ACT III

To hold the stirrup!I must decline: I cannot stoop so far.

Prince of Squillace, you will hold the stirrup,And in your company take Don Alfonso.

My wife forbids me leave her.

Nay, LucreziaHas never saidforbid. I yield my husbandFor just this hour, knowing that all his hours,And mine—even Cesare’s—are but one glass

[Kissing thePope’shand.

This hand may run the sands of at its pleasure.Go, and be mannerly.

[ExeuntDon JoffréandDon Alfonso.

It seemsThis bridegroom travels homeward with no bride.Is he ashamed that, jewelled to the eyes,He could not win my cousin’s hand—Carlotta’s?

[ThePopetakesSancia’sfan from a table and tears it.

His bride is Italy.

I thought she was of France.

He is of France. The fleur-de-luce is broideredOn his banners with our Bull. César de France,Of Italy—the world. You may retireFrom our presence: later we will give you roomsConvenient in Sant’ Angelo. [ExitSancia.Fair ladies, Adriana,I warn you that this Charlotte of NavarreIs of no further interest than a cityCaptured and left behind. The confidences....

[PinchingLucrezia’schin.

What have you heard, Discretion? Not the story....Enough!We no more lose our Cesar for a wife,Treasure, then we have lost you in a groom.

[Turning to theCardinals.

Francesco, there is flutter in your robe,You crane your neck. What of the cavalcade?

We cannot see it yet.

We can but see the flagsBeating the sky about Sant’ Angelo.

The cavalcade itself we shall not see,Not till the cannon roar at its approach.

[ThePopesinks down exhausted in his chair and closes his eyes.

Triumphs—St. Peter!...In a bossy car,Its base the wide spine of an elephant,Rode Alexander into Babylon,Invincible, my namesake and a god.But not for me the riding, not the shouts,Though mine the empire: it is Cesar, Cesar,Who comes to Rome, and this is Cesar’s triumph.The chariots and the laurels and the helmets,The antique cuirasses and helmets—laurelsFresh from my gardens: we will act it allBefore the eye to-morrow, and translateThis modern triumph into classic glory,As epitaphs go down in sounding LatinTo generations after. Cesar’s Triumph!Burcardus shall arrange the pomp, the order,The circuit of the pageant. Alexander ... Cesar ...Cesar....

[The cannon boom, all rush to the Loggia.

[Running to her father as if for protection.

O Holiness, but he is coming now!Oh!

Out to the Loggia! Cease your clinging, child!You check my haste, you flutter,And check me.

[There is tumult of cannon, shouting and trumpet-blasts.

[In the Loggia.] O my lords, where is he, where?[Looking down.] My God, what splendour! But ...

See, see, that simple riderIn black, the foil to all—you know him, father!You see his collar of Saint Michel gleam;His hair in golden circle—Cesare!

A presence, oh, a presence! Recollect,Daughter, we must receive him as the PopeReceives his Captain-General. He is ridingAs in a picture.... Help, Lord Cardinals, help me!Is the Triregno set about my headWith nicety? This jewel flames aside,That should be central. Shift my cope. There, there!We will go in and take the throne.

[Throwing a kiss down.] He has alighted, father.

[ThePope,seated, waits, his Court round him.

How this remoteness enervates! Come, come, come, come!

[The door is thrown open,Duke Cesare de Valentinoisstands gravely on the threshold and makes a deep reverence.He is presented byMonsignore Burchardand followed byPrince Don JoffréandPrince Don Alfonso,theGeneralsof his staff, and the accompanyingCardinalsandAmbassadors.

[With another deep reverence]. Your Holiness,How can I thank you for the benefitsThat even in absence weighed me with the blessing.Of your great recollection.

No, my son, the ChurchWould give you thanks upon my lips for serviceOf princely measure—service....

[AsCesarebends to kiss thePope’sfoot,Alexander,with a passionate gesture, catches him in his arms.

Cesare!My son! Superb this beauty! Home at last,Son of my bowels!

Holiness, your captain,Your servant, and your creature.

[Close to his ear.] No, no, no, my sonBy nature, my dear flesh, my very substanceGone out to victory! Rise! Rise! We must notBeggar all welcomes other than our own.Donna Lucrezia—see!... Children!

[Prince Alfonsohas come to her and holds her by the hand.

A loving couple!Though one of them fled off awhile ago.[ToAlfonso.] Lured back?Lucrezia, do you welcome me?Then welcome me with hands and lips.

[She dropsAlfonso’shand and goes quickly up toCesare.

[As he kisses her.] Come home!

The Vatican—Sala dei Pontifici.

TheLord Alexander VI.andMonsignore Gaspare Poto.

How high the storm is rumbling! Crack! What fell?Look through the window.

’Tis an old ilex-bough,That sails along like a black, ruffled swanA space above the ground.

Draw in, draw in, draw in,My light of service, Gaspare—the windWould, if it could, extinguish you.Go yonder!Set further in upon the table thereThat vase ... enamel with the whirl-blast round it,And the enamel matchless! Did you tell meMy lord Antoniotto PallaviciniWaits for an audience? Of a truth, the tempestDrove not His peace from Christ within the ship.Well—introduce the Cardinal St. Praxede. [ExitPoto.Vespers will sound directly; but the bellOf the old, dying day will shape a tinkleIn this mad, hammering gale, and no one hear.

[Re-enterMonsignore Gaspare Potowith theLordCardinal Antoniotto Pallavicini.]

Good even, lord Antoniotto.

Holiness,What wind!

Santi, it wrenches everything it handles—No touching, but possession. Lord Antoniotto,You come to seek the dispensation. PotoWill tell you when I reached my bed last night;Yet with all industry your business lingeredStill far beyond my goal. I crave your patience.So many festivals this jubilee,Processions, triumphs! O my Lord Cardinal,Think—and the great rejoicing yesterdayWhen our young Duke received from Holy ChurchThe Order of the Mystic Rose that blossomsUpon the banks of the abundant rivers—Crown of the Church triumphant, militant.My lord, the pity you were held at sea,Delayed at Ostia too! Our Duke knelt down;He took the emblem, kissed the hand, and kissedThe foot of Christ’s vicegerent; then togetherWe stood erect, and he advanced; for onceHe went before me—that was joy!—before me,The Rose in his right hand, the hovering DoveOn his beretta, with its fretted rays,A nimbus round him from the monster pearls,And he before me like a star of heaven!You have heard the Sacred College makes him Vicar,Duke of Romagna, Count of Imola,Forli? There were some seventeen CardinalsSigned, when I signed the Bull.

And I away from Rome!

Poto, shut down that casement.Hoo! I shiver—shiver!A cold so keen and violent.

I will aid him.Your Holiness is prudent.[At the window.] What a shockAnd surge among the roofs.

[With a crash the ceiling falls in over thePope.

O God!What is it? What has happened?Is he dead?

Oh, oh, oh! The Pope is dead.

The PopeIs dead, is dead.

[They rush out to theGuard—a cry down the galleries “The Pope is dead!”

[Re-entering.] What horror!His Blessèdness, where is he? Jammed behindThose ribs of vaulting—but the throne still stands,Veiled by a dais-curtain.

Re-enter theLord Cardinal Antoniotto Pallaviciniand thePapal Guard.The vesper bell begins to ring.

O my lord, look there!

[They discover thePope.

Ah, God on earth, he keeps his throne! Not dead;See, see, he moves the ruin from his hands.

His brow bleeds.... [to Guard.] Gently, the great daïs-nailsWill harrow up his arm.

But he is still as death!Now pass him through the crevice the dropped vaultingsA-tilt have made.

[They bring thePopeout and raise him slowly on his feet.

Yes ... to my room,

[He is helped into the next chamber.

Thank God!

EnterDuke Cesare de Valentinois Della Romagna.

My father ...The Lord Lorenzo Chigi is stone-deadAbove.... My father!

Excellency, safe;But hurt, but bleeding.

Publish wide the news;Shout his escape! Send doctors, send the best—The Bishop of Venosa.

[Exit into thePope’schamber.

[Cardinal Pallavicinigoes out, asCardinalsandPhysicianspass in.

After a whileDonna Lucrezia Borgia d’Aragonenters and stands waiting till some one passes out of the bed-chamber.

[Passing out.] Your Excellency, the Pope’s HolinessHas at the very edge of death been spared.

I am so thankful! [Physicians come out.

Nothing of danger! He is torn, he is shaken.He asked for you.

I will go straight.

No, no, Madonna,He is asleep, and even your steps would rouse him!He will demand you later as his nurse,His cook, his smiling comfort. God be thanked!

[They pass out.

I am so thankful ...That chasm—the marbles in their deadly blocks,I feel them as their falling were on me.Cesare! [He comes out of the chamber.

Pearl, how white!

But you are whiter far. You are not hurt?Cesare, are you reeling? Take my hand.

Nothing—a chasm.... As from the pit of hell,When I look up through this destruction, up!I will not look. It is all over now;That snatch of Chaos is an empty mouth.The tower fell—four were killed above this room;No matter there, nor who.... But have you thought,Lucrezia, how brief our dazzled hours?This tower a’crumble, had it buried him,Instead of bruising! Diva, we are gods,But all Olympus perishes with Jove,And Jove we know must perish. Come away!I will conduct you.

No, no, Cesare.There will be need to swiftly publish forthA Brief to calm the people from their fear.

Lucrezia, but you layThe cool of softest snow to my hot brain.Our Queen of Beauty love you!

Take some wine—The light, white wine.... To-morrow we shall laughAt this big rent.

Avernus, we shall laugh!

[They go out, the wind blowing on them from the gap.

The Vatican—a Loggia.Don AlfonsoandDonna Lucrezia Borgia d’Aragonare seated together. There are peaches on a golden dish by them, a golden wine-jug and goblet. Two quails and a peacock sun themselves on the ground. A monkey plays with the ribbons of theDuchess’sdress; she wears white, with a green and gold veil twisted in her long hair.

Why do you sigh?

You are so full of bliss—You contemplate me as I were a jewel.

You are, and mine.

Why, you have many jewels.

The gift of others: but this jewelled thingIs you. Alfonso!—and the painters sayYou are the loveliest boy in Italy.You sigh again—why do you sigh? You shall not.

[She caresses him and offers him half of a peach.

Ay, half—Half of a pleasure! I would have you all,And always. If I am to stay in RomeIs it to shun your brother up and downThe streets of Rome, so to escape temptation?Even yesterday ... Lucrece, he concentratesSuch fury in me as I look on himI shiver, and for hours, after long hoursI find myself still trembling.

[With deep acquiescence.] Yes....

And you can sufferThat I should bear the insult of his carriage;That is the wound: no flashing from your lips,When I am injured, and no least regretWhen you are summoned from me to conferWith His Holiness apart, or by his sideParry the orators when they grow angry,And growl from their chafed monarchs.If to please youI stay in Rome....

[Laying her hands firmly over his.] You are too young, impatient,To bear long audience of the orators.[Twining her arm in his.] But come—why will you speak of yesterdayOr of to-morrow? It is midsummer:Lucrezia is your own, LucreziaSo blissful in your arms that, malcontent,You sigh.

I would you loved me less, I wouldYou did not hold me here as in your clutches.Midsummer! I shall never see my own:I have seen you. Beauty, you have no season,Nor warmth, I think: you are a cruel goddess,That loves her mortal, and can let him die,Her fit of doting ended.

Will you quarrel?

[ThePope’svoice is heard calling through the halls.

Where is she?Lucrezia, Lucrezia! My little nurse!Lucrezia! [He enters.

[Rising withAlfonso.] We are here, dear father.

Ha!Feast of S. John, is this austerity?Skinning cool peaches in a vestibule?You should have seen the bull-fight, my fair Spaniard.Cesare....But he is Hercules! There, in his doublet,With his short sword he faced five bulls.I watchedThe issue, not the contest; for ... conceive!—Five spurting carcases, the animalsSo swiftly struck one could not draw one’s breathBetween the passes. But the beasts were slainBefore his presence as in sacrifice!The bloody smoke rose up as to a god.Ah, little Spaniard, and you kept the hourToying with Naples.[He gives a chuckling whistle.] An arena, child—Above a reeking tiger there was silenceWhen Commodus, the golden-haired, stood up;But when our Spada smote, and at one blow down tumbledA huge, protesting head, the multitudeLifted a crowd of shouts into the sky,And saw no more; hearing was everywhere.Then, as the noise grew thinner, he emergedIn beauty ... oh, an athlete! oh, a David!

You must record this as a miracle.Does it belong, your Blessèdness,To Pagan legend or the Church?

To us.But I repent I did not see him there,Magnificent before all Rome.

You sparkle!I pardon you. He scarcely will.

[ThePopenods his head and rises to go.

[Detaining him.] A peach!...It is a little fountainThat grottoes under cloud of this red skin.There, father, from my hand.

[ThePopeseats himself again.

And this dear Cesare,You will no more reproach him,When he grows dull and drowses in the sun:We let our lions drowse.

[Eating the fruit.] Delicious!So cordial in its essence it revives,But sets the senses light enough to slumber.We let our lions drowse ...I am drowsing now;A midsummer sweet napping. Guard my rest,Bright angels!Nay, Alfonso, do not budge.I shall be fast asleep.

[ThePopefalls asleep; at intervals he snores.

[ToAlfonso.] Dear Blessèdness,How could you flee from him? Look, there is kindnessIn every crease of his face; look at his lipsThat almost bubble in his sleep with mirthAnd comfort that he takes in every pleasure.He never could make sorrowful, Alfonso.

I did not flee from him.

But you make sorrow,Alfonso, with your fears. You are growing restless,Restless again.On this midsummer-dayWhen even the little demons of the woodAre turned delighted into lovers’ elves,When all things take enchantment, even sin,And pardon waits if one should sin too deep[Pointing to thePope.] Of Heaven itself, shall we not be content?Shall we not cease from talking?

[Vehemently drawing her to his breast.] While he sleeps.

An apartment next to the Borgia Tower, which is reached by a passage on which the door gives.Don Michelotto Corellastands in the centre, the door being open. SuddenlyDuke Cesare de Valentinois della Romagnacomes to him in a blaze of passion.

Eigh, Michelotto, shall a vermin kill?Conceive! Alfonso flicked me with an arrow,Shot from the chamber where Lucrezia watches.

The Duchess did not see?

It makes no matter,It is of no account.... Swift, Michelotto,A rope.... Conceive! This little pipe of breath,This spawn, this Naples sought the overthrowOf my large destinies ... and his kind DuchessSimmers the pipkin that he may not dieOf poisoned food! Not even the sharp vendettaOf the Sanseverini fallen upon himA month ago has mangled him to death;He keeps his tower, mending his wounds apace.But, swish!—an arrow flies to end me.... Ecco!She is hard by, the silky wife grown fulsome,Dragged on a husband’s chain. Swift, Michelotto, swift!

The poignard or the little rope? I serve youClose as my bone to flesh.

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