . . You have not kept
Too carefully that paper? If 'tis lost
The archbishop could divorce us on the ground
We are too near of blood.

Lady Bothwell
There is grave reason,
Ay, graver cause than consanguinity,
Why we should separate. Your lewd behaviour . . . .

Bothwell
True, Jane, my conduct does deserve reproach,
And from a wife so saint-like.—Sue me, sue me;
Give me no mercy. I confess my guilt.

Lady Bothwell
But wherefore do you seek this separation?
I know your passion for the queen—alack!
I would not be the bar to your ambition;
But she has still a husband of her own,
Jealous, intractable, imperious.
Add not unto her griefs; her enemies
Have well-nigh overwhelmed her.

Bothwell
Darnley lies
Sick of small-pox at Glasgow, and the queen
Ere March may be a widow.

Lady Bothwell
Then heaven looks
With pity on my sovereign.

Bothwell
It is shame
To wrong a wife so gentle.

Lady Bothwell
I will lay
The dispensation where by no man's hand
It ever can be found. Thus honourably
We can be parted; and, in honour, you,
After such time as heaven has loosed her bond,
Can take the queen.

Bothwell
It is a desperate scheme!
How cold and yet how kindly are your eyes.
I never hate you—her I often hate.

Lady Bothwell
Poor lady, for you love her! I have been
More fortunate in winning your respect.
You are a gallant fellow, but too wild
For the great, fireside virtues. It is true,
Despite the dispensation, we have never
Been man and wife.

Bothwell
You have befriended me
Unfailingly. Jane, you are deep within
The counsels of the queen.—Does she incline:
May I not hope to win her?

Lady Bothwell
For her sake
I am unknitting, James, our marriage-bond;
I shall not then report her. At your feet
The gown of Spanish fur I recognise
As her own mother's wear. She loved her mother
She would not part with that except to one
She trusted with a child's simplicity.
Prove worthy of her faith.

Bothwell
She is capricious,
Lenient, remorseful, in a breath. To-night
With sudden pity for her ailing lord
She starts for Callander.

Lady Bothwell
A faithful heart.
James, of your loyalty they make great boast;
It is not of my fibre who for her
Resign my rank and office as a wife.

Bothwell
When I am king . . . .

Lady Bothwell
I shall be still her subject,
My blessèd lady. Men would die for her—
They say so. I, simply to smooth a crease
Of her wide brows, would suffer any shame
The good archbishop, or indeed yourself
Could put me to. Let Huntly settle this
Without my further meddling. I shall stay
Awhile from town. You have a heavy stare
And discontented: all is as you wish?

Bothwell
Have you no pain in leaving me?

Lady Bothwell
No pain
In serving my dear mistress. Fare you well.
I cannot yet divorce you from my prayers—
You have few friends. I will depart this even,
The writing on my person: 'twill be easy
Hereafter to approve our marriage null.
Farewell! God's blessing on you.

Exit
Bothwell
Fie, this woman
Leaves me with branded cheeks. To bid her pack;
To break up house, to get myself divorced
From one so noble and so tolerant
Just for a giddy hope! (Summoning Paris)
Ho, Paris, put
This trumpery away (Kicking the Spanish fur).
I must to-morrow
Betimes conduct the queen to Callander.
Exit Paris
The infamous, soft creature with her sighs,
Her innocence and wonder!—she shall be
A glorious fellow-sinner at my side,
Shall give me love for love. I am no fool;
I know we stand together on the brink
Of uttermost perdition; but some joy
She owes me. Why, a fiend to whom one sells
One's soul gives earthly pleasure to excess
In recompense, and I have simply signed
A bond to be a denizen of hell
For ever, for her sake. We will be platted
Together, as the rose is with the briar
O'er some fond lovers' tombs. How low the fire
Has sunk! I am left stranded, with no comfort,
Divorced and homeless,—till a palace-door
Open, until I have that other wife
Spotted with furs and gems; it turns my brain.