Mary Stuart Page 3

  (Heaven outdid itself when it created your mind. Nature and art have combined to make your beauty the quintessence of all that is beautiful.) Lope de Vega exclaimed: “From her eyes the stars borrow their brilliancy, and from her features the colours which make them so wonderful.” Ronsard attributes the following words to a brother of Charles IX:

  Avoir joui d’une telle beauté,

  Sein contre sein, valoit ta royauté.

  (To have enjoyed such beauty, heart to heart, was worth your regal crown.) Again, du Bellay sums up all the praise of all the poets in the couplet:

  Contentez-vous, mes yeux!

  Vous ne verrez jamais une chose pareille …

  (Rest content, my eyes! Never will you see again so lovely a thing.) Poets are prone to let their feelings run away with them; especially is this so in the case of court poets when they wish to sing the merits of their ruler. With the greater curiosity do we turn to the portraits left to us by such a master as Clouet. Here we suffer no disappointment, indeed, and yet we cannot altogether agree with the paeans of the poets. No radiant beauty shines down from the canvas, but, rather, a piquant little visage, a delicate and attractive oval, a slightly pointed nose, giving the features that charming irregularity which invariably renders a woman’s face so attractive. The dark eyes are gentle, mysterious, veiled; the mouth closed and calm. It must be admitted that each feature is finely moulded, and that nature had made use of her best materials when she was fashioning this daughter of many kings. The skin is wonderfully white and smooth, shimmering like nacre; the hair is abundant and of a chestnut colour, its beauty of texture being enhanced by the pearls entwined in its strands; the hands are long and slim, pale as snow; the body tall and straight; “the corselet so cut as to give but a glimpse of the snowy texture of her breast; and the collar raised, thus revealing the exquisite modelling of her shoulders.” No flaw is to be found in this face and figure. But precisely because it is so cool and flawless, so smooth and pretty, the face is lacking in expression. It seems to be a fair, clean page on which nothing personal, nothing characteristic of the young woman herself, has yet been inscribed. There is something indecisive and vague in the lineaments; something that has not yet blossomed, is awaiting the moment of awakening. Every portrait produces an impression of flatness and debility. Here, one feels, the nature of the real woman has still to be revealed; perhaps the true character of the sitter has never been given the chance to develop along its own lines. The visage is that of one whose spirit and senses lie dormant; the woman within has yet to find expression without. What we see is the portrait of an attractive schoolgirl.

  Verbal accounts of the young Queen serve only to confirm the impression of unawakened and incomplete maidenhood, for everyone seems agreed to affirm Mary’s perfection, to praise her deportment, industry and earnest endeavour, just as if she were the top girl of her class. We are told that she was studious, amiable and pleasantly sociable, pretty-mannered and pious, that she excelled in the practice of the arts and sports of the day and yet showed no predilection for any art or sport in particular, nor any special talent one way or the other. Good, obedient, she was a model of the virtues expected of a king’s bride in the making. Always it is her social and courtly virtues that her contemporaries belaud, which seems to point to the fact that the queenly characteristics were developed in Mary before the womanly ones. Her true personality was, for the moment, eclipsed behind a facade of decorum, merely because, so far, it had not been allowed to blossom. For many years to come her dignified behaviour and general culture successfully hid the passionate nature of this lovely princess; no one could guess what the soul of the woman was capable of; it lay quiet and untroubled within her, unmoved and untouched. Smooth and mute is the brow, friendly and sweet the mouth; the dark eyes are pensive, sly and searching, eyes that have looked forth into the world but have not yet looked deep into her own heart. Her contemporaries and Mary herself have no inkling of what is in store for her; they know nothing of the heritage in her own blood. She who was life’s spoilt darling, who had experienced nothing but happiness, could not foresee the dangers lying in the path of her career. Passion is needed in order that a woman may discover herself, in order that her character may expand to its true proportions; love and sorrow are needed for it to find its own magnitude.

  Mary Stuart had created so powerful an impression upon all who came in contact with her, and was so universal a favourite at court, that it was agreed to celebrate her nuptials earlier than had been anticipated. Throughout her life Mary’s hour seemed always to be in advance of the solar time, and she invariably was called upon to do things earlier than any others of her own age. The Dauphin, her future husband as by treaty arranged, was barely fourteen, and in addition he suffered from all-round debility. But politics cannot afford to wait upon nature. The French court was suspiciously eager to get on with the job, to celebrate the marriage, especially since it knew from the royal physicians that young Francis’ health was undermined, that, indeed, the boy was dangerously ill. The important thing for France, however, was to make sure of the Scottish crown, and this could be accomplished only if the wedding took place. With all possible speed, therefore, the two children were brought to the altar. In the marriage procuration, which was drawn up by the French and the Scottish parliamentary envoys acting in concert, the Dauphin was to receive the “crown matrimonial”. Simultaneously with the signing of the public marriage contract, Mary’s relatives, the Guises, made the fifteen-year-old girl sign three other, separate and secret deeds which rendered the public guarantees worthless, and which remained hidden from the Scottish parliament. Herein she pledged herself, in the event of her premature death, or if she died without issue, to bequeath her country as a free gift to France—as if it were her own private estate—and to hand over to the reigning House of Valois her rights of succession to the thrones of England and Ireland.

  The secrecy wherein the signing of these documents was shrouded was in itself a proof that the bargain was a dishonourable one. Mary Stuart had no right to change the course of succession in so arbitrary a manner, and to hand over her kingdom to a foreign power as if it were a cloak or other personal belonging. But her uncles brought pressure to bear, and the unsuspecting hand of an innocent girl duly signed the instrument. Tragical obedience! The first time Mary Stuart put her signature to a political document brought dishonour upon her fair head, and forced an otherwise straightforward, trustful and candid creature to acquiesce in a lie. If she was to become a queen and remain a queen in actual fact, she could never again follow the dictates of her own will, could never again be genuinely true to herself. One who has vowed himself to politics is no longer a free agent.

  These secret machinations were, however, hidden away behind the magnificence of the wedding festivities. It was now more than two hundred years since a dauphin of France had been married within the frontiers of his homeland, and for that reason the Valois court was disposed to provide the French people (who were not, in general, cosseted) with a spectacle of unexampled splendour. Catherine de’ Medici had witnessed festivals in Italy designed by the leading artists of the Renaissance, and it became a point of pride with her to excel these wonders when her eldest son was married. On 24th April 1558, Paris held high revel such as had not before been witnessed. In the large square before Notre Dame there had been erected an open pavilion in which there was a “ciel royal” of blue Cyprus silk bespangled with golden fleurs-de-lis; and a huge blue carpet, stamped likewise with golden lilies, covered the ground. Musicians led the way, clad in red and yellow, playing manifold instruments. Then came the royal procession, sumptuously attired and enthusiastically acclaimed. The rite was solemnised under the eyes of the populace, assembled in thousands to gloat over the bride and the sickly boy-bridegroom, who seemed overwhelmed by the pomp and circumstance. The court poets, on this occasion, again vied with one another in ecstatic descriptions of Mary’s beauty. “She appeared,” wrote Brantôme (whose pen was better accu
stomed to the writing of salacious anecdotes), “a hundred times more beautiful than a goddess.” Indeed, in that momentous hour, a glow of happiness and a sense of good fortune may have equipped this ambitious girl with a peculiar aureole. As she smiled upon all and sundry, and acknowledged the acclamations, she had arrived in truth—though so early—at the climax of her life. Never again would Mary Stuart be the central figure in such a galaxy of wealth, approval and jubilation as now when, at the side of the most distinguished crown prince in Europe and at the head of a troop of gaily dressed cavaliers, she passed through the streets to the accompaniment of thunderous applause. In the evening there was a banquet at the Palais de Justice, and all Paris thronged to gape through the open windows at the royal family, gleaming with gold, silver and precious stones, paying honour to the young woman who was adding a new crown to the crown of France. The celebrations ended in a ball, for which artists who had studied the achievements of the Italian Renaissance had prepared marvellous surprises. Among these there was a pageant of six ships decked with gold, having masts of silver and sails of gauze, which were propelled into the hall by an unseen and cunning mechanism. They rolled and pitched as if on a stormy sea and made their mimic voyage round the hall. In each of these miniature ships was sitting, apparelled in gold and wearing a damask mask, a prince who, rising with a deferent gesture, led one of the ladies of the court to his vessel: Catherine de’ Medici, Mary Queen of Scots and heiress to the throne of France, the Queen of Navarre, and the Princesses Elizabeth, Margaret and Claude. This was intended to symbolise a happy voyage through life, amid a flourish of pageantry. But fate is not subject to human wishes, and from this dazzling moment the life-ship of Mary Stuart was to be steered towards other and more perilous shores.

  The first danger arose unexpectedly in her path. Mary was Queen of Scotland in her own right, by birth and heritage, whereas the “roi-dauphin”, the crown prince of France, had raised her to a further high estate by marriage. But hardly had the marriage ceremony terminated when a third and more advantageous crown began to shimmer vaguely before the girl’s eyes, and her young hands, inexperienced and ill advised, grasped at this treasure and its treacherous brilliance. In the year of the Scottish Queen’s marriage to Francis, Mary Tudor, Queen of England, died. Elizabeth, her half-sister, succeeded to the crown. But had she any legal right to ascend the throne? Henry VIII, a veritable Bluebeard with his many wives, had left only three children behind him, Edward and two daughters. Mary, the eldest of the three, issued from his lawful union with Catherine of Aragon; Elizabeth, seventeen years younger than Mary, was the child of his marriage with Anne Boleyn. Edward, four years junior to Elizabeth, was the son of Henry’s third wife, Jane Seymour, and as the only male heir, being then only ten years of age, immediately succeeded his father. On Edward’s premature demise, there was no question as to the legality of Mary’s accession. She left no children, and Elizabeth’s right was of a dubious nature. The English crown lawyers contended that, since Henry’s marriage with Anne had been sanctioned by an ecclesiastical court’s pronouncement and the previous marriage to Catherine of Aragon had been annulled, Elizabeth was a legitimate child of the union. She was his direct descendant, and was a legal claimant to the throne. The French crown jurists, on the other hand, recalled the fact that Henry VIII had himself declared his marriage to Anne Boleyn a union with no legal foundation, and had insisted upon his parliament’s proclaiming Elizabeth a bastard. The whole of the Catholic world held the opinion that Elizabeth was born out of lawful wedlock and was, therefore, cut off from the succession. If this view was a true one, then the next legitimate claimant could be no other than Mary Queen of Scots, the great-granddaughter of Henry VII.

  Young Mary was faced with a decision of worldwide importance. Two alternatives presented themselves. She could be diplomatic and yielding, could maintain friendly relations by recognising her cousin as the rightful Queen of England, thus putting aside her own claim which in any case could not be pushed except by the use of arms. Or she could boldly and resolutely declare Elizabeth to be a usurper, and thereupon gather together an army of French and Scottish supporters to enforce her claim and deprive Elizabeth of a usurper’s crown. Unfortunately, Mary and her counsellors chose a third way out of the dilemma, a way which is invariably beset with difficulties, especially in the realm of politics. They elected to take a middle course. Instead of marching forth in full strength and with determination against Elizabeth, the French royal house made an absurd and vainglorious gesture. Henry II commanded that the bridal pair should have the royal arms of England and Scotland surmounted by the crown of France painted and engraved on blason, shield and seal, and moreover that Mary Stuart, in all public announcements and proclamations, henceforward should style herself: “Regina Franciae, Scotiae, Angliae et Hiberniae”. The claim was thus maintained but was left undefended. War was not declared against Elizabeth; she was merely fretted and annoyed. Instead of enforcing a right at the point of the sword, the claim was asserted by a mere painting on a piece of wood and a style at the foot of a sheet of paper. Misunderstanding and ambiguity were thus created, for Mary Stuart’s claim to the English throne remained a fact which at the same time was no tangible fact. According to the prevailing mood, the claim was trotted out into the light of day or kept hidden in the background. When, acting upon the clauses of a well-known treaty, Elizabeth demanded the return of Calais to the English crown, Henry II answered: “Calais ought to be surrendered to the Dauphin’s consort, the Queen of Scotland, whom we take to be the Queen of England.” Nevertheless, Henry made no move to enforce his daughterin-law’s claim, and continued to deal on equal terms with the English monarch as if there were no question of her being a usurper.

  This foolish and vain gesture, this childish and idiotic painting of the coat of arms of England and Scotland upon a single escutcheon, brought absolutely no advantage to Mary Stuart. On the contrary it ruined her cause. In this instance Mary Stuart had to suffer throughout life for an act committed in her behalf when she was hardly more than a child, an act which was a gross political blunder performed as a salve to aggressiveness and vanity. This petty mortification of Elizabeth’s pride converted the most powerful woman of Europe into Mary’s irreconcilable foe. A genuine ruler, to the manner born, can tolerate and permit everything except that another should put his dominion in doubt and make a counterclaim to that same dominion. Elizabeth, therefore, in spite of apparently friendly and even tender letters, always looked upon Mary Stuart as a spectre casting a shadow over her throne, invariably held her young cousin to be an enemy, an opponent, a rival. Mary, on the other hand, was too proud to acknowledge herself in the wrong once the claim had publicly been made, and never could she consent unconditionally to recognise a “concubine’s” bastard as the legitimate Queen of England. Relations between the two women could not be any other than a pretence and a subterfuge, beneath which the cleavage remained. Half-measures and dishonourable deeds, whether in the world of politics or in private life, invariably bring more damage in their train than energetic and freehanded decisions. The painting of the English coat of arms onto the Dauphin’s and Mary’s blason caused more blood to flow than a real war could have done, for open warfare in the end must decide the issue one way or another, whereas the ambiguous method adopted by Henry II proved to be a constant and ever-recurring pinprick which estranged the two women for a lifetime and played havoc with their rule as monarchs.

  The coat of arms incorporating the English heraldic emblems was, in July 1559, publicly displayed by the “roi-dauphin” and the “reine-dauphine” when they were on their way to a tournament which was to take place in Paris. On that occasion they were borne to the arena in a triumphal car emblazoned with the fatal escutcheon. The car was preceded by two Scottish heralds, apparelled with the arms of England and Scotland, and crying for all men to hear: “Make place! Make place, for the Queen of England!” This festivity had been arranged to celebrate the Peace of Cateau-Cambrésis (April
1559). King Henry II, ever the chivalrous knight, did not feel it beneath his dignity to splinter a lance or two “pour l’amour des dames”, and everyone knew which lady was in his mind. Diane de Poitiers, proud and beautiful as ever, sat in her box and looked down leniently upon her royal lover. On a sudden, however, what had been a joyous sport became deadly earnest. The tourney proved to be a pivot of world history. The Comte de Montgomery, a French knight and officer in the Scottish lifeguard of the King, entered the lists at the latter’s command as the opponent of his royal master. Having broken his lance, he galloped to the attack once more with the stump of his weapon. The onslaught was so energetic that a splinter of Montgomery’s lance penetrated the King’s eye through the visor. The monarch fell from his horse in a faint. At first the wound was considered trifling, but the King never regained consciousness. Around his bed the family gathered, appalled and horrified. Valois’s sturdy frame fought valiantly for a few days, but on 10th July he gave up the ghost.

  Even when plunged into the deepest grief, the French never forgot the dictates of etiquette. As the royal family was leaving the palace, Catherine de’ Medici, Henry II’s wife, held back at the door. From the hour when she became a widow she had no longer any right to take precedence at court. This right now fell to a girl who had automatically become Queen of France as the last breath went out of the erstwhile King’s body. Mary Stuart, the spouse of France’s new King, a chit of sixteen, had to go before, and in this moment Mary rose to the highest peak life had reserved for her.

  Chapter Three

  Queen, Widow, and Still Queen

  (1560–1)

  NOTHING CONTRIBUTED SO GREATLY to render Mary Stuart’s fate tragic as that at the outset of her career earthly honours fell deceptively to her lot without her lifting a finger to attain them. Her rise to power was like a rocket for swiftness—six days after birth she was already Queen of Scotland; at six years of age she became the betrothed of one of the most powerful princes in Europe; at fifteen she was his wife; at sixteen, Queen of France. She reached the zenith of her public career before she had had time to develop her inner life. Things dropped into her lap as if out of a horn of plenty; never did she fight in her own behalf for a desired object, or reap any advantage through the exercise of personal endeavour. Not through trial and merit did this princess attain a goal; everything flowed towards her by inheritance, or grace, or gift. As in a dream, wherein happenings fly past in ephemeral and multicoloured precipitancy, she lived through the wedding ceremony and the coronation. Before her senses could begin to grasp the significance of this precocious springtime, the blossoms were already withered and dead, the season of flowering was over and Mary awoke disappointed, disillusioned, plundered of her hopes, fleeced as it were, bewildered to distraction. At an age when other maids are beginning to form wishes, are beginning to hope for and to hanker after they hardly know what, Mary experienced in profusion the possibilities of a triumphant progress without being granted time or leisure to grasp their spiritual significance. This premature coming to grips with destiny explains her subsequent restlessness and voracity. One who has so early been the outstanding figure in a country, indeed in the world, will never again be content with a less exalted position. It was in the stubborn fight to maintain herself at the centre of the stage that her real greatness was developed. Renunciation and forgetfulness are permissible to the weak; strong natures, on the other hand, are not in the habit of resigning themselves, but challenge even the mightiest destiny to a trial at arms.