ACT VI

Your watchword!

[Rising with flame in his eyes.

It will storm my heart ... I cannot.

Then you have chosenA lifetime in the dens your victims haunt.Mule! And the Guard is waiting ...Son of Hell!

[He makes a sign to summon thePapal Guard.

[With a wide gesture.] Freedom!

... Speak out,Or write your watchword, and Lord Santa CroceShall wait with you at Naples, till I hearCesena makes submission: then you passFree, where you will.

ThePapal Guardenters.

My freedom!

Excellence, dear lord,As you have pity on our love, unburyThe word that makes you free.

Agapito!You are as I....[In a whisper.] Write it. [Agapitoturns to the desk.O my Cesena,A word to soil you!—Overthrown,Forli, Cesena, and my guardian Rocca,Proof against every hazard, save your lord’sBetrayal of your honour! Fallen—O fallen!The walls—the walls before me!

[Juliushas moved to the table to receive the writing.Cesarethrows himself prone on his conch and does not move.

AChamberlainenters.

Holiness,Messer Buonarotti, waits command.He brings a drawing of ten VictoriesNiched in your monument.

Ah, the winged Victories,Each triumphing above a subject province,Disarmed beneath her feet. How terriblyThis chafing Florentine achieves my future!Ten times a victor, yet no war declared:The Church triumphant—ay, since militant!

[As the pen falls from his hand and he gives the writing toJulius.

All that my lord can doIs done: if still the fortresses maintainTheir loyalty to their effective Duke,He takes no fault and he demands his freedom.

[With a burst of laughter, as he reads the watchword.

The forts must yield:If they resist our sovereign voice they ruinThemselves and their usurper. [Pointing toCesare.He is lost.

Then let me further write.

[Turning to the others with the paperJuliushas returned.

Be witnesses, you, you....Now countersign my words! His libertyDerives but from his castellans—that conquers!They will ride forth beneath his banneroles,Crying theirDuca, Duca!

They shall dislodge, cast downHis scutcheon on the ground and hoist the Keys.

[Exit with thePapal Guard.

[Lord Cardinal VeraapproachesCesare’scouch, then shakes his head and joins the others.

It is too sore! When he was but my scholar,As if the son of a great potentateHe breathed to rule, his glance made heritage.

This pestilential feverHas worked down to the scath, the sunken rock,His taint of blood: he is involved, uncertain;The level brain has sprung at accident,And scattered loose the logic of his dreams—Broken and lost.

Had he but drawn his armyClear of this Rome and leapt on Pisa, had heRefused to sell his votes he had been saved.

[Suddenly lifting his head.]You were throwing dice.... Continue! Play the game.

[Silently twoSpanish Gentlemenseat themselves near his couch and play. He turns on his elbow and watches them, passing his ball of perfume from hand to hand.

[In a murmur toTorella.

For hours, long hours, impassible he fixesHis eyes upon the board, as if the secretOf Destiny were secret of a SphinxHe could divine by watching.

[Still fixed on the game, but speaking to all.] Without doubtOur fortune is unchained against us, friends:But there are chances—let us reckon them!My captain Scipione is of oursTill death; he joins me in my liberty.The bankers guard three hundred thousand ducatsAt Genoa and at Florence: from such nurtureSprings a live army. Volpe and MichelottoRefuse for any bribe to quit my service.I do not even accuse my fate, still lessThe ingratitude of men, for I have foundIn all, save one I trusted, loyalty.Bring me my poignard with the little mirror—That peasant’s hand ruffled my chemisette....

[The poignard being brought, he looks in its glass at his tear-stained face.

What ruin! Damage!... And yet my enemies are frightened, Vera.These giants of power still fear a fettered man,Ill, shaking in a tertian, and with lifeItself unwarranted from hour to hour.Stir up the hearth and spread the juniper’sCloud of ripe resin....

EnterMesser Niccolo Macchiavelli.

Messer Niccolo!

[He gives his hand.

Why are you come? You scarcely fear me now.Welcome!

Your Excellence, to bid farewell.To-morrow I depart.

Why are you come?...Ah, I am cheap! All use me as the poorBurn forest—ecco!No diplomacy!Why should you bid farewell to me you ruined,Delaying your safe-conduct to my troops?You triumph?

I am curious, Excellence!And I must watch you, if I will or not.

A prodigy, a monster!

[With vibrating voice.] No, but a PrinceUnequalled.

[Springing up.] You behold? Have you the eyes—Keen, cutting crystals that have shot out joyTo see me totter?Messer Niccolo,If we are comprehended, we are greaterThan Fate or any chance. I am a prince.Set down my kingdom that shall ever beWhile dreams are portents. Oh, set downThe perfect scheming of the miracle!Each part of action in my brain was solved,And flowed on to its end. You recognised,When, in the greatness of effective truth,Last year I awed Romagna, and exactedSharp vengeance on my injurers, my kingdomWas as the genesis of stars? With fireOf primal force I founded it, secureAgainst all future shocks, save this assaultOf sickness unto death at the steep momentWhen death struck down my father.... Yet it crumblesIt grows a shadow round me. Macchiavelli,Restore it, by the word embody it;Let it not perish! I shall ever wonderThat such perfection fell to nothingnessIn its astute, swift likelihood. O Fortune!The gulf.... [Breaking off with a gesture of menace.You start for Florence?

Ay, for Florence,To-morrow morning, close upon the dawn.

Take back to Florence this: if I but captureOccasion once again, I sign a treaty,Even if I needs must sign it with the Devil,Gather my treasure, play my last resources,Assemble all my friends, and, once at Pisa,Use every power of my extremityTo render Florence evil, hour for hourOf her despite....[With a low laugh.] You think me slipping downInto my tomb.... Ah, Messer Niccolo,If I were you, this Cesar who is nothingWould be contemptible. You ought to crush me,You ought to make your mirth that I am flat:It is my law that you fulfil; and justiceIs linked so with my judgment, even my passionConceives cold rage alone, or utter scornOf those who cannot end me. I look oftenWith still eyes on my end.Farewell, farewell! You listen,And all your face is speaking to my words.We love each other, my best enemy.Farewell.All I have been is with you. FortuneOut of her giddy air will arbitrateBetween my past and future.

Farewell, farewell! You listen,And all your face is speaking to my words.We love each other, my best enemy.Farewell.All I have been is with you. FortuneOut of her giddy air will arbitrateBetween my past and future.

[He gives his hand again.Macchiavelliquickly stoops and kisses it.

Prince!

Three years later.A small Tower-prison of the Castle of La Mota del Medina in Spain.Against one wall, hung with a canvas, four or five gyr-falcons sit leashed on a perch.Don Cesare Borgialeans out of the narrow window, watching the pitch of his gyr-falcon. TheGovernor Don Pedro de Tapiaand a squire,Juanito Grasica,stand behind him.

Three years later.

A small Tower-prison of the Castle of La Mota del Medina in Spain.

Against one wall, hung with a canvas, four or five gyr-falcons sit leashed on a perch.

Don Cesare Borgialeans out of the narrow window, watching the pitch of his gyr-falcon. TheGovernor Don Pedro de Tapiaand a squire,Juanito Grasica,stand behind him.

She rows the air, she towers ... now makes her point,Now waits—she waits up the free air.Magnificent!... A kite that she would vanquish....Quarry—and she upon her tower ... free to drink blood.

[He looks back and laughs.

Ha! Like a loosened thunderbolt she stoops!...Could you but see! Amazing!Who-whoop! She flies too hard ... who-whoop!—and cannot hold:’Tis death, but so impetuous in the dealingHer quarry is struck down. [Turning again.Señor Don Pedro,My vehement gyr-falcon loses meHer quarry in your ditch....

It shall be sought.

No, leave it—that were tame!

[With a profound sigh he holds out the lure to which at last the falcon comes; then he gives the bird toJuanito,who ties her on the screen-perch.

Is the sun setting?—Vespers from the ChurchOf San Lorenzo![ToDon Pedro.] We are gratifiedBy this long visit, for the course of thingsIs brought by you in current to our eyrie,Clear up from life upon your voice.We may notDetain you longer.

But I exult, Don CesarDe Borjà, in the converse of a manWho held the crown of Mars in Italy.There is lifting of the heart and joy of bloodWhen you recount....

Don Pedro,My chaplain will confess me presently;The soul must reach that vein.

Forgive! No further moment!Adieu. [Exit.

[With a snarling yawn, like a caged animal’s.

Begone!—He wearied me a year.When will his servant, black Magona, bring usThe coil of rope?

At sunset, Excellence.

Now the king-starIs falling down below the rocks—and blueAs a sea-deep is the hollow we must tempt;It is blue: one venturing birdMakes it gigantic with a little shake,An arietta.... We must drop down lowerThan the bird’s song—it is not from the ground.Look, my Juanito!Aside I hitch my shoulders through this narrowAnd windy crevice of the barbican.I am as agile and as thin as you,I feel as young—Case-hardened from that pestilence, a towerAmong my race; strong as La Mota;A creature that but needs to touch the earthTo be Antaeus and invincible.You shall descend first—death for you or freedom.Then welcome death or freedom! Could I, Juan,Leave you behind—We who sailed out together, desolate,And for three years have tasted unenjoyedSleep, and the vigil that has been our lives?We do not on a peradventure part:You have the lighter bones, the cord will bear youDown to the grass so featly, it will signalIts eagerness to me.... Juanito,How full a man you come from these three years!Will everything be changed as you?

Oh, no!Those who have loved you cannot love you more;They cannot grow in that. Her ExcellenceYour sister will be happyBeyond the last hope of her wearinessAt the free news.

Lucrezia! I can watch her—How at Ferrara all her life goes by;How, from her sun-red towers, across the plainShe is looking out, and cannot see the prisonThat stifles me: her eyes as they look outTurn Amor into stone.When will the rope be brought?How soon? This Garcia de Magona will notBetray me as Gonsalvo at the last?

Garcia is safe; he burns to furnish you.

How widerThe steepness stretches, the tranquillity!What does it promise? It is Fortune’s Pit,That gapes in Spain, that swallowed me awhileIn Rome and Naples, and then cast me outAlive upon this pinnacle. And now....The world will be my chess-board, I surveyUntil occasion hail me. There is LouisOf France would set his horse to tread with mine;The Emperor hates as Pope the Rovere;Gonzaga lord of Mantua will espouseMy fellowship, Ferrara is fraternal;My brother of Navarre; to whom I fly,Strangely accordant....

[He gazes out in concentrated reverie. A key is turned softly at the door;Garcia de Magonaenters, bringing ropes.

[In a whisper to himself.] But my lord is rapt!How still the Spanish boy,His black hair shining and his ears with edgesOf the clear ruddiness of pomegranates,The light of sunset is so shed on him.

[He waits tillGarciahas locked the door on the inside, then steals towards him.

Be swift!Hush, lay them in the chest beneath your clothes.They are good—they will be faithful to the Duke....Christ grant his other means be safe as these!Will he not turn?Though of a different race,This lord, who is so reverend and so dreadful,Is homely and most courteous to the poor.I would not have you trouble him.

Garcia, I dare notUtter your coming since he misses it.With widely-open nostrils and great eyes,He hangs above the gulf.

Tell him, Juanito,One night when he is out of Spain in safety,I went to San Lorenzo, for his sake,To pray the Saints would bear him in their hands.Cover the rope!A trumpet will be blownDown in the fosse, when Don Rodrigo’s menAre ready with the horses. All my lifeIs in to-night if he is saved. Farewell! [Exit.

[Juanitohides the rope and sits on the chest in the last red of the sunset, singing to himself.

“Gentil Signore,Cesare Borgia, figlio del Pastore.”

[As if waking.] Why, that is what they sing at my Cesena,’Mid the snow-marbled Apennine. My shepherdsHailed me the Shepherd’s son—their simplenessCould so attune the distant VaticanWith their cool valleys ... and I cannot laugh.

I have the rope: soon you will hear a callHummed up upon a trumpet.

O royal Italy!O my Romagna ... but I cannot breathe!The sun is fallen, the air of the abyssBlows like blue fields of waving flax. Look down!The little stream Zapadiel disappears,And the wild brushwood and the flock of goats;Even the East has faded....Did you tell meThey play up from the fosse a trumpet-noteWhen the horses wait? Once more to touch a bridle,Once more astride to feel the rocking flanks!Ha, ha! And then my sudden apparition,As if I were the devil. Hark, a sound!Listen! [He trembles all over.A snake-note darting up ... a bugle!

No, no, no!The bleating of a goat.

How closely darkeningThe shadows favour us ... and there are rumoursThe wind takes from the ground of horses’ hoofs....

[A trumpet is lightly blown.

Fortune, my war-cry once again![Juanitorushes for the rope.]Aut Cesar,Aut nihil!But to-day I take the plunge,I dare the pit, the downfall.[ToJuanito.] Knot it here more firmly,Round this crenelle—steady! It must not jag....Now my light ball, I throw you to the breezes,Ding-dangle—thus![He letsJuanitodown.] Your odds, Juanito,Against the wheel of Fortune!... He keeps hold—O boy! the rope is taut. It holds....This cumbers me. [Throwing off his cloak.Our Lord God, in His infinite clemency,And for His greater glory against Fate’sVicissitudes....A jerk!—the final die is cast!Cesar—or nothing!

[He climbs down the rope into the ravine, as voices are heard on the stairs. The door opens andDon Pedrorushes in with soldiers.

What horn-call was that?Gone, gone! Our peril,Our loss! I reel ... He shall not so escape.Death, or our re-possession of him!Down,Traitor, blasphemer, down! Down!

[He cuts the rope, motioning some of the soldiers to descend.

[After awhile.

Guards, are you there?

[Just heard from below.

They dragged him to their horses—all are fled.

The Camp of theKing of Navarreat Viana. A March tempest is blowing.EnterMesser AgapitomeetingJuanito Grasicain front of a tent that beats in the wind. Their torches are almost extinguished.

The Camp of theKing of Navarreat Viana. A March tempest is blowing.

EnterMesser AgapitomeetingJuanito Grasicain front of a tent that beats in the wind. Their torches are almost extinguished.

Juanito, have they drawn in the posts?

All are retired to shelter, Secretary.These Navarrais received my lord’s commandWith manifest bewilderment.

Our CaptainHas ever saved his troops fatigue and tempest:These men are rude in habit, and the lashingOf mountain-storms familiar. O my lad,We are not now in Italy.

Ah, would we were!Señor Agapito, we have one breath:Our lives are for his use. What are your tidings?

His every hope miscarries—everywhereHostility, abandon or suspicion:The Pope has drawn his treasure from the banks,Dried up the fountain of his polity,The means of gathering troops, the hope of callingHis ancient captains to his side.

O Señor,That letter from the King of France, withdrawingAll revenues and honour from our lord,Joining his Dukedom and his French domainsTo Dauphiné and Berry, as they wereBefore the royal gift—did you consider ...Yes, but I see you did ... his look that day?It was a face of hell; and ever sinceHis eyes throw flame out.

Think! He has engrossedThe world’s resources from his earliest years,Marshal, as San Michele, of God’s hosts,And born Vicegerent.... Think! He now has nothingBut his invincible, rejected sword.A pauper, and a hireling to his brother—This Navarrais, this kinglet—yet with sweep,A great glance on a little verge, he conquersThese rebels of Viana and their chiefLouis de Beaumont, that the petty realmBeing consolidate and set betweenHis foes of France and Spain, he may have optionTo hold o’er each the sword of Damocles.The brain that wrought at Sinigaglia onceWorks still among barbarians. But his lips,Like famished wolf-fangs, and his thwarted youth,His darkened joy in freedom!—I have wept ...Go in, go in!

Such clouds of wind discharge,I do not feel the rain.

[King Don Juan of NavarreandDuke Cesare de Valentinois della Romagnaadvance towards the tent with torch-bearers.

Our confidenceIs strict in your direction—not a wordFrom us to the great Captain, to the SonOf War: our trust is blind.You show distressAt this rude blowing, and your velvet cloakMight well have been afloat upon a river.Good night; good sleep, my brother César. ScarcelyIn Italy the air rolls thus.

Good-night,Don Juan. Such a fan exasperates,Entering all senses.

[They shake hands.Don Juangoes out.Cesaremotions his torch-bearer to withdraw.

Come, Juanito;Unarm me. To your tent, Agapito;You will have rheum to-morrow. [ExitAgapito.God!—the strokeOf wing this tempest has: there is no shield.Lift up the tent-skirt, Juan.

[They go in, and the sound is heard of armour flung on the floor. ThenCesare’svoice is heard.

[Within.] Take a cloak,A dry one from the press, and bear this messageBack to Don Juan; I forgot.Look round!See that my stallionIs dry, and, fresh-caparisoned, waits readyIn the next tent.

[Juanitocomes from the tent and passes into the night.

The tramp, the cavalcadeOf these cursed whirlwinds, of the secret legions—The hauntings of an army I shall neverCommand—[His voice rises.] shall never summon. I am void;I cannot buy the forces that I love;I cannot as a Suzerain compel ...I have no place, no rank, no furniture.This march, this freight of cannon—all were mine;I struck them on the air, criedHaltorOn...My patrimony! Deep where dreams outspread,A phantom army, Cesar’s army, ramblesUngeneralled.O fury of the night!This France that has rejected me, this SpainThat bound me hand and foot, this PapacyThat locks me from Romagna with its keys,From all my captains and my army callingAcross the Alps—I have one lust, one cryFor blood within me....Ha, to plunge my swordIn vengeance to the heart of France, the throatOf Spain, the entrails of the Vatican!To murder countries—not the flesh and bloodOf just a man here, there, but states and kingdoms—Draw out their life! Has not all checking lifeFlowed forth in darkness to my sovereignty?If I have lost the land that I could rule,And if my army is a host of winds,I still can thirst for blood.... I have my sword,And, sword in hand, the last breath that I breatheWill be a breath of appetite and hate.I have my sword—

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