Chapter 20

MARY, _sitting: a rose in her hand_. LADY CLARENCE. ALICE _in the background_.

MARY. Look! I have play'd with this poor rose so long I have broken off the head.

LADY CLARENCE. Your Grace hath been More merciful to many a rebel head That should have fallen, and may rise again.

MARY. There were not many hang'd for Wyatt's rising.

LADY CLARENCE. Nay, not two hundred.

MARY. I could weep for them And her, and mine own self and all the world.

LADY CLARENCE. For her? for whom, your Grace?

_Enter_ USHER.

USHER. The Cardinal.

_Enter_ CARDINAL POLE. (MARY _rises_.)

MARY. Reginald Pole, what news hath plagued thy heart? What makes thy favour like the bloodless head Fall'n on the block, and held up by the hair? Philip?--

POLE. No, Philip is as warm in life As ever.

MARY. Ay, and then as cold as ever. Is Calais taken?

POLE. Cousin, there hath chanced A sharper harm to England and to Rome, Than Calais taken. Julius the Third Was ever just, and mild, and father-like; But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the Fourth, Not only reft me of that legateship Which Julius gave me, and the legateship Annex'd to Canterbury--nay, but worse-- And yet I must obey the Holy Father, And so must you, good cousin;--worse than all, A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear-- He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy, Before his Inquisition.

MARY. I knew it, cousin, But held from you all papers sent by Rome, That you might rest among us, till the Pope, To compass which I wrote myself to Rome, Reversed his doom, and that you might not seem To disobey his Holiness.

POLE. He hates Philip; He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard; He cannot dream that _I_ advised the war; He strikes thro' me at Philip and yourself. Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too; So brands me in the stare of Christendom A heretic! Now, even now, when bow'd before my time, The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out; When I should guide the Church in peace at home, After my twenty years of banishment, And all my lifelong labour to uphold The primacy--a heretic. Long ago, When I was ruler in the patrimony, I was too lenient to the Lutheran, And I and learned friends among ourselves Would freely canvass certain Lutheranisms. What then, he knew I was no Lutheran. A heretic! He drew this shaft against me to the head, When it was thought I might be chosen Pope, But then withdrew it. In full consistory, When I was made Archbishop, he approved me. And how should he have sent me Legate hither, Deeming me heretic? and what heresy since? But he was evermore mine enemy, And hates the Spaniard--fiery-choleric, A drinker of black, strong, volcanic wines, That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic? Your Highness knows that in pursuing heresy I have gone beyond your late Lord Chancellor,-- He cried Enough! enough! before his death.-- Gone beyond him and mine own natural man (It was God's cause); so far they call me now, The scourge and butcher of their English church.

MARY. Have courage, your reward is Heaven itself.

POLE. They groan amen; they swarm into the fire Like flies--for what? no dogma. They know nothing; They burn for nothing.

MARY. You have done your best.

POLE. Have done my best, and as a faithful son, That all day long hath wrought his father's work, When back he comes at evening hath the door Shut on him by the father whom he loved, His early follies cast into his teeth, And the poor son turn'd out into the street To sleep, to die--I shall die of it, cousin.

MARY. I pray you be not so disconsolate; I still will do mine utmost with the Pope. Poor cousin! Have not I been the fast friend of your life Since mine began, and it was thought we two Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each other As man and wife?

POLE. Ah, cousin, I remember How I would dandle you upon my knee At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once With your huge father; he look'd the Great Harry, You but his cockboat; prettily you did it, And innocently. No--we were not made One flesh in happiness, no happiness here; But now we are made one flesh in misery; Our bridemaids are not lovely--Disappointment, Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, Labour-in-vain.

MARY. Surely, not all in vain. Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart myself.

POLE. Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay, Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond; And there is one Death stands behind the Groom, And there is one Death stands behind the Bride--

MARY. Have you been looking at the 'Dance of Death'?

POLE. No; but these libellous papers which I found Strewn in your palace. Look you here--the Pope Pointing at me with 'Pole, the heretic, Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself, Or I will burn thee;' and this other; see!-- 'We pray continually for the death Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole.' This last--I dare not read it her. [_Aside_.

MARY. Away! Why do you bring me these? I thought you knew better. I never read, I tear them; they come back upon my dreams. The hands that write them should be burnt clean off As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lie Famishing in black cells, while famish'd rats Eat them alive. Why do they bring me these? Do you mean to drive me mad?

POLE. I had forgotten How these poor libels trouble you. Your pardon, Sweet cousin, and farewell! 'O bubble world, Whose colours in a moment break and fly!' Why, who said that? I know not--true enough!

[_Puts up the papers, all but the last, which falls. Exit_ POLE.

ALICE. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one, And heard these two, there might be sport for him. [_Aside_.

MARY. Clarence, they hate me; even while I speak There lurks a silent dagger, listening In some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn, And panting for my blood as I go by.

LADY CLARENCE. Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers too, And I have often found them.

MARY. Find me one!

LADY CLARENCE. Ay, Madam; but Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor, Would see your Highness.

MARY. Wherefore should I see him?

LADY CLARENCE. Well, Madam, he may bring you news from Philip.

MARY. So, Clarence.

LADY CLARENCE. Let me first put up your hair; It tumbles all abroad.

MARY. And the gray dawn Of an old age that never will be mine Is all the clearer seen. No, no; what matters? Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn.

_Enter_ SIR NICHOLAS HEATH.

HEATH. I bring your Majesty such grievous news I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken.

MARY. What traitor spoke? Here, let my cousin Pole Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran.

HEATH. Her Highness is unwell. I will retire.

LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your Chancellor, Sir Nicholas Heath.

MARY. Sir Nicholas! I am stunn'd--Nicholas Heath? Methought some traitor smote me on the head. What said you, my good Lord, that our brave English Had sallied out from Calais and driven back The Frenchmen from their trenches?

HEATH. Alas! no. That gateway to the mainland over which Our flag hath floated for two hundred years Is France again.

MARY. So; but it is not lost-- Not yet. Send out: let England as of old Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into The prey they are rending from her--ay, and rend The renders too. Send out, send out, and make Musters in all the counties; gather all From sixteen years to sixty; collect the fleet; Let every craft that carries sail and gun Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken yet?

HEATH. Guisnes is not taken yet.

MARY. There yet is hope.

HEATH. Ah, Madam, but your people are so cold; I do much fear that England will not care. Methinks there is no manhood left among us.

MARY. Send out; I am too weak to stir abroad: Tell my mind to the Council--to the Parliament: Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold thyself To babble of their coldness. O would I were My father for an hour! Away now--Quick!

[_Exit_ HEATH.

I hoped I had served God with all my might! It seems I have not. Ah! much heresy Shelter'd in Calais. Saints I have rebuilt Your shrines, set up your broken images; Be comfortable to me. Suffer not That my brief reign in England be defamed Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. Philip, We have made war upon the Holy Father All for your sake: what good could come of that?

LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, not against the Holy Father; You did but help King Philip's war with France, Your troops were never down in Italy.

MARY. I am a byword. Heretic and rebel Point at me and make merry. Philip gone! And Calais gone! Time that I were gone too!

LADY CLARENCE. Nay, if the fetid gutter had a voice And cried I was not clean, what should I care? Or you, for heretic cries? And I believe, Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, Your England is as loyal as myself.

MARY (_seeing the paper draft by_ POLE). There! there! another paper! Said you not Many of these were loyal? Shall I try If this be one of such?

LADY CLARENCE. Let it be, let it be. God pardon me! I have never yet found one. [_Aside_.

MARY (_reads_). 'Your people hate you as your husband hates you.' Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what sin Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother of God, Thou knowest never woman meant so well, And fared so ill in this disastrous world. My people hate me and desire my death.

LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, no.

MARY. My husband hates me, and desires my death.

LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam; these are libels.

MARY. I hate myself, and I desire my death.

LADY CLARENCE. Long live your Majesty! Shall Alice sing you One of her pleasant songs? Alice, my child, Bring us your lute (ALICE _goes_). They say the gloom of Saul Was lighten'd by young David's harp.

MARY. Too young! And never knew a Philip.

_Re-enter_ ALICE.

Give _me_ the lute. He hates me! (_She sings_.)

Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing! Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in loathing: Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say the world is nothing-- Low, lute, low!

Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken; Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken; Low, my lute! oh low, my lute! we fade and are forsaken-- Low, dear lute, low!

Take it away! not low enough for me!

ALICE. Your Grace hath a low voice.

MARY. How dare you say it? Even for that he hates me. A low voice Lost in a wilderness where none can hear! A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea! A low voice from the dust and from the grave (_Sitting on the ground_). There, am I low enough now?

ALICE. Good Lord! how grim and ghastly looks her Grace, With both her knees drawn upward to her chin. There was an old-world tomb beside my father's, And this was open'd, and the dead were found Sitting, and in this fashion; she looks a corpse.

_Enter_ LADY MAGDALEN DACRES.

LADY MAGDALEN. Madam, the Count de Feria waits without, In hopes to see your Highness.

LADY CLARENCE (_pointing to_ MARY). Wait he must-- Her trance again. She neither sees nor hears, And may not speak for hours.

LADY MAGDALEN. Unhappiest Of Queens and wives and women!

ALICE (_in the foreground with_ LADY MAGDALEN). And all along Of Philip.

LADY MAGDALEN. Not so loud! Our Clarence there Sees ever such an aureole round the Queen, It gilds the greatest wronger of her peace, Who stands the nearest to her.

ALICE. Ay, this Philip; I used to love the Queen with all my heart-- God help me, but methinks I love her less For such a dotage upon such a man. I would I were as tall and strong as you.

LADY MAGDALEN. I seem half-shamed at times to be so tall.

ALICE. You are the stateliest deer in all the herd-- Beyond his aim--but I am small and scandalous, And love to hear bad tales of Philip.

LADY MAGDALEN. Why? I never heard him utter worse of you Than that you were low-statured.

ALICE. Does he think Low stature is low nature, or all women's Low as his own?

LADY MAGDALEN. There you strike in the nail. This coarseness is a want of phantasy. It is the low man thinks the woman low; Sin is too dull to see beyond himself.

ALICE. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as well as dull. How dared he?

LADY MAGDALEN. Stupid soldiers oft are bold. Poor lads, they see not what the general sees, A risk of utter ruin. I am _not_ Beyond his aim, or was not.

ALICE. Who? Not you? Tell, tell me; save my credit with myself.

LADY MAGDALEN. I never breathed it to a bird in the eaves, Would not for all the stars and maiden moon Our drooping Queen should know! In Hampton Court My window look'd upon the corridor; And I was robing;--this poor throat of mine, Barer than I should wish a man to see it,-- When he we speak of drove the window back, And, like a thief, push'd in his royal hand; But by God's providence a good stout staff Lay near me; and you know me strong of arm; I do believe I lamed his Majesty's For a day or two, tho', give the Devil his due, I never found he bore me any spite.

ALICE. I would she could have wedded that poor youth, My Lord of Devon--light enough, God knows, And mixt with Wyatt's rising--and the boy Not out of him--but neither cold, coarse, cruel, And more than all--no Spaniard.

LADY CLARENCE. Not so loud. Lord Devon, girls! what are you whispering here?

ALICE. Probing an old state-secret--how it chanced That this young Earl was sent on foreign travel, Not lost his head.

LADY CLARENCE. There was no proof against him.

ALICE. Nay, Madam; did not Gardiner intercept A letter which the Count de Noailles wrote To that dead traitor Wyatt, with full proof Of Courtenay's treason? What became of that?

LADY CLARENCE. Some say that Gardiner, out of love for him, Burnt it, and some relate that it was lost When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's house in Southwark. Let dead things rest.

ALICE. Ay, and with him who died Alone in Italy.

LADY CLARENCE. Much changed, I hear, Had put off levity and put graveness on. The foreign courts report him in his manner Noble as his young person and old shield. It might be so--but all is over now; He caught a chill in the lagoons of Venice, And died in Padua.

MARY (_looking up suddenly_). Died in the true faith?

LADY CLARENCE. Ay, Madam, happily.

MARY. Happier he than I.

LADY MAGDALEN. It seems her Highness hath awaken'd. Think you That I might dare to tell her that the Count--

MARY. I will see no man hence for evermore, Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole.

LADY MAGDALEN. It is the Count de Feria, my dear lady.

MARY. What Count?

LADY MAGDALEN. The Count de Feria, from his Majesty King Philip.

MARY. Philip! quick! loop up my hair! Throw cushions on that seat, and make it throne-like. Arrange my dress--the gorgeous Indian shawl That Philip brought me in our happy days!-- That covers all. So--am I somewhat Queenlike, Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth?

LADY CLARENCE. Ay, so your Grace would bide a moment yet.

MARY. No, no, he brings a letter. I may die Before I read it. Let me see him at once.

_Enter_ COUNT DE FERIA (_kneels_).

FERIA. I trust your Grace is well. (_Aside_) How her hand burns!

MARY. I am not well, but it will better me, Sir Count, to read the letter which you bring.

FERIA. Madam, I bring no letter.

MARY. How! no letter?

FERIA. His Highness is so vex'd with strange affairs--

MARY. That his own wife is no affair of his.

FERIA. Nay, Madam, nay! he sends his veriest love, And says, he will come quickly.

MARY. Doth he, indeed? You, sir, do _you_ remember what _you_ said When last you came to England?

FERIA. Madam, I brought My King's congratulations; it was hoped Your Highness was once more in happy state To give him an heir male.

MARY. Sir, you said more; You said he would come quickly. I had horses On all the road from Dover, day and night; On all the road from Harwich, night and day; But the child came not, and the husband came not; And yet he will come quickly.... Thou hast learnt Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no need For Philip so to shame himself again. Return, And tell him that I know he comes no more. Tell him at last I know his love is dead, And that I am in state to bring forth death-- Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth, And not to me!

FERIA. Mere compliments and wishes. But shall I take some message from your Grace?

MARY. Tell her to come and close my dying eyes, And wear my crown, and dance upon my grave.

FERIA. Then I may say your Grace will see your sister? Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and sunshine. I would we had you, Madam, in our warm Spain. You droop in your dim London.

MARY. Have him away! I sicken of his readiness.

LADY CLARENCE. My Lord Count, Her Highness is too ill for colloquy.

FERIA (_kneels, and kisses her hand_). I wish her Highness better. (_Aside_) How her hand burns!

[_Exeunt_.