You tremble, princess! You grow pale!
MARFA.
I know
That it must be delusion, yet so little
Is my heart steeled 'gainst fear and hope e'en now,
That in my breast it flutters like a bird.
OLGA.
Why should it be delusion? Mark his words!
How could this rumor spread without good cause?
FISHER BOY.
Without good cause? The Lithuanians
And Poles are all in arms upon his side.
The Czar himself quakes in his capital.
[MARFA is compelled by her emotion to lean upon OLGA and ALEXIA.
XENIA.
Speak on, speak, tell us everything you know.
ALEXIA.
And tell us, too, of whom you stole the news.
FISHER BOY.
I stole the news? A letter has gone forth
To every town and province from the Czar.
This letter the Posadmik of our town
Read to us all, in open market-place.
It bore, that busy schemers were abroad,
And that we should not lend their tales belief.
But this made us believe them; for, had they
Been false, the Czar would have despised the lie.
MARFA.
Is this the calm I thought I had achieved?
And clings my heart so close to temporal things,
That a mere word can shake my inward soul?
For sixteen years have I bewailed my son,
And yet at once believe that still he lives.
OLGA.
Sixteen long years thou'st mourned for him as dead,
And yet his ashes thou hast never seen!
Naught countervails the truth of the report.
Nay, does not Providence watch o'er the fate
Of kings and monarchies? Then welcome hope!
More things befall than thou canst comprehend.
Who can set limits to the Almighty's power?
MARFA.
Shall I turn back to look again on life,
To which long since I spoke a sad farewell?
It was not with the dead my hopes abode.
Oh, say no more of this. Let not my heart
Hang on this phantom hope! Let me not lose
My darling son a second time. Alas!
My peace of mind is gone,--my dream of peace
I cannot trust these tidings,--yet, alas,
I can no longer dash them from my soul!
Woe's me, I never lost my son till now.
Oh, now I can no longer tell if I
Shall seek him 'mongst the living or the dead,
Tossed on the rock of never-ending doubt.
OLGA [A bell sounds,--the sister PORTERESS enters.
Why has the bell been sounded, sister, say?
PORTERESS.
The lord archbishop waits without; he brings
A message from the Czar, and craves an audience.
OLGA.
Does the archbishop stand within our gates?
What strange occurrence can have brought him here?
XENIA.
Come all, and give him greeting as befits.
[They advance towards the gate as the ARCHBISHOP enters;
they all kneel before him, and he makes the sign of the
Greek cross over them.
ARCHBISHOP.
The kiss of peace I bring you in the name
Of Father, Son, and of the Holy Ghost,
Proceeding from the Father!
OLGA.
Sir, we kiss
In humblest reverence thy paternal hand!
Command thy daughters!
ARCHBISHOP.
My mission is addressed to Sister Marfa.
OLGA.
See, here she stands, and waits to know thy will.
[All the NUNS withdraw.
ARCHBISHOP.
It is the mighty prince who sends me here;
Upon his distant throne he thinks of thee;
For as the sun, with his great eye of flame,
Sheds light and plenty all abroad the world,
So sweeps the sovereign's eye on every side;
Even to the farthest limits of his realm
His care is wakeful and his glance is keen.
MARFA.
How far his arm can strike I know too well.
ARCHBISHOP.
He knows the lofty spirit fills thy soul,
And therefore feels indignantly the wrong
A bold-faced villain dares to offer thee.
Learn, then, in Poland, an audacious churl,
A renegade, who broke his monkish vows,
Laid down his habit, and renounced his God,
Doth use the name and title of thy son,
Whom death snatched from thee in his infancy.
The shameless varlet boasts him of thy blood,
And doth affect to be Czar Ivan's son;
A Waywode breaks the peace; from Poland leads
This spurious monarch, whom himself created,
Across our frontiers, with an armed power:
So he beguiles the Russians' faithful hearts,
And lures them on to treason and revolt.
The Czar,
With pure, paternal feeling, sends me to thee.
Thou hold'st the manes of thy son in honor;
Nor wilt permit a bold adventurer
To steal his name and title from the tomb,
And with audacious hand usurp his rights.
Thou wilt proclaim aloud to all the world
That thou dost own him for no son of thine.
Thou wilt not nurse a bastard's alien blood
Upon thy heart, that beats so nobly; never!
Thou wilt--and this the Czar expects from thee--
Give the vile counterfeit the lie, with all
The righteous indignation it deserves.
MARFA (who has during the last speech subdued the most violent emotion).
What do I hear, archbishop? Can it be?
Oh, tell me, by what signs and marks of proof
This bold-faced trickster doth uphold himself
As Ivan's son, whom we bewailed as dead?
ARCHBISHOP.
By some faint, shadowy likeness to the Czar,
By documents which chance threw in his way,
And by a precious trinket, which he shows,
He cheats the credulous and wondering mob.
MARFA.
What is the trinket? Oh, pray, tell me what?
ARCHBISHOP.
A golden cross, gemmed with nine emeralds,
Which Ivan Westislowsky, so he says,
Hung round his neck at the baptismal font.
MARFA.
What do you say? He shows this trinket, this?
[With forced composure.
And how does he allege he came by it?
ARCHBISHOP.
A faithful servant and Diak, he says,
Preserved him from the assassins and the flames,
And bore him to Smolenskow privily.
MARFA.
But where was he brought up? Where, gives he forth,
Was he concealed and fostered until now?
ARCHBISHOP.
In Tschudow's monastery he was reared,
Unknowing who he was; from thence he fled
To Lithuania and Poland, where
He served the Prince of Sendomir, until
An accident revealed his origin.
MARFA.
With such a tale as this can he find friends
To peril life and fortune in his cause?
ARCHBISHOP.
Oh, madam, false, false-hearted is the Pole,
And enviously he eyes our country's wealth.
He welcomes every pretext that may serve
To light the flames of war within our bounds!
MARFA.
And were there credulous spirits, even in Moscow,
Could by this juggle be so lightly stirred?
ARCHBISHOP.
Oh, fickle, princess, is the people's heart!
They dote on alteration, and expect
To reap advantage from a change of rulers.
The bold assurance of the falsehood charms;
The marvellous finds favor and belief.
Therefore the Czar is anxious thou shouldst quell
This mad delusion, as thou only canst.
A word from thee annihilates the traitor
That falsely claims the title of thy son.
It joys me thus to see thee moved. I see
The audacious juggle rouses all thy pride,
And, with a noble anger paints thy cheek.
MARFA.
And where, where, tell me, does he tarry now,
Who dares usurp the title of my son?
ARCHBISHOP.
E'en now he's moving on to Tscherinsko;
His camp at Kioff has broke up, 'tis rumored;
And with a force of mounted Polish troops
And Don Cossacks, he comes to push his claims.
MARFA.
Oh, God Almighty, thanks, thanks, thanks, that thou
Hast sent me rescue and revenge at last!
ARCHBISHOP.
How, Marfa, how am I to construe this?
MARFA.
Ob, heavenly powers, conduct him safely here!
Hover, oh all ye angels, round his banners!
ARCHBISHOP.
Can it be so? The traitor, canst thou trust----
MARFA.
He is my son. Yes! by these signs alone
I recognize him. By thy Czar's alarm
I recognize him. Yes! He lives! He comes!
Down, tyrant, from thy throne, and shake with fear!
There still doth live a shoot from Rurik's stem;
The genuine Czar--the rightful heir draws nigh,
He comes to claim a reckoning for his own.
ARCHBISHOP.
Dost thou bethink thee what thou say'st? 'Tis madness!
MARFA.
At length--at length has dawned the day of vengeance,
Of restoration. Innocence is dragged
To light by heaven from the grave's midnight gloom.
The haughty Godunow, my deadly foe,
Must crouch and sue for mercy at my feet;
Oh, now my burning wishes are fulfilled!
ARCHBISHOP.
Can hate and rancorous malice blind you so?
MARFA.
Can terror blind your monarch so, that he
Should hope deliverance from me--from me--
Whom he hath done immeasurable wrong?
I shall, forsooth, deny the son whom heaven
Restores me by a miracle from the grave,
And to please him, the butcher of my house,
Who piled upon me woes unspeakable?
Yes, thrust from me the succor God has sent
In the sad evening of my heavy anguish?
No, thou escap'st me not. No, thou shalt hear me,
I have thee fast, I will not let thee free.
Oh, I can ease my bosom's load at last!
At last launch forth against mine enemy
The long-pent anger of my inmost soul!
Who was it, who,
That shut me up within this living tomb,
In all the strength and freshness of my youth,
With all its feelings glowing in my breast?
Who from my bosom rent my darling son,
And chartered ruffian hands to take his life?
Oh, words can never tell what I have suffered,
When, with a yearning that would not be still,
I watched throughout the long, long starry nights,
And noted with my tears the hours elapse!
The day of succor comes, and of revenge;
I see the mighty glorying in his might.
ARCHBISHOP.
You think the Czar will dread you--you mistake.
MARFA.
He's in my power--one little word from me,
One only, sets the seal upon his fate!
It was for this thy master sent thee here!
The eyes of Russia and of Poland now
Are closely bent upon me. If I own
The Czarowitsch as Ivan's son and mine,
Then all will do him homage; his the throne.
If I disown him, then he is undone;
For who will credit that his rightful mother,
A mother wronged, so foully wronged as I,
Could from her heart repulse its darling child,
To league with the despoilers of her house?
I need but speak one word and all the world
Deserts him as a traitor. Is't not so?
This word you wish from me. That mighty service,
Confess, I can perform for Godunow!
ARCHBISHOP.
Thou wouldst perform it for thy country, and
Avert the dread calamities of war,
Shouldst thou do homage to the truth. Thyself,
Ay, thou hast ne'er a doubt thy son is dead;
And couldst thou testify against thy conscience?
MARFA.
These sixteen years I've mourned his death; but yet
I ne'er have seen his ashes. I believed
His death, there trusting to the general voice
And my sad heart--I now believe he lives,
Trusting the general voice and my strong hope.
'Twere impious, with audacious doubts, to seek
To set a bound to the Almighty's will;
And even were he not my heart's dear son,
Yet should he be the son of my revenge.
In my child's room I take him to my breast,
Whom heaven has sent me to avenge my wrongs.
ARCHBISHOP.
Unhappy one, dost thou defy the strong?
From his far-reaching arm thou art not safe
Even in the convent's distant solitude.
MARFA.
Kill me he may, and stifle in the grave,
Or dungeon's gloom, my woman's voice, that it
Shall not reverberate throughout the world.
This he may do; but force me to speak aught
Against my will, that can he not; though backed
By all thy craft--no, he has missed his aim!
ARCHBISHOP.
Is this thy final purpose. Ponder well!
Hast thou no gentler message for the Czar?
MARFA.
Tell him to hope for heaven, if so he dare,
And for his people's love, if so he can.
ARCHBISHOP.
Enough! thou art bent on thy destruction.
Thou lean'st upon a reed, will break beneath thee;
One common ruin will o'erwhelm ye both.
[Exit.
MARFA.
It is my son, I cannot doubt 'tis he.
Even the wild hordes of the uncultured wastes
Take arms upon his side; the haughty Pole,
The palatine, doth stake his noble daughter
On the pure gold of his most righteous cause,
And I alone reject him--I, his mother?
I, only I, shook not beneath the storm
Of joy that lifts all hearts with dizzying whirl,
And scatters turmoil widely o'er the earth.
He is my son--I must, will trust in him,
And grasp with living confidence the hand
Which heaven hath sent for my deliverance.
'Tis he, he comes with his embattled hosts,
To set me free, and to avenge my shame!
Hark to his drums, his martial trumpets' clang!
Ye nations come--come from the east and south.
Forth from your steppes, your immemorial woods
Of every tongue, of every raiment come!
Bridle the steed, the reindeer, and the camel!
Sweep hither, countless as the ocean waves,
And throng around the banners of your king!
Oh, wherefore am I mewed and fettered here,
A prisoned soul with longings infinite!
Thou deathless sun, that circlest earth's huge ball,
Be thou the messenger of my desires!
Thou all-pervading, chainless breeze that sweep'st
With lightning speed to earth's remotest bound,
Oh, bear to him the yearnings of my heart.
My prayers are all I have to give; but these
I pour all glowing from my inmost soul,
And send them up to heaven on wings of flame,
Like armed hosts, I send them forth to hail him.
SCENE II.
A height crowned with trees. A wide and smiling landscape
occupies the background, which is traversed by a beautiful
river, and enlivened by the budding green of spring. At
various points the towers of several towns are visible.
Drums and martial music without. Enter ODOWALSKY, and other
officers, and immediately afterwards DEMETRIUS.
ODOWALSKY.
Go, lead the army downward by the wood,
Whilst we look round us here upon the height.
[Exeunt some of the officers.
Enter DEMETRIUS.
DEMETRIUS (starting back).
Ha! what a prospect!
ODOWALSKY.
Sire, thou see'st thy kingdom
Spread out before thee. That is Russian land.
RAZIN.
Why, e'en this pillar here bears Moscow's arms;
Here terminates the empire of the Poles.
DEMETRIUS.
Is that the Dnieper, rolls its quiet stream
Along these meadows?
ODOWALSKY.
That, sire, is the Desna;
See, yonder rise the towers of Tschernizow!
RAZIN.
Yon gleam you see upon the far horizon
Is from the roofs of Sewerisch Novogrod.
DEMETRIUS.
What a rich prospect! What fair meadow lands!
ODOWALSKY.
The spring has decked them with her trim array;
A teeming harvest clothes the fruitful soil.
DEMETRIUS.
The view is lost in limitless expanse.
RAZIN.
Yet is this but a small beginning, sire,
Of Russia's mighty empire. For it spreads
Towards the east to confines unexplored,
And on the north has ne'er a boundary,
Save the productive energy of earth.
Behold, our Czar is quite absorbed in thought.
DEMETRIUS.
On these fair meads dwell peace, unbroken peace,
And with war's terrible array I come
To scatter havoc, like a listed foe!
ODOWALSKY.
Hereafter 'twill be time to think of that.
DEMETRIUS.
Thou feelest as a Pole, I am Moscow's son.
It is the land to which I owe my life;
Forgive me, thou dear soil, land of my home,
Thou sacred boundary-pillar, which I clasp,
Whereon my sire his broad-spread eagle graved,
That I, thy son, with foreign foemen's arms,
Invade the tranquil temple of thy peace.
'Tis to reclaim my heritage I come,
And the proud name that has been stolen from me.
Here the Varegers, my forefathers, ruled,
In lengthened line, for thirty generations;
I am the last of all their lineage, snatched
From murder by God's special providence.
SCENE III.
A Russian village. An open square before a church.
The tocsin is heard. GLEB, ILIA, and TIMOSKA rush in,
armed with hatchets.
GLEB (entering from a house).
Why are they running?
ILIA (entering from another house).
Who has tolled the bell.
TIMOSKA.
Neighbors, come forth! Come all, to council come!
[Enter OLEG and IGOR, with many other peasants,
women and children, who carry bundles.
GLEB.
Whence come ye hither with your wives and children?
IGOR.
Fly, fly! The Pole has fallen upon the land
At Maromesk, and slaughters all he finds.
OLEG.
Fly into the interior--to strong towns!
We've fired our cottages, there's not a soul
Left in the village, and we're making now
Up country for the army of the Czar.
TIMOSKA.
Here comes another troop of fugitives.
[IWANSKA and PETRUSCHKA, with armed peasantry,
enter on different sides.
IWANSKA.
Long live the Czar! The mighty prince Dmitri!
GLEB.
How! What is this!
ILIA.
What do you mean?
TIMOSKA.
Who are you?
PETRUSCHKA.
Join all who're loyal to our princely line!
TIMOSKA.
What means all this? There a whole village flies
Up country to escape the Poles, while you
Make for the very point whence these have fled,
To join the standard of the country's foe!
PETRUSCHKA.
What foe? It is no foe that comes; it is
The people's friend, the emperor's rightful heir.
* * * * *
The POSADMIK (the village judge) enters to read a manifesto by Demetrius.
Vacillation of the inhabitants of the village between the two parties.
The peasant women are the first to be won over to Demetrius, and turn the
scale.
Camp of DEMETRIUS. He is worsted in the first action, but the army of
the Czar Boris conquers in a manner against its will, and does not follow
up its advantages. Demetrius, in despair, is about to destroy himself,
and is with difficulty prevented from doing so by Korela and Odowalsky.
Overbearing demeanor of the Cossacks even to DEMETRIUS.
Camp of the army of the CZAR BORIS. He is absent himself, and this
injures his cause, as he is feared but not loved. His army is strong,
but not to be relied on. The leaders are not unanimous, and partly
incline to the side of Demetrius from a variety of motives. One of their
number, Soltikow, declares for him from conviction. His adherence is
attended with the most important results; a large portion of the army
deserts to DEMETRIUS.
BORIS in Moscow. He still maintains his position as absolute ruler, and
has faithful servants around him; but already he is discomposed by evil
tidings. He is withheld from joining the army by apprehension of a
rebellion in Moscow. He is also ashamed as Czar to enter the field in
person against a traitor. Scene between him and the archbishop.
Bad news pours in from all sides, and Boris' danger grows momently more
imminent. He hears of the revolt of the peasantry and the provincial
towns,--of the inactivity and mutiny of the army,--of the commotions in
Moscow,--of the advance of Demetrius. Romanow, whom he has deeply
wronged, arrives in Moscow. This gives rise to new apprehensions. Now
come the tidings that the Boiars are flying to the camp of Demetrius, and
that the whole army has gone over to him.
BORIS and AXINIA. The Czar appears in a touching aspect as father, and
in the dialogue with his daughter unfolds his inmost nature.
BORIS has made his way to the throne by crime, but undertaken and
fulfilled all the duties of a monarch; to the country he is a valuable
prince and a true father of his people. It is only in his personal
dealings with individuals that he is cunning, revengeful, and cruel. His
spirit as well as his rank elevates him above all that surround him. The
long possession of supreme power, the habit of ruling over men, and the
despotic form of government, have so nursed his pride that it is
impossible for him to outlive his greatness. He sees clearly what awaits
him; but still he is Czar, and not degraded, though he resolves to die.
He believes in forewarnings, and in his present mood things appear to him
of significance which, on other occasions, he had despised. A particular
circumstance, in which he seems to hear the voice of destiny, decides
him.
Shortly before his death his nature changes; he grows milder, even
towards the messengers of evil, and is ashamed of the bursts of rage with
which he had received them before. He permits the worst to be told to
him, and even rewards the narrator.
So soon as he learns the misfortune that seals his fate, he leaves the
stage without further explanation, with composure and resignation.
Shortly afterwards he returns in the habit of a monk, and removes his
daughter from the sight of his last moments. She is to seek protection
from insult in a cloister; his son, Feodor, as a child, will perhaps have
less to fear. He takes poison, and enters a retired chamber to die in
peace.
General confusion at the tidings of the Czar's death. The Boiars form an
imperial council and rule in the Kremlin. Romanow (afterwards Czar, and
founder of the now ruling house) enters at the head of an armed force,
swears, on the bosom of the Czar, an oath of allegiance to his son
Feodor, and compels the Boiars to follow his example. Revenge and
ambition are far from his soul; he pursues only justice. He loves Axinia
without hope, and is, without knowing it, beloved by her in return.
ROMANOW hastens to the army to secure it for the young Czar.
Insurrection in Moscow, brought about by the adherents of Demetrius.
The people drag the Boiars from their houses, make themselves masters
of Feodor and Axinia--put them in prison, and send delegates to
Demetrius.
DEMETRIUS in Tula, at the pinnacle of success. The army is his own; the
keys of numerous towns are brought to him. Moscow alone appears to offer
resistance. He is mild and amiable, testifies a noble emotion at the
intelligence of the death of Boris, pardons a detected conspiracy against
his life, despises the servile adulations of the Russians, and is for
sending them away. The Poles, on the other hand, by whom he is
surrounded, are rude and violent, and treat the Russians with contempt.
Demetrius longs for a meeting with his mother, and sends a messenger to
Marina.
Among the multitude of Russians who throng around Demetrius in Tula
appears a man whom he at once recognizes; he is greatly delighted to see
him. He bids all the rest withdraw, and so soon as he is alone with this
man he thanks him, with full heart, as his preserver and benefactor.
This person hints that Demetrius is under especial obligations to him,
and to a greater extent than he is himself aware. Demetrius urges him to
explain, and the assassin of the genuine Demetrius thereupon discloses
the real facts of the case. For this murder he had received no
recompense, but on the contrary had nothing but death to anticipate from
Boris. Thirsting for revenge, he stumbled upon a boy, whose resemblance
to the Czar Ivan struck him. This circumstance must be turned to
account. He seized the boy, fled with him from Uglitsch, brought him to
a monk, whom he succeeded in gaining over for his ends, and delivered to
him the trinkets which he had himself taken from the murdered Demetrius.
By means of this boy, whom he had never lost sight of, and whose steps he
had attended upon all occasions without being observed, he is now
revenged. His tool, the false Demetrius, rules over Russia in Boris'
room.
During this narration a mighty change comes over Demetrius. His silence
is awful. In the moment of the highest rage and despair, the assassin
drives him to the extreme of endurance, when with a defying and insolent
air he demands his reward. Demetrius strikes him to the earth.
Soliloquy of Demetrius. Internal conflict; but the feeling of the
necessity for maintaining his position as Czar is triumphant.
The delegates from Moscow arrive, and submit themselves to Demetrius.
They are received gloomily, and with a menacing demeanor. Among them is
the Patriarch. Demetrius deposes him from his dignity, and soon
afterwards sentences to death a Russian of rank, who had questioned the
authenticity of his birth.
MARFA and OLGA await Demetrius under a magnificent tent. Marfa speaks of
the approaching interview with more doubt and fear than hope, and
trembles as the moment draws near which should assure her highest
happiness. Olga speaks to her, herself without faith. During the long
journey they have both had time to recall the whole circumstances; the
first exultation had given place to reflection. The gloomy silence and
the repulsive glances of the guards who surround the tent serve still
further to augment their despondency.
The trumpets sound. Marfa is irresolute whether she shall advance to
meet Demetrius. Now he stands before her alone. The little that was
left of hope in her heart altogether vanishes on seeing him. An unknown
something steps between them--Nature does not speak--they are separated
forever. The first impulse is an endeavor to approach; Marfa is the
first to make a movement to recede. Demetrius observes it, and remains
for a moment paralyzed. Significant silence.
DEMETRIUS. Does thy heart say nothing? Dost thou not recognize thy
blood in me?
MARFA is silent.
DEMETRIUS. The voice of nature is holy and free; I will neither
constrain nor belie it. Had thy heart spoken at the first glance then
had mine answered it; thou shouldst have found a pious, loving son in me.
The claim of duty would have concurred with inclination and heartfelt
affection. But if thou dost not feel as a mother for me, then, think as
a princess, command thyself as a queen! Fate unexpectedly gave me to
thee as a son; accept me as a gift of heaven. Though even I were not thy
son, which I now appear to be, still I rob thy son of nothing. I
stripped it from thy foe. Thee and thy blood have I avenged; I have
delivered thee from the grave in which thou went entombed alive, and led
thee back into the royal seat. That thy destiny is linked with mine thou
knowest. With me thou standest, and with me must fall. All the people's
eyes are upon us. I hate deception, and what I do not feel I may not
show; but I do really feel a reverence for thee, and this feeling, which
bends my knee before thee, comes from my heart.
[Dumb show of MARFA, to indicate her internal emotion.
DEMETRIUS. Make thy resolve! Let that which nature will not prompt be
the free act of thy will! I ask no hypocrisy--no falsehood, from thee; I
ask genuine feelings. Do not seem to be my mother, but be so. Throw the
past from thee--grasp the present with thy whole heart! If I am not thy
son yet I am the Czar--I have power and success upon my side. He who
lies in his grave is dust; he has no heart to love thee, no eye to smile
upon thee. Turn to the living.
[MARFA bursts into tears.
DEMETRIUS. Oh, these golden drops are welcome to me. Let them flow!
Show thyself thus to the people!
[At a signal from DEMETRIUS the tent is thrown open, and
the assembled Russians become spectators of this scene.
Entrance of Demetrius into Moscow. Great splendor, but of a military
kind. Poles and Cossacks compose the procession. Gloom and terror
mingle with the demonstrations of joy. Distrust and misfortune surround
the whole.
Romanow, who came to the army too late, has returned to Moscow to protect
Feodor and Axinia. It is all in vain; he is himself thrown into prison.
Axinia flies to Marfa, and at her feet implores protection against the
Poles. Here Demetrius sees her, and a violent and irresistible passion
is kindled in his breast. Axinia detests him.
DEMETRIUS as Czar. A fearful element sustains him, but he does not
control it: he is urged on by the force of strange passions. His inward
consciousness betokens a general distrust; he has no friend on whom he
can rely. Poles and Cossacks, by their insolent licentiousness, injure
him in the popular opinion. Even that which is creditable to him--his
popular manners, simplicity, and contempt of stiff ceremonial, occasions
dissatisfaction. Occasionally he offends, through inadvertency, the
usages of the country. He persecutes the monks because he suffered
severely under them. Moreover, he is not exempt from despotic caprices
in the moments of offended pride. Odowalsky knows how to make himself at
all times indispensable to him, removes the Russians to a distance, and
maintains his overruling influence.
DEMETRIUS meditates inconstancy to Marina. He confers upon the point
with the Archbishop Iob, who, in order to get rid of the Poles, falls in
with his desire, and puts before him an exalted picture of the imperial
power.
MARINA appears with a vast retinue in Moscow. Meeting with Demetrius.
Hollow and cold meeting on both sides; she, however, wears her disguise
with greater skill. She urges an immediate marriage. Preparations are
made for a magnificent festival.
By the orders of Marina a cup of poison is brought to Axinia. Death is
welcome to her; she was afraid of being forced to the altar with the
Czar.
Violent grief of Demetrius. With a broken heart he goes to the betrothal
with Marina.
After the marriage Marina discloses to him that she does not consider him
to be the true Demetrius, and never did. She then coldly leaves him in a
state of extreme anguish and dismay.
Meanwhile SCHINSKOI, one of the former generals of the Czar Boris, avails
himself of the growing discontent of the people, and becomes the head of
a conspiracy against Demetrius.
ROMANOW, in prison, is comforted by a supernatural apparition. Axinia's
spirit stands before him, opens to him a prospect of happier times in
store, and enjoins him calmly to allow destiny to ripen, and not to stain
himself with blood. ROMANOW receives a hint that he may himself be
called to the throne. Soon afterwards he is solicited to take part in
the conspiracy, but declines.
SOLTIKOW reproaches himself bitterly for having betrayed his country to
Demetrius. But he will not be a second time a traitor, and adheres, from
principle and against his feelings, to the party which he has once
adopted. As the misfortune has happened, he seeks at least to alleviate
it, and to enfeeble the power of the Poles. He pays for this effort with
his life; but he accepts death as a merited punishment, and confesses
this when dying to Demetrius himself.
CASIMIR, a brother of LODOISKA, a young Polish lady, who has been
secretly and hopelessly attached to Demetrius, in the house of the
Waywode of Sendomir, has, at his sister's request, accompanied Demetrius
in the campaign, and in every encounter defended him bravely. In the
moment of danger, when all the other retainers of Demetrius think only of
their personal safety, Casimir alone remains faithful to him, and
sacrifices life in his defence.
The conspiracy breaks out. Demetrius is with Marfa when the leading
conspirators force their way into the room. The dignity and courage of
Demetrius have a momentary effect upon the rebels. He nearly succeeds in
disarming them by a promise to place the Poles at their disposal. But at
this point SCHINSKOI rushes in with an infuriated band. An explicit
declaration is demanded from the ex-empress; she is required to swear,
upon the cross, that Demetrius is her son. To testify against her
conscience in a manner so solemn is impossible. She turns from Demetrius
in silence, and is about to withdraw. "Is she silent?" exclaims the
tumultuous throng. "Does she disown him?" "Then, traitor, die!" and
Demetrius falls, pierced by their swords, at Marfa's feet.
MARY STUART.
A TRAGEDY.
By Frederich Schiller
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
ELIZABETH, Queen of England.
MARY STUART, Queen of Scots, a Prisoner in England.
ROBERT DUDLEY, Earl of Leicester.
GEORGE TALBOT, Earl of Shrewsbury.
WILLIAM CECIL, Lord Burleigh, Lord High Treasurer.
EARL OF KENT.
SIR WILLIAM DAVISON, Secretary of State.
SIR AMIAS PAULET, Keeper of MARY.
SIR EDWARD MORTIMER, his Nephew.
COUNT L'AUBESPINE, the French Ambassador.
O'KELLY, Mortimer's Friend.
COUNT BELLIEVRE, Envoy Extraordinary from France.
SIR DRUE DRURY, another Keeper of MARY.
SIR ANDREW MELVIL, her House Steward.
BURGOYNE, her Physician.
HANNAH KENNEDY, her Nurse.
MARGARET CURL, her Attendant.
Sheriff of the County.
Officer of the Guard.
French and English Lords.
Soldiers.
Servants of State belonging to ELIZABETH.
Servants and Female Attendants of the Queen of Scots.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A common apartment in the Castle of Fotheringay.
HANNAH KENNEDY, contending violently with PAULET, who is about
to break open a closet; DRURY with an iron crown.
KENNEDY.
How now, sir? what fresh outrage have we here?
Back from that cabinet!
PAULET.
Whence came the jewel?
I know 'twas from an upper chamber thrown;
And you would bribe the gardener with your trinkets.
A curse on woman's wiles! In spite of all
My strict precaution and my active search,
Still treasures here, still costly gems concealed!
And doubtless there are more where this lay hid.
[Advancing towards the cabinet.
KENNEDY.
Intruder, back! here lie my lady's secrets.
PAULET.
Exactly what I seek.
[Drawing forth papers.
KENNEDY.
Mere trifling papers;
The amusements only of an idle pen,
To cheat the dreary tedium of a dungeon.
PAULET.
In idle hours the evil mind is busy.
KENNEDY.
Those writings are in French.
PAULET.
So much the worse!
That tongue betokens England's enemy.
KENNEDY.
Sketches of letters to the Queen of England.
PAULET.
I'll be their bearer. Ha! what glitters here?
[He touches a secret spring, and draws out jewels from
a private drawer.
A royal diadem enriched with stones,
And studded with the fleur-de-lis of France.
[He hands it to his assistant.
Here, take it, Drury; lay it with the rest.
[Exit DRURY.
[And ye have found the means to hide from us
Such costly things, and screen them, until now,
From our inquiring eyes?]
KENNEDY.
Oh, insolent
And tyrant power, to which we must submit.
PAULET.
She can work ill as long as she hath treasures;
For all things turn to weapons in her hands.
KENNEDY (supplicating).
Oh, sir! be merciful; deprive us not
Of the last jewel that adorns our life!
'Tis my poor lady's only joy to view
This symbol of her former majesty;
Your hands long since have robbed us of the rest.
PAULET.
'Tis in safe custody; in proper time
'Twill be restored to you with scrupulous care.
KENNEDY.
Who that beholds these naked walls could say
That majesty dwelt here? Where is the throne?
Where the imperial canopy of state?
Must she not set her tender foot, still used
To softest treading, on the rugged ground?
With common pewter, which the lowliest dame
Would scorn, they furnish forth her homely table.
PAULET.
Thus did she treat her spouse at Stirling once;
And pledged, the while, her paramour in gold.
KENNEDY.
Even the mirror's trifling aid withheld.
PAULET.
The contemplation of her own vain image
Incites to hope, and prompts to daring deeds.
KENNEDY.
Books are denied her to divert her mind.
PAULET.
The Bible still is left to mend her heart.
KENNEDY.
Even of her very lute she is deprived!
PAULET.
Because she tuned it to her wanton airs.
KENNEDY.
Is this a fate for her, the gentle born,
Who in her very cradle was a queen?
Who, reared in Catherine's luxurious court,
Enjoyed the fulness of each earthly pleasure?
Was't not enough to rob her of her power,
Must ye then envy her its paltry tinsel?
A noble heart in time resigns itself
To great calamities with fortitude;
But yet it cuts one to the soul to part
At once with all life's little outward trappings!
PAULET.
These are the things that turn the human heart
To vanity, which should collect itself
In penitence; for a lewd, vicious life,
Want and abasement are the only penance.
KENNEDY.
If youthful blood has led her into error,
With her own heart and God she must account:
There is no judge in England over her.
PAULET.
She shall have judgment where she hath transgressed.
KENNEDY.
Her narrow bonds restrain her from transgression.
PAULET.
And yet she found the means to stretch her arm
Into the world, from out these narrow bonds,
And, with the torch of civil war, inflame
This realm against our queen (whom God preserve).
And arm assassin bands. Did she not rouse
From out these walls the malefactor Parry,
And Babington, to the detested crime
Of regicide? And did this iron grate
Prevent her from decoying to her toils
The virtuous heart of Norfolk? Saw we not
The first, best head in all this island fall
A sacrifice for her upon the block?
[The noble house of Howard fell with him.]
And did this sad example terrify
These mad adventurers, whose rival zeal
Plunges for her into this deep abyss?
The bloody scaffold bends beneath the weight
Of her new daily victims; and we ne'er
Shall see an end till she herself, of all
The guiltiest, be offered up upon it.
Oh! curses on the day when England took
This Helen to its hospitable arms.
KENNEDY.
Did England then receive her hospitably?
Oh, hapless queen! who, since that fatal day
When first she set her foot within this realm,
And, as a suppliant--a fugitive--
Came to implore protection from her sister,
Has been condemned, despite the law of nations,
And royal privilege, to weep away
The fairest years of youth in prison walls.
And now, when she hath suffered everything
Which in imprisonment is hard and bitter,
Is like a felon summoned to the bar,
Foully accused, and though herself a queen,
Constrained to plead for honor and for life.
PAULET.
She came amongst us as a murderess,
Chased by her very subjects from a throne
Which she had oft by vilest deeds disgraced.
Sworn against England's welfare came she hither,
To call the times of bloody Mary back,
Betray our church to Romish tyranny,
And sell our dear-bought liberties to France.
Say, why disdained she to subscribe the treaty
Of Edinborough--to resign her claim
To England's crown--and with one single word,
Traced by her pen, throw wide her prison gates?
No:--she had rather live in vile confinement,
And see herself ill-treated, than renounce
The empty honors of her barren title.
Why acts she thus? Because she trusts to wiles,
And treacherous arts of base conspiracy;
And, hourly plotting schemes of mischief, hopes
To conquer, from her prison, all this isle.
KENNEDY.
You mock us, sir, and edge your cruelty
With words of bitter scorn:--that she should form
Such projects; she, who's here immured alive,
To whom no sound of comfort, not a voice
Of friendship comes from her beloved home;
Who hath so long no human face beheld,
Save her stern gaoler's unrelenting brows;
Till now, of late, in your uncourteous cousin
She sees a second keeper, and beholds
Fresh bolts and bars against her multiplied.
PAULET.
No iron-grate is proof against her wiles.
How do I know these bars are not filed through?
How that this floor, these walls, that seem so strong
Without, may not be hollow from within,
And let in felon treachery when I sleep?
Accursed office, that's intrusted to me,
To guard this cunning mother of all ill!
Fear scares me from my sleep; and in the night
I, like a troubled spirit, roam and try
The strength of every bolt, and put to proof
Each guard's fidelity:--I see, with fear,
The dawning of each morn, which may confirm
My apprehensions:--yet, thank God, there's hope
That all my fears will soon be at an end;
For rather would I at the gates of hell
Stand sentinel, and guard the devilish host
Of damned souls, than this deceitful queen.
KENNEDY.
Here comes the queen.
PAULET.
Christ's image in her hand.
Pride, and all worldly lusts within her heart.
SCENE II.
The same. Enter MARY, veiled, a crucifix in her hand.
KENNEDY (hastening toward her).
O gracious queen! they tread us under foot;
No end of tyranny and base oppression;
Each coming day heaps fresh indignities,
New sufferings on thy royal head.
MARY.
Be calm--
Say, what has happened?
KENNEDY.
See! thy cabinet
Is forced--thy papers--and thy only treasure,
Which with such pains we had secured, the last
Poor remnant of thy bridal ornaments
From France, is in his hands--naught now remains
Of royal state--thou art indeed bereft!
MARY.
Compose yourself, my Hannah! and believe me,
'Tis not these baubles that can make a queen--
Basely indeed they may behave to us,
But they cannot debase us. I have learned
To use myself to many a change in England;
I can support this too. Sir, you have taken
By force what I this very day designed
To have delivered to you. There's a letter
Amongst these papers for my royal sister
Of England. Pledge me, sir, your word of honor,
To give it to her majesty's own hands,
And not to the deceitful care of Burleigh.
PAULET.
I shall consider what is best to do.
MARY.
Sir, you shall know its import. In this letter
I beg a favor, a great favor of her,--
That she herself will give me audience,--she
Whom I have never seen. I have been summoned
Before a court of men, whom I can ne'er
Acknowledge as my peers--of men to whom
My heart denies its confidence. The queen
Is of my family, my rank, my sex;
To her alone--a sister, queen, and woman--
Can I unfold my heart.
PAULET.
Too oft, my lady,
Have you intrusted both your fate and honor
To men less worthy your esteem than these.
MARY.
I, in the letter, beg another favor,
And surely naught but inhumanity
Can here reject my prayer. These many years
Have I, in prison, missed the church's comfort,
The blessings of the sacraments--and she
Who robs me of my freedom and my crown,
Who seeks my very life, can never wish
To shut the gates of heaven upon my soul.
PAULET.
Whene'er you wish, the dean shall wait upon you.
MARY (interrupting him sharply).
Talk to me not of deans. I ask the aid
Of one of my own church--a Catholic priest.
PAULET.
[That is against the published laws of England.
MARY.
The laws of England are no rule for me.
I am not England's subject; I have ne'er
Consented to its laws, and will not bow
Before their cruel and despotic sway.
If 'tis your will, to the unheard-of rigor
Which I have borne, to add this new oppression,
I must submit to what your power ordains;
Yet will I raise my voice in loud complaints.]
I also wish a public notary,
And secretaries, to prepare my will--
My sorrows and my prison's wretchedness
Prey on my life--my days, I fear, are numbered--
I feel that I am near the gates of death.
PAULET.
These serious contemplations well become you.
MARY.
And know I then that some too ready hand
May not abridge this tedious work of sorrow?
I would indite my will and make disposal
Of what belongs tome.
PAULET.
This liberty
May be allowed to you, for England's queen
Will not enrich herself by plundering you.
MARY.
I have been parted from my faithful women,
And from my servants; tell me, where are they?
What is their fate? I can indeed dispense
At present with their service, but my heart
Will feel rejoiced to know these faithful ones
Are not exposed to suffering and to want!
PAULET.
Your servants have been cared for; [and again
You shall behold whate'er is taken from you
And all shall be restored in proper season.]
[Going.
MARY.
And will you leave my presence thus again,
And not relieve my fearful, anxious heart
From the fell torments of uncertainty?
Thanks to the vigilance of your hateful spies,
I am divided from the world; no voice
Can reach me through these prison-walls; my fate
Lies in the hands of those who wish my ruin.
A month of dread suspense is passed already
Since when the forty high commissioners
Surprised me in this castle, and erected,
With most unseemly haste, their dread tribunal;
They forced me, stunned, amazed, and unprepared,
Without an advocate, from memory,
Before their unexampled court, to answer
Their weighty charges, artfully arranged.
They came like ghosts,--like ghosts they disappeared,
And since that day all mouths are closed to me.
In vain I seek to construe from your looks
Which hath prevailed--my cause's innocence
And my friends' zeal--or my foes' cursed counsel.
Oh, break this silence! let me know the worst;
What have I still to fear, and what to hope.
PAULET.
Close your accounts with heaven.
MARY.
From heaven I hope
For mercy, sir; and from my earthly judges
I hope, and still expect, the strictest justice.
PAULET.
Justice, depend upon it, will be done you.
MARY.
Is the suit ended, sir?
PAULET.
I cannot tell.
MARY.
Am I condemned?
PAULET.
I cannot answer, lady.
MARY.
[Sir, a good work fears not the light of day.
PAULET.
The day will shine upon it, doubt it not.]
MARY.
Despatch is here the fashion. Is it meant
The murderer shall surprise me, like the judges?
PAULET.
Still entertain that thought and he will find you
Better prepared to meet your fate than they did.
MARY (after a pause).
Sir, nothing can surprise me which a court
Inspired by Burleigh's hate and Hatton's zeal,
Howe'er unjust, may venture to pronounce:
But I have yet to learn how far the queen
Will dare in execution of the sentence.
PAULET.
The sovereigns of England have no fear
But for their conscience and their parliament.
What justice hath decreed her fearless hand
Will execute before the assembled world.
SCENE III.
The same. MORTIMER enters, and without paying attention
to the QUEEN, addresses PAULET.
MORTIMER.
Uncle, you're sought for.
[He retires in the same manner. The QUEEN remarks it, and
turns towards PAULET, who is about to follow him.
MARY.
Sir, one favor more
If you have aught to say to me--from you
I can bear much--I reverence your gray hairs;
But cannot bear that young man's insolence;
Spare me in future his unmannered rudeness.
PAULET.
I prize him most for that which makes you hate him
He is not, truly, one of those poor fools
Who melt before a woman's treacherous tears.
He has seen much--has been to Rheims and Paris,
And brings us back his true old English heart.
Lady, your cunning arts are lost on him.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
MARY, KENNEDY.
KENNEDY.
And dare the ruffian venture to your face
Such language! Oh, 'tis hard--'tis past endurance.
MARY (lost in reflection).
In the fair moments of our former splendor
We lent to flatterers a too willing ear;--
It is but just, good Hannah, we should now
Be forced to hear the bitter voice of censure.
KENNEDY.
So downcast, so depressed, my dearest lady!
You, who before so gay, so full of hope,
Were used to comfort me in my distress;
More gracious were the task to check your mirth
Than chide your heavy sadness.
MARY.
Well I know him--
It is the bleeding Darnley's royal shade,
Rising in anger from his darksome grave
And never will he make his peace with me
Until the measures of my woes be full.
KENNEDY.
What thoughts are these--
MARY.
Thou may'st forget it, Hannah;
But I've a faithful memory--'tis this day
Another wretched anniversary
Of that regretted, that unhappy deed--
Which I must celebrate with fast and penance.
KENNEDY.
Dismiss at length in peace this evil spirit.
The penitence of many a heavy year,
Of many a suffering, has atoned the deed;
The church, which holds the key of absolution,
Pardons the crime, and heaven itself's appeased.
MARY.
This long-atoned crime arises fresh
And bleeding from its lightly-covered grave;
My husband's restless spirit seeks revenge;
No sacred bell can exorcise, no host
In priestly hands dismiss it to his tomb.
KENNEDY.
You did not murder him; 'twas done by others.
MARY.
But it was known to me; I suffered it,
And lured him with my smiles to death's embrace.
KENNEDY.
Your youth extenuates your guilt. You were
Of tender years.
MARY.
So tender, yet I drew
This heavy guilt upon my youthful head.
KENNEDY.
You were provoked by direst injuries,
And by the rude presumption of the man,
Whom out of darkness, like the hand of heaven,
Your love drew forth, and raised above all others.
Whom through your bridal chamber you conducted
Up to your throne, and with your lovely self,
And your hereditary crown, distinguished
[Your work was his existence, and your grace
Bedewed him like the gentle rains of heaven.]
Could he forget that his so splendid lot
Was the creation of your generous love?
Yet did he, worthless as he was, forget it.
With base suspicions, and with brutal manners,
He wearied your affections, and became
An object to you of deserved disgust:
The illusion, which till now had overcast
Your judgment, vanished; angrily you fled
His foul embrace, and gave him up to scorn.
And did he seek again to win your love?
Your favor? Did he e'er implore your pardon?
Or fall in deep repentance at your feet?
No; the base wretch defied you; he, who was
Your bounty's creature, wished to play your king,
[And strove, through fear, to force your inclination.]
Before your eyes he had your favorite singer,
Poor Rizzio, murdered; you did but avenge
With blood the bloody deed----
MARY.
And bloodily,
I fear, too soon 'twill be avenged on me:
You seek to comfort me, and you condemn me.
KENNEDY.
You were, when you consented to this deed,
No more yourself; belonged not to yourself;
The madness of a frantic love possessed you,
And bound you to a terrible seducer,
The wretched Bothwell. That despotic man
Ruled you with shameful, overbearing will,
And with his philters and his hellish arts
Inflamed your passions.
MARY.
All the arts he used
Were man's superior strength and woman's weakness.
KENNEDY.
No, no, I say. The most pernicious spirits
Of hell he must have summoned to his aid,
To cast this mist before your waking senses.
Your ear no more was open to the voice
Of friendly warning, and your eyes were shut
To decency; soft female bashfulness
Deserted you; those cheeks, which were before
The seat of virtuous, blushing modesty,
Glowed with the flames of unrestrained desire.
You cast away the veil of secrecy,
And the flagitious daring of the man
O'ercame your natural coyness: you exposed
Your shame, unblushingly, to public gaze:
You let the murderer, whom the people followed
With curses, through the streets of Edinburgh,
Before you bear the royal sword of Scotland
In triumph. You begirt your parliament
With armed bands; and by this shameless farce,
There, in the very temple of great justice,
You forced the judges of the land to clear
The murderer of his guilt. You went still further--
O God!
MARY.
Conclude--nay, pause not--say for this
I gave my hand in marriage at the altar.
KENNEDY.
O let an everlasting silence veil
That dreadful deed: the heart revolts at it.
A crime to stain the darkest criminal!
Yet you are no such lost one, that I know.
I nursed your youth myself--your heart is framed
For tender softness: 'tis alive to shame,
And all your fault is thoughtless levity.
Yes, I repeat it, there are evil spirits,
Who sudden fix in man's unguarded breast
Their fatal residence, and there delight
To act their dev'lish deeds; then hurry back
Unto their native hell, and leave behind
Remorse and horror in the poisoned bosom.
Since this misdeed, which blackens thus your life,
You have done nothing ill; your conduct has
Been pure; myself can witness your amendment.
Take courage, then; with your own heart make peace.
Whatever cause you have for penitence,
You are not guilty here. Nor England's queen,
Nor England's parliament can be your judge.
Here might oppresses you: you may present
Yourself before this self-created court
With all the fortitude of innocence.
MARY.
I hear a step.
KENNEDY.
It is the nephew--In.
SCENE V.
The same. Enter MORTIMER, approaching cautiously.
MORTIMER (to KENNEDY).
Step to the door, and keep a careful watch,
I have important business with the queen.
MARY (with dignity).
I charge thee, Hannah, go not hence--remain.
MORTIMER.
Fear not, my gracious lady--learn to know me.
[He gives her a card.
MARY (She examines it, and starts back astonished).
Heavens! What is this?
MORTIMER (to KENNEDY).
Retire, good Kennedy;
See that my uncle comes not unawares.
MARY (to KENNEDY, who hesitates, and looks at the QUEEN inquiringly).
Go in; do as he bids you.
[KENNEDY retires with signs of wonder.
SCENE VI.
MARY, MORTIMER.
MARY.
From my uncle
In France--the worthy Cardinal of Lorrain?
[She reads.
"Confide in Mortimer, who brings you this;
You have no truer, firmer friend in England."
[Looking at him with astonishment.
Can I believe it? Is there no delusion
To cheat my senses? Do I find a friend
So near, when I conceived myself abandoned
By the whole world? And find that friend in you,
The nephew of my gaoler, whom I thought
My most inveterate enemy?
MORTIMER (kneeling).
Oh, pardon,
My gracious liege, for the detested mask,
Which it has cost me pain enough to wear;
Yet through such means alone have I the power
To see you, and to bring you help and rescue.
MARY.
Arise, sir; you astonish me; I cannot
So suddenly emerge from the abyss
Of wretchedness to hope: let me conceive
This happiness, that I may credit it.
MORTIMER.
Our time is brief: each moment I expect
My uncle, whom a hated man attends;
Hear, then, before his terrible commission
Surprises you, how heaven prepares your rescue.
MARY.
You come in token of its wondrous power.
MORTIMER.
Allow me of myself to speak.
MARY.
Say on.
MORTIMER.
I scarce, my liege, had numbered twenty years,
Trained in the path of strictest discipline
And nursed in deadliest hate to papacy,
When led by irresistible desire
For foreign travel, I resolved to leave
My country and its puritanic faith
Far, far behind me: soon with rapid speed
I flew through France, and bent my eager course
On to the plains of far-famed Italy.
'Twas then the time of the great jubilee:
And crowds of palmers filled the public roads;
Each image was adorned with garlands; 'twas
As if all human-kind were wandering forth
In pilgrimage towards the heavenly kingdom.
The tide of the believing multitude
Bore me too onward, with resistless force,
Into the streets of Rome. What was my wonder,
As the magnificence of stately columns
Rushed on my sight! the vast triumphal arches,
The Colosseum's grandeur, with amazement
Struck my admiring senses; the sublime
Creative spirit held my soul a prisoner
In the fair world of wonders it had framed.
I ne'er had felt the power of art till now.
The church that reared me hates the charms of sense;
It tolerates no image, it adores
But the unseen, the incorporeal word.
What were my feelings, then, as I approached
The threshold of the churches, and within,
Heard heavenly music floating in the air:
While from the walls and high-wrought roofs there streamed
Crowds of celestial forms in endless train--
When the Most High, Most Glorious pervaded
My captivated sense in real presence!
And when I saw the great and godlike visions,
The Salutation, the Nativity,
The Holy Mother, and the Trinity's
Descent, the luminous transfiguration
And last the holy pontiff, clad in all
The glory of his office, bless the people!
Oh! what is all the pomp of gold and jewels
With which the kings of earth adorn themselves!
He is alone surrounded by the Godhead;
His mansion is in truth an heavenly kingdom,
For not of earthly moulding are these forms!
MARY.
O spare me, sir! No further. Spread no more
Life's verdant carpet out before my eyes,
Remember I am wretched, and a prisoner.
MORTIMER.
I was a prisoner, too, my queen; but swift
My prison-gates flew open, when at once
My spirit felt its liberty, and hailed
The smiling dawn of life. I learned to burst
Each narrow prejudice of education,
To crown my brow with never-fading wreaths,
And mix my joy with the rejoicing crowd.
Full many noble Scots, who saw my zeal,
Encouraged me, and with the gallant French
They kindly led me to your princely uncle,
The Cardinal of Guise. Oh, what a man!
How firm, how clear, how manly, and how great!
Born to control the human mind at will!
The very model of a royal priest;
A ruler of the church without an equal!
MARY.
You've seen him then,--the much loved, honored man,
Who was the guardian of my tender years!
Oh, speak of him! Does he remember me?
Does fortune favor him? And prospers still
His life? And does he still majestic stand,
A very rock and pillar of the church?
MORTIMER.
The holy man descended from his height,
And deigned to teach me the important creed
Of the true church, and dissipate my doubts.
He showed me how the glimmering light of reason
Serves but to lead us to eternal error:
That what the heart is called on to believe
The eye must see: that he who rules the church
Must needs be visible; and that the spirit
Of truth inspired the councils of the fathers.
How vanished then the fond imaginings
And weak conceptions of my childish soul
Before his conquering judgment, and the soft
Persuasion of his tongue! So I returned
Back to the bosom of the holy church,
And at his feet abjured my heresies.
MARY.
Then of those happy thousands you are one,
Whom he, with his celestial eloquence,
Like the immortal preacher of the mount,
Has turned and led to everlasting joy!
MORTIMER.
The duties of his office called him soon
To France, and I was sent by him to Rheims,
Where, by the Jesuits' anxious labor, priests
Are trained to preach our holy faith in England.
There, 'mongst the Scots, I found the noble Morgan,
And your true Lesley, Ross's learned bishop,
Who pass in France their joyless days of exile.
I joined with heartfelt zeal these worthy men,
And fortified my faith. As I one day
Roamed through the bishop's dwelling, I was struck
With a fair female portrait; it was full
Of touching wond'rous charms; with magic might
It moved my inmost soul, and there I stood
Speechless, and overmastered by my feelings.
"Well," cried the bishop, "may you linger thus
In deep emotion near this lovely face!
For the most beautiful of womankind,
Is also matchless in calamity.
She is a prisoner for our holy faith,
And in your native land, alas! she suffers."
[MARY is in great agitation. He pauses.
MARY.
Excellent man! All is not lost, indeed,
While such a friend remains in my misfortunes!
MORTIMER.
Then he began, with moving eloquence,
To paint the sufferings of your martyrdom;
He showed me then your lofty pedigree,
And your descent from Tudor's royal house.
He proved to me that you alone have right
To reign in England, not this upstart queen,
The base-born fruit of an adult'rous bed,
Whom Henry's self rejected as a bastard.
[He from my eyes removed delusion's mist,
And taught me to lament you as a victim,
To honor you as my true queen, whom I,
Deceived, like thousands of my noble fellows,
Had ever hated as my country's foe.]
I would not trust his evidence alone;
I questioned learned doctors; I consulted
The most authentic books of heraldry;
And every man of knowledge whom I asked
Confirmed to me your claim's validity.
And now I know that your undoubted right
To England's throne has been your only wrong,
This realm is justly yours by heritage,
In which you innocently pine as prisoner.
MARY.
Oh, this unhappy right!--'tis this alone
Which is the source of all my sufferings.
MORTIMER.
Just at this time the tidings reached my ears
Of your removal from old Talbot's charge,
And your committal to my uncle's care.
It seemed to me that this disposal marked
The wond'rous, outstretched hand of favoring heaven;
It seemed to be a loud decree of fate,
That it had chosen me to rescue you.
My friends concur with me; the cardinal
Bestows on me his counsel and his blessing,
And tutors me in the hard task of feigning.
The plan in haste digested, I commenced
My journey homewards, and ten days ago
On England's shores I landed. Oh, my queen.
[He pauses.
I saw then, not your picture, but yourself--
Oh, what a treasure do these walls enclose!
No prison this, but the abode of gods,
More splendid far than England's royal court.
Happy, thrice happy he, whose envied lot
Permits to breathe the selfsame air with you!
It is a prudent policy in her
To bury you so deep! All England's youth
Would rise at once in general mutiny,
And not a sword lie quiet in its sheath:
Rebellion would uprear its giant head,
Through all this peaceful isle, if Britons once
Beheld their captive queen.
MARY.
'Twere well with her,
If every Briton saw her with your eyes!
MORTIMER.
Were each, like me, a witness of your wrongs,
Your meekness, and the noble fortitude
With which you suffer these indignities--
Would you not then emerge from all these trials
Like a true queen? Your prison's infamy,
Hath it despoiled your beauty of its charms?
You are deprived of all that graces life,
Yet round you life and light eternal beam.
Ne'er on this threshold can I set my foot,
That my poor heart with anguish is not torn,
Nor ravished with delight at gazing on you.
Yet fearfully the fatal time draws near,
And danger hourly growing presses on.
I can delay no longer--can no more
Conceal the dreadful news.
MARY.
My sentence then!
It is pronounced? Speak freely--I can bear it.
MORTIMER.
It is pronounced! The two-and-forty judges
Have given the verdict, "guilty"; and the Houses
Of Lords and Commons, with the citizens
Of London, eagerly and urgently
Demand the execution of the sentence:--
The queen alone still craftily delays,
That she may be constrained to yield, but not
From feelings of humanity or mercy.
MARY (collected).
Sir, I am not surprised, nor terrified.
I have been long prepared for such a message.
Too well I know my judges. After all
Their cruel treatment I can well conceive
They dare not now restore my liberty.
I know their aim: they mean to keep me here
In everlasting bondage, and to bury,
In the sepulchral darkness of my prison,
My vengeance with me, and my rightful claims.
MORTIMER.
Oh, no, my gracious queen;--they stop not there:
Oppression will not be content to do
Its work by halves:--as long as e'en you live,
Distrust and fear will haunt the English queen.
No dungeon can inter you deep enough;
Your death alone can make her throne secure.
MARY.
Will she then dare, regardless of the shame,
Lay my crowned head upon the fatal block?
MORTIMER.
She will most surely dare it, doubt it not.
MARY.
And can she thus roll in the very dust
Her own, and every monarch's majesty?
MORTIMER.
She thinks on nothing now but present danger,
Nor looks to that which is so far removed.
MARY.
And fears she not the dread revenge of France?
MORTIMER.
With France she makes an everlasting peace;
And gives to Anjou's duke her throne and hand.
MARY.
Will not the King of Spain rise up in arms?
MORTIMER.
She fears not a collected world in arms?
If with her people she remains at peace.
MARY.
Were this a spectacle for British eyes?
MORTIMER.
This land, my queen, has, in these latter days,
Seen many a royal woman from the throne
Descend and mount the scaffold:--her own mother
And Catherine Howard trod this fatal path;
And was not Lady Grey a crowned head?
MARY (after a pause).
No, Mortimer, vain fears have blinded you;
'Tis but the honest care of your true heart,
Which conjures up these empty apprehensions.
It is not, sir, the scaffold that I fear:
There are so many still and secret means
By which her majesty of England may
Set all my claims to rest. Oh, trust me, ere
An executioner is found for me,
Assassins will be hired to do their work.
'Tis that which makes me tremble, Mortimer:
I never lift the goblet to my lips
Without an inward shuddering, lest the draught
May have been mingled by my sister's love.
MORTIMER.
No:--neither open or disguised murder
Shall e'er prevail against you:--fear no more;
All is prepared;--twelve nobles of the land
Are my confederates, and have pledged to-day,
Upon the sacrament, their faith to free you,
With dauntless arm, from this captivity.
Count Aubespine, the French ambassador,
Knows of our plot, and offers his assistance:
'Tis in his palace that we hold our meetings.
NARY.
You make me tremble, sir, but not for joy!
An evil boding penetrates my heart.
Know you, then, what you risk? Are you not scared
By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads,
Set up as warnings upon London's bridge?
Nor by the ruin of those many victims
Who have, in such attempts, found certain death,
And only made my chains the heavier?
Fly hence, deluded, most unhappy youth!
Fly, if there yet be time for you, before
That crafty spy, Lord Burleigh, track your schemes,
And mix his traitors in your secret plots.
Fly hence:--as yet, success hath never smiled
On Mary Stuart's champions.
MORTIMER.
I am not scared
By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads
Set up as warnings upon London's bridge;
Nor by the ruin of those many victims
Who have, in such attempts, found certain death:
They also found therein immortal honor,
And death, in rescuing you, is dearest bliss.
MARY.
It is in vain: nor force nor guile can save me:--
My enemies are watchful, and the power
Is in their hands. It is not Paulet only
And his dependent host; all England guards
My prison gates: Elizabeth's free will
Alone can open them.
MORTIMER.
Expect not that.
MARY.
One man alone on earth can open them.
MORTIMER.
Oh, let me know his name!
MARY.
Lord Leicester.
MORTIMER.
He!
[Starts back in wonder.
The Earl of Leicester! Your most bloody foe,
The favorite of Elizabeth! through him----
MARY.
If I am to be saved at all, 'twill be
Through him, and him alone. Go to him, sir;
Freely confide in him: and, as a proof
You come from me, present this paper to him.
[She takes a paper from her bosom; MORTIMER draws back,
and hesitates to take it.
It doth contain my portrait:--take it, sir;
I've borne it long about me; but your uncle's
Close watchfulness has cut me off from all
Communication with him;--you were sent
By my good angel.
[He takes it.
MORTIMER.
Oh, my queen! Explain
This mystery.
MARY.
Lord Leicester will resolve it.
Confide in him, and he'll confide in you.
Who comes?
KENNEDY (entering hastily).
'Tis Paulet; and he brings with him
A nobleman from court.
MORTIMER.
It is Lord Burleigh.
Collect yourself, my queen, and strive to hear
The news he brings with equanimity.
[He retires through a side door, and KENNEDY follows him.
SCENE VII.
Enter LORD BURLEIGH, and PAULET.
PAULET (to MARY).
You wished to-day assurance of your fate;
My Lord of Burleigh brings it to you now;
Hear it with resignation, as beseems you.
MARY.
I hope with dignity, as it becomes
My innocence, and my exalted station.
BURLEIGH.
I come deputed from the court of justice.
MARY.
Lord Burleigh lends that court his willing tongue,
Which was already guided by his spirit.
PAULET.
You speak as if no stranger to the sentence.
MARY.
Lord Burleigh brings it; therefore do I know it.
PAULET.
[It would become you better, Lady Stuart,
To listen less to hatred.
MARY.
I but name
My enemy: I said not that I hate him.]
But to the matter, sir.
BURLEIGH.
You have acknowledged
The jurisdiction of the two-and-forty.
MARY.
My lord, excuse me, if I am obliged
So soon to interrupt you. I acknowledged,
Say you, the competence of the commission?
I never have acknowledged it, my lord;
How could I so? I could not give away
My own prerogative, the intrusted rights
Of my own people, the inheritance
Of my own son, and every monarch's honor
[The very laws of England say I could not.]
It is enacted by the English laws
That every one who stands arraigned of crime
Shall plead before a jury of his equals:
Who is my equal in this high commission?
Kings only are my peers.
BURLEIGH.
But yet you heard
The points of accusation, answered them
Before the court----
MARY.
'Tis true, I was deceived
By Hatton's crafty counsel:--he advised me,
For my own honor, and in confidence
In my good cause, and my most strong defence,
To listen to the points of accusation,
And prove their falsehoods. This, my lord, I did
From personal respect for the lords' names,
Not their usurped charge, which I disclaim.
BURLEIGH.
Acknowledge you the court, or not, that is
Only a point of mere formality,
Which cannot here arrest the course of justice.
You breathe the air of England; you enjoy
The law's protection, and its benefits;
You therefore are its subject.
MARY.
Sir, I breathe
The air within an English prison walls:
Is that to live in England; to enjoy
Protection from its laws? I scarcely know
And never have I pledged my faith to keep them.
I am no member of this realm; I am
An independent, and a foreign queen.
BURLEIGH.
And do you think that the mere name of queen
Can serve you as a charter to foment
In other countries, with impunity,
This bloody discord? Where would be the state's
Security, if the stern sword of justice
Could not as freely smite the guilty brow
Of the imperial stranger as the beggar's?
MARY.
I do not wish to be exempt from judgment,
It is the judges only I disclaim.
BURLEIGH.
The judges? How now, madam? Are they then
Base wretches, snatched at hazard from the crowd?
Vile wranglers that make sale of truth and justice;
Oppression's willing hirelings, and its tools?
Are they not all the foremost of this land,
Too independent to be else than honest,
And too exalted not to soar above
The fear of kings, or base servility?
Are they not those who rule a generous people
In liberty and justice; men, whose names
I need but mention to dispel each doubt,
Each mean suspicion which is raised against them?
Stands not the reverend primate at their head,
The pious shepherd of his faithful people,
The learned Talbot, keeper of the seals,
And Howard, who commands our conquering fleets?
Say, then, could England's sovereign do more
Than, out of all the monarchy, elect
The very noblest, and appoint them judges
In this great suit? And were it probable
That party hatred could corrupt one heart;
Can forty chosen men unite to speak
A sentence just as passion gives command?
MARY (after a short pause).
I am struck dumb by that tongue's eloquence,
Which ever was so ominous to me.
And how shall I, a weak, untutored woman,
Cope with so subtle, learned an orator?
Yes truly; were these lords as you describe them,
I must be mute; my cause were lost indeed,
Beyond all hope, if they pronounce me guilty.
But, sir, these names, which you are pleased to praise,
These very men, whose weight you think will crush me,
I see performing in the history
Of these dominions very different parts:
I see this high nobility of England,
This grave majestic senate of the realm,
Like to an eastern monarch's vilest slaves,
Flatter my uncle Henry's sultan fancies:
I see this noble, reverend House of Lords,
Venal alike with the corrupted Commons,
Make statutes and annul them, ratify
A marriage and dissolve it, as the voice
Of power commands: to-day it disinherits,
And brands the royal daughters of the realm
With the vile name of bastards, and to-morrow
Crowns them as queens, and leads them to the throne.
I see them in four reigns, with pliant conscience,
Four times abjure their faith; renounce the pope
With Henry, yet retain the old belief;
Reform themselves with Edward; hear the mass
Again with Mary; with Elizabeth,
Who governs now, reform themselves again.
BURLEIGH.
You say you are not versed in England's laws,
You seem well read, methinks, in her disasters.
MARY.
And these men are my judges?
[As LORD BURLEIGH seems to wish to speak.
My lord treasurer,
Towards you I will be just, be you but just
To me. 'Tis said that you consult with zeal
The good of England, and of England's queen;
Are honest, watchful, indefatigable;
I will believe it. Not your private ends,
Your sovereign and your country's weal alone,
Inspire your counsels and direct your deeds.
Therefore, my noble lord, you should the more
Distrust your heart; should see that you mistake not
The welfare of the government for justice.
I do not doubt, besides yourself, there are
Among my judges many upright men:
But they are Protestants, are eager all
For England's quiet, and they sit in judgment
On me, the Queen of Scotland, and the papist.
It is an ancient saying, that the Scots
And England to each other are unjust;
And hence the rightful custom that a Scot
Against an Englishman, or Englishman
Against a Scot, cannot be heard in judgment.
Necessity prescribed this cautious law;
Deep policy oft lies in ancient customs:
My lord, we must respect them. Nature cast
Into the ocean these two fiery nations
Upon this plank, and she divided it
Unequally, and bade them fight for it.
The narrow bed of Tweed alone divides
These daring spirits; often hath the blood
Of the contending parties dyed its waves.
Threatening, and sword in hand, these thousand years,
From both its banks they watch their rival's motions,
Most vigilant and true confederates,
With every enemy of the neighbor state.
No foe oppresses England, but the Scot
Becomes his firm ally; no civil war
Inflames the towns of Scotland, but the English
Add fuel to the fire: this raging hate
Will never be extinguished till, at last,
One parliament in concord shall unite them,
One common sceptre rule throughout the isle.
BURLEIGH.
And from a Stuart, then, should England hope
This happiness?
MARY.
Oh! why should I deny it?
Yes, I confess, I cherished the fond hope;
I thought myself the happy instrument
To join in freedom, 'neath the olive's shade,
Two generous realms in lasting happiness!
I little thought I should become the victim
Of their old hate, their long-lived jealousy;
And the sad flames of that unhappy strife,
I hoped at last to smother, and forever:
And, as my ancestor, great Richmond, joined
The rival roses after bloody contest,
To join in peace the Scotch and English crowns.
BURLEIGH.
An evil way you took to this good end,
To set the realm on fire, and through the flames
Of civil war to strive to mount the throne.
MARY.
I wished not that:--I wished it not, by Heaven!
When did I strive at that? Where are your proofs?
BURLEIGH.
I came not hither to dispute; your cause
Is no more subject to a war of words.
The great majority of forty voices
Hath found that you have contravened the law
Last year enacted, and have now incurred
Its penalty.
[Producing the verdict.
MARY.
Upon this statute, then,
My lord, is built the verdict of my judges?
BURLEIGH (reading).
Last year it was enacted, "If a plot
Henceforth should rise in England, in the name
Or for the benefit of any claimant
To England's crown, that justice should be done
On such pretender, and the guilty party
Be prosecuted unto death." Now, since
It has been proved----
MARY.
Lord Burleigh, I can well
Imagine that a law expressly aimed
At me, and framed to compass my destruction
May to my prejudice be used. Oh! Woe
To the unhappy victim, when the tongue
That frames the law shall execute the sentence.
Can you deny it, sir, that this same statute
Was made for my destruction, and naught else?
BURLEIGH.
It should have acted as a warning to you:
By your imprudence it became a snare.
You saw the precipice which yawned before you;
Yet, truly warned, you plunged into the deep.
With Babington, the traitor, and his bands
Of murderous companions, were you leagued.
You knew of all, and from your prison led
Their treasonous plottings with a deep-laid plan.
MARY.
When did I that, my lord? Let them produce
The documents.
BURLEIGH.
You have already seen them
They were before the court, presented to you.
MARY.
Mere copies written by another hand;
Show me the proof that they were dictated
By me, that they proceeded from my lips,
And in those very terms in which you read them.
BURLEIGH.
Before his execution, Babington
Confessed they were the same which he received.
MARY.
Why was he in his lifetime not produced
Before my face? Why was he then despatched
So quickly that he could not be confronted
With her whom he accused?
BURLEIGH.
Besides, my lady,
Your secretaries, Curl and Nau, declare
On oath, they are the very selfsame letters
Which from your lips they faithfully transcribed.
MARY.
And on my menials' testimony, then,
I am condemned; upon the word of those
Who have betrayed me, me, their rightful queen!
Who in that very moment, when they came
As witnesses against me, broke their faith!
BURLEIGH.
You said yourself, you held your countryman
To be an upright, conscientious man.
MARY.
I thought him such; but 'tis the hour of danger
Alone, which tries the virtue of a man.
[He ever was an honest man, but weak
In understanding; and his subtle comrade,
Whose faith, observe, I never answered for,
Might easily seduce him to write down
More than he should;] the rack may have compelled him
To say and to confess more than he knew.
He hoped to save himself by this false witness,
And thought it could not injure me--a queen.
BURLEIGH.
The oath he swore was free and unconstrained.
MARY.
But not before my face! How now, my lord?
The witnesses you name are still alive;
Let them appear against me face to face,
And there repeat what they have testified.
Why am I then denied that privilege,
That right which e'en the murderer enjoys?
I know from Talbot's mouth, my former keeper,
That in this reign a statute has been passed
Which orders that the plaintiff be confronted
With the defendant; is it so, good Paulet?
I e'er have known you as an honest man;
Now prove it to me; tell me, on your conscience,
If such a law exist or not in England?
PAULET.
Madam, there does: that is the law in England.
I must declare the truth.
MARY.
Well, then, my lord,
If I am treated by the law of England
So hardly, when that law oppresses me,
Say, why avoid this selfsame country's law,
When 'tis for my advantage? Answer me;
Why was not Babington confronted with me?
Why not my servants, who are both alive?
BURLEIGH.
Be not so hasty, lady; 'tis not only
Your plot with Babington----
MARY.
'Tis that alone
Which arms the law against me; that alone
From which I'm called upon to clear myself.
Stick to the point, my lord; evade it not.
BURLEIGH.
It has been proved that you have corresponded
With the ambassador of Spain, Mendoza----
MARY.
Stick to the point, my lord.
BURLEIGH.
That you have formed
Conspiracies to overturn the fixed
Religion of the realm; that you have called
Into this kingdom foreign powers, and roused
All kings in Europe to a war with England.
MARY.
And were it so, my lord--though I deny it--
But e'en suppose it were so: I am kept
Imprisoned here against all laws of nations.
I came not into England sword in hand;
I came a suppliant; and at the hands
Of my imperial kinswoman I claimed
The sacred rights of hospitality,
When power seized upon me, and prepared
To rivet fetters where I hoped protection.
Say, is my conscience bound, then, to this realm?
What are the duties that I owe to England?
I should but exercise a sacred right,
Derived from sad necessity, if I
Warred with these bonds, encountered might with might,
Roused and incited every state in Europe
For my protection to unite in arms.
Whatever in a rightful war is just
And loyal, 'tis my right to exercise:
Murder alone, the secret, bloody deed,
My conscience and my pride alike forbid.
Murder would stain me, would dishonor me:
Dishonor me, my lord, but not condemn me,
Nor subject me to England's courts of law:
For 'tis not justice, but mere violence,
Which is the question 'tween myself and England.
BURLEIGH (significantly).
Talk not, my lady, of the dreadful right
Of power: 'tis seldom on the prisoner's side.
MARY.
I am the weak, she is the mighty one:
'Tis well, my lord; let her, then, use her power;
Let her destroy me; let me bleed, that she
May live secure; but let her, then, confess
That she hath exercised her power alone,
And not contaminate the name of justice.
Let her not borrow from the laws the sword
To rid her of her hated enemy;
Let her not clothe in this religious garb
The bloody daring of licentious might;
Let not these juggling tricks deceive the world.
[Returning the sentence.
Though she may murder me, she cannot judge me:
Let her no longer strive to join the fruits
Of vice with virtue's fair and angel show;
But let her dare to seem the thing she is.
[Exit.
SCENE VIII.
BURLEIGH, PAULET.
BURLEIGH.
She scorns us, she defies us! will defy us,
Even at the scaffold's foot. This haughty heart
Is not to be subdued. Say, did the sentence
Surprise her? Did you see her shed one tear,
Or even change her color? She disdains
To make appeal to our compassion. Well
She knows the wavering mind of England's queen.
Our apprehensions make her bold.
PAULET.
My lord,
Take the pretext away which buoys it up,
And you shall see this proud defiance fail
That very moment. I must say, my lord,
Irregularities have been allowed
In these proceedings; Babington and Ballard
Should have been brought, with her two secretaries,
Before her, face to face.
BURLEIGH.
No, Paulet, no.
That was not to be risked; her influence
Upon the human heart is too supreme;
Too strong the female empire of her tears.
Her secretary, Curl, if brought before her,
And called upon to speak the weighty word
On which her life depends, would straight shrink back
And fearfully revoke his own confession.
PAULET.
Then England's enemies will fill the world
With evil rumors; and the formal pomp
Of these proceedings to the minds of all
Will only signalize an act of outrage.
BURLEIGH.
That is the greatest torment of our queen,
[That she can never 'scape the blame. Oh God!]
Had but this lovely mischief died before
She set her faithless foot on English ground.
PAULET.
Amen, say I!
BURLEIGH.
Had sickness but consumed her!
PAULET.
England had been secured from such misfortune.
BURLEIGH.
And yet, if she had died in nature's course,
The world would still have called us murderers.
PAULET.
'Tis true, the world will think, despite of us,
Whate'er it list.
BURLEIGH.
Yet could it not be proved?
And it would make less noise.
PAULET.
Why, let it make
What noise it may. It is not clamorous blame,
'Tis righteous censure only which can wound.
BURLEIGH.
We know that holy justice cannot 'scape
The voice of censure; and the public cry
Is ever on the side of the unhappy:
Envy pursues the laurelled conqueror;
The sword of justice, which adorns the man,
Is hateful in a woman's hand; the world
Will give no credit to a woman's justice
If woman be the victim. Vain that wo,
The judges, spoke what conscience dictated;
She has the royal privilege of mercy;
She must exert it: 'twere not to be borne,
Should she let justice take its full career.
PAULET.
And therefore----
BURLEIGH.
Therefore should she live? Oh, no,
She must not live; it must not be. 'Tis this,
Even this, my friend, which so disturbs the queen,
And scares all slumber from her couch; I read
Her soul's distracting contest in her eyes:
She fears to speak her wishes, yet her looks,
Her silent looks, significantly ask,
"Is there not one amongst my many servants
To save me from this sad alternative?
Either to tremble in eternal fear
Upon my throne, or else to sacrifice
A queen of my own kindred on the block?"
PAULET.
'Tis even so; nor can it be avoided----
BURLEIGH.
Well might it be avoided, thinks the queen,
If she had only more attentive servants.
PAULET.
How more attentive?
BURLEIGH.
Such as could interpret
A silent mandate.
PAULET.
What? A silent mandate!
BURLEIGH.
Who, when a poisonous adder is delivered
Into their hands, would keep the treacherous charge
As if it were a sacred, precious jewel?
PAULET.
A precious jewel is the queen's good name
And spotless reputation: good my lord,
One cannot guard it with sufficient care.
BURLEIGH.
When out of Shrewsbury's hands the Queen of Scots
Was trusted to Sir Amias Paulet's care,
The meaning was----
PAULET.
I hope to God, my lord,
The meaning was to give the weightiest charge
Into the purest hands; my lord, my lord!
By heaven I had disdained this bailiff's office
Had I not thought the service claimed the care
Of the best man that England's realm can boast.
Let me not think I am indebted for it
To anything but my unblemished name.
BURLEIGH.
Spread the report she wastes; grows sicker still
And sicker; and expires at last in peace;
Thus will she perish in the world's remembrance,
And your good name is pure.
PAULET.
But not my conscience.
BURLEIGH.
Though you refuse us, sir, your own assistance,
You will not sure prevent another's hand.
PAULET.
No murderer's foot shall e'er approach her threshold
Whilst she's protected by my household gods.
Her life's a sacred trust; to me the head
Of Queen Elizabeth is not more sacred.
Ye are the judges; judge, and break the staff;
And when 'tis time then let the carpenter
With axe and saw appear to build the scaffold.
My castle's portals shall be open to him,
The sheriff and the executioners:
Till then she is intrusted to my care;
And be assured I will fulfil my trust,
She shall nor do nor suffer what's unjust.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
London, a Hall in the Palace of Westminster. The EARL OF KENT
and SIR WILLIAM DAVISON meeting.
DAVISON.
Is that my Lord of Kent? So soon returned?
Is then the tourney, the carousal over?
KENT.
How now? Were you not present at the tilt?
DAVISON.
My office kept me here.
KENT.
Believe me, sir,
You've lost the fairest show which ever state
Devised, or graceful dignity performed:
For beauty's virgin fortress was presented
As by desire invested; the Earl-Marshal,
The Lord-High Admiral, and ten other knights
Belonging to the queen defended it,
And France's cavaliers led the attack.
A herald marched before the gallant troop,
And summoned, in a madrigal, the fortress;
And from the walls the chancellor replied;
And then the artillery was played, and nosegays
Breathing delicious fragrance were discharged
From neat field-pieces; but in vain, the storm
Was valiantly resisted, and desire
Was forced, unwillingly, to raise the siege.
DAVISON.
A sign of evil-boding, good my lord,
For the French Suitors.
KENT.
Why, you know that this
Was but in sport; when the attack's in earnest
The fortress will, no doubt, capitulate.
DAVISON.
Ha! think you so? I never can believe it.
KENT.
The hardest article of all is now
Adjusted and acceded to by France;
The Duke of Anjou is content to hold
His holy worship in a private chapel;
And openly he promises to honor
And to protect the realm's established faith.
Had ye but heard the people's joyful shouts
Where'er the tidings spread, for it has been
The country's constant fear the queen might die
Without immediate issue of her body;
And England bear again the Romish chains
If Mary Stuart should ascend the throne.
DAVISON.
This fear appears superfluous; she goes
Into the bridal chamber; Mary Stuart
Enters the gates of death.
KENT.
The queen approaches.
SCENE II.
Enter ELIZABETH, led in by LEICESTER, COUNT AUBESPINE,
BELLIEVRE, LORDS SHREWSBURY and BURLEIGH, with other
French and English gentlemen.
ELIZABETH (to AUBESPINE).
Count, I am sorry for these noblemen
Whose gallant zeal hath brought them over sea
To visit these our shores, that they, with us,
Must miss the splendor of St. Germain's court.
Such pompous festivals of godlike state
I cannot furnish as the royal court
Of France. A sober and contented people,
Which crowd around me with a thousand blessings
Whene'er in public I present myself:
This is the spectacle which I can show,
And not without some pride, to foreign eyes.
The splendor of the noble dames who bloom
In Catherine's beauteous garden would, I know,
Eclipse myself, and my more modest merits.
AUBESPINE.
The court of England has one lady only
To show the wondering foreigner; but all
That charms our hearts in the accomplished sex
Is seen united in her single person.
BELLIEVRE.
Great majesty of England, suffer us
To take our leave, and to our royal master,
The Duke of Anjou, bring the happy news.
The hot impatience of his heart would not
Permit him to remain at Paris; he
At Amiens awaits the joyful tidings;
And thence to Calais reach his posts to bring
With winged swiftness to his tranced ear
The sweet consent which, still we humbly hope,
Your royal lips will graciously pronounce.
ELIZABETH.
Press me no further now, Count Bellievre.
It is not now a time, I must repeat,
To kindle here the joyful marriage torch.
The heavens lower black and heavy o'er this land;
And weeds of mourning would become me better
Than the magnificence of bridal robes.
A fatal blow is aimed against my heart;
A blow which threatens to oppress my house.
BELLIEVRE.
We only ask your majesty to promise
Your royal hand when brighter days shall come.
ELIZABETH.
Monarchs are but the slaves of their condition;
They dare not hear the dictates of their hearts;
My wish was ever to remain unmarried,
And I had placed my greatest pride in this,
That men hereafter on my tomb might read,
"Here rests the virgin queen." But my good subjects
Are not content that this should be: they think,
E'en now they often think upon the time
When I shall be no more. 'Tis not enough
That blessings now are showered upon this land;
They ask a sacrifice for future welfare,
And I must offer up my liberty,
My virgin liberty, my greatest good,
To satisfy my people. Thus they'd force
A lord and master on me. 'Tis by this
I see that I am nothing but a woman
In their regard; and yet methought that I
Had governed like a man, and like a king.
Well wot I that it is not serving God
To quit the laws of nature; and that those
Who here have ruled before me merit praise,
That they have oped the cloister gates, and given
Thousands of victims of ill-taught devotion
Back to the duties of humanity.
But yet a queen who hath not spent her days
In fruitless, idle contemplation; who,
Without murmur, indefatigably
Performs the hardest of all duties; she
Should be exempted from that natural law
Which doth ordain one half of human kind
Shall ever be subservient to the other.
AUBESPINE.
Great queen, you have upon your throne done honor
To every virtue; nothing now remains
But to the sex, whose greatest boast you are
To be the leading star, and give the great
Example of its most consistent duties.
'Tis true, the man exists not who deserves
That you to him should sacrifice your freedom;
Yet if a hero's soul, descent, and rank,
And manly beauty can make mortal man
Deserving of this honor----
ELIZABETH.
Without doubt,
My lord ambassador, a marriage union
With France's royal son would do me honor;
Yes, I acknowledge it without disguise,
If it must be, if I cannot prevent it,
If I must yield unto my people's prayers,
And much I fear they will o'erpower me,
I do not know in Europe any prince
To whom with less reluctance I would yield
My greatest treasure, my dear liberty.
Let this confession satisfy your master.
BELLIEVRE.
It gives the fairest hope, and yet it gives
Nothing but hope; my master wishes more.
ELIZABETH.
What wishes he?
[She takes a ring from her finger, and thoughtfully examines it.
In this a queen has not
One privilege above all other women.
This common token marks one common duty,
One common servitude; the ring denotes
Marriage, and 'tis of rings a chain is formed.
Convey this present to his highness; 'tis
As yet no chain, it binds me not as yet,
But out of it may grow a link to bind me.
BELLIEVRE (kneeling).
This present, in his name, upon my knees,
I do receive, great queen, and press the kiss
Of homage on the hand of her who is
Henceforth my princess.
ELIZABETH (to the EARL OF LEICESTER, whom she, during the last speeches,
had continually regarded).
By your leave, my lord.
[She takes the blue ribbon from his neck [1], and invests Bellievre
with it.
Invest his highness with this ornament,
As I invest you with it, and receive you
Into the duties of my gallant order.
And, "Honi soit qui mal y pense." Thus perish
All jealousy between our several realms,
And let the bond of confidence unite
Henceforth, the crowns of Britain and of France.
BELLIEVRE.
Most sovereign queen, this is a day of joy;
Oh that it could be so for all, and no
Afflicted heart within this island mourn.
See! mercy beams upon thy radiant brow;
Let the reflection of its cheering light
Fall on a wretched princess, who concerns
Britain and France alike.
ELIZABETH.
No further, count!
Let us not mix two inconsistent things;
If France be truly anxious for my hand,
It must partake my interests, and renounce
Alliance with my foes.
AUBESPINE.
In thine own eyes
Would she not seem to act unworthily,
If in this joyous treaty she forgot
This hapless queen, the widow of her king;
In whose behalf her honor and her faith
Are bound to plead for grace.
ELIZABETH.
Thus urged, I know
To rate this intercession at its worth;
France has discharged her duties as a friend,
I will fulfil my own as England's queen.
[She bows to the French ambassadors, who, with the other
gentlemen, retire respectfully.
[1] Till the time of Charles the First, the Knights of the Garter
wore the blue ribbon with the George about their necks, as they
still do the collars, on great days.--TRANSLATOR.
SCENE III.
Enter BURLEIGH, LEICESTER, and TALBOT.
The QUEEN takes her seat.
BURLEIGH.
Illustrious sovereign, thou crown'st to-day
The fervent wishes of thy people; now
We can rejoice in the propitious days
Which thou bestowest upon us; and we look
No more with fear and trembling towards the time
Which, charged with storms, futurity presented.
Now, but one only care disturbs this land;
It is a sacrifice which every voice
Demands; Oh! grant but this and England's peace
Will be established now and evermore.
ELIZABETH.
What wish they still, my lord? Speak.
BURLEIGH.
They demand
The Stuart's head. If to thy people thou
Wouldst now secure the precious boon of freedom,
And the fair light of truth so dearly won,
Then she must die; if we are not to live
In endless terror for thy precious life
The enemy must fall; for well thou know'st
That all thy Britons are not true alike;
Romish idolatry has still its friends
In secret, in this island, who foment
The hatred of our enemies. Their hearts
All turn toward this Stuart; they are leagued
With the two plotting brothers of Lorrain,
The foes inveterate of thy house and name.
'Gainst thee this raging faction hath declared
A war of desolation, which they wage
With the deceitful instruments of hell.
At Rheims, the cardinal archbishop's see,
There is the arsenal from which they dart
These lightnings; there the school of regicide;
Thence, in a thousand shapes disguised, are sent
Their secret missionaries to this isle;
Their bold and daring zealots; for from thence
Have we not seen the third assassin come?
And inexhausted is the direful breed
Of secret enemies in this abyss.
While in her castle sits at Fotheringay,
The Ate [1] of this everlasting war,
Who, with the torch of love, spreads flames around;
For her who sheds delusive hopes on all,
Youth dedicates itself to certain death;
To set her free is the pretence--the aim
Is to establish her upon the throne.
For this accursed House of Guise denies
Thy sacred right; and in their mouths thou art
A robber of the throne, whom chance has crowned.
By them this thoughtless woman was deluded,
Proudly to style herself the Queen of England;
No peace can be with her, and with her house;
[Their hatred is too bloody, and their crimes
Too great;] thou must resolve to strike, or suffer--
Her life is death to thee, her death thy life.
ELIZABETH.
My lord, you bear a melancholy office;
I know the purity which guides your zeal,
The solid wisdom which informs your speech;
And yet I hate this wisdom, when it calls
For blood, I hate it in my inmost soul.
Think of a milder counsel--Good my Lord
Of Shrewsbury, we crave your judgment here.
TALBOT.
[Desire you but to know, most gracious queen,
What is for your advantage, I can add
Nothing to what my lord high-treasurer
Has urged; then, for your welfare, let the sentence
Be now confirmed--this much is proved already:
There is no surer method to avert
The danger from your head and from the state.
Should you in this reject our true advice,
You can dismiss your council. We are placed
Here as your counsellors, but to consult
The welfare of this land, and with our knowledge
And our experience we are bound to serve you!
But in what's good and just, most gracious queen,
You have no need of counsellors, your conscience
Knows it full well, and it is written there.
Nay, it were overstepping our commission
If we attempted to instruct you in it.
ELIZABETH.
Yet speak, my worthy Lord of Shrewsbury,
'Tis not our understanding fails alone,
Our heart too feels it wants some sage advice.]
TALBOT.
Well did you praise the upright zeal which fires
Lord Burleigh's loyal breast; my bosom, too,
Although my tongue be not so eloquent,
Beats with no weaker, no less faithful pulse.
Long may you live, my queen, to be the joy
Of your delighted people, to prolong
Peace and its envied blessings in this realm.
Ne'er hath this isle beheld such happy days
Since it was governed by its native kings.
Oh, let it never buy its happiness
With its good name; at least, may Talbot's eyes
Be closed in death e'er this shall come to pass.
ELIZABETH.
Forbid it, heaven, that our good name be stained!
TALBOT.
Then must you find some other way than this
To save thy kingdom, for the sentence passed
Of death against the Stuart is unjust.
You cannot upon her pronounce a sentence
Who is not subject to you.
ELIZABETH.
Then, it seems,
My council and my parliament have erred;
Each bench of justice in the land is wrong,
Which did with one accord admit this right.