Mary Stuart. Dumas Alexandre

moment of departure. There she was entrusted to M. de Breze, sent by Henry II to fetch her. Having set out in the French galleys anchored at the mouth of the Clyde, Mary, after having been hotly pursued by the English fleet, entered Brest harbour, 15th August, 1548, one year after the death of Francis! Besides the queen’s four Marys, the vessels also brought to France three of her natural brothers, among whom was the Prior of St. Andrews, James Stuart, who was later to abjure the Catholic faith, and with the title of Regent, and under the name of the Earl of Murray, to become so fatal to poor Mary. From Brest, Mary went to St. Germain-en-Laye, where Henry II, who had just ascended the throne, overwhelmed her with caresses, and then sent her to a convent where the heiresses of the noblest French houses were brought up. There Mary’s happy qualities developed. Born with a woman’s heart and a man’s head, Mary not only acquired all the accomplishments which constituted the education of a future queen, but also that real knowledge which is the object of the truly learned.

      Thus, at fourteen, in the Louvre, before Henry II, Catherine de Medici, and the whole court, she delivered a discourse in Latin of her own composition, in which she maintained that it becomes women to cultivate letters, and that it is unjust and tyrannical to deprive flowery of their perfumes, by banishing young girls from all but domestic cares. One can imagine in what manner a future queen, sustaining such a thesis, was likely to be welcomed in the most lettered and pedantic court in Europe. Between the literature of Rabelais and Marot verging on their decline, and that of Ronsard and Montaigne reaching their zenith, Mary became a queen of poetry, only too happy never to have to wear another crown than that which Ronsard, Dubellay, Maison-Fleur, and Brantome placed daily on her head. But she was predestined. In the midst of those fetes which a waning chivalry was trying to revive came the fatal joust of Tournelles: Henry II, struck by a splinter of a lance for want of a visor, slept before his time with his ancestors, and Mary Stuart ascended the throne of France, where, from mourning for Henry, she passed to that for her mother, and from mourning for her mother to that for her husband. Mary felt this last loss both as woman and as poet; her heart burst forth into bitter tears and plaintive harmonies. Here are some lines that she composed at this time:

      “Into my song of woe,

      Sung to a low sad air,

      My cruel grief I throw,

      For loss beyond compare;

      In bitter sighs and tears

      Go by my fairest years.

      Was ever grief like mine

      Imposed by destiny?

      Did ever lady pine,

      In high estate, like me,

      Of whom both heart and eye

      Within the coffin lie?

      Who, in the tender spring

      And blossom of my youth,

      Taste all the sorrowing

      Of life’s extremest ruth,

      And take delight in nought

      Save in regretful thought.

      All that was sweet and gay

      Is now a pain to see;

      The sunniness of day

      Is black as night to me;

      All that was my delight

      Is hidden from my sight.

      My heart and eye, indeed,

      One face, one image know,

      The which this mournful weed

      On my sad face doth show,

      Dyed with the violet’s tone

      That is the lover’s own.

      Tormented by my ill,

      I go from place to place,

      But wander as I will

      My woes can nought efface;

      My most of bad and good

      I find in solitude.

      But wheresoe’er I stay,

      In meadow or in copse,

      Whether at break of day

      Or when the twilight drops,

      My heart goes sighing on,

      Desiring one that’s gone.

      If sometimes to the skies

      My weary gaze I lift,

      His gently shining eyes

      Look from the cloudy drift,

      Or stooping o’er the wave

      I see him in the grave.

      Or when my bed I seek,

      And sleep begins to steal,

      Again I hear him speak,

      Again his touch I feel;

      In work or leisure,

      he is ever near to me.

      No other thing I see,

      However fair displayed,

      By which my heart will be

      A tributary made,

      Not having the perfection

      Of that, my lost affection.

      Here make an end, my verse,

      Of this thy sad lament,

      Whose burden shall rehearse

      Pure love of true intent,

      Which separation’s stress

      Will never render less.”

      “It was then,” says Brantome, “that it was delightful to see her; for the whiteness of her countenance and of her veil contended together; but finally the artificial white yielded, and the snow-like pallor of her face vanquished the other. For it was thus,” he adds, “that from the moment she became a widow, I always saw her with her pale hue, as long as I had the honour of seeing her in France, and Scotland, where she had to go in eighteen months’ time, to her very great regret, after her widowhood, to pacify her kingdom, greatly divided by religious troubles. Alas! she had neither the wish nor the will for it, and I have often heard her say so, with a fear of this journey like death; for she preferred a hundred times to dwell in France as a dowager queen, and to content herself with Touraine and Poitou for her jointure, than to go and reign over there in her wild country; but her uncles, at least some of them, not all, advised her, and even urged her to it, and deeply repented their error.”

      Mary was obedient, as we have seen, and she began her journey under such auspices that when she lost sight of land she was like to die. Then it was that the poetry of her soul found expression in these famous lines:

      “Farewell, delightful land of France,

      My motherland,

      The best beloved!

      Foster-nurse of my young years!

      Farewell, France, and farewell my happy days!

      The ship that separates our loves

      Has borne away but half of me;

      One part is left thee and is throe,

      And I confide it to thy tenderness,

      That thou may’st hold in mind the other part.”’

      [Translator’s note. – It has not been found possible to make a rhymed version of these lines without sacrificing the simplicity which is their chief charm.]

      This part of herself that Mary left in France was the body of the young king, who had taken with him all poor Mary’s happiness into his tomb.

      Mary had but one hope remaining, that the sight of the English fleet would compel her little squadron to turn back; but she had to fulfil her destiny. This same day, a fog, a very unusual occurrence in summer-time, extended all over the Channel, and caused her