University of Virginia Library

Scene II

—Holyrood; the Queen's bed-chamber: the door is ajar, she overhears talk in the audience-chamber
Bothwell
(Within)
Fellows, have any passed to her?

Erskine
(Within)
The queen
Has been retired all day, and white beyond
Her girlhood's famous white. Her eyes look ill.

Bothwell
The devil! what ado about her health;
She is a very plague. I'll visit her,
When I have spoken further with the guard.

(Silence)
Queen
Can love be terror? I am almost sure
That hate can love . . . I feel it in myself.
God, keep my hatred single, let me be
A desolated woman, and my life
Like a burnt city salted by the foe;
Let not one leaf or blade be visible
This Maytime in my calendar! The man,
I loathe and wed, is growing dear as sin,
Precious as was my wrath the vengeful night
Of Riccio's murder, and beloved as are
Mere passions in their transit. He has handled
My soul unlawfully in forcing me,
His victim, to turn wife; yet very death
Withdrawing from my neighbourhood swift means
For its extreme of safety, joined with him
To work a second outrage, and to plant
His stain across my will. But more than this . . .
I have a fear; a monstrous hopelessness
Makes vision red before me. It was born
Of his embrace: I cannot now believe
That in his nature there is innocence,
Not any . . . Oh, I must not bide alone,
With this conception out upon the air.
(Calling)
Erskine!

Erskine
(At the door)
Dear madam.

Queen
Why is this?

Erskine
You called.
How lone you grow—one waiting-woman, scarce
A courtier, every passage and apartment
Ranged with steel arquebusiers. Are you free
As you declared, sweet queen?

Queen
You find I am.
No bolt across the door!

Erskine
I have not long
In which to speak my faith to you, who are
Beauty and consecration to my life;
But if my service could afford you comfort
'Tis yours, though all yon shifting points of iron
Were level to my heart.

Queen
(Apart)
Then shall I ask
For knife or sudden poison? Futile prayer!
For well I know he keeps me out of death
By fascinating blandishment, that has
The tiger in it, yet man's faithfulness,
And will not end, nor let me fail—until
God loose me of his mercy from the charm.
(To Erskine)
I thank you, brave esquire, for your confession
Of youth's devoutness, such as makes the spring
Show reverence to the twilight, offering all
Its sun-born, crescent virtues, and sweet breath
In eve's dim presence. I accept your vows,
Your constancy, your warmth with these dropped tears,
The bounty of my gratitude.

Erskine
Last year,
You had fresh eyes, and smiles that did not know
That they were in your face. It sends me mad
When splendour changes, and I almost turn
Apostate to my youth.

Queen
I heard the duke?

Erskine
He went to charge the guardsmen. But you called:
Madam, you lack some office?

Queen
Ah!—a draught
Of water pure and cold.

Erskine
Not wine?

Queen
No, no!
(Apart)
For when I drink the goblet he has filled
The vintage dyes my fancies.

Erskine
I will hasten
To bring a fountain-cup.

Exit
Queen
Tell me, Traquair,
If the duke mounts, for he has promised me
His presence by this hour.

(Traquair comes to her door)
Traquair
Lady, my faith!
I hear him swearing roundly in the court,
A growl full-formed.

Queen
I did not ask for this.

Traquair
Yea, if I heard him. He would spread a field
With thunder in his passion.

Queen
Sir, your tongue
Is master of your breeding.

Traquair
Pardon me,
I am too rash, and your displeasure is
A curb that makes me shiver.

Queen
I have left
A black hood on my daïs. Will you fetch it.
Traquair goes into the audience-chamber)
For I must put it out of sight; he tore
My sable widow-raiment from my bosom
Some days ago, that I should wear this dress
Of harsh and flaunting scarlet. (Traquair brings the hood)
Thanks, my knight!
(Apart)
A stormy noise of steps, a door! My nerves
Fly to some hole or cover . . . but retreat
Is earthed up by his presence.

Enter Bothwell.
Bothwell
Who is here?
Why do you coy it with this lad? I ordered
Your vile and hellish mourning to your chest,
Until you please to put it on for me.
(As if recollecting Traquair's presence)
Pardon, my sovereign lady. Do not visit
My rudeness with desert. Some deep concerns
Weight me till you give judgment. (To Traquair)
Leave the queen,
And see you keep your distance. Do you hear?

Traquair
Yes, my lord duke.

Queen
(Softly)
Obey him.

Exit Traquair
Bothwell slams the door after him and turns gloomily to the Queen. A knocking is heard)
Bothwell
Who will dare
Knock at this door, I wonder. (Opens to Erskine)
Get you off!
Intrude upon our privacy again
You answer with your life.

Erskine
But I was sent
By madam for this goblet.

Bothwell
(Recollecting himself, seizing his cap and bowing to the Queen)
It is fitting
You do her service. Give the vessel here,
And keep your distance as your fellow does.

Erskine
I am a gentleman . . .

Queen
Sir Arthur, go.

Exit Erskine, with a deep bow to the Queen
Bothwell
Inconstant, as this water! You must fondle
Your equerry to bring it! By all devils,
You shall be plagued like thirsty Tantalus.
(Dashing it on the floor)
Cannot you rule your people, make your mobs
Obedient to my hand, instead of teaching
These amorous youngsters to be insolent!
I am half-mad with burthens. (Pacing frantically)
Sold, deserted,
Mocked and withstood, I have been made the dupe
Of mentionless deceit.

Queen
(Apart)
Within his eyes
What dreary menace!—Tell me of your grief.

Bothwell
And you false too. I know it by the way
You tempt these boys and let them wheel about
Your presence, damn you! They have courtly skins
And I these wound-creased brows. Death! I believed
I had a grasp like fate, and everything
Is slipping into limbo: first my state,
My coadjutors, and my squadrons vanish,
And then my queen slips like a phantom-shape
Of mist to others' bosoms.

Queen
(Wringing her hands)
Would that God
Knew I was not your slave! I burn to share
Your molten sorrows.

Bothwell
O my hand-fast wife,
Are you then heart-fast too?

Queen
I cannot say
What ties me to your will, that, like a horse,
Sweeps me through unknown empires. I should faint
To nothingness unless it governed me.
What must I do to help you?

Bothwell
Every one,
Oath-bound to join with me, is splitting off;
The folk are sullen; I have made them sports,
Shown them my deeds of arms, and you have watched
As if I were your rock of lode-stone, ever
A claim upon your sight: yet still they grumble.
There is but this to cheer them—you must sign
A revocation of all licenses
To use the Roman worship. You and I
Are Protestants . . . so lift no hesitation
Upon your lips to vex me. Take the pen,
And write your signature.

(Giving her a deed)
Queen
(Turning to a table mechanically and with despair)
(Apart)
No, holy Saints,
I cannot listen to your keen addresses—
This marriage-ring is seated on my hand;
It is too late to chide me. He has taken
The honour of my spirit, my religion;
I can forswear apostacy no more
Than rid my finger from its hoop of doom.
(She signs and hands the deed to him)
There, James; I almost fancy me a witch,
With Satan for my master.

(She laughs hollowly)
Bothwell
(Kissing her)
Done, brave heart!
Now let me have your child to keep and guard,
Or the false lords will seize him.

Queen
(Recoiling fiercely)
You have cast me
On nature, taken all my sacraments;
On nature I will stand, and as a mother
Be there invincible. You shall not have him.

Bothwell
What do you mean?

Queen
I have no force of thought
To understand it—I who have dissevered
My own, dear sapling from my breast.

Bothwell
The rebels
Will put the crown upon him, and convey
To him your royalties.

Queen
They all are his;
He has my blood within him, and my milk
Has bred him for a crownet.

Bothwell
O kneel down,
And do as Popish Mary to the Christ,
Acknowledge him your king.

Queen
My womanhood
Has often prayed before him; but the chrism,
The consecrating oil of sovereignty
Forbids it to his queen.

Bothwell
You go the way
To make me hate him, and you cannot measure
What hatred were in me, because your eyes
Transform its dull rock to a jewelled passion
With but one glance of light—Your bairn, however,
With fool-begotten stare, could fetch no kindness
Out of my detestation.

Queen
Oh, a sword,
A knife to end this bitterness, or else
Within St. Margaret's pool, so cold with winds,
To drown myself! You cannot hinder me,
If you dismay the wild, maternal pulse
Past nature's own insanity.—A sword!

Erskine
(Within)
Her cry at violence; what a haunting scream!
Help, beat the door down!

Traquair
(Within)
I shall hold you here.
He is her husband.

Bothwell
(Apart)
I have heard of storms
In which an unimpeded wind has stretched
The frantic sea-waves level, while it cries
Above the soundless plane: she sweeps my will,
My wrath down into silence.

Queen
(Coming near to him)
Have you thought
What utter hatred would be like in me?
How in my eyes it were a basilisk
Of frightful charm, and in my voice the song
Of syren from her seat among the bones?
Have you beheld the vision? Very soon
It will be actual, and face to face.

Bothwell
Ha!—Turn away! You do not understand
I pressed a policy, no despot whim—
A threat to make you reasonable—that
Was all my hot intent. The lords henceforth
Will rally round your son, anoint him king,
And leave you like the altar of the mass
In a purged Romish church; but if you rather
Will bear such violation than resist,
I cannot help it, and will never ask
To have your child again, although your madness
Should ruin our linked government.

Queen
You promise?

Bothwell
The devil seize you! What tormenting power
Is in your motions! But you cannot see,
For all your deep endowment, that this clash
Of quarrel strikes me haggard. By our God,
I swear to keep my peace about the boy:
Mar would not give him up. You wrong my aim;
On me you look adversely with an anger
Imperative, primæval, yet unjust
As it is blind and senseless. Houri-love,
My martial, witching star, if you should fail me,
I am alone and worsted. O bend down;
These raging tears fall over you.

Queen
Nay, nay!
What would you have?

Bothwell
Your pity, your approach—
Pardon!

Queen
A fellow anguish, as of rain
Meeting the torrent-sea has brought my head,
Where it now rests. (Sobbing on his shoulder)
James, do not ask forgiveness;
Between us by no possibility
There now can be exchange.

Bothwell
At least your lips,
My queen!

Queen
You need not ask—I am a ruin,
Your wishes pierce wherever they may list.
Leave me to sleep. My lord, I must not taste
This great, salt weeping as you kiss me.

Bothwell
So
We end this great unkindness.

Queen
Ay, even so.

(As he goes to the doorway of the private stair, he passes by the neighbouring tapestry)
Bothwell
Phaeton's red-harnessed horses, grey as doom,
And he himself 'mong their tumultuous hoofs . . .
Such picture by her bedside! He who owned
This stairway's rights before me fell in chaos:
I tread where he did, leaving her. What Fury
Set up this woful Gobelin!

Exit
Queen
When I hear
His feet within the turret, my whole frame
Remembers by degrees, and yet to-day
Perchance my doubts were false and passionate