 | Marie de Méraine |  |
SCENE III.
An apartment in the Palace.Marie alone.
Marie.
Another night, and yet no tidings come.
Day follows day to mock me in its round.
O Time! that to all senseless things dost bear
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And freshening dew to tree and flower and weed—
Why dost thou pass the famished heart and smile?
Enter Anne.
Anne.
Dear lady!
Marie.
[Eagerly.]
Anne! Well? No; your face is void!
You have no tidings for me.
Anne.
Alas! none.
Marie.
We must be patient, Anne. I cannot think
The Council will bereave me of my lord.
Anne.
Heaven touch their hearts with gentleness!
Marie.
Amen!
Anne.
And keep the king—
[Faltering.
Marie.
Why falter? Prayers should breathe
Trust, and not fear.
Anne.
Heaven keep King Philip faithful
And worthy of your love.
Marie.
I will not say
Amen to that. To pray he may be faithful
Were to misdoubt he is so.
Anne.
All men, being tempted,
Are prone to fall; most prone, ambitious kings.
Marie.
What dost thou mean?
Anne.
By thoughts on ill that may be
To shield your heart from worse.
Marie.
Worse? What were worse
Than treachery in my lord? Rash girl, that word
Stretches to woe so infinite, it fathoms
An ocean of despair! Uncrown me, slay me,
Honours and life must end. Not love! The grave
Is as a port where it unlades its wealth
For immortality. But rob or taint
The merchandise of love—then let the bark
Drift helmless o'er the seas, or strike the shoals!
They can but wreck a ruin.
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Pardon, madam.
I would not thus have moved you; but—
Marie.
Be silent!
Thy look doth herald thoughts my soul repels.
He did desert me once. You see I read you.
No, Anne! His love was changeless, but he quelled it
For duty and his country. O shame, shame!
Listening thy treason, I adopt it. Go!—
Nay, not unkindly. This suspense disturbs me.
Leave me awhile. There, there!
[Taking her hand. Anne goes out.
Another night!
It cannot last for ever. Even now
The unregarding messenger despatched
To bear my doom his onward course may speed.
They could not part us, Philip, had they seen
Our happy solitude, our inner world
Of secret, holy, all-sufficing bliss.
They guess it not, nor feel it. At their knees,
Locked in my arms, I should have told them this,
And forced my heart an avenue to theirs
Through all their wiles, for hearts must answer hearts;
But mine was dumb, and how could theirs reply?
Woe's me! Who comes?
Enter Philip.
Philip—my lord!—Say, say,
May I embrace thee?—may I call thee mine?—
Am I thy wife?
Phil.
Yes; in the sight of Heaven.
Marie.
And not of earth? A doom told in a breath;
Brief, but so cold that it hath froze the fount
Whence sorrow gushes!
Phil.
I am dear to thee?
Marie.
What! is there hope? If not, encourage none.
Phil.
Why should we be the slaves of Rome?
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Thou wilt
Resist his mandate? Yet thy kingdom, love?
Phil.
Dearest, most faithful! We may still remain
Bound to each other, and the Papal curse
Pass from the realm.
Marie.
How?—Haste thee to disclose.
Phil.
The Council has pronounced no sentence.
Marie.
Yet
Thou art returned!
Phil.
Like to a criminal
I stood before the conclave. Every day
Brought some new contumely. The weight I bore
Of strained suspense and nice indignity
Was pleasant pastime for them; and they lingered,
Protracting their enjoyment, and inviting
The universe to look on haughty Philip
Crouched at their stools, and learn from thence how Rome
Would deal with rebel kings!
Marie.
And yet you bore it?
Phil.
It was the Church's aim to judge my cause,
To plant its insolent foot upon my neck,
Humbling all crowns in mine. I looked for this;
I bore it long. At last scorn heaped on scorn
Turned patience to revolt.
Marie.
[After a short pause.]
And then? How then?
Phil.
[Avoiding her look.]
Marie! I said within my soul, my pomp,
My title, all my gilded shows of power,
Were not the links that bound thy love to mine.
Was I right there?
Marie.
Can Philip ask that question?
Phil.
Her trust doth sting me more than could reproach.
Too late, too late! all must be told!
[Aside.
Marie.
What followed?
Phil.
I will not hear your judgment, lords, I cried:
Not moved by you, but of my sovereign will,
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The throne and empty state she never prized,
And Ingerburge to her lost dignities
Be straight restored. 'Tis all that Denmark seeks;
Therefore dissolve the interdict!
Marie.
Thou saidst this?—
Heard I aright?
Phil.
[Confused.]
Marie, thou didst.
Marie.
And Philip
Could of his proper will cast Marie out!
I thought—I thought you said we should not part.
Phil.
Part—never, never! Part!
Marie.
But have you not owned Ingerburge your wife?
I am no longer queen.
Phil.
But for all this,
We must not part.
Marie.
Husband—I pray your pardon;
I can't forget you were so—torture not
My mind with this perplexity! How is't
I can be thine, and Ingerburge thy wife?
Phil.
[After a pause.]
She is but so in name; thou wilt retain
The empire of my heart.
Marie.
Ha! how the light—
The cruel light I could not see before—
Bursts on my sight! No; 'tis some hideous dream.
Although I see, I shall not touch thy hand.
[Takes his hand, as if to assure herself.
It is reality! And yet—forgive me!
A subtle tempter through my o'erwrought brain
Would stab my trust in thee. He shall not, love!
Even now I'm calmer. Pray, repeat the words—
The words you spake but now.
Phil.
I said, my own,
Though Ingerburge might bear the name of queen,
Thou only shouldst rule Philip—
Marie.
Pause awhile.
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I only should rule Philip—
[Signs to him to proceed.
Phil.
Thou shouldst share
His hours of love—thou only; thou shouldst be—
[Hesitating, and averting his head.
Marie.
His paramour! O God! although his voice
Was shamed from speech, this is the thing he means.
[She turns from him.
Phil.
Thou wouldst not go?
Marie.
I am already gone!
We measure distance by the heart.
Phil.
Yet hear me!
Marie.
The Duke de Méran's daughter listens, sir.
[She sits.
Phil.
[About to kneel.]
If this humility may aught—
Marie.
No knee!
Respect so far my woe's reality,
As to put by these pageant semblances.
Phil.
Oh! has this grief no remedy?
Marie.
None, none.
The faith of love no hand can wound but that
Was pledged to guard it. Then what hand can staunch?
We strive no more with doom; the sad mistake
May be endured, but not retrieved. No, no!
Phil.
By heaven, you do me wrong! 'Tis not in man
To conquer destiny. I made you queen.
Marie.
You made me queen! I made you more than king.
When my eyes raised their worship to thy face,
I saw no crown. I asked not if thy hand
Closed on a sceptre; but mine pressed it close,
Because it rent the shackles of the slave.
'Twas not thy grandeur won me. Had the earthquake
Engulfed thine empire—had frowning fate
Lowered on thine arms and scourged thee from the field,
A fugitive—if on thy forehead Rome
Had graved her curse, and all thy kind recoiled
In horror from thy side—I yet had cried,
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In the vast loneliness, still beat to mine!
Phil.
[Falling at her feet.]
You had; you had! the dust is on my head!
Sweet saint! thou'rt of a higher brood than we,
Hast right to spurn me from thee.
Marie.
Rise! The feet
By thorns on life's rough path so often pierced,
Are little like to spurn a stumbling brother.
Phil.
Forgive, forgive me, Marie!
[Rising.
Marie.
You repent.
Twas but delusion. You will be again
The Philip I adored! That hope shall bless me
When we are far apart. And now for ever
In this dark world farewell. Another land
I seek, but ne'er shall find another home.
Shield him, all holy powers! Philip—
[Extending her hand.
Phil.
Go, go;
I was not worthy thee!
Marie.
Not thus, not thus!
Phil.
But one embrace. It is the last, the last!
[They embrace.
Go, Marie!
[Marie goes to the door. She reverts her head. They regard each other in silence for a few moments, after which Marie slowly disappears.
Phil.
[After a pause, sinking into a chair.]
I'm alone on earth! She's gone,
And what is left me?
[The roll of drums is heard without. He suddenly rises.
Ha! that clamour speaks
In stern reply; a summons to the field!
Fate, that denies me love, has left me vengeance.
Friends fail me, foemen swarm my coasts. 'Tis well!
Now, fiend of war, I am devote to thee!
[He rushes out.
| Marie de Méraine | |