ACT V

[In black, and black mask,Duke Cesare de Valentinois della Romagnaglides in, closing the door behind him.

[Without unmasking.] Splendid! Put it by—France has forbidden me another strokeOf arms, and I have riddenSwift as the wind rides air, by day, by night,To reach your counsel, fix our policy.

I have found France of late a slackening friend;And I have dandled Spain and sung her soft;At the first open moment she is ours.

Spain! You would threaten France?Diavolo,It is a game of patience quiveringUpon its leash....

Are all the rebel-mercenaries slaughtered?

Of the Orsini only one—GiordanoBraves us at Bracciano.... Some one knocks.Send them away. [He hides in a further closet.

Enter!

Re-enterPoto.

Your Blessedness,Lord Cardinal Orsini died this morning;All our physiciansCould not subdue his terror that has summonedThe death it feared.

You watched?

I watched him; as a babe, he breathed his last.

Good, good Orsini—as a babe! His motherBears but the common loss.I am shaking, Poto.Quick, to his private house, surprise the treasure;Go, seal it ours; go, inventory all. [ExitPoto.[At the door.] Command Burcardus lay the CardinalWhere it is public to the scrutinyOf the whole world he died a natural death.

Burcardus, Holiness, refuses portionIn this affair.

Poltroonery! Then, Poto,Command his office.[Returning.] Heaven has interposed.[ToCesare,who advances.] Lord Cardinal OrsiniIs dead now....

Cantarelladoes not check.It is game!

Most sure. But, Cesare,The joy, the fortune—he has died by nature,And can be shown lying in simple death....

[Cesarelaughs derisively.

Your coming struck him dead, fair basilisk.Unshadow you.... The face!

No, I am soiled and marred.I am not well.

GiordanoFlaunts it at Bracciano? Cesare,Unroost him; we will finish the whole brood.

He clings to France; we must not threaten himTill we can threaten Louis.

StraightYou shall unroost him.

No! The LiliesOf France are the white badges of my fortune.I shall not break with France too suddenly.

This is my will and I must be obeyed.

[His fingers twisting his sword-chain.] Not mine.

Unless you do this thing and buryThe brood that hates us, I withdraw from youMy treasure and I excommunicateA disobedient son. It is my will.

[Cesare’sfingers twist the chain so violently it snaps, and the sword drops to the ground.

I am your fool....The fool of all these Kings, this Pope. No throne!There is no throne....[With a low bow.] Your abject servitor!

Hush! But in this my will. PaternitySees with hot passion where the foe is hidden.You yield obedience, son?

Your fool, your fool!

The voice so slack, my heart,Its cordiality unbraced! Nay, nay,You are over-wearied. Come into your Stanze.At your bedside, when you are laid to rest,And have drunk wine and eaten, I will ponderOur state-craft, and receive from you the storyOf Sinigaglia.

That is past.Our talk must all lie onward.... Whew, the painOf riding rough for hours!

I hate you black like this—night on your face.

I am marred.

—But as you will. Come, rest.

A very squalid, little street, giving on to the Tiber. It is low tide; some few stars are coming out. A masked figure seats itself on the remains of an old barge, tilted up.Childrenpeep from their play: then one of them whispers to his companions: they flee.A fewBargemencome up and observe theMask;one shakes his head.

A very squalid, little street, giving on to the Tiber. It is low tide; some few stars are coming out. A masked figure seats itself on the remains of an old barge, tilted up.

Childrenpeep from their play: then one of them whispers to his companions: they flee.

A fewBargemencome up and observe theMask;one shakes his head.

Better be absent! No, no! Do not observe him, Bernardo. If you hear nothing, see nothing, contain nothing, you cannot be hanged.

Do not cringe; haul in those nets. ’Tis safer so.

[They set to work; an oar drops with noise. One or two salute theMask,but, at the slow turning of his head, they go away.[TwoCardinalsland from the opposite bank; they pause, then shuffle into the night.[TheMaskshifts his posture.

[They set to work; an oar drops with noise. One or two salute theMask,but, at the slow turning of his head, they go away.

[TwoCardinalsland from the opposite bank; they pause, then shuffle into the night.

[TheMaskshifts his posture.

My lusts are heavy in me,Heavy and idle. I have poisoned Rome;It gasps and wriggles: not an ounce of fleshIn all this Rome but quivers in my shadow.And what is next to do? And who will fall?They dream all fixedWithin this brain—and I am but an eagleMoving subservient to the ranker air.

[Another masked figure advances stealthily.

Eigh, Michelotto!

[In a whisper.] Caught, gagged—those false Albanians!

Shall I sentenceA troop of tetchy mercenaries? Ho,Boon fellow, have I brought you here to-night,By this dim waterside, to give me tidingsOf a few minnows trapped, that should be landedUnconscious in the haul?I have seen burthenOf princes on this back; I have seen their jewelsDangling from belt and chains. What sightsI have beheld....

And shall, if you will trust me with your hopes.

Uncertain! [They are silent.Hopes—a hollow!Slaughter the flocks of Ajax!

Stay!God’s health, you have your plans, or I am palsied!

[PullingMichelotto’sear-ring.

Fondling, I have my plans: but not as GodHovers His hand among the elementsTo pick His missile; rather as Olympus,Blustering and fickle, backs the game at Troy.[After a pause.] I am tense and weary;I dream too much—the fever of my dreamingStrikes me at head of hosts,And some in Spanish armour, some in French,Innumerable hosts....

[Michelottoscans him anxiously; then rises, shaking himself.

Come with me, come eaves-dropping! Ho, my witsWere never nimbler; to each blood-capriceI will give satisfaction, as a mistressStirs to appease her lord’s carnality.

[In the same tone.] I watched you strangling Trocchio ... but my fatherWept with shut eyes his trusted secretaryFled from his table to betray our dealingsWith Spain to France. The Vatican is dull!Scruples are there and injuries and age....[On his feet.] Why, like a hawk in ringing flight, I harassedThe creature for an hour to find if secretFrom France we had cut off his treachery:And in the PapagalloMy father wept! Ho, Trocchio swings out nowWhere all can see him from Sant’ Angelo—His master and the Curia and the people.My father wept.... At noon was he not merryWhen Cardinal Michele’s death assured usOne hundred fifty thousand ducats?Ecco!I did not sing mycantarella’spraise.Dull at the Vatican!And what to do?Join Spain and join Gonsalvo, a commanderEven of my wing, the conqueror of Naples;Or hold obsequious in my tethered handThe Gallic fleur-de-luce?Unpleasant gulfs,Shoals!... And to poise before the BalancesWatching their poise!

But you regret no action?

[Stalking to the edge of the water.] I do not weep by graves!...Looking across the cities that I love,Across the sheepfolds and the little cities....

[His voice trembles and he laughs.]

Pastoral! And for causeVicarius sumSanctae Ecclesiae!... Good Michelotto,Hire me a boat, and row me down the stream.

The Garden of the Vatican, toward sunset.TheLord Alexander VI.,theLord Cardinal Bartolomeo of Segovia,theLord Bishop of VenosaandMonsignore Gaspare Poto.

The Garden of the Vatican, toward sunset.

TheLord Alexander VI.,theLord Cardinal Bartolomeo of Segovia,theLord Bishop of VenosaandMonsignore Gaspare Poto.

The sun eats as a canker.

RomeIs festering with this fever like a pest.I move and speak with strange uneasiness,As if the motions of my life had fear.

Sol in Leone!There is nothing pleasantWhen the year fills that tract ... rage, rage, and sandy,Consuming light!I live a damp, old horse,O’er-ridden by the ardour of the air:No neatness round my throat, the cope flung off,And all the passion of my flesh for shade.Here there are shady grottoes from the darknessOf trees; the heat is here unpressed by walls;

[LittleDon RodrigoandDon Giovannicome from behind a shrubbery.

Here children at their playShow us their lissome bodies and red facesSol in Leonecannot agitate.My lords, you see we sink on holiday,And, fearful, take much care to keep our personFrom danger—so persuaded by these deathsOf daily happening: under ilex-treesWe ply our statecraft.France has bidden usProve our fidelity and help her kingTo oust from Naples Spain. Our holy troopsAnd gonfalon will be in readinessWithin six days, and we must part awhileFrom our Duke Cesare.

Wise sacrifice!You know the Church has all to gain from France.

So it is thought, my lord.... Well, mite, Giovanni!You run across the gravel with a shell,A little, empty house, and hot as leadFired from a cannon?Nestle all your curlsUnder a few, large vine-leaves. Tell RodrigoHe must not dip his head within the fountain—The cold will make him break out of a plague.Run, run and pull him from the brim.... Yes, baby,Leave me your shell.My lords, go in awhile.Poto shall serve cooled wine.

No, no!To drink increases thirst. I will not drink.

Cooled wine—

No, no!

[ThePopelaughs deprecatingly.

I have not poisoned it.

No, no!

[They bow deeply to each other, andPototakes theCardinalandBishopwithin.

[To one of the children, as he perceives his son.

Roble, play further off!

[Duke Cesare de Valentinois della Romagnacomes to his side.

Just up and had your meal?There is some sense in your strange hours whenSolIsin Leone—night for day!But, though your room be marble, what InfernoOf flame to sleep through the bare hotness.

Father,If you enjoy the fresher feel of night,I bring an invitation you will welcomeFrom the Lord Adrian of Cornuto.

Ah,He has a vineyard under broad-leaved shadow,Where gods could sup.

Where you will sup,To-morrow evening.

Baccho!It will be cool. The country is a blessingTo think of when it darkens and revives.

You will not heat with riding at that hour.

And I am careful now ... a little anxiousTo see you start.

Too hot and stillFor camps or marches ... like a painful dream!

[He sits by his father.

Ay, so, so!Cesare, if this strong heatStruck me with apoplexy, pest, or fever,You would be struck with peril.... O my heart,My prince, could you endure from your own root,And bear the shock of onset?

AlwaysI built broad the foundations of my power.The kindredOf all I dispossessed are gone from earth,Where no successor of your HolinessCould raise them my opponents: half my trainIs filled with high-born nobles, once the servantsOf Colonnesi and Orsini, nowMy gentlemen and hung upon my fortuneAs it were hope itself: the Sacred College,You know, is more than half subservient to me....But—are you ailing?

No, no—hot and dull,Not ailing.

There are dancers, courtesans,Who will in movements of the long-lost breezeFan the dead air—if you will visit meTo-night: to-morrow in the vineyard-gardenWe sup.... ’Tis hard to get the dancers now:The women shut their doors and strike their bodiesIn terror at the fever that can kill.They need await no other—lust is dead.... You will announce at the next ConsistoryI join the French?

Ay—with the treatiesBetween us and the Spaniards and GonsalvoSafe in my coffers: for the French will fail;And, though they raised you up, they hold you backFrom Florence and your clutch on Tuscany.You have Romagna firm.

O father,Live a few years and I shall be your king!As you love me, live till Tuscany is mine.Live, live!

For youI have done harder things than conquer death.

[They are silent.

What are the great eyes dreaming of?

The heat,And something dreadful in it—of the places,Corneto, Piombino, yet ungirdledBy one domain.[Rising impetuously.] Oh, to desert the French!Although I marchAs of their army, at their first reverseWe close the northern passages.

Ha, ha, ha! ha!A trap for Louis....—Cardinal MicheleWas suddenly distempered by this ill,Dying as swiftly as if venom wrought:So fatal is the weather to stout frames!Son, I incline to fat.... I would I ownedYour thin and agile limbs.

I would that half the yearsOf my short life—for, like Achilles’, shortMy life will be, if glorious—I might giveTo build yours over four score years and ten!

Ah, God! Such wishes weigh on me unkindly,... Nay, not unkindly! But your eyes are sweptSo wide across the breadths of Italy,You call up years for me as if you wereA necromancer, not my very sonWhose proud, hot Spanish blood, whose fire and courageHave given my flesh its youth again so often.Your mother’s land is changing you, beloved—All schemes, all plots ... and where now is the smileThat flashed along your lips and made me singAve Maria plena gratia—where?

[Cesaremoves impatiently.

I am grown anxious, as my foemen’s watchWhen one of my huge pieces takes its stationFor ruin’s work.... This pestilential heat!...Well, Roble, what an orange you have snatched,Round as your eyes![ToAlexander.] Lucrece!—Oh, have you seen herLook at you from the child?[With a bitter laugh.] I shall beginTo talk of years ago, like an old man.Farewell!They need me at the Mola.[With a smile.] Then to nightThe dance! To-morrow theal frescofeast! [Exit.

I’m envious of Lucrezia, and weary,More weary than with August—all my passionHard on my heart at last! My Cesare,—Beautiful and cold as steel, his mindShining and shallow as the moon—for certain,If he had been Medea, he had simmeredMy ageing body in the cauldron’s flood,Like Æson’s, for his purpose.... Solitary!Age, age! And when the young are still,The young who should be noisy, it is vacant.I shall see Lucrezia in the spring: and yetI know I shall not see her.There, I am gladThe children have been captured by their nurse.Buona notte, little ones! [TheChildrenare taken away.Ah, but I wouldI were as other fathers, and could make himMy heritor, and aid him by my death.It is so good the old should die;It is very good to die, but I must live;I must subserve, must give my handIn signature to any of his dreams,Taking,in caritate,A lovely eye-glance from him.... And LucreceGone too, her husband’s prisoner! Where my PearlAnd my great royal Diamond have been setHere in my bosom—hollows!And this twilightIs filling them....[With a sudden, terrified cry.] Lucrezia, Cesare!Lucrece!

ThePope’sbedchamber in the Borgia Apartments.Monsignore Burchardat the bed’s head watching: two card-players at a little table by the bedside. TheLord Alexander VI.is sitting up in bed, his glazed eyes fixed on the game. A crowd ofPhysicians,Surgeons,Apothecaries.TheCardinalsconsulting anxiously with thePope’s Chief Physician,theLord Bishop of Venosa.

ThePope’sbedchamber in the Borgia Apartments.

Monsignore Burchardat the bed’s head watching: two card-players at a little table by the bedside. TheLord Alexander VI.is sitting up in bed, his glazed eyes fixed on the game. A crowd ofPhysicians,Surgeons,Apothecaries.TheCardinalsconsulting anxiously with thePope’s Chief Physician,theLord Bishop of Venosa.

Does he see?Does he attend?

He sees; but if the dyingAttend, or how to construe their attention,Whether their eyes are purged, or focus freshWe scarce may reckon. These illumined eyesAre abstract, steady in their fever-light:My lords, ere morning we shall see them fade,Or soften into life. A child-like nature,That may just slip away, or, fronting death,As at a play, leave the grim stage behind,And join us unsuspicious in the street.

EnterBonafede, Lord Bishop of Chiusi,hurriedly.

Physician!

Ay, lord Bonafede—youCome from a bed of even graver sickness,More tragic, youth contending.

Hush! Duke CesareHas but one thought—His Holiness.

[Taking theBishopby the shoulders to the bed.] That message,Repeat it.... Then the tranceMay lighten or remove.

[To thePope.] Most well-beloved,Duke Cesare asks from his bed of sicknessFor tidings of you. Every hour he sends,And every hourI droop him with despair. Speak of him, bless him;Assure him of your energy to live.

[Smiling from his dark eyes.] Lord Bonafede, you are temporal.Look there.... I watch the game.I do not careNow who is playing or who wins: I watch.

The Duke is very sick.

Look there! The Chance,And how it tosses to and fro!

My lordTakes interest in the fortunes of the game?

[ThePopenods.

I rally—Ay, honest Burchard, set it down—I rally.

Then speak your last requests.—How can we serve you?—What of Duke Cesare? Your benediction!—What of your soul?

I am too busy dying. Bonafede—This dying is itself a little house,And one withinThat cherishes soft as a nurse, indulgent,And lets one wake or sleep.[To one of theCard-Players.] How foolish of you!You have lost your chances, listening to my talk.You have no meaningUnless you are intent upon the game.Kiss me, good Bonafede, and your prayers.

Back to Index Next