SCENE VII

Will she be wed again, again reviveAs the seasons alternate from cold to hot,With a great patience till the years be spent?

Don Federico, she will never wedSave as her father’s policy decrees;She is a sainted daughter.

And a sister—How would you rate her there?

It is the Duke himselfThat banished her: he could not tolerateThe tears he caused to flow. If you would serve her,Let those in Rome about His HolinessBe taught she languishes for Rome; effectHer swift recall. I will provide you tasteSweetness of her sweet gratitude. I have served herThrough many bitter days and found her sweetnessAs the perfume of her patience.

EnterDonna Lucrezia.

She approaches.My orders are most strict: you must retire.

[After a profound obeisance.] But in the name of your whole escort, sovereign,If we can aid——

[Lucrezialooks down on him and remains dumb.

[ToDon Federico.] Receive our sovereign’s thanks.

[ExitDon Federico.

There are so many letters.So many letters that I cannot write.My poor Cristofero,We meet this way together every morning;I cannot write; I cannot sign my name.It startles me to see my name....Put by your papers.

[Cristoferolays manuscripts into drawers.

But there is an action:Write to the Cardinal San SeveriniThat he may have new prayers, new prayers—all daySaid in the monasteries on accountOf the great sorrow I have had to bear.

[Laying her hand onCristofero.

Provide that Vincent takeThe gold I gave him to the Cardinal,That a great requiem be solemnisedFor the Prince Duke my husband—for his soul.The glory of the saints play over himAnd mingle him among them in their bliss!I cannot bear my shadowy court of folkThat make no feast, that speak in low-toned voices,And yet are raising up no prayers to HeavenTo draw down peace on him. There must be peace;And I must lay my sorrow down to restSoft and for ever as I laid my dead.

[Cristoferobegins to write;Lucrezialooks from the window.

There is no truthIn staying here, in all this haggard country,With all its miles on miles of withering turf.Must I be sovereign of this sultry air,This land that gapes on me? And there are chasms,Great fissures that affright.... Of the miasma tooMy babe may die. Are there no posts from Rome?

None, Excellency—yet I would conveyNews of your health, of the young Prince’s health,If it should please you, to his Holiness.

Nay, we must not be forward. Posts will comeTo Nepi, if at Nepi I abide....

EnterDonna Hieronyma Borgiawith littleDon Rodrigo.Donna Lucreziaruns to her.

Give me the child.

Fie, he will set you weeping!

[Throwing back her widow’s veil.While he smiles? Bambino,How thou wilt charm thy grand-dad.Up and down,Then up again—ha, ha!

The child is growing.

Is it possible to grow—away from Rome?

[She setsRodrigoon a table before her.

Hieronyma, see the small, beating feet!This babe will dance before he learn to walk.

His mother’s babe!

Roble, we must to Rome!’Tis there one dances.

Gently, kinswoman,The child is here in safety.

From what foe? In safety?The child is mine.... He will protect the child.[DancingRodrigo.] Pat, pat—bare toes!Cristofero, your PrinceIs clad as quaintly as a travellerIn haste, and seeking refuge. Write to VincentThat he send quickly stuffs and broideries;Write for the little coat,Punctured with gold, I wrought him.

Not the gold one;Our Prince wears mourning.

AServantenters: he confers apart withCristoferoand goes out.

Babe, what we must wear!But I shall make your garments, one by one,Even till you grow a man.He snatches pearls!I love their slide about my throat—nay, Roble,Their touch is silkier than a baby’s thumb.Fie, little cricket!

Donna!—

[Turning.] Posts from Rome?You have tidings?

No, Madonna....

Say!

Duke ValentinoIs here, is at the doors.

I have not seen....

None ever sees, Madonna: from the groundHis army springs.

[Standing quietly and wringing her hands.

And his commands?

To bid farewell.Madonna, he is busy,His one thought of his conquests. But an instant,Give him an instant’s audience and God speed.

Where is he?

In soft converse with Capello.

And whither—?

Sweet mistress, ask him whither; that will makeMatter of speech between you. Ask him whither.

I cannot see him! If he come, he comesAs the thunder that one cannot bear, or asThe earthquake that one suffers.

He was most tenderYou should not be disturbed.

[Hieronymais taking the sleepy child away;Lucreziamotions it is to remain.

The Duke must marchWithin an hour....

[ToHieronyma.] But I will mind the child.

[Cristoferogoes out;Hieronymadraws back;LucrezialaysRodrigoto sleep on a cushion and remains by him.

EnterDuke Cesare de Valentinois della Romagna.He is dressed in black, rain-streaked velvet, and a coat of fine mail; his belt and sword are gold; from the black beretta in his hand a white, rain-drenched feather sweeps to the ground. He is followed byDon Michelotto Corella,Monsignore Gaspare Torella,Messer Agapito de Amaliaand theCavaliere Vincenzo Calmeta.

Your benedictionUpon our arms and our diplomacy!

[Lucrezialifts her eyes and salutes hisCaptainsand trains.

We start for Pesaro. None in the armyHas learnt that secret. We are here in conclave.I go to conquer Pesaro. GiovanniDe Sforza has made havoc of your fame—In tongue and handHe shall be rendered impotent.[Drawing closer]. For youI fight, Lucrezia: you burned so hotFor vengeance of that enemy. I markedThe rage enkindled in your very substance,As it must be when women are traduced.Lucrece, I am no more a Cardinal;I am a soldier with an army, suchAs princes covet, and my first assaultWill be on Pesaro.Are you a corpse,A sentinel beside the child? You standSo solid and so simple, like a blockOf marble that is dragged into a roomLong as its beauty pleases, and dragged forth,If it can take no lustre from our moods.

[Moving a little forward.] There is my lord Torella, always faithful;Agapito, who loves you—I commendThe Duke to you, to you....[Turning back.] The child awakens!

[CesareliftsRodrigo,who resists.

He will not ... but he must.

[She shudders asCesarekisses the child and gives it to her.

... At PesaroYou will find my lute; I remember where I left it—In the fourth chamber: you will find my books;Take care of them. Farewell....

A rivederla!The lady here would haunt us. Will you fear,Michelotto, you, a pacing ghost?You have laid many such![To his cortege.] I led you hereThat you might look on her, and PesaroFall without aid of cannon. Ha, a fool!

[He laughs and turns on his heel.

[Looking after him wistfully and addressingCalmeta.

Your lord may be a king—I have dreamed it thus—I would your lord should be a king....Dear captains,And soldiers, and the poet ... give him glory.

But we would fight for you.

Then give him glory.

[Half turning.] I am ashamed a poet should behold you!Cavaliere, she was in our thoughtsA statue of fair Victory, a wingedAnd silent creature that creates the airShe flees along....Turn from her, she will dampThe stoutest hearts—a weather to discourageAn army from the field![Taking up a fold ofLucrezia’sveil.] In widow’s weeds—For my assassin! These are widow’s weeds,Are they not? They displease me; they deform.

[In a low, firm voice, while she trembles.

They will remain upon me the full time;Their darkness on me my whole life till death.

Your future is irrelevant. Till death?But nothing matters then. [Addressing his cortege.To Pesaro!

[Turning again toLucrezia.

You look a lady fit to nurse the woundsOf men who fight for other women’s love.

[He coldly touches her hand—his followers bowing low to her, move aside as he passes to the door: there he steps back and surveysLucrezia,who is shaken with agitation, then, smiling maliciously, he goes out.

Demon![She weeps bitterly.] ... I am a toyIn hands that play their game of rivalryOver the stream of death.O child!

[She crushesRodrigoto her breast.

The Hills of Romagna. Sheepfolds and Shepherds;Duke Cesare de Valentinois della Romagnalying down in the midst of them.

.... You are our shepherdAnd ruler of our flocks: we are your flock.

Signore, I am happy, being blindTo sit in the sun: I feel you are the sun.

Lord Duke, you are our shepherd—The reason this, that we forget our flocks,And yet our flocks graze placidly and seekThe shadow and the stream as they were led.

You are our king; you have danced with us—our maidensConsent to any yoke, for by-and-byThey will bear children you will train in arms.

[Speaking together.] We are your kingdom, and we worship you.You have made us as a flock.

[With a flute.] You are secretAs the god Pan was secret to the folds.Lord Cesare, we love you.

[Touching the lad’s flute.] And the flute.

[TheLadbursts into tears; one by him, his companion, says:

He cannot sing the kings: it is in battleWhen we hiss down in rage to die for themOur blood runs music.

You shall die in battle.

We will all die: we will all live for you,Ready to die;Though we lie down, encompassing a city,Beneath your rule we can lie down in peace.

You are my chosen warriors.

We are your shepherds, we must stay at home;We cannot leave our flocks.

You are Romagna,You are my people.

We are his people: we are Italy.He consecrates us too; he loves the valleysWhere we rear up our lambs and sing our loves.

[They all gather round as if longing for some outbreak of their enthusiasm.

What shall we do? Beat on our castanets,Fall on our knees, bring tribute?... But our princeHas infinite treasure.

You shall keep my castles.You are my garrisons; while you defend themI shall rest quiet, all Romagna mine. [Rising.

You will not go from us?

First, I command a song.

[He sits down again, expectant. TheBoysobs; then, fixing his eyes on theDuke,pauses, and after a few moments sings out shrilly.

The great lord Cesar JuliusCrossed the Rubicon—The army was great,It passed in state:And the host was gone.There was none to seeThat mighty lord;The light on his face,The light on his sword,—And the history.But a child on the bankOf the Rubicon,On his knees he sank,He stooped and drank,For his heart was faint that his lord was gone.

The great lord Cesar JuliusCrossed the Rubicon—The army was great,It passed in state:And the host was gone.

There was none to seeThat mighty lord;The light on his face,The light on his sword,—And the history.

But a child on the bankOf the Rubicon,On his knees he sank,He stooped and drank,For his heart was faint that his lord was gone.

[The Shepherds all weep.

[Embracing the boy.] A master!—he shall sing you all I am.And now I pass to Rome, without farewell,For I am dwelling here and in your midst,And with you through all ages, in your music,Your sorrows, with the shadows on the hills,So close to you, a presence in your hearts.O my Romagna, there is no farewell! [Exit.

He has slipped away: I knew he was a god.Boy, are you stricken? You should look up proudly.

[Taking up his flute and looking afterCesare.

I am stricken to the heart; he is a god.

The Vatican: a Loggia.Donna Lucrezia Borgia d’Aragonis seated between her Maids of Honour,Donna Angela BorgiaandDonna Catilena de Valence,while her MaidClaricepours wine on her long hair.

The Vatican: a Loggia.

Donna Lucrezia Borgia d’Aragonis seated between her Maids of Honour,Donna Angela BorgiaandDonna Catilena de Valence,while her MaidClaricepours wine on her long hair.

My head aches.

Soon her ExcellenceWill feel relief.

You look a wave-drenched sirenIn those long folds of hair cloyed with the honeyBy which the lees of the white wine cling close.The sun is brilliant!

And it was kindly doneTo save us freckles by the grace of hatsWorn in the presence. Ah, sweet Pope,Until his Holiness returns to-dayVenus is Sovereign of the Church, its princesHer laughing hierophants, the Sacred CollegeHer Loves, her Doves, her Swallows, what you will,All twittering of her till the air is crazy,And every breeze a gossip.

Hush!A pretty jest—But when it thundered yesterday I sobbed,And headache like a terror hung on meAll the night long.... I am a daughterGuarding her father’s house—the Universe:I am no Pope, and, though the CardinalsLaugh gallantly or slyly, though I laughAt all the salt and spice of travesty,Yet this obedience to my father’s willHas turned my prayers to stone.Dear girls,Here at the toilet let me be a woman,Whose handmaid forehead the triregno’s weightBurthens to faintness.Clarice, did you bruiseThe celandine and greater cleaver’s madderThe full time Messer Giambattista PortaOrdains?

Before you climbed up to the sun,The roots were bruised and mixed with cummin-oil,The boxwood slivers and the saffron, Donna.

Then lay our compound on....The Envoy from Ferrara cannot enter,Nor my two Cardinal Secretaries, untilYou draw my hair out through the crownless hat,And spread it like a halo on the brim.

[Claricedyes her golden hair deeper.

There is a whisper that the Duke was seen,Masked, at dead midnight....

[Starting.] He will keep his chamber;He sleeps by day. I were ashamedTo play to him the Pope of Christendom;I could not play it—I should flow no laughter.Haste, Clarice, haste, I am longingFor Messer Saracini and his newsOf when I shall be married.AngelaHow long, how long I wait!A woman is a prisoner till a husbandUnlock her to her aim. When I am giddyWith dancing for my father, I recallWhat Messer Saracini tells me oftenOf the quiet, ordered court and the proud pompOf the old Este castle.... Don Alfonso,So full of occupation with his cannon,Artillery as brilliant as my brother’s;But he himself in careless trim, as sonsOf an old princely house may dare to be.Clarice, my tresses wide as sun-rays![Her hair is spread over a frame.] BidThe Chamberlain bring Messer Saracini. [ExitClarice.

A tent of yellow silk! I peep at you,White, captive lady, Don Alfonso’s bride.

Hush, hush!

EnterMesser SaraciniwithClarice.

Most humble greeting!Duke Ercole informs your ExcellenceThis week the wedding-train forsakes Ferrara.

[TheMaids of Honourclap their hands.[Lucreziasprings up, snatching the hat-brim from her hair, which streams round her in dripping gold, as she childishly dances in a giddy circle.[She pauses breathless and laughing beforeMesser Saracini.

[TheMaids of Honourclap their hands.

[Lucreziasprings up, snatching the hat-brim from her hair, which streams round her in dripping gold, as she childishly dances in a giddy circle.

[She pauses breathless and laughing beforeMesser Saracini.

Ah, you bring joy!And joy is in my feet as in the lyre-stringsThe golden music.Messer Saracini,Is the great cortege for my capture started?Oh, caught in dancing as a mermaiden,And carried to Ferrara! ShortlyHis Holiness will enter Rome, and shortlyThe bells will clamour joy above our headsTill the air dances, and the sunshine dances!Girls, I will send my jesterDressed in my newest clothes—the gold-scaled petticoat,And crimson sleeves—to dance out to the peopleMy joy, and cry upViva la Duchcessa,Viva il Papa! Girls....[ToSaracini.] Oh, you are grave and full of wisdom’s smilingBehind the gravity!Clarice, my hat!Tent me again for the Ambassador.

[Claricespreads her hair once more over the frame.

Your future father, the Duke Ercole,Sends me these pearls, his noble Duchess wore,For Don Alfonso’s bride—ancestral pearls,Not lately sea-washed, held by sovereign fingersWhile years made generations.

[Lifting them.] Golden pearls!

Duke Ercole informs your ExcellenceHis health revives.

By letterCommend me to his Excellence your Duke;Say, she who is his daughter in her heartRejoices for his welfare.... I can nurse....[To herMaids.] Tell Messer Saracini—night and day,Alone, without repose, I tendedHis Holiness when injured by the fallingOf a wind-toppled tower.To-nightBe present at my ball.

Most flattered thanks.

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