SCENE V

The hour is portioned mine.Of my demand you listen, Holiness.

[He throws his black velvet cloak at thePope’sfeet and lying down props his head against his fathers knees.

Aut Cesar,Aut Nihil!There is dangerFrom Fortune in this new campaign. My Captains,The cursed Condottieri,Are plotting to betray me. Holy Father,Between us, you and me, there must be actionOf policy as ductile and as coolAs ever was concerted.

True! With FranceIncessantly adroit I must secureContinuance of her aid....Danger and treason?To you, my mystic Angel, treachery?You take my heart out....Mary, Queen of Angels,Protect our arms, protect my son!And you—?

[Suddenly on his knees, close to his father’s ear.

These mercenaries—Baglioni,Vitelli, the Orsini, in one graveShall sink entrammelled.... Do they know me yet?...And their injurious arms be drawn of sting,Their troops unweaponed.

Ah!

I shall be slow in this:You must not press my schemes.Then I shall musterAnother army, fresh and of my land,My own Romagnole shepherds from their fells.These people of the slopes of ApennineSing me and weave my rule into their thews—My Dragon’s teeth, my arms of Italy!

And these Romagnole shepherds are my flock;A spiritual army and a powerTo keep you safe.This combat pleases me;A conflict in the air—wit against craft!

[Cesarehas sunk down again by his father’s knee, his eyes lost in dream.Alexanderdraws his face backward and gazes at him:Cesaresmiles languidly.

I have learnt all the Romans and the GreciansHave taught of armies, of a prince’s justice.Both France and Spain will seek my armamentsTo join my powers with theirs.[Raising himself.] In this campaign

[Still kneeling, he fixes thePopewith his eyes.

You have your own campaign to wage in peace,Campaign of death. When I shall give you warning,Seize the Orsini left in Rome, imprisonLord Giambattista in the Borgia Tower;His coffers and proprietorships embraceArmies and succours.That great pearl is his,The cardinal, benign, soft pearl.

Aurora,The whiteness of its orb!

And he will die.Aut nihil!

[With a slight shudder.] Ah!... Send letters every day.

[Stretching out his hand and taking up a paper lying on the ground.

What is this parchment?

You have read it,They told me. ’Tis the libel from TarantoSent to Savelli.Christ, we are a kindred!Carnage and rapine, perfidy....

Why mince it?Assassination, incest!

[Rising from the ground with clenched hands.

But the Latin!The dulcitude of apophthegm, the style!What sap in all this rankness. Cesare,I laughed an hour, applauded with wet eyes—Literae humaniores—so the saltOf the strong farce compelled me.Do you stoopTo anger? Consul Julius Cesar laughedWhen choice Catullus spat an epigram,And dined him that same evening.

Ho, but this poisoned insultIs danger such as that I have to charmOut of my army into sepulchre.The scribblers—fah! the mercenary pens—Shall have their lesson in good manners: silenceLaid on slit tongue and mutilated hand.

You are too young!

LampoonsDebase our currency.

Hoo, hoo! [Reading.] “The New Mahomet,Antichrist”—with his treasure lumped in jewelsA little Duchess wears. Ha, ha!

Plague me no more! You shall find all grown still.Nascitur magnus ordo....But to achieve my work! Italian Vergil,How much to do, how much!... I must have time,Have time before me, a wide path,A silent; I must have my soldiery,Sons of the sheepfold, of the vineyard: timeAnd patience and no noise, no sleep, no hastening,No languor. This new order is my will;It is beautiful.Guard deep my plot, my secret.We breathe combined?

[Nodding.] Letters?

[Kissing thePope’shand.] Each instantI need your counsel or may do you good,Sending good news.

What of that lad below?

[With an amused laugh.] I shall not take him back to his Faënza. [Exit.[His voice outside.] Don Michelotto!

[Calling.] Cousin! [AsCardinal Borgiare-enters.Quick! quick, Francesco; I am ready.Give me your escort to the Vatican.Francesco,I knew the lad was doomed. God rest his soul!

The Castle of theEsteat Ferrara: theDuchess’sbed-chamber. A group ofMonksin the background are holding the parchment ofDonna Lucrezia Borgia d’Este’swill.Don Alfonso d’Esteis seeking to restrain his father, who is making frantic gestures of despair. In the midst of the chamberDonna Lucreziais extended on a litter-bed.TwoDoctorsare anxiously bending over her with appliances for bleeding. One of them uncovers her foot, looks at the patient, then shakes his head despairingly.Duke Cesare de Valentinois della Romagnastands a little apart, beside the couch.

The Castle of theEsteat Ferrara: theDuchess’sbed-chamber. A group ofMonksin the background are holding the parchment ofDonna Lucrezia Borgia d’Este’swill.

Don Alfonso d’Esteis seeking to restrain his father, who is making frantic gestures of despair. In the midst of the chamberDonna Lucreziais extended on a litter-bed.

TwoDoctorsare anxiously bending over her with appliances for bleeding. One of them uncovers her foot, looks at the patient, then shakes his head despairingly.

Duke Cesare de Valentinois della Romagnastands a little apart, beside the couch.

I shall visit thee again: for that revive!Open thy eyes, Lucrece.... Not dare to bleed her!Give me the little foot....No sobs, Alfonso,For I must have the surety of a smile.Listen, Lucrece—

[To one of theDoctors,who deprecates speech.

This child is my chief captain,We must confer. Keep quiet to your work.

[TheDoctorsoperate.

[ToLucrece.] But if you cannot listen, then remember!What was my last assault?

On Camerino....Straightway I took a little strength ... the letter—

[She makes a movement towards her pillow.

You do not stir!

An iron-grip, and yetI do not cry for mercy: it supports.

The need is past—and but for masteryI keep my hold.I shall visit thee again;But ere I can make speed I promise theeSuch tidings—!

I am dizzy.

No, Lucrece,You are not dizzy: for I promise you,If you will pledge me to remain alive,That I will vanquish all my enemies.But I must have the oath.

A prayer—

The oath

I cannot, death is on me.... Oh, I faint....[TheDoctorspress round.] A cordial....

No, a treaty!

[He lays the foot tenderly down and comes up close toLucrezia’sear.

All my foes—You can lay them in the hollow of my hand;Or, perishing, you can put out the fires....And all the engines of my brain extinct!

What plots? What would you do?

[Bending over her.] I would fill all your cup.

[In response to a movement fromLucrezia,Cesare

stoops down and kisses her. Then, as he raises himself, he turns toDon Alfonso.

The danger is quite passed: let us give thanks.

[He foldsLucrezia’shands for prayer.

[Raising herself.] The danger is quite passed, and I shall live.

Sinigaglia: a red sunset over snow. In front the Archway of the Palace; before itMesser Niccolo MacchiavellimeetsDon Michelotto da Corella.

See, Messer Niccolo!We are even with our enemies. This rope—New rope ... the enemyOf Florence, Vitellozzo, and with himOliveretto soon will tassel it.Ha, ha!The false Condottieri in one net,Fast as the souls in Hell!

The fairest trap set by the coolest hand!Madonna’s blood! Stupendous!—Tell how the prey was trapped, Don Michelotto.For since the Duke received me at CesenaI met delay unlooked for. ArtfullyThese fools, these traitors had been brought to terms,Bribes and dissensions seeding in their midst,Till in mock penitence they won this town:The Duke had quartered all their troops afar,On pretext of the ground his troops must coverWhen he marched in to hold the citadel—So much was rumoured at Cesena. Thrill meTo the last fibre of my brain: relate!

The crazy fools, the bankruptsIn fortune and in wit!Our Duke with gentleness, mansuetudeLanded the waverers.... His smile—Had you seen it finger this doomed shoal—his welcome,His kiss ... the lure, a heavy spellWe, his executants, broke off from, anxious:Such air a dragon sleeps in. AltogetherRiding, they chatted conquests, paused at lastOutside the palace ... but a smile, the tickleOf expert angler, and a steady gesture—Solid they were within, their host excusedFor change of dress....Then cries, then execrations!Changed men, our prisoners, in our power, outwitted,White to the lids—for, Messer Macchiavelli,They had shaken us with ruin.

True!Florence—and Rome—believed your master lost!A captain with no army, with rebellionThe stuff of his command, and France unsure!He ruled himself as gods do. Of my knowledge,This lord Duke,divus Borgia, is superb,Magnificent and in himself a king.

Messer Ambassador, if thus you worship,Let Florence strike alliance with my lord:Your fruitless praise but brings his brow down, shapesHis lips unkindly when the name of FlorenceOr that of Messer Niccolo drifts by.

I have written and will writeTo Florence and her Gonfalonier.

Basta!Always what you will do, and Florence alwaysA paralytic!Messer Macchiavelli,Your face, while I related, took my eyes,As you had been a fiery gallant, hearingHis love’s deliverance vouched. Will a cold hanging-offBring any man to his desire?Satana!I think your whole of statecraft is the rack;Your smile puts to the question ... bah, my fingers,My toes knot under it!

Then leave me, friend,And knot your rope for Vitellozzo fast,Fast for Oliveretto.

[Turning toward the archway.] Nay—behold!

Enter through the archDuke Cesare de Valentinois della Romagna,on his white horse, in silver armour, crimsoned, like the snow, with sundown.

Congratulations, Excellence! Believe me,You have the brightest face in all the world.

Come close!Your Florence, Messer Niccolo, has reasonTo love me: all her petty enemiesAre in this hand for swallowing. Have I notBetokened what I feed on, by my blazon—A snake that gorges reptiles? Ha, the meal!Do you rememberThe ogres in our nurses’ tales laughed outBefore they gulped?... To-night, to-night a supperOf creeping tyrants!

Vitellozzo,Oliveretto....

Hoo! My appetite!Let Florence eat with me![Closing his eyes and laughing.] It was a game,The catching of these imps!Truth, Messer Niccolo,I am a boy again!Ho-heigh! There will be music,Romagnole pipes ... I love that rocky hillsAnd streams should be in music....Michelotto,Those rascal French are pillaging—see, there!Go, hang a dozen, swing them high!My citizens of Sinigaglia shall notBe plucked by crows—up with a dozen, high!

[ExitMichelotto.

[ToMacchiavelli.] Tell Florence she had better be my friendThan enemy.

Always....

No words—Eloquent acts like mine! IngratitudeIt were—no less—now I have made this banquetIf Florence show reluctance any more;And it would be resented.We must rideRound to the fortress: as the sun goes downA conqueror’s eye must look upon his armyTo rule it as by light....And afterward ... ha, ha!The ogre’s banquet, the Romagnole pipes!Heigh,festa, festa! [He rides on.

Enchantment take me! What a singularAnd terrifying creature! Dragon—yea,Intelligent and deep; a libbard faithlessAs any spotted beast; a Roman Eagle.He fires me as some sovereign Cleopatra,Infecting whom she animates.O my poor Florence,And I adore your Dread ... ah, but with lust,Not love, for I could injure him, bring ruinUpon him, for your sake.... And yet those shouldersAre high above all princes, Italy!Those eyes droop over reaches of wide dream;The hand a vice! Lilies of Florence, dayAnd night he is my fire; I need no chafing—Always a fire—not in my heart, good wife,My scolding Marietta; but in my head;And all my faculties a throng around it,With reddened aspect and the cheer of life.I am bewitched, growing in my enchantmentMagician rather than AmbassadorOf the Signoria: I possess a kingdom;And, when this Borgia smiles on me, a Prince.

[The sun has set and stars come out over the snow.

A secret cabinet in the Vatican. A snowy day.TheLord Alexander VI.chafes his hands by a charcoal brazier.

A secret cabinet in the Vatican. A snowy day.

TheLord Alexander VI.chafes his hands by a charcoal brazier.

How cold! [Stirring the fuel.And cold too in the turret. Ice and fire!And the ice stronger than the fire—the fireMere dying ash!O God, this Cesar!Ancient of Days, what art ThouExcept Thou hast a Son executant,And all Thy crafty thoughts are in His heart?Ancient of Days!My forcesAre failing, I have lost my grip. This Cesar....Oh, he is tyrant over me! I feel himAs a great stone my heart gives way beneath:If he encroachesThere will be nothing in my breast but stone.

[Messer Pincioneis introduced byMonsignore Burchard,who retires.

Well, Messer Pincione? Is it cold?Can you not answer when I question you?

Eh, Blessèdness.I bring this from His Excellence the Duke. [Giving a letter.

Warm yourself.... [Reading].... Mortal cold!But warm yourself.Say, Messer Pincione, to your master,Lord Cardinal Orsini languishesIn the strict prison of the Borgia Tower;And so has languishedSince his vile traitor-nephew was entangledAt Sinigaglia in the wondrous net.

Until he be Death’s treasure, can you pounce,Holiness, on his treasure? Can you feedThe troops that press the verge of Tuscany?

True, true: our Duke requires his requiem, true!Ah, Sinigaglia; ah, the wondrous net!And these Orsini—A brood of enemies, the murderersIt may be of Giovanni.... Ho! what cold!...Well, well!A cruel kindred, a most wicked race,Our enemies, our enemies, and worthyOf death’s extinguishing. [Reading again.The postscript? Show meThiscantarella. [Pincionegives him a phial.Ha! It is like a sugarOf pearl; like the rare dust that CleopatraDrank of a dis-orbed pearl. Its facture? Tell meThe elements, how braised and how compounded?

Eh, eh—your Blessèdness.A boar being killed, and arsenic-poison saltedAbout the entrails thrown to putrefaction,From thence at last a liquid is withdrawnIn thrice-stilled deadliness.

The action?

Slow,But sure in death....

[Calling.] Poto!

He enters.

Monsignore BurchardFinds the Lord Cardinal Orsini weary,And struggling with a pain that trusses him,A wild-fire inflammation?

Sick,And troubled with a flux.

[Sotto voce.] Pain—and its end!

Your Blessèdness will give authorityFor what must intervene?

Good Poto,Take Messer Pincione to the jailerWho keeps the Tower. [ToPincione.] To-night, after the play,“Epidicus”—I cannot miss the play,Not for the quick or dead, and lenience,Some lenience we should give to sluggish nature—To-night I will receive you privately.Well, Messer Pincione, will you standTill doomsday with your little heapOf cruel pearls?

[Outside.] A gift for Holy Father!

No, boy, go back!The chamber is deep-secret. On the painOf death, go back.

A gift!Gifts are warm faggots on the winter coldness.A gift! We will receive it.Poto, hasten!Take Messer Pincione to the Tower—From the Duke Cesare. [ExitPotowithPincione.’Twere merciful!Queen Cleopatra drank the like for glory,As this Orsini for his body’s ease....The cold! How sudden is my ageUpon me as a drift! By all the devils,I might be turned to stone!

EnterMonsignore Burchardwith aBoy.

Sa, sa! My present! Hither!Anticipation has a zest.... God’s rattle,I am astounded—This lightsome whiteness! The Orsini pearl,The well-beloved, the whitest light of pearls,The sun-confronting rainbows, moist and purple!Boy, did you steal it?

No. In his munificenceLord Cardinal Orsini on his mistressBestowed this wonder; at his mother’s prayerIt is presented to you for the boonThat she herself prepare his food. O Father,She fed him in his helpless infancy;Now, in his danger and imprisonment,Create for her afresh the power sweet natureEndowed her with, at need.

[Gazing at the pearl.] Arched, various,Of shower, of cloud, sun-braving, sun-embroidered,The breast-drop of a goddess!... All your prayer!

The order—now?

The order from my hand.Poto....

He re-enters.

Bring pen and parchment.It wooes—ah, it assails! [ExitPoto.Abundance of enchantment!

Potore-enters.

The paper—so! An orderPrius cibumEt potum ministrare Cardinali.This charitable Brief well buys such beauty.Comfort his mother; bid herSeason his dishes, but take cognizanceWe must not set our heart upon our sons.The motherly, rich heart—deny her? Nay,But I am warmed to hear of such devotion.A handsome woman too! Her son is sick,Remember!Addio!

[Monsignore Burchardtakes theBoyout.

[Holding up the pearl.] Sweet child, on thy forehead,My spotless Este, my far evening-star,This white crest on thy white!

[He stands absorbed and sad awhile.

Now it comes over me the hand that offeredThis pearl, the voice that offered was a woman’s.Venus! Lord Cardinal Orsini’s mistress!A pretty piece of faith.Santi—O Venus,A kind heart that could lay this wonder outTo buy him wholesome feeding.... Yea, a woman!I would have kissed the boy had I divined—A woman!...Sancta Virgo Virginum,Foederis Arca, thou hast saved my soul!Saved of a pearl,Janna Coeli, saved!I would not take an aged life: I appealTo Providence to feed my raven, myYoung, ominous, black raven! He will comeDown on me from his camp: then ...Dio meo!I would give half my Papacy if neverHe might return.... Nay, nay!...Mater Purissima,O gracious sun-pearl!

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