Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
John Westland Marston 1819–90From “Marie De Meranie”
MarstonJWMarie.Another night, and yet no tidings come.
Day follows day to mock me in its round.
O Time! that to all senseless things dost bear
Succor and comfort,—the reviving heat
And freshening dew to tree and flower and weed,—
Why dost thou pass the famish’d heart and smile?
Anne.Dear lady!
Marie.[Eagerly.] Anne! Well? No; your face is void!
You have no tidings for me.
Anne.Alas! none.
Marie.We must be patient, Anne. I cannot think
The Council will bereave me of my lord.
Anne.Heaven touch their hearts with gentleness!
Marie.Amen!
Anne.And keep the king—[Faltering.
Marie.Why falter? Prayers should breathe
Trust, and not fear.
Anne.Heaven keep King Philip faithful
And worthy of your love.
Marie.I will not say
Amen to that. To pray he may be faithful
Were to misdoubt he is so.
Anne.All men, being tempted,
Are prone to fall; most prone, ambitious kings.
Marie.What dost thou mean?
Anne.By thoughts on ill that may be
To shield your heart from worse.
Marie.Worse? What were worse
Than treachery in my lord? Rash girl, that word
Stretches to woe so infinite, it fathoms
An ocean of despair! Uncrown me, slay me,
Honors and life must end. Not love! The grave
Is as a port where it unlades its wealth
For immortality. But rob or taint
The merchandise of love—then let the bark
Drift helmless o’er the seas, or strike the shoals!
They can but wreck a ruin.
Anne.Pardon, madam.
I would not thus have mov’d you; but—
Marie.Be silent!
Thy look doth herald thoughts my soul repels.
He did desert me once. You see I read you.
No, Anne! His love was changeless, but he quell’d it
For duty and his country. O shame, shame!
Listening thy treason, I adopt it. Go!—
Nay, not unkindly. This suspense disturbs me.
Leave me awhile. There, there![Taking her hand, A
Another night!
It cannot last forever. Even now
The unregarding messenger despatch’d
To bear my doom his onward course may speed.
They could not part us, Philip, had they seen
Our happy solitude, our inner world
Of secret, holy, all-sufficing bliss.
They guess it not, nor feel it. At their knees,
Lock’d in my arms, I should have told them this,
And forced my heart an avenue to theirs
Through all their wiles, for hearts must answer hearts;
But mine was dumb, and how could theirs reply?
Woe ’s me! Who comes?
Philip—my lord!—Say, say,
May I embrace thee?—may I call thee mine?—
Am I thy wife?
Phil.Yes; in the sight of Heaven.
Marie.And not of earth? A doom told in a breath;
Brief, but so cold that it hath froze the fount
Whence sorrow gushes!
Phil.I am dear to thee?
Marie.What! is there hope? If not, encourage none.
Phil.Why should we be the slaves of Rome?
Marie.Thou wilt
Resist his mandate? Yet thy kingdom, love?
Phil.Dearest, most faithful! We may still remain
Bound to each other, and the Papal curse
Pass from the realm.
Marie.How? Haste thee to disclose.
Phil.The Council has pronounced no sentence.
Marie.Yet
Thou art return’d!
Phil.Like to a criminal
I stood before the conclave. Every day
Brought some new contumely. The weight I bore
Of strain’d suspense and nice indignity
Was pleasant pastime for them; and they linger’d,
Protracting their enjoyment, and inviting.
The universe to look on haughty Philip
Crouch’d at their stools, and learn from thence how Rome
Would deal with rebel kings!
Marie.And yet you bore it?
Phil.It was the Church’s aim to judge my cause,
To plant its insolent foot upon my neck,
Humbling all crowns in mine. I look’d for this;
I bore it long. At last scorn heap’d on scorn
Turn’d patience to revolt.
Marie.[After a short pause.]And then?
How then?
Phil.[Avoiding her look.]Marie! I said within my soul, my pomp,
My title, all my gilded shows of power,
Were not the links that bound thy love to mine.
Was I right there?
Marie.Can Philip ask that question?
Phil.Her trust doth sting me more than could reproach.
Too late, too late! all must be told! [Aside.
Marie.What follow’d?
Phil.I will not hear your judgment, lords, I cried:
Not mov’d by you, but of my sovereign will,
I have resolv’d that Marie shall resign
The throne and empty state she never priz’d,
And Ingerburge to her lost dignities
Be straight restor’d. ’T is all that Denmark seeks;
Therefore dissolve the interdict!
Marie.Thou saidst this?—
Heard I aright?
Phil.[Confused.]Marie, thou didst.
Marie.And Philip
Could of his proper will cast Marie out!
I thought—I thought you said we should not part.
Phil.Part?—never, never! Part!
Marie.But have you not own’d Ingerburge your wife?
I am no longer queen.
Phil.But for all this
We must not part.
Marie.Husband—I pray your pardon;
I can’t forget you were so—torture not
My mind with this perplexity! How is’t
I can be thine, and Ingerburge thy wife?
Phil.[After a pause.]She is but so in name; thou wilt retain
The empire of my heart.
Marie.Ha! how the light—
The cruel light I could not see before—
Bursts on my sight! No; ’t is some hideous dream.
Although I see, I shall not touch thy hand.[Takes his hand as if to assure herself.
It is reality! And yet—forgive me!
A subtle tempter through my o’erwrought brain
Would stab my trust in thee. He shall not, love!
Even now I ’m calmer. Pray, repeat the words,—
The words you spake but now.
Phil.I said, my own,
Though Ingerburge might bear the name of queen,
Thou only shouldst rule Philip—
Marie.Pause awhile.
Though Ingerburge might bear the name of queen,
I only should rule Philip—[Signs to him to proceed.
Phil.Thou shouldst share
His hours of love—thou only; thou shouldst be—[Hesitating, and averting his head.
Marie.His paramour! O God! although his voice
Was sham’d from speech, this is the thing he means.[She turns from him.
Phil.Thou wouldst not go?
Marie.I am already gone!