Never had the romantic figure of this girl-wife and girl-widow shone more radiantly than in the first years of her third decade, but here, likewise, her triumphs came too early, for she did not understand that they were indeed triumphs, and she therefore failed to make the best use of her advantage. Her inner life had not yet been fully awakened; the woman in her did not yet know what were the claims her blood might make on her; her proper, her deepest self was still unformed and undeveloped. Not until roused by excitement and passion would it reveal its true essence. But the first years of her sojourn in Scotland were a period of indifference and waiting, an aimless, happy-go-lucky passage of time, a preparation for eventualities, without the inner will guessing what it was awaiting or whom. Resembling as it did the taking of a deep breath before great exertion, it was a moment of stagnation, a dead point in her life. For Mary Stuart, having as a maid experienced what it was like to be Queen of one of the mightiest realms in Europe, was not concerned about remaining the ruler of so poor, so small, so out-of-the-way a land as Scotland. Not for this had she returned. Wider ambitions floated before her mind. The crown of Scotland was nothing better than a makeshift which might lead to the winning of a more dazzling one. They err vastly who maintain that Mary Stuart’s highest aim was to rule over the heritage her father had left her, in tranquillity and peace and wisdom. To equip her with so small an ambition is to minimise her spiritual and intellectual greatness; for, young though she was, she was already dominated by an untamable and unbridled will-to-power. She who at seventeen had been wedded to a king of France in the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, who in the Louvre had been acclaimed as the sovereign lady of millions of subjects, could not rest content with governing a few dozen unruly clodhoppers going by the title of earl or laird, together with a few hundred thousand worthy shepherds and fisherfolk. It is fallacious to ascribe patriotic and nationalistic feelings to a woman who had no such feelings at all. Indeed, these sentiments were only unearthed some centuries after Mary’s death! The princes of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries—with the possible exception of Mary’s great rival Elizabeth—were not in the habit of considering their peoples, but aimed solely at acquiring personal power. Kingdoms were stitched together and rent asunder as though they had been clothes; states were formed by wars and marriages, and not by any self-determination on the part of the nations concerned. No sentimental motive influenced the creation of such realms. Mary in her day was quite prepared to exchange Scotland’s crown for a Spanish, an English, a French or any other available one; no qualm would have assailed her conscience as to the honourability of her conduct in the matter, no tear would have dimmed her eye as she bade farewell to the woods and lakes and romantic castles of her homeland, for her impassioned ambition had led her invariably to look upon her Scottish throne as no more than a jumping-off place to higher and better awards. She knew that by inheritance she had been called to the position of ruler, that her beauty and breeding and culture made her worthy to occupy any throne in Europe; and just as other women of her tender years are wont to dream of immeasurable love, so did she dream but one dream—the dream of immeasurable power.
It was for these reasons that she left the responsibility of government in Moray’s and in Lethington’s hands, without feeling any jealousy or resentment, and without any interested participation. She allowed the two men to do what they thought wise and advantageous for the country without let or hindrance from her. What did she care about the destinies of this pitiful little realm, she who had so long worn a crown and had so early learnt to expect the acknowledgment of her royal majesty? Among the hundreds of letters she left behind we hardly find a reference to the welfare of her subjects, or a mention of Scotland’s rise to a higher position among the world powers. In this she differed notably from her neighbour Elizabeth, who was constantly and earnestly occupied with ways and means for raising her beloved England’s status. The administration of her possessions, their aggrandisement, their improvement (one of the most important points in the sphere of politics), did not occupy Mary Stuart’s mind. She could defend what was hers, but she could not make it secure. Only when her rights were threatened, when her pride was challenged, only when an alien will set itself up in opposition to her own, would she awaken, combative and irate. Only in supreme moments did this woman prove great and dangerous; at other times she remained an average woman, showing nothing but indifference to what went on around her.
During this comparatively peaceful time, the enmity of her English rival was in abeyance; for whenever the impetuous heart of Mary Queen of Scots was beating tranquilly for a space, Elizabeth too was quiescent. One of the most conspicuous political merits of the daughter of the Tudors was her realism, her willingness to face facts, her disinclination to resist the inevitable. She had done everything in her power to prevent the return of Mary Stuart to Scotland. Now, when the return had taken place, Elizabeth would not waste energy in fighting against actualities, preferring to live on amicable terms so long as she could not sweep her cousin out of her path. One of the strongest positive qualities of Elizabeth’s wayward and arbitrary character was that, from motives of prudence and economy, she had a dislike for war, was averse to forcible measures and irrevocable decisions. Her calculating mind made her seek to gain her ends by negotiation. As soon as it was certain that Mary would return to Scotland, James Stuart urged Elizabeth, in moving terms, to enter into an honest friendship with her cousin. “You be … both Queens in the flower of your ages … Your sex will not permit you to advance your glory by war and bloodshed, but in that of a peaceful reign. Neither of you is ignorant from what root the contrary affection proceeds … I wish to God the Queen my sovereign lady had never by any advice taken in head to pretend interest or acclaim any title to Your Majesty’s realm, for then I am fully persuaded you would have been and continued as dear friends as you be tender cousins—but now since on her part something hath been thought of it … I fear that unless the root may be removed, it shall ever breed unkindness betwixt you. Your Majesty cannot yield, and she may on the other part think of it hard, being so nigh of the blood of England, to be made a stranger from it! If any mid way could be picked out to remove this difference to both your contentments, then it is like we could have a perpetual quietness …”
Elizabeth was not slow to take the hint. As nothing more than Queen of Scotland, and under the guidance of the Queen of England’s pensioner James Stuart, Mary was for the time being less dangerous than she would have been as Queen of both France and Scotland. Why not swear a truce although in her heart she remained hostile? A brisk correspondence between the pair was soon in progress, in which each of the “dear sisters” expressed the most cordial sentiments upon sheets of long-suffering paper. One who reads these epistles today might well believe that nowhere in the world can there have been more affectionate kinswomen than the two cousins. Mary sent Elizabeth a diamond ring; the English Queen reciprocated with a still more valuable trinket; before the world, and before the audience of their own selves, they played the comedy of family love. Mary wrote: “Above all things I desire to see my good sister,” and declared her determination to break the alliance with France, for she appreciated Elizabeth’s goodwill “more than all the uncles in the world”. In response, Elizabeth, in the large, formal handwriting which she kept in reserve for important occasions, gave Mary extravagantly worded assurances of fondness and fidelity. But as soon as the question of a binding agreement arose, and a personal meeting loomed nigh, both the correspondents grew cautious and evasive. The negotiations which had been proceeding so long were still at a deadlock. Mary Stuart would not sign the treaty of Edinburgh recognising Elizabeth’s position until Elizabeth had accorded the succession to Mary—but to Elizabeth this would have been tantamount (so she thought) to signing her own death warrant. Neither would waive a particle of the rights they severally claimed; so, in the long run, the flowery phrases they interchanged barely concealed the unbridgeable chasm. As Genghis Khan resol
utely declared: “There cannot be two suns in the sky or two Khans on the earth.” One of the women must give way, Elizabeth Tudor or Mary Stuart. Both realised this, and both were awaiting the appointed hour. But since the hour had not yet struck, why should they not enjoy a period of truce? The truce would be brief. When mistrust is ineradicable, a reason will soon be found for giving it vent in action.
In these years the young Queen had many minor troubles: she was often bored by affairs of state, more and more did she feel out of her element among these hard-fisted and quarrelsome nobles, and she was continually harassed by implacable churchmen and wily intriguers. At such hours she took refuge, imaginatively, in France, which she continued to regard as her true home. Since she could not leave Scotland, she had established a Little France for herself in the palace of Holy-rood, a tiny corner of the world where, withdrawn from inquisitive eyes, she could follow her most heartfelt inclinations. It was her Trianon. In the round tower of Holyrood she had her rooms equipped after the French model, with Gobelins brought from Paris, Turkey carpets, ornate beds and other furnishings, pictures in gilt frames, her finely bound books—Erasmus, Rabelais, Ariosto, Ronsard. Here they talked French and lived French. In the evening, by the light of flickering candles, music was performed, round games were played, verses were read aloud and madrigals were sung. For the first time, at this miniature court, were staged on the western side of the North Sea and the Channel those masques which were subsequently to attain their highest blossoming in the English theatre. Dancing would continue till long after midnight. In one of the masques, The Purpose, Mary appeared as a young man, wearing black silk breeches, while Chastelard wore a woman’s gown—a sight which would certainly have aroused the fury of John Knox!
Puritans, zealots and mutinous warriors had not the entry to these scenes of merriment. Vainly did the Calvinist preacher, his beard swinging like a pendulum, rail in St Giles’ pulpit against these “souparis” and “dansaris”. Here is an extract from one of his sermons: “Princes are more exercised in fiddling and flinging than in reading or hearing of God’s most blessed Word … Musicians and flatterers, these corrupters of youth, please them better than do men old and wise” (of whom is our self-righteous friend thinking?) “who desire with their salutary exhortations to tame some of that pride which is our common and sinful heritage.” But the members of this young and gay circle had little desire for the “salutary exhortations” of the “killjoy”. The four Marys, and a few noblemen whose tastes had been moulded in the French court, found it agreeable, in rooms which (for the day) were well warmed and well lit, to forget the gloom of this austere and tragical country. More than all was Queen Mary herself gladdened at being able to lay aside the cloak of majesty, and to become a cheerful young woman among companions of her own age and her own way of thinking.
Her desire was natural enough. But it was always dangerous for Mary Stuart to give way to indolence. Sham and hypocrisy crushed her; prudence, in the long run, exasperated her. She herself once wrote: “Je ne sais point déguiser mes sentiments”—I do not know how to disguise my feelings. And it was precisely an innate lack of reticence on her part which caused her more political trouble and unpleasantness than if she had been guilty of the vilest deceit and the most ruthless severity. For the familiarity the Queen permitted herself among this jocund company, the warmth with which she accepted their homage, the smile with which all unconsciously she beguiled them, could not but arouse in these unruly natures a spirit of camaraderie which for those of a passionate disposition must have constituted a serious temptation. There must have been something in Mary, whose beauty is not shown to us on any of the canvases that portray her, which made a sensual appeal. Maybe a few of the men who were brought into contact with her and who came to their conclusions on the strength of certain almost imperceptible signs had a premonition that under the sensibility, the exquisite grace of manner, and apparently perfect self-possession of the maidenly woman there lurked an infinite capacity for amorous passion, hidden as might be a quiescent volcano beneath a pleasant landscape. Did they not, perhaps, discover her secret long before she herself was aware of its existence; did not their virile instinct guess at the presence in her of an abandon, a power to allure men’s senses even more indubitably than their romantic love? Her very innocence, her unawakened condition, may have led her to make use of those delicate physical endearments—a touch of the hand, a gossamer-like kiss, an invitation of the eyes—which a woman of experience knows to be dangerous. Be this as it may, it is indisputable that Mary allowed the men in her circle of intimates to forget that a queen must be kept unsullied by any daring thought where the fleshly woman was concerned. Once a young Scottish captain named Hepburn got himself into trouble by delivering to Mary—in the presence of the English ambassador—an obscene missive. Hepburn was probably no more than a feather-brained intermediary, but he escaped condign punishment only through flight. The incident had been quickly forgiven, and the Queen’s forbearance encouraged another member of her small circle to make further advances.
The affair was to remain in the realm of romance and, like almost every episode which took place in this Scottish land, was more like a ballad, a beautiful poem, than a historical fact. Mary’s first admirer at the French court was Monsieur d’Anville, and he had confided his passion to his friend, the poet Chastelard. Anville, together with a number of other gentlemen of France, had accompanied Mary on the journey to Scotland. Now he had to return to his country, his wife, and his official duties. Chastelard, however, regarding himself in some sort as the representative of foreign culture in a barbarous land, remained behind in Scotland. He indited tender verses to his lovely mistress, for poems are not in themselves dangerous things, though amorous sport may at any time change into reality. Unheeding what it might imply, Mary accepted the poetical homage paid to her by the stripling, a Huguenot, versed in the arts of chivalry. Indeed, she went so far as to answer in verses of her own composition. How could a sensitive and artistically endowed girl, forced to live in a rough and backward country, cut off from nearly all those she had known and loved—how could she fail to sun herself in the flattery that underlay such inspired strophes as the following?
O Déesse immortelle,
Escoute donc ma voix,
Toi qui tiens en tutelle
Mon pouvoir sous les loix,
Afin que si ma vie
Se voit en bref ravie
Ta cruauté
La confesse périe
Par ta seule beauté.
(O immortal goddess, hear my voice, you who hold dominion over my power under the law, so that if my life, cut short, be stolen from me, your cruelty will confess that your beauty alone was the cause.) Moreover, she was quite unaware that there was anything serious behind the young man’s protestations. She may have enjoyed the game, but she certainly did not return the passion. Chastelard himself mournfully regretted her coldness when he wrote:
Et néanmoins la flâme
Qui me brûle et enflâme
De passion
N’émeut jamais ton âme
D’aucune affection.
(And nevertheless the flame burning and inflaming me with passion never moved your soul with any affection.) Mary Stuart probably looked upon these adulatory screeds as part of the complimentary exaggeration inseparable from court life. She herself, being a writer in the lyrical vein, knew very well that the Muse of Poetry delighted in hyperboles of the sort, and it was in a playful humour that she countenanced gallantries which did not strike a false note in the romantic glamour which surrounded the court of a young and captivating woman. In her guileless way she jested and played with Chastelard, just as she was wont to do with her Marys. She would single him out by harmless acts of special favour and esteem, would (though her rank made such approaches on his part impossible) choose him as partner for a dance; once, during the fashionable Talking Dance or The Purpose, Mary leant on Chastelard’s breast; she allowed him certain freedoms of speech
which were looked on askance in Scotland, and especially by John Knox, whose pulpit was only a few streets distant from the “wanton orgies” of which he said that such fashions were “more lyke to the bordell than to the comeliness of honest women”; at a masked ball or during a game of forfeits Mary may even have permitted the young Frenchman to snatch a kiss. Though these familiarities were not in themselves of any grave import, they were dire in their effect on a lad of his years and ardent disposition, so that, like Torquato Tasso, his contemporary, he forgot the barriers separating a lady of high estate from her servitor, overstepped the limits that respect imposes upon camaraderie, that decorum enforces upon gallantry, that seriousness imposes upon jest, and, hot-headed, followed the dictates of his own feelings.