No More Learning

_Enter_ MARY, _behind_.

MARY. Whispering--leagued together
To bar me from my Philip.

COURTENAY. Pray--consider--

ELIZABETH (_seeing the_ QUEEN).
Well, that's a noble horse of yours, my Lord.
I trust that he will carry you well to-day,
And heal your headache.

COURTENAY. You are wild; what headache?
Heartache, perchance; not headache.

ELIZABETH (_aside to_ COURTENAY). Are you blind?

[COURTENAY _sees the_ QUEEN _and exit. Exit_ MARY.


_Enter_ LORD WILLIAM HOWARD.

HOWARD. Was that my Lord of Devon? do not you
Be seen in corners with my Lord of Devon.
He hath fallen out of favour with the Queen.
She fears the Lords may side with you and him
Against her marriage; therefore is he dangerous.
And if this Prince of fluff and feather come
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous everyway.

ELIZABETH. Not very dangerous that way, my good uncle.

HOWARD. But your own state is full of danger here.
The disaffected, heretics, reformers,
Look to you as the one to crown their ends.
Mix not yourself with any plot I pray you;
Nay, if by chance you hear of any such,
Speak not thereof--no, not to your best friend,
Lest you should be confounded with it. Still--
Perinde ac cadaver--as the priest says,
You know your Latin--quiet as a dead body.
What was my Lord of Devon telling you?

ELIZABETH. Whether he told me anything or not,
I follow your good counsel, gracious uncle.
Quiet as a dead body.

HOWARD. You do right well.
I do not care to know; but this I charge you,
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord Chancellor
(I count it as a kind of virtue in him,
He hath not many), as a mastiff dog
May love a puppy cur for no more reason
Than that the twain have been tied up together,
Thus Gardiner--for the two were fellow-prisoners
So many years in yon accursed Tower--
Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look to it, niece,
He hath no fence when Gardiner questions him;
All oozes out; yet him--because they know him
The last White Rose, the last Plantagenet
(Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the people
Claim as their natural leader--ay, some say,
That you shall marry him, make him King belike.

ELIZABETH. Do they say so, good uncle?

HOWARD. Ay, good niece!
You should be plain and open with me, niece.
You should not play upon me.

ELIZABETH. No, good uncle.

_Enter_ GARDINER.

GARDINER. The Queen would see your Grace upon the moment.

ELIZABETH. Why, my lord Bishop?

GARDINER. I think she means to counsel your withdrawing
To Ashridge, or some other country house.

ELIZABETH. Why, my lord Bishop?

GARDINER. I do but bring the message, know no more.
Your Grace will hear her reasons from herself.

ELIZABETH. 'Tis mine own wish fulfill'd before the word
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant to crave
Permission of her Highness to retire
To Ashridge, and pursue my studies there.

GARDINER. Madam, to have the wish before the word
Is man's good Fairy--and the Queen is yours.
I left her with rich jewels in her hand,
Whereof 'tis like enough she means to make
A farewell present to your Grace.

ELIZABETH. My Lord,
I have the jewel of a loyal heart.

GARDINER. I doubt it not, Madam, most loyal.
[_Bows low and exit_.

HOWARD. See,
This comes of parleying with my Lord of Devon.
Well, well, you must obey; and I myself
Believe it will be better for your welfare.
Your time will come.

ELIZABETH. I think my time will come.
Uncle,
I am of sovereign nature, that I know,
Not to be quell'd; and I have felt within me
Stirrings of some great doom when God's just hour
Peals--but this fierce old Gardiner--his big baldness,
That irritable forelock which he rubs,
His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd eyes
Half fright me.

HOWARD. You've a bold heart; keep it so.
He cannot touch you save that you turn traitor;
And so take heed I pray you--you are one
Who love that men should smile upon you, niece.
They'd smile you into treason--some of them.

ELIZABETH. I spy the rock beneath the smiling sea.
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic prince,
And this bald priest, and she that hates me, seek
In that lone house, to practise on my life,
By poison, fire, shot, stab--

HOWARD. They will not, niece.
Mine is the fleet and all the power at sea--
Or will be in a moment. If they dared
To harm you, I would blow this Philip and all
Your trouble to the dogstar and the devil.

ELIZABETH. To the Pleiads, uncle; they have lost
a sister.

HOWARD. But why say that? what have you done
to lose her?
Come, come, I will go with you to the Queen.

[_Exeunt_.



SCENE V. --A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

MARY _with_ PHILIP'S _miniature_. ALICE.


MARY (_kissing the miniature_).
Most goodly, King-like and an Emperor's son,--
A king to be,--is he not noble, girl?

ALICE. Goodly enough, your Grace, and yet, methinks,
I have seen goodlier.

MARY. Ay; some waxen doll
Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike;
All red and white, the fashion of our land.
But my good mother came (God rest her soul)
Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself,
And in my likings.

ALICE. By your Grace's leave
Your royal mother came of Spain, but took
To the English red and white. Your royal father
(For so they say) was all pure lily and rose
In his youth, and like a lady.

MARY. O, just God!
Sweet mother, you had time and cause enough
To sicken of his lilies and his roses.
Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, forlorn!
And then the King--that traitor past forgiveness,
The false archbishop fawning on him, married
The mother of Elizabeth--a heretic
Ev'n as _she_ is; but God hath sent me here
To take such order with all heretics
That it shall be, before I die, as tho'
My father and my brother had not lived.
What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane,
Now in the Tower?

ALICE. Why, Madam, she was passing
Some chapel down in Essex, and with her
Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne
Bow'd to the Pyx; but Lady Jane stood up
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy.
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady Anne,
To him within there who made Heaven and Earth?
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your Grace
What Lady Jane replied.

MARY. But I will have it.

ALICE. She said--pray pardon me, and pity her--
She hath harken'd evil counsel--ah! she said,
The baker made him.

MARY. Monstrous! blasphemous!
She ought to burn. Hence, thou (_Exit_ ALICE). No--being traitor
Her head will fall: shall it? she is but a child.
We do not kill the child for doing that
His father whipt him into doing--a head
So full of grace and beauty! would that mine
Were half as gracious! O, my lord to be,
My love, for thy sake only.
I am eleven years older than he is.
But will he care for that?
No, by the holy Virgin, being noble,
But love me only: then the bastard sprout,
My sister, is far fairer than myself.
Will he be drawn to her?
No, being of the true faith with myself.
Paget is for him--for to wed with Spain
Would treble England--Gardiner is against him;
The Council, people, Parliament against him;
But I will have him! My hard father hated me;
My brother rather hated me than loved;
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy Virgin,
Plead with thy blessed Son; grant me my prayer:
Give me my Philip; and we two will lead
The living waters of the Faith again
Back thro' their widow'd channel here, and watch
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as of old,
To heaven, and kindled with the palms of Christ!

_Enter_ USHER.

Who waits, sir?

USHER. Madam, the Lord Chancellor.

MARY. Bid him come in. (_Enter_ GARDINER. )
Good morning, my good Lord.

[_Exit_ USHER.

GARDINER. That every morning of your Majesty
May be most good, is every morning's prayer
Of your most loyal subject, Stephen Gardiner.

MARY. Come you to tell me this, my Lord?

GARDINER. And more.
Your people have begun to learn your worth.
Your pious wish to pay King Edward's debts,
Your lavish household curb'd, and the remission
Of half that subsidy levied on the people,
Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat for you.
I'd have you yet more loved: the realm is poor,
The exchequer at neap-tide: we might withdraw
Part of our garrison at Calais.

MARY. Calais!
Our one point on the main, the gate of France!
I am Queen of England; take mine eyes, mine heart,
But do not lose me Calais.

GARDINER. Do not fear it.
Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is loved.
That I may keep you thus, who am your friend
And ever faithful counsellor, might I speak?

MARY. I can forespeak your speaking. Would I marry
Prince Philip, if all England hate him? That is
Your question, and I front it with another:
Is it England, or a party? Now, your answer.

GARDINER. My answer is, I wear beneath my dress
A shirt of mail: my house hath been assaulted,
And when I walk abroad, the populace,
With fingers pointed like so many daggers,
Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and Philip;
And when I sleep, a hundred men-at-arms
Guard my poor dreams for England. Men would murder me,
Because they think me favourer of this marriage.

MARY. And that were hard upon you, my Lord Chancellor.

GARDINER. But our young Earl of Devon--

MARY. Earl of Devon?
I freed him from the Tower, placed him at Court;
I made him Earl of Devon, and--the fool--
He wrecks his health and wealth on courtesans,
And rolls himself in carrion like a dog.

GARDINER. More like a school-boy that hath broken bounds,
Sickening himself with sweets.

MARY. I will not hear of him.
Good, then, they will revolt: but I am Tudor,
And shall control them.

GARDINER. I will help you, Madam,
Even to the utmost. All the church is grateful.
You have ousted the mock priest, repulpited
The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the rood again,
And brought us back the mass. I am all thanks
To God and to your Grace: yet I know well,
Your people, and I go with them so far,
Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to play
The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church.

MARY (_showing the picture).
_Is this the face of one who plays the tyrant?
Peruse it; is it not goodly, ay, and gentle?

GARDINER. Madam, methinks a cold face and a haughty.
And when your Highness talks of Courtenay--
Ay, true--a goodly one. I would his life
Were half as goodly (_aside_).

MARY. What is that you mutter?

GARDINER.
Oh, Madam, take it bluntly; marry Philip,
And be stepmother of a score of sons!
The prince is known in Spain, in Flanders, ha!
For Philip--

MARY. You offend us; you may leave us.
You see thro' warping glasses.

GARDINER. If your Majesty--

MARY. I have sworn upon the body and blood of Christ
I'll none but Philip.

GARDINER. Hath your Grace so sworn?

MARY. Ay, Simon Renard knows it.

GARDINER. News to me!
It then remains for your poor Gardiner,
So you still care to trust him somewhat less
Than Simon Renard, to compose the event
In some such form as least may harm your Grace.

MARY. I'll have the scandal sounded to the mud.
I know it a scandal.

GARDINER. All my hope is now
It may be found a scandal.

MARY. You offend us.

GARDINER (_aside_).
These princes are like children, must be physick'd,
The bitter in the sweet. I have lost mine office,
It may be, thro' mine honesty, like a fool.
[_Exit_.

_Enter_ USHER.

MARY. Who waits?

USHER. The Ambassador from France, your Grace.

MARY (_sits down_).
Bid him come in. Good morning, Sir de Noailles.

[_Exit_ USHER,

NOAILLES (_entering_).
A happy morning to your Majesty.

MARY. And I should some time have a happy morning;
I have had none yet. What says the King your master?

NOAILLES. Madam, my master hears with much alarm,
That you may marry Philip, Prince of Spain--
Foreseeing, with whate'er unwillingness,
That if this Philip be the titular king
Of England, and at war with him, your Grace
And kingdom will be suck'd into the war,
Ay, tho' you long for peace; wherefore, my master,
If but to prove your Majesty's goodwill,
Would fain have some fresh treaty drawn between you.

MARY. Why some fresh treaty? wherefore should I do it?
Sir, if we marry, we shall still maintain
All former treaties with his Majesty.
Our royal word for that! and your good master,
Pray God he do not be the first to break them,
Must be content with that; and so, farewell.

NOAILLES (_going, returns_).
I would your answer had been other, Madam,
For I foresee dark days.

MARY. And so do I, sir;
Your master works against me in the dark.
I do believe he holp Northumberland
Against me.

NOAILLES. Nay, pure phantasy, your Grace.
Why should he move against you?

MARY. Will you hear why?
Mary of Scotland,--for I have not own'd
My sister, and I will not,--after me
Is heir of England; and my royal father,
To make the crown of Scotland one with ours,
Had mark'd her for my brother Edward's bride;
Ay, but your king stole her a babe from Scotland
In order to betroth her to your Dauphin.
See then:
Mary of Scotland, married to your Dauphin,
Would make our England, France;
Mary of England, joining hands with Spain,
Would be too strong for France.
Yea, were there issue born to her, Spain and we,
One crown, might rule the world. There lies your fear.
That is your drift. You play at hide and seek.
Show me your faces!

NOAILLES. Madam, I am amazed:
French, I must needs wish all good things for France.
That must be pardon'd me; but I protest
Your Grace's policy hath a farther flight
Than mine into the future. We but seek
Some settled ground for peace to stand upon.

MARY. Well, we will leave all this, sir, to our council.
Have you seen Philip ever?

NOAILLES. Only once.

MARY. Is this like Philip?

NOAILLES. Ay, but nobler-looking.

MARY. Hath he the large ability of the Emperor?

NOAILLES. No, surely.

MARY. I can make allowance for thee,
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy king.

NOAILLES. Make no allowance for the naked truth.
He is every way a lesser man than Charles;
Stone-hard, ice-cold--no dash of daring in him.

MARY. If cold, his life is pure.

NOAILLES. Why (_smiling_), no, indeed.

MARY. Sayst thou?

NOAILLES. A very wanton life indeed (_smiling_).

MARY. Your audience is concluded, sir.

[_Exit_ NOAILLES.

You cannot
Learn a man's nature from his natural foe.

_Enter_ USHER.

Who waits?

USHER. The Ambassador of Spain, your Grace.
[_Exit_.

_Enter_ SIMON RENARD.

MARY (_rising to meet him_).
Thou art ever welcome, Simon Renard. Hast thou
Brought me the letter which thine Emperor promised
Long since, a formal offer of the hand Of Philip?

RENARD. Nay, your Grace, it hath not reach'd me.
I know not wherefore--some mischance of flood,
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, or wave
And wind at their old battle: he must have written.

MARY. But Philip never writes me one poor word.
Which in his absence had been all my wealth.
Strange in a wooer!

RENARD. Yet I know the Prince,
So your king-parliament suffer him to land,
Yearns to set foot upon your island shore.

MARY. God change the pebble which his kingly foot
First presses into some more costly stone
Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one mark it
And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd firelike;
I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond.
Let the great angel of the church come with him;
Stand on the deck and spread his wings for sail!
God lay the waves and strow the storms at sea,
And here at land among the people! O Renard,
I am much beset, I am almost in despair.
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours;
But for our heretic Parliament--

RENARD. O Madam,
You fly your thoughts like kites. My master, Charles,
Bad you go softly with your heretics here,
Until your throne had ceased to tremble. Then
Spit them like larks for aught I care. Besides,
When Henry broke the carcase of your church
To pieces, there were many wolves among you
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their den.
The Pope would have you make them render these;
So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole; ill counsel!
These let them keep at present; stir not yet
This matter of the Church lands. At his coming
Your star will rise.

MARY. My star! a baleful one.
I see but the black night, and hear the wolf.
What star?

RENARD. Your star will be your princely son,
Heir of this England and the Netherlands!
And if your wolf the while should howl for more,
We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold.
I do believe, I have dusted some already,
That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours.

MARY. Why do they talk so foully of your Prince,
Renard?

RENARD. The lot of Princes. To sit high
Is to be lied about.

MARY. They call him cold,
Haughty, ay, worse.

RENARD. Why, doubtless, Philip shows
Some of the bearing of your blue blood--still
All within measure--nay, it well becomes him.

MARY. Hath he the large ability of his father?

RENARD. Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him.

MARY. Is this like him?

RENARD. Ay, somewhat; but your Philip
Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun.
This is a daub to Philip.

MARY. Of a pure life?

RENARD. As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven,
The text--Your Highness knows it, 'Whosoever
Looketh after a woman,' would not graze
The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there,
Chaste as your Grace!

MARY. I am happy in him there.

RENARD. And would be altogether happy, Madam,
So that your sister were but look'd to closer.
You have sent her from the court, but then she goes,
I warrant, not to hear the nightingales,
But hatch you some new treason in the woods.

MARY. We have our spies abroad to catch her tripping,
And then if caught, to the Tower.

RENARD. The Tower! the block!
The word has turn'd your Highness pale; the thing
Was no such scarecrow in your father's time.
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd with the jest
When the head leapt--so common! I do think
To save your crown that it must come to this.

MARY. No, Renard; it must never come to this.

RENARD. Not yet; but your old Traitors of the Tower--
Why, when you put Northumberland to death,
The sentence having past upon them all,
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford Dudley,
Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear your crown?

MARY. Dared? nay, not so; the child obey'd her father.
Spite of her tears her father forced it on her.

RENARD. Good Madam, when the Roman wish'd to reign,
He slew not him alone who wore the purple,
But his assessor in the throne, perchance
A child more innocent than Lady Jane.

MARY. I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor.

RENARD. Yet too much mercy is a want of mercy,
And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne
Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come
Till she be gone.

MARY. Indeed, if that were true--
For Philip comes, one hand in mine, and one
Steadying the tremulous pillars of the Church--
But no, no, no. Farewell. I am somewhat faint
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not Queen
Of mine own heart, which every now and then
Beats me half dead: yet stay, this golden chain--
My father on a birthday gave it me,
And I have broken with my father--take
And wear it as memorial of a morning
Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me
As hopeful.

RENARD (_aside_). Whew--the folly of all follies
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (_Aloud_) Madam,
This chains me to your service, not with gold,
But dearest links of love.