 | Mary Stuart |  |
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Scene II.
Chartley.Mary Beaton and Sir Amyas Paulet.
Paulet.
You should do well to bid her less be moved
Who needs fear less of evil. Since we came
Again from Tixall this wild mood of hers
Hath vexed her more than all men's enmities
Should move a heart more constant. Verily,
I thought she had held more rule upon herself
Than to call out on beggars at the gate
When she rode forth, crying she had nought to give,
Being all as much a beggar too as they,
With all things taken from her.
Mary Beaton.
Being so served,
In sooth she should not show nor shame nor spleen:
It was but seventeen days ye held her there
Away from all attendance, as in bonds
Kept without change of raiment, and to find,
Being thence haled hither again, no nobler use,
But all her papers plundered—then her keys
By force of violent threat wrung from the hand
She scarce could stir to help herself abed:
These were no matters that should move her.
Paulet.
None,
If she be clean of conscience, whole of heart,
Nor else than pure in purpose, but maligned
Of men's suspicions: how should one thus wronged
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Blameless, give praise for all, turn all to thanks
That might unload her of so sore a charge,
Despoiled not, but disburdened? Her great wrath
Pleads hard against her, and itself spake loud
Alone, ere other witness might unseal
Wrath's fierce interpretation: which ere long
Was of her secretaries expounded.
Mary Beaton.
Sir,
As you are honourable, and of equal heart
Have shown such grace as man being manful may
To such a piteous prisoner as desires
Nought now but what may hurt not loyalty
Though you comply therewith to comfort her,
Let her not think your spirit so far incensed
By wild words of her mistress cast on you
In heat of heart and bitter fire of spleen
That you should now close ears against a prayer
Which else might fairly find them open.
Paulet.
Speak
More short and plainly: what I well may grant
Shall so seem easiest granted.
Mary Beaton.
There should be
No cause I think to seal your lips up, though
I crave of them but so much breath as may
Give mine ear knowledge of the witness borne
(If aught of witness were against her borne)
By those her secretaries you spake of.
Paulet.
This
With hard expostulation was drawn forth
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Had writ by record from their lady's mouth
To Babington some letter which implies
Close conscience of his treason, and goodwill
To meet his service with complicity:
But one thing found therein of deadliest note
The Frenchman swore they set not down, nor she
Bade write one word of favour nor assent
Answering this murderous motion toward our queen:
Only, saith he, she held herself not bound
For love's sake to reveal it, and thereby
For love of enemies do to death such friends
As only for her own love's sake were found
Fit men for murderous treason: and so much
Her own hand's transcript of the word she sent
Should once produced bear witness of her.
Mary Beaton.
Ay?
How then came this withholden?
Paulet.
If she speak
But truth, why, truth should sure be manifest,
And shall, with God's good will, to good men's joy
That wish not evil: as at Fotheringay
When she shall come to trial must be tried
If it be truth or no: for which assay
You shall do toward her well and faithfully
To bid her presently prepare her soul
That it may there make answer.
Mary Beaton.
Presently?
Paulet.
Upon the arraignment of her friends who stand
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Ere sentence pass upon them of their sin.
Would you no more with me?
Mary Beaton.
I am bounden to you
For thus much tidings granted.
Paulet.
So farewell.
[Exit.
Mary Beaton.
So fare I well or ill as one who knows
He shall not fare much further toward his end.
Here looms on me the landmark of my life
That I have looked for now some score of years
Even with long-suffering eagerness of heart
And a most hungry patience. I did know,
Yea, God, thou knowest I knew this all that while,
From that day forth when even these eyes beheld
Fall the most faithful head in all the world,
Toward her most loving and of me most loved,
By doom of hers that was so loved of him
He could not love me nor his life at all
Nor his own soul nor aught that all men love,
Nor could fear death nor very God, or care
If there were aught more merciful in heaven
Than love on earth had been to him. Chastelard
I have not had the name upon my lips
That stands for sign of love the truest in man
Since first love made him sacrifice of men,
This long sad score of years retributive
Since it was cast out of her heart and mind
Who made it mean a dead thing; nor, I think,
Will she remember it before she die
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Are like to have yet forgotten; but for me,
Haply thou knowest, so death not all be death,
If all these years I have had not in my mind
Through all these chances this one thought in all,
That I shall never leave her till she die.
Nor surely now shall I much longer serve
Who fain would lie down at her foot and sleep,
Fain, fain have done with waking. Yet my soul
Knows, and yet God knows, I would set not hand
To such a work as might put on the time
And make death's foot more forward for her sake:
Yea, were it to deliver mine own soul
From bondage and long-suffering of my life,
I would not set mine hand to work her wrong.
Tempted I was—but hath God need of me
To work his judgment, bring his time about,
Approve his justice if the word be just
That whoso doeth shall suffer his own deed,
Bear his own blow, to weep tears back for tears,
And bleed for bloodshed? God should spare me this
That once I held the one good hope on earth,
To be the mean and engine of her end
Or some least part at least therein: I prayed,
God, give me so much grace—who now should pray,
Tempt me not, God. My heart swelled once to know
I bore her death about me; as I think
Indeed I bear it: but what need hath God
That I should clench his doom with craft of mine?
What needs the wrath of hot Elizabeth
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Which hath to enkindle it higher already proof
Of present practice on her state and life?
Shall fear of death or love of England fail
Or memory faint or foresight fall stark blind,
That there should need the whet and spur of shame
To turn her spirit into some chafing snake's
And make its fang more feared for mortal? Yet
I am glad, and I repent me not, to know
I have the writing in my bosom sealed
That bears such matter with her own hand signed
As she that yet repents her not to have writ
Repents her not that she refrained to send
And fears not but long since it felt the fire—
Being fire itself to burn her, yet unquenched,
But in my hand here covered harmless up
Which had in charge to burn it. What perchance
Might then the reading of it have wrought for us,
If all this fiery poison of her scoffs
Making the foul froth of a serpent's tongue
More venomous, and more deadly toward her queen
Even Bess of Hardwick's bitterest babbling tales,
Had touched at heart the Tudor vein indeed?
Enough it yet were surely, though that vein
Were now the gentlest that such hearts may hold
And all doubt's trembling balance that way bent,
To turn as with one mortal grain cast in
The scale of grace against her life that writ
And weigh down pity deathward.
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Mary Stuart.
Have we found
Such kindness of our keeper as may give
Some ease from expectation? or must hope
Still fret for ignorance how long here we stay
As men abiding judgment?
Mary Beaton.
Now not long,
He tells me, need we think to tarry; since
The time and place of trial are set, next month
To hold it in the castle of Fotheringay.
Mary Stuart.
Why, he knows well I were full easily moved
To set forth hence; there must I find more scope
To commune with the ambassador of France
By letter thence to London: but, God help,
Think these folk truly, doth she verily think,
What never man durst yet nor woman dreamed,
May one that is nor man nor woman think,
To bring a queen born subject of no laws
Here in subjection of an alien law
By foreign force of judgment? Were she wise,
Might she not have me privily made away?
And being nor wise nor valiant but of tongue,
Could she find yet foolhardiness of heart
Enough to attaint the rule of royal rights
With murderous madness? I will think not this
Till it be proven indeed.
Mary Beaton.
A month come round,
This man protests, will prove it.
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Ay! protests?
What protestation of what Protestant
Can unmake law that was of God's mouth made,
Unwrite the writing of the world, unsay
The general saying of ages? If I go,
Compelled of God's hand or constrained of man's,
Yet God shall bid me not nor man enforce
My tongue to plead before them for my life.
I had rather end as kings before me, die
Rather by shot or stroke of murderous hands,
Than so make answer once in face of man
As one brought forth to judgment. Are they mad,
And she most mad for envious heart of all,
To make so mean account of me? Methought,
When late we came back hither soiled and spent
And sick with travel, I had seen their worst of wrong
Full-faced, with its most outrage: when I found
My servant Curle's young new-delivered wife
Without priest's comfort and her babe unblessed
A nameless piteous thing born ere its time,
And took it from the mother's arms abed
And bade her have good comfort, since myself
Would take all charge against her husband laid
On mine own head to answer; deeming not
Man ever durst bid answer for myself
On charge as mortal: and mine almoner gone,
Did I not crave of Paulet for a grace
His chaplain might baptize me this poor babe,
And was denied it, and with mine own hands
For shame and charity moved to christen her
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By mine own woful name, whence God, I pray,
For her take off its presage? I misdeemed,
Who deemed all these and yet far more than these
For one born queen indignities enough,
On one crowned head enough of buffets: more
Hath time's hand laid upon me: yet I keep
Faith in one word I spake to Paulet, saying
Two things were mine though I stood spoiled of all
As of my letters and my privy coin
By pickpurse hands of office: these things yet
Might none take thievish hold upon to strip
His prisoner naked of her natural dower,
The blood yet royal running here unspilled
And that religion which I think to keep
Fast as this royal blood until I die.
So where at last and howsoe'er I fare
I need not much take thought, nor thou for love
Take of thy mistress pity; yet meseems
They dare not work their open will on me:
But God's it is that shall be done, and I
Find end of all in quiet. I would sleep
On this strange news of thine, that being awake
I may the freshlier front my sense thereof
And thought of life or death. Come in with me.
| Mary Stuart | |