Mary Stuart (NHB Classic Plays)

Friedrich Schiller

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781780018096
• Topic: Literatur
• Subtopic: Britisches Drama

Schiller's grand historical tragedy is a battle of wits between Mary Queen of Scots and her captor, Queen Elizabeth I.

Mary has been held prisoner for nineteen years by her cousin, Elizabeth I, who has condemned her to death, but is reluctant to be seen to carry out the sentence. Leicester, Elizabeth's favorite and Mary's ex-lover, engineers a meeting of the two Queens - an encounter which never took place in historical fact - from which Mary emerges triumphant but doomed.

'Jeremy Sams's succinct and sharp new adaptation gives it all a telling urgency' - Daily Mail

Act Two Scene One

The Palace of Westminster.

DAVISON. My Lord of Kent, are you back already, and are the festivities over?

KENT. Weren’t you there? Why not?

DAVISON. I was at my work . . .

KENT. Well you missed the most delightful, the most sumptuous spectacle. An allegory. The Fortress of Beauty – besieged by ‘desire’. First a herald appeared to serenade the fortress with a madrigal and the chancellor sang back from the ramparts (enough to frighten anyone away). Then the artillery fired volleys of flowers and perfumed pomanders rained down like cannon balls. But all in vain. The scented onslaught was repulsed and desire withdrew, his tail between his legs.

DAVISON. This hardly bodes well for the Queen’s betrothal.

KENT. Don’t be silly, it’s just a bit of fun. And I think the fortress will crumble in time.

DAVISON. Do you think so? I’m not so sure.

KENT. The country fears one thing – that she should die without an heir and the Stuart woman should ascend the throne with her darling, the Pope, in tow.

DAVISON. Never. Elizabeth is bound for her marriage bed. Mary merely for her tomb.

KENT. The Queen!

Act Two Scene Two

ELIZABETH joins, led by LEICESTER, the French Ambassador, LORD BURLEIGH. Other French and English Lords. Also BELLIEVRE.

ELIZABETH. My dear Aubespine! Sir, your noble friends
Who’ve come so far must not feel disappointed.
Our paltry entertainments must seem dull
When set against the court of St. Germain,
You French are so gallant and so unbuttoned,
You crowd around my carriage, blessing me
Quite openly. Delightful. This poor spectacle
Was all I had to offer. Not the array
Of France’s fairest maidens, which I hear
Grow in Queen Katherine’s pleasure gardens.
Imagine me among a thousand beauties,
I love plays, but I hate to be upstaged.

AUBESPINE. There’s but one flower which blooms in
Westminster
And you are she, and you are all your sex
A thousand women’s beauty in quintessence.

ELIZABETH. Oh, ambassador, really.

BELLIEVRE. So says Monsieur, our royal Lord. And he
Regrets his absence. Still he is not far
Away – he merely waits your royal word,
The word is ‘yes’.

ELIZABETH. Bellievre, that will do.
I’ve said the time is not yet ripe, to light
The torch of holy matrimony. These are
Dark times – dark and dangerous . . .

BELLIEVRE. A promise
Would be enough your majesty. Then happier
Days will follow when that promise is fulfilled.

ELIZABETH. Alas. Kings and queens are nothing more
Than slaves. We cannot follow our own hearts.
I’d always wished to die unmarried, hoped
That that would be my fame, that on my grave
The world would read ‘Here lies the virgin queen’
But my subjects just won’t have it, they insist
That one day I’ll be gone, ‘What then?’ they say.
Ungrateful bunch, they should rejoice that we
Are happy and at peace and not compel me
To sacrifice my virtue to the future,
To yield my dearest gift up to the state.
And have a lord and master thrust upon me
As it were – though this is England’s will
It feels like a reproach, a cruel reminder
That I’m a woman; nothing but a woman.
And I’d intended I should rule this nation
Like a king – and like a man. Ah well!
I know it’s an offence to God to stand
The laws of nature on their head. But should
A woman who spends every day in toil,
In ceaseless, willing labour for her country
Not be exempt from that function which
However natural it is, still makes
Half of the world subservient to the other?

AUBESPINE. On your throne you epitomise and glorify
Every single virtue, every one,
You are the pearl of your whole sex, the very
Paradigm of all that Woman is.
No man on earth is worthy to receive
That sacrifice of your freedom. None
But if there were such a man, if his birth
Allowed it, if virtue, honour . . .

ELIZABETH. No, really,
There’s no better resting-place
For that most precious jewel, my freedom,
Than in France . . . Or rather
That sacrifice would injure me the least,
And that’s as much as I’m prepared to say.

BELLIEVRE. How generous, how full of hope. Monsieur
However, hopes for something more than hope.

ELIZABETH. What, for example? This? (Her ring.) Funny, the same symbol for all of womankind, the queen or the fishwife – the same sign of duty and subservience. Rings to forge a marriage, rings to forge a chain.

BELLIEVRE. In his name, mighty Queen, I kneel and accept this gift. Let me pay homage to my princess with a kiss . . .

ELIZABETH (admonishing, to LEICESTER who is staring at her). My Lord Leicester . . . (Then to the others.) Let all suspicion between our two nations disappear, and may a bond be forged between our crowns, between France and Britain.

AUBESPINE. What a day of joy this is for both our nations. A day of peace and of sunshine. If only one small ray could fall upon that most unhappy princess . . .

ELIZABETH. And that’s a different matter altogether. If France wishes to be allied to us, she should also share all my concerns and not befriend my enemies.

AUBESPINE. You will agree, I trust, that we would be acting dishonourably if we neglected a friend in need, one of our religion, the widow of our former King. No, sheer humanity forbids it.

ELIZABETH. You must do as your humanity dictates. Allow me, however, to act as a queen.

They bow and exeunt.

Act Two Scene Three

ELIZABETH, LEICESTER, BURLEIGH and TALBOT are left.

BURLEIGH. Glorious queen to your nation, the happy day has arrived where your people can sigh with relief and enjoy their present blessings without fretting for the future. No more storm clouds. Or rather, only one. Only one sacrifice that all England demands. Agree to that and this day will be remembered for all eternity.

ELIZABETH. Well, what do they desire, tell me?

BURLEIGH. The Stuart woman’s head. And nothing less.

As you know, not all Britons think alike. The Church of Rome numbers many secret zealots on this island. And they have murderous thoughts in their hearts, and they worship her. They send spies to these shores, sworn fanatics variously disguised – murderer on murderer. We intercept them, of course, but the gaping maw of Rome and of Rheims provides an endless flow of enemies to us.

And the genius of this eternal war, the spider of this web of intrigue squats in Fotheringay Castle. They follow her, to certain death, of course, and still she eggs them on. The motto of this doomed generation is ‘Free Mary, put her on the throne’. Your throne. For them, you’ve stolen the throne, or it’s yours by chance or trickery or something. They plot for her, it was they who made her dub herself Queen of England. There is no peace with them, or her, or any of her kindred.

ELIZABETH. My Lord, you hold a high and heavy office. I know how zealously you strive for me, and indeed that there is wisdom in your words. But wisdom which calls for blood, is wisdom I detest. Can’t you temper your advice? Lord Talbot, what do you think?

TALBOT. May you live long, your Majesty, the pride of your people; this is a happy golden age, we haven’t seen its like for many years. Let us hope we don’t forfeit our happiness if and when we ...