The end approached very gradually — with the delay which, so it seemed, had become de rigueur in that ambiguous Court. The ordinary routine continued, and in her seventieth year the Queen transacted1 business, went on progress, and danced while ambassadors peeped through the hangings, as of old. Vitality2 ebbed3 slowly; but at times there was a sudden turn; health and spirits flowed in upon the capricious organism; wit sparkled; the loud familiar laughter re-echoed through Whitehall. Then the sombre hours returned again — the distaste for all that life offered — the savage4 outbursts — the lamentations. So it had come to this! It was all too clear — her inordinate5 triumph had only brought her to solitude6 and ruin. She sat alone, amid emptiness and ashes, bereft7 of the one thing in the whole world that was worth having. And she herself, with her own hand, had cast it from her, had destroyed it . . . but it was not true; she had been helpless — a puppet in the grasp of some malignant8 power, some hideous9 influence inherent in the very structure of reality. In such moods, with royal indifference10, she unburdened her soul to all who approached her — to show her his books. With deep sighs and mourning gestures she constantly repeated the name of Essex. Then she dismissed them — the futile11 listeners — with a wave of her hand. It was better that the inward truth should be expressed by the outward seeming; it was better to be alone.
In the winter of 1602 Harington came again to Court, and this time he obtained an audience of his godmother. “I found her,” he told his wife, “in most pitiable state.” Negotiations12 with Tyrone were then in progress, and she, forgetful of a former conversation, asked Sir John if he had ever seen the rebel. “I replied with reverence13 that I had seen him with the Lord Deputy; she looked up with much choler and grief in her countenance14, and said, ‘Oh, now it mindeth me that you was one who saw this man elsewhere,’ and hereat she dropped a tear, and smote15 her bosom16.” He thought to amuse her with some literary trifles, and read her one or two of his rhyming epigrams. She smiled faintly. “When thou dost feel creeping time at thy gate,” she said, “these fooleries will please thee less; I am past my relish17 for such matters.”
With the new year her spirits revived, and she attended some state dinners. Then she moved to Richmond, for change of air; and at Richmond, in March, 1603, her strength finally left her. There were no very definite symptoms, besides the growing physical weakness and the profound depression of mind. She would allow no doctors to come near her; she ate and drank very little, lying for hours in a low chair. At last it was seen that some strange crisis was approaching. She struggled to rise, and failing, summoned her attendants to pull her to her feet. She stood. Refusing further help, she remained immovable, while those around her watched in awe-stricken silence. Too weak to walk, she still had the strength to stand; if she returned to her chair, she knew that she would never rise from it; she would continue to stand then; had it not always been her favourite posture18? She was fighting Death, and fighting with terrific tenacity19. The appalling20 combat lasted for fifteen hours. Then she yielded — though she still declared that she would not go to bed. She sank on to cushions, spread out to receive her; and there she lay for four days and nights, speechless, with her finger in her mouth. Meanwhile an atmosphere of hysterical21 nightmare had descended22 on the Court. The air was thick with doom23 and terror. One of the ladies, looking under a chair, saw, nailed to the bottom of it, a queen of hearts. What did the awful portent24 mean? Another, leaving the Queen’s room for a little rest, went down a gallery, and caught a glimpse of a shadowy form, sweeping25 away from her in the familiar panoply26 of Majesty27. Distracted by fear, she retraced28 her steps, and, hurrying back into the royal chamber29, looked — and beheld30 the Queen lying silent on the pillows, with her finger in her mouth, as she had left her.
The great personages about her implored31 her to obey the physicians and let herself be moved — in vain. At last Cecil said boldly, “Your Majesty, to content the people, you must go to bed.”
“Little man, little man,” came the answer, “the word must is not used to princes.” She indicated that she wished for music, and the instruments were brought into the room; with delicate melancholy32 they discoursed33 to her, and for a little she found relief. The consolations34 of religion remained; but they were dim formalities to that irretrievably terrestrial nature; a tune35 on the virginals had always been more to her mind than a prayer. Eventually she was carried to her bed. Cecil and the other Councillors gathered round her; had she any instructions, the Secretary asked, in the matter of her successor? There was no answer. “The King of Scotland?” he hinted; and she made a sign — so it seemed to him — which showed agreement. The Archbishop of Canterbury came — the aged36 Whitgift, whom she had called in merrier days her “little black husband”— and knelt beside her. He prayed fervently37 and long; and now, unexpectedly, she seemed to take a pleasure in his ministrations; on and on he prayed, until his old knees were in an agony, and he made a move as if to rise. But she would not allow it, and for another intolerable period he raised his petitions to heaven. It was late at night before he was released, when he saw that she had fallen asleep. She continued asleep, until — in the cold dark hours of the early morning of March 24th — there was a change; and the anxious courtiers, as they bent38 over the bed, perceived, yet once again, that the inexplicable39 spirit had eluded40 them. But it was for the last time: a haggard husk was all that was left of Queen Elizabeth.
But meanwhile, in an inner chamber, at his table, alone, the Secretary sat writing. All eventualities had been foreseen, everything was arranged, only the last soft touches remained to be given. The momentous41 transition would come now with exquisite42 facility. As the hand moved, the mind moved too, ranging sadly over the vicissitudes43 of mortal beings, reflecting upon the revolutions of kingdoms, and dreaming, with quiet clarity, of what the hours, even then, were bringing — the union of two nations — the triumph of the new rulers — success, power, and riches — a name in after ages — a noble lineage — a great House.
The End
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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30
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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31
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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33
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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34
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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39
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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40
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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41
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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42
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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43
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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