No More Learning

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_.



SCENE III. --A HOUSE NEAR LONDON.

ELIZABETH, STEWARD OF THE HOUSEHOLD, ATTENDANTS.


ELIZABETH. There's half an angel wrong'd in your account;
Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it
Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er again.

STEWARD. I were whole devil if I wrong'd you, Madam.
[_Exit_ STEWARD.

ATTENDANT. The Count de Feria, from the King of Spain.

ELIZABETH. Ay! --let him enter. Nay, you need not go:
[_To her_ LADIES.
Remain within the chamber, but apart.
We'll have no private conference. Welcome to
England!

_Enter_ FERIA.

FERIA. Fair island star!

ELIZABETH. I shine! What else, Sir Count?

FERIA. As far as France, and into Philip's heart.
My King would know if you be fairly served,
And lodged, and treated.

ELIZABETH. You see the lodging, sir,
I am well-served, and am in everything
Most loyal and most grateful to the Queen.

FERIA. You should be grateful to my master, too.
He spoke of this; and unto him you owe
That Mary hath acknowledged you her heir.

ELIZABETH. No, not to her nor him; but to the people,
Who know my right, and love me, as I love
The people! whom God aid!

FERIA. You will be Queen,
And, were I Philip--

ELIZABETH. Wherefore pause you--what?

FERIA. Nay, but I speak from mine own self, not
him;
Your royal sister cannot last; your hand
Will be much coveted! What a delicate one!
Our Spanish ladies have none such--and there,
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamer gold--
Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty dawn--
That hovers round your shoulder--

ELIZABETH. Is it so fine?
Troth, some have said so.

FERIA. --would be deemed a miracle.

ELIZABETH. Your Philip hath gold hair and golden beard;
There must be ladies many with hair like mine.

FERIA, Some few of Gothic blood have golden hair,
But none like yours.

ELIZABETH. I am happy you approve it.

FERIA. But as to Philip and your Grace--consider,
If such a one as you should match with Spain,
What hinders but that Spain and England join'd,
Should make the mightiest empire earth has known.
Spain would be England on her seas, and England
Mistress of the Indies.

ELIZABETH. It may chance, that England
Will be the Mistress of the Indies yet,
Without the help of Spain.

FERIA. Impossible;
Except you put Spain down.
Wide of the mark ev'n for a madman's dream.

ELIZABETH. Perhaps; but we have seamen.
Count de Feria,
I take it that the King hath spoken to you;
But is Don Carlos such a goodly match?

FERIA. Don Carlos, Madam, is but twelve years old.

ELIZABETH. Ay, tell the King that I will muse upon it;
He is my good friend, and I would keep him so;
But--he would have me Catholic of Rome,
And that I scarce can be; and, sir, till now
My sister's marriage, and my father's marriages,
Make me full fain to live and die a maid.
But I am much beholden to your King.
Have you aught else to tell me?

FERIA. Nothing, Madam,
Save that methought I gather'd from the Queen
That she would see your Grace before she--died.

ELIZABETH. God's death! and wherefore spake you not before?
We dally with our lazy moments here,
And hers are number'd. Horses there, without!
I am much beholden to the King, your master.
Why did you keep me prating? Horses, there!

[_Exit_ ELIZABETH, _etc_.

FERIA.
So from a clear sky falls the thunderbolt!
Don Carlos? Madam, if you marry Philip,
Then I and he will snaffle your 'God's death,'
And break your paces in, and make you tame;
God's death, forsooth--you do not know King Philip.

[_Exit_.



SCENE IV. --LONDON. BEFORE THE PALACE.

_A light burning within_. VOICES _of the night passing_.


FIRST. Is not yon light in the Queen's chamber?

SECOND. Ay,
They say she's dying.

FIRST. So is Cardinal Pole.
May the great angels join their wings, and make
Down for their heads to heaven!

SECOND. Amen. Come on.
[_Exeunt_.

TWO OTHERS.

FIRST. There's the Queen's light. I hear she cannot live.

SECOND. God curse her and her Legate! Gardiner burns
Already; but to pay them full in kind,
The hottest hold in all the devil's den
Were but a sort of winter; sir, in Guernsey,
I watch'd a woman burn; and in her agony
The mother came upon her--a child was born--
And, sir, they hurl'd it back into the fire,
That, being but baptized in fire, the babe
Might be in fire for ever. Ah, good neighbour,
There should be something fierier than fire
To yield them their deserts.

FIRST. Amen to all
Your wish, and further.

A THIRD VOICE. Deserts! Amen to what? Whose deserts? Yours? You have a
gold ring on your finger, and soft raiment about your body; and is not
the woman up yonder sleeping after all she has done, in peace and
quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed room, with light, fire, physic,
tendance; and I have seen the true men of Christ lying famine-dead by
scores, and under no ceiling but the cloud that wept on them, not for
them.

FIRST. Friend, tho' so late, it is not safe to preach.
You had best go home. What are you?

THIRD. What am I? One who cries continually with sweat and tears to
the Lord God that it would please Him out of His infinite love to
break down all kingship and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; to
cancel and abolish all bonds of human allegiance, all the magistracy,
all the nobles, and all the wealthy; and to send us again, according
to His promise, the one King, the Christ, and all things in common, as
in the day of the first church, when Christ Jesus was King.

FIRST. If ever I heard a madman,--let's away!
Why, you long-winded--Sir, you go beyond me.
I pride myself on being moderate.
Good night! Go home. Besides, you curse so loud,
The watch will hear you. Get you home at once.

[_Exeunt_.



SCENE V. --LONDON. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

_A Gallery on one side. The moonlight streaming through a range of
windows on the wall opposite_. MARY, LADY CLARENCE, LADY MAGDALEN
DACRES, ALICE. QUEEN _pacing the Gallery. A writing table in front_.
QUEEN _comes to the table and writes and goes again, pacing the
Gallery_.


LADY CLARENCE. Mine eyes are dim: what hath she written? read.

ALICE. 'I am dying, Philip; come to me. '

LADY MAGDALEN. There--up and down, poor lady, up and down.

ALICE. And how her shadow crosses one by one
The moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall,
Following her like her sorrow. She turns again.

[QUEEN _sits and writes, and goes again_.

LADY CLARENCE. What hath she written now?

ALICE. Nothing; but 'come, come, come,' and all awry,
And blotted by her tears. This cannot last.

[QUEEN _returns_.

MARY. I whistle to the bird has broken cage,
And all in vain. [_Sitting down_.
Calais gone--Guisnes gone, too--and Philip gone!

LADY CLARENCE. Dear Madam, Philip is but at the wars;
I cannot doubt but that he comes again;
And he is with you in a measure still.
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness
As your great King in armour there, his hand
Upon his helmet.
[_Pointing to the portrait of Philip on the wall_.

MARY. Doth he not look noble?
I had heard of him in battle over seas,
And I would have my warrior all in arms.
He said it was not courtly to stand helmeted
Before the Queen. He had his gracious moment,
Altho' you'll not believe me. How he smiles
As if he loved me yet!

LADY CLARENCE. And so he does.

MARY. He never loved me--nay, he could not love me.
It was his father's policy against France.
I am eleven years older than he,
Poor boy! [_Weeps_.

ALICE. That was a lusty boy of twenty-seven; [_Aside_.
Poor enough in God's grace!

MARY. --And all in vain!
The Queen of Scots is married to the Dauphin,
And Charles, the lord of this low world, is gone;
And all his wars and wisdoms past away:
And in a moment I shall follow him.

LADY CLARENCE. Nay, dearest Lady, see your good physician.

MARY. Drugs--but he knows they cannot help me--says
That rest is all--tells me I must not think--
That I must rest--I shall rest by and by.
Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he springs
And maims himself against the bars, say 'rest':
Why, you must kill him if you would have him rest--
Dead or alive you cannot make him happy.

LADY CLARENCE. Your Majesty has lived so pure a life,
And done such mighty things by Holy Church,
I trust that God will make you happy yet.

MARY. What is the strange thing happiness? Sit down here:
Tell me thine happiest hour.

LADY CLARENCE. I will, if that
May make your Grace forget yourself a little.
There runs a shallow brook across our field
For twenty miles, where the black crow flies five,
And doth so bound and babble all the way
As if itself were happy. It was May-time,
And I was walking with the man I loved.
I loved him, but I thought I was not loved.
And both were silent, letting the wild brook
Speak for us--till he stoop'd and gather'd one
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots,
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me.
I took it, tho' I did not know I took it,
And put it in my bosom, and all at once
I felt his arms about me, and his lips--

MARY. O God! I have been too slack, too slack;
There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards--
Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burnt
The heretic priest, workmen, and women and children.
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath,--
We have so play'd the coward; but by God's grace,
We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up
The Holy Office here--garner the wheat,
And burn the tares with unquenchable fire!
Burn! --
Fie, what a savour! tell the cooks to close
The doors of all the offices below.
Latimer!
Sir, we are private with our women here--
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow--
Thou light a torch that never will go out!
'Tis out--mine flames. Women, the Holy Father
Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole--
Was that well done? and poor Pole pines of it,
As I do, to the death. I am but a woman,
I have no power. --Ah, weak and meek old man,
Seven-fold dishonour'd even in the sight
Of thine own sectaries--No, no. No pardon!
Why that was false: there is the right hand still
Beckons me hence.
Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason,
Remember that! 'twas I and Bonner did it,
And Pole; we are three to one--Have you found mercy there,
Grant it me here: and see, he smiles and goes,
Gentle as in life.

ALICE. Madam, who goes? King Philip?

MARY. No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes.
Women, when I am dead,
Open my heart, and there you will find written
Two names, Philip and Calais; open his,--
So that he have one,--
You will find Philip only, policy, policy,--
Ay, worse than that--not one hour true to me!
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice!
Adulterous to the very heart of Hell.
Hast thou a knife?

ALICE. Ay, Madam, but o' God's mercy--

MARY. Fool, think'st thou I would peril mine own soul
By slaughter of the body? I could not, girl,
Not this way--callous with a constant stripe,
Unwoundable. The knife!

ALICE. Take heed, take heed!
The blade is keen as death.

MARY. This Philip shall not
Stare in upon me in my haggardness;
Old, miserable, diseased,
Incapable of children. Come thou down.
[_Cuts out the picture and throws it down_.
Lie there. (_Wails_) O God, I have kill'd my Philip!

ALICE. No,
Madam, you have but cut the canvas out;
We can replace it.

MARY. All is well then; rest--
I will to rest; he said, I must have rest.
[_Cries of_ 'ELIZABETH' _in the street_.
A cry! What's that? Elizabeth? revolt?
A new Northumberland, another Wyatt?
I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave.

LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your royal sister comes to see you.

MARY. I will not see her.
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister?
I will see none except the priest. Your arm.
[_To_ LADY CLARENCE.
O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile
Among thy patient wrinkles--Help me hence.
[_Exeunt_.

_The_ PRIEST _passes. Enter_ ELIZABETH _and_ SIR WILLIAM CECIL.

ELIZABETH. Good counsel yours--
No one in waiting? still,
As if the chamberlain were Death himself!
The room she sleeps in--is not this the way?
No, that way there are voices. Am I too late?
Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose the way.
[_Exit_ ELIZABETH.

CECIL. Many points weather'd, many perilous ones,
At last a harbour opens; but therein
Sunk rocks--they need fine steering--much it is
To be nor mad, nor bigot--have a mind--
Nor let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds to be,
Miscolour things about her--sudden touches
For him, or him--sunk rocks; no passionate faith--
But--if let be--balance and compromise;
Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her--a Tudor
School'd by the shadow of death--a Boleyn, too,
Glancing across the Tudor--not so well.

_Enter_ ALICE.

How is the good Queen now?