University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Henry, Mary.
Hen.
Queen, I abhor deceit; it serves me not;
And, if it served me, I would not adopt it.
But thou, why dost thou clothe perfidious schemes,
With simulated love? I have, I know,
Offended thee; but openly I did it.
Thou should'st from me have learn'd at least the rules
By which 'tis lawful to offend an equal.

Ma.
What words are these? What hast thou met with, say?
Or ere firm peace betwixt us is renew'd,
I hear already ...

Hen.
Peace 'twixt us, say'st thou?
I swear betwixt us everlasting discord:
Avow thy purposes; and copy me:
I would, at last, to thee point out the way,
By which thou may'st pour out thy fathomless,
And pent-up rancour; I would spare to thee
Further deceptions, further flatteries,
And further crimes.

Ma.
Oh heavens! and such rebuke
Do I deserve from thee?

Hen.
'Tis fitly said.
Thy guilt at length to such a pitch is risen,
That all rebukes are vain. Disdainful silence
Were more judicious; to thy crimes more fitted:—
But yet, this transient utterance somewhat soothes me;
And, for the last time, now to make thee hear
This voice, which to thy conscience-stricken heart
Is not supportable. Means of redress,
Less infamous, and more effectual far
Than thine, are in my power. In thousand ways
I might, within thy realm, make head against thee:
Nor does thy power divert me from the purpose:
Myself alone commands inaction here:
I would not in our private broils involve
This unoffending people.—But to-morrow
Thou shalt hear tidings of my destiny:
And may I never more behold thy face.
To thy remorse, (if even that remains)
And to thy faithful counsellors, I leave thee.

Ma.
Ungrateful ... with more fitting epithet
Not to address thee ... of my boundless love
Is this the recompense? My sufferance long?
My unexampled sufferance? ... Speak'st thou thus? ...
Thus clear'st thee of thy fault?—Whence thy contempt?
Dost thou no more remember who I am?
And who thou wert? Ah, pardon, pardon me;
Thou now compellest me to adopt a language,
To her that speaks it, far more than to him
Who hears it, insupportable. But how,
In what have I offended thee? By thus
Inviting thee, entreating thy return?
By the unguarded warmth of my reception?
By yielding thee too much? By deeming thee
Accessible to penitential thoughts,
Or wise resolves, or thy hard heart possess'd
E'en of a momentary gratitude.

Hen.
The throne thou fillest: and the throne was ever
Prolific in conclusive arguments.
But I am not amazed: whate'er has happen'd
Confirms the fears of my foreboding heart.
Yet, is it fitting that I should assure thee
I never had recourse to artifice;
That I have not, so much as thou may'st deem,
A weak, a headstrong, or an abject spirit;
And that thy shameful arts ...

Ma.
Act as thou wilt:
I only do beseech thee not to soil
Thy language towards me with injurious phrases;
Thence equally unworthy him who speaks,
And her constrain'd to hear them.

Hen.
Evermore
In words do I offend thee; thou in deeds
Offendest me. Is the remembrance fled? ...

Ma.
Profound remembrance in my heart I keep
Of the remonstrances so often utter'd,
And so much disregarded; faithful, true,
And wise remonstrances, which, what thou art,
Thy manners, and thy dispositions, painted,
Ere I bestowed on thee this hand of mine.—
Blinded by love, I would not see, believe ...
Who then dissembled? ... Speak, ungrateful, speak ...
Alas, alas!—Repentance now is late,
And fruitless ... Oh my God! ... and is it true
That thou, at all events, would'st rather I
Should be thy foe? ... That thou canst never make me.
Thou plainly seest, that thou canst scarcely raise
A transient flame of anger in my breast:
One word of thine, one little word, suffices
To cancel every provocation past:
Provided thou would'st hear it, my affection
Is ready still to whisper to my heart
All its too welcome flatteries. Oh my husband,
Why wilt thou not, whate'er it be, confess
The reason of thy recent discontent?
Quickly will I ...

Hen.
Art thou desirous then
To hear it from my lips; although it is
Well known to thee, no less than to myself?
Thou shalt be satisfied without delay.
'Tis not thy feign'd affection; not thy feign'd,
And flattering words; not the allotted dwelling;
'Tis not the separation from my son;
The promise of supreme authority
Changed into more intolerable wrongs;
I do not, no, of all these things complain:
These with the usual tenor correspond
Of thy deportment towards me; all the fault
Is mine, that I believed thee. But the wrong,
The only wrong that I cannot endure,
Is that which thou hast recently contrived.
And what? At last thou call'st Elizabeth,
In the so many indiscreet offences
With which thou plottest hourly to annoy me,
The false Elizabeth to take a part?

Ma.
What dost thou now allege against me? What?
And say what proof hast thou? ...

Hen.
Ormond, 'tis true,
Is, but is not like others here, perfidious:
In vain thou sentest him to flatter me,
To tempt, to promise, to seduce. Didst thou
E'er hear of such a plot? At all events,
To wish to goad me into treachery?
Whence pretexts thou might'st afterwards derive
For thy concealed iniquity ...

Ma.
What do I hear?
May heaven to ashes instantly reduce me,
If I e'er ...

Hen.
Perjury avails not here.
At once I recognized the artifice,
And, the deceiver to deceive, I feign'd
To yield to his entreaties: but I loathe,
And I am wearied of, such abject arts.
Ormond already has received from me
A final answer. Now Elizabeth
Will scorn thee, who detested thee before,
And she will be the first to blame, and raise
A clamorous outcry 'gainst those very crimes,
To which herself impell'd thee.

Ma.
This is all
A vile imposture. Who thus dares to soil
My name with guilt? ...

Hen.
Thy minions possess
Souls thoroughly imbued with perfidy.
Do not afflict thyself: they have but shewn
Themselves not fully skill'd in choice of time.
Bothwell and Ormond, nobly emulous
To fathom the recesses of my heart,
Have both their own, and thine, too much exposed.

Ma.
—If reason could have influence o'er thy soul,
Or wert thou in a state to hear it now,
It would be easy here to explain the whole;
To call them both together; and to hear ...

Hen.
I be confronted with such men as these? ...

Ma.
And how by any other means can I
Convince thee of the truth? How from thine eyes
Remove the bandage?

Hen.
'Tis removed already:
I see too clearly ... —yet would'st thou at once
Convince me, and my apprehensions quell?
To thee but one infallible resource
Remains for this. From thee too I require
The execrable head of haughty Bothwell;
And Ormond's instant banishment—With this,
Say, art thou ready to comply?

Ma.
At length
I see, (alas, too evidently see!)
To what thy wishes tend. Whoe'er he be
That may communicate to me the truth,
Is for that cause alone obnoxious to thee:
He, be he who he may, in whom I trust,
Becomes thy foe. Quickly, renew at once
The massacre of Rizio: thou art used
With thy own hands to execute thy vile
And unjust vengeances. Thou may'st destroy,
In the same generous, heroic guise,
The life of Bothwell. To interdict thy crimes
I have no power: reason forbids that I
Should imitate thee in these bloody rites.
Let Bothwell be condemned, if he is guilty;
But let him first be heard. While I disdain not
To subject e'en myself to the tribunal
Of solemn, and irrefragable justice,
E'en the most abject individual here
Shall I dare subject to despotic power?

Hen.
Here guilty men can always challenge favour,
While from the worthy justice stands aloof:
See, what it is to reign.—I take my leave;
Farewell.

Ma.
Ah! hear me ...

Hen.
I intend to pass
In the allotted fortress this last night,
Which I devote to anguish, not to sleep.—
The invitation I accept; a dwelling,
Which I am not constrain'd to share with thee,
Is welcome to me, till to-morrow's dawn
Beholds me far from thy abhorred city.
I thought indeed e'en yet to excite in thee
Some perturbation; but I fondly thought it.—
Thy face is tranquil as thy heart is false.

SCENE THE THIRD.

Mary.
Ma.
—Ah wretched me! ... Where am I? ... What, alas!
Can I now do? ... What fury goads him on? ...
Whence can these infamous suspicions rise? ...
In what does he confide? ... In my despised,
Yet, as he deems, my undiminished love? ...
But, if he should attempt? ... Here he must stay ...
If he departs from hence, he will excite,
In every one he meets, hatred for me,
Rather than pity for himself: Heaven knows
That I no otherwise am culpable,
Than that too much I loved him, and too little
Discern'd him as he is. What will now say
The impious sects, accustomed so long time
To rail with bitterest calumnies against me?
These every day increase in strength and numbers ...
Perchance on these the unworthy Henry leans ...
Doubts, difficulties, errors, dangers, fears,
On all sides I discover. To resolve
Is perilous; to hesitate is worse ...

SCENE THE THIRD.

Mary, Bothwell.
Ma.
Bothwell, approach: if thou with thy advice
Canst not alleviate my distracted state,
Perchance I stand upon the very brink
Of a tremendous precipice.

Both.
Alas!
Long hast thou stood there; but now more than ever ...

Ma.
And what? With Henry's thoughts art thou acquainted? ...

Both.
I know the deeds of Henry. But, oh queen,
Say have I e'er presumed to approach thy presence
The accuser of another, much less then
Of him who is thy husband? Yet to-day
Necessity compels me e'en to this.

Ma.
Then plots have been contrived? ...

Both.
Contrived, say'st thou?
They had e'en now, had Bothwell not been here,
Been executed. Thou art well aware
That I suggested how much it behoved
To watch o'er Henry unremittingly,
And learn the real cause of his return:
But, ere 'twas long, of all his purposes
I gain'd a full discovery. Ormond sought
A private audience; tamper'd with his faith;
With flatteries and promises assail'd him:
Then dared he to propose to him, and gain'd,
That he should yield to him thy son ...

Ma.
My son!
To Ormond! ...

Both.
Yes; that he might bear him hence;
And at once place him in the English court.

Ma.
Ah traitor! ... Thus despoil me of my son? ...
And yield him to her hands? ...

Both.
A recompence
For this his treachery, Henry covenants
That he exclusively should rule this realm.
He thence designs to dictate laws to thee,
To trample more and more beneath his feet
The sacred rites of Rome, and to devote
(Unnatural father!) everlastingly
His own son to perdition ...

Ma.
Say no more.
With horror am I stricken! ... And erewhile
He had so much audacity, that he
Himself to me imputed all the guilt
Of this abominable artifice.—
He said that Ormond was impell'd by me
To execute this project; that such snares
Were all of my contrivance: base accuser!

Both.
He had recourse to subterfuge with thee,
Fearing that thou his treachery hadst discover'd.
I erewhile, in thy name, presumed to try
Dissuasive arguments: for such a fault
He sought to excuse himself, but found no means:
He cannot, nor knows how to contradict it:
Hence he burst forth in such immoderate rage
That what at first in me was mere surmise,
Became conviction. I to Ormond ran;
And the weak judgment, the precarious faith,
The irresolution, the inconstancy
Of Henry I display'd to him; and feign'd
That that same Henry had incautiously
To me, in part, the stratagem divulged.
Ormond, although well versed in courtly arts,
Yet thought himself betray'd, and suddenly
Changing his views, denied it not to me;
Yet he asserted Henry was the first
To counsel him to seize the child; that he
Quickly determined to reveal to thee
The whole of this design: and that he feign'd
With him, expressly for this purpose only,
To consent to it. Then I also feign'd
To yield to him full credence; and at length
So far prevail'd on him, that he himself
Now comes to thee with a sincere confession
Of every thing that happen'd. Wilt thou hear him?
He waits thy summons ...

Ma.
Let him come, and quickly.

SCENE THE FOURTH.

Mary.
Ma.
My son! ... What have I heard? ... my son surrender'd
To that most cruel, envious, crafty queen!
And who surrenders him to her? His father;
His very father thus betrays his blood,
His honour, and himself! Was there, alas!
Such guilt e'er found united in one man
With such infatuation?

SCENE THE FIFTH.

Mary, Bothwell, Ormond.
Ma.
Speak the truth;
Confess what Henry said to thee.

Or.
He ... yes ...
He bitterly deplored the disesteem
In which all hold him here.

Ma.
It is not now
The time to soften down his words. The mask
Take off; confess to me his rash proposals,
And thy rash promises.

Or.
'Tis true ... that he ...
Sought ... to obtain of me, ... in his behalf, ...
The interference ... of Elizabeth.

Ma.
Now by sincerity alone thou canst
Defend thyself. I know the whole affair.
What boots concealment? 'Twere in vain for thee
To seek to elude confession. In the event,
Henry himself, as cautious in performing,
As in contriving projects, had betray'd
Himself, and Ormond, and Elizabeth:
But from thy lips I fain would hear the truth.

Or.
Henry complain'd to me that in these walls
His offspring, destined for a double realm,
Was train'd perniciously: hence he himself
Determined to surrender him in hostage
To Elizabeth, a pledge of his good faith ...

Ma.
Oh unexampled father! And didst thou
Consent to this?

Or.
... By a direct refusal
I would not quench his hopes too suddenly ...
I feign'd consent, to learn his further purpose ...

Ma.
Let this suffice; no more. Elizabeth,
The artificer of fraudulent designs,
Hither dispatch'd thee: but, as I conceive,
Of fraudulent designs more subtly plann'd.
Retire now; that which on thy own account
Thou dost not merit, to thy rank I yield.
Elizabeth meanwhile shall learn from me,
That an ambassador to me is due,
More dexterous at least, if not more faithful.

SCENE THE SIXTH.

Mary, Bothwell.
Both.
There's art, but mistimed art, in all his words.
'Twixt truth and lies how clumsily he shuffles!
'Tis well that he's found out in time.

Ma.
I find not in me in this hour of need
Or strength to act, or wisdom to explore:
By doubts, by anger, and by fear, at once
I feel my heart as if asunder torn;
And, would'st thou think it? still that heart retains
I know not what of hope ...

Both.
And I too hope,
That now, since the discover'd plot's defeated,
No others lurk behind it.

Ma.
Be it so.
Yet such is he, that now that he perceives
His foolish enterprize discover'd ...

Both.
He! ...
What can he do?

Ma.
He may forsake my realm.
His cruel, last farewell, already he ...

Both.
Forsake thy realm!—Even before 'twas known,
This new aggression, thou didst interdict
With justice such a step: more just would be
That interdiction now; now that perchance,
As an atonement for his frustrate schemes,
Others he would devise in foreign climes
With more successful boldness.

Ma.
'Tis most just:
I oft have thought of this; but yet ...

Both.
Who knows
Where his malignant steps might carry him?
Who knows what succour he might dare solicit? ...
He would obtain it; yes, too certainly
In others' rancour he would surely find
A firm alliance.—Thou should'st now select
The lesser evil ...

Ma.
But what may that be?

Both.
Better than I thou know'st it. But to have
Recourse to violence shocks thy noble heart ...
Yet, what would'st thou? Would'st thou that Henry find
Protection from Elizabeth? If he
In person treat with her, far other plots ...

Ma.
Oh fatal day! and perhaps the harbinger
Of others still more fatal! Is it true
That thou at length art come? ... Disastrous day!
And apprehended long! ... Ah wretched me!
'Gainst him who heretofore has shared my love,
Who shared the fondest wishes of my heart,
Shall I use violence? ... I cannot do it ...
And, come what may come, I can never do it.

Both.
But think how deeply he may injure thee? ...

Ma.
What injury can he inflict, that equals
The loss of his affection?

Both.
Should he once
Make good his flight from hence, assuredly
Thou ne'er would'st see him more ...

Ma.
Oh heaven forbid!
May I not lose him quite ...

Both.
And dost thou not,
Much as thy husband, love thy son, oh mother?
That son is now in everlasting danger;
Death of the soul, the only real death,
Errors corrupting and heretical,
Await, thou know'st, his youthful innocence.

Mary.
Assuredly I ought ... but how, alas! ...

Both.
If Henry's liberty were somewhat lessen'd,
Or round his sacred royal person placed
Some slight impediments to its abuse ...

Ma.
He's too impatient of controul already:
Remorse, disgrace, and turbulent despair,
Might make him still more headstrong than he is,
And all my faithless and rebellious subjects
Would be his partizans.

Both.
I now perceive
One means by which thou may'st accomplish this,
And yet excite no tumult. One, no more.—
The night descends: surround with armed men
Amid its shades, the hill, where singly towers
His royal dwelling. There is he ere now
Retired, to wait there for the dawn of day,
And then depart from thence: he has with him
There a few obscure friends. There he may stay,
Courteously guarded: no one will attempt
Thus to lay hands on him; and thus at once
Thou mak'st his rage abortive. Through this night
No man to him can penetrate: to-morrow
To thy just arguments for this allow
Free circulation; and to him allow
Permission to impugn them if he can.

Ma.
This seems the safest plan; but yet ...

Both.
Ah! think,
Thou hast no other.

Ma.
But, in the execution ...

Both.
I will take care of that, if thou desirest.

Ma.
But should perchance the orders be exceeded? ...
Be on thy guard ...

Both.
What dost thou apprehend?
That I'm incompetent to the execution?
But, ere we miss the occasion, time is short;
I fly ...

Ma.
Ah no; ... stay here ...

Both.
For once, at least,
I will use violence with thee: recollect,
I saved thee once before ...

Ma.
I know it; but ...

Both.
Confide in me.

SCENE THE SEVENTH.

Mary.
Ma.
Ah! no ... Suspend ... He flies.
Oh fatal and irrevocable moment!
Upon a thread my peace and fame now hang.