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Mary Stuart

Автор Фридрих Шиллер

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Дата написания1970-01-01

Язык книгиen

Возрастное ограничение12+

Жанры

зарубежная драматургия зарубежная классика зарубежная старинная литература литература 18 века пьесы и драматургия

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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.

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Mary Stuart

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