ACT IIISCENE: The Piazza.TIME: A few minutes anterior to close of preceding Act.The Piazza is filled from end to end with a vast seething crowd thatis drawn entirely from the lower orders. There is a sprinkling ofwild-eyed and dishevelled women in it. The men are lantern-jawed,with several days’ growth of beard. Most of them carry rude weapons—staves, bill-hooks, crow-bars, and the like—and are in as excited acondition as the women. Some of them are bare-headed, others affect akind of Phrygian cap. Cobblers predominate.Enter LORENZO DE MEDICI and COSIMO DE MEDICI. They wear cloaks of scarletbrocade, and, to avoid notice, hold masks to their faces.COS.What purpose doth the foul and greasy plebsEnsue to-day here?LOR.I nor know nor care.COS.How thrall’d thou art to the philosophyOf Epicurus! Naught that’s human IDeem alien from myself. [To a COBBLER.] Make answer, fellow!What empty hope hath drawn thee by a threadForth from the OBscene hovel where thou starvest?COB.No empty hope, your Honour, but the fullAssurance that to-day, as yesterday,Savonarola will let loose his thunderAgainst the vices of the idle richAnd from the brimming cornucopiaOf his immense vocabulary pourScorn on the lamentable heresiesOf the New Learning and on all the artLater than Giotto.COS.Mark how absoluteThe knave is!LOR.Then are parrots rationalWhen they regurgitate the thing they hear!This fool is but an unit of the crowd,And crowds are senseless as the vasty deepThat sinks or surges as the moon dictates.I know these crowds, and know that any manThat hath a glib tongue and a rolling eyeCan as he willeth with them.[Removes his mask and mounts steps of Loggia.]Citizens![Prolonged yells and groans from the crowd.]Yes, I am he, I am that same LorenzoWhom you have nicknamed the Magnificent.[Further terrific yells, shakings of fists, brandishings of bill-hooks, insistent cries of ‘Death to Lorenzo!’ ‘Down with theMagnificent!’ Cobblers on fringe of crowd, down c., exhibit especiallyall the symptoms of epilepsy, whooping-cough, and other ailments.]You love not me.[The crowd makes an ugly rush. LOR. appears likely to be dragged downand torn limb from limb, but raises one hand in nick of time, andcontinues:]Yet I deserve your love.[The yells are now variegated with dubious murmurs. A cobbler down c.thrusts his face feverishly in the face of another and repeats, in ahoarse interrogative whisper, ‘Deserves our love?’]Not for the sundry boons I have bestow’dAnd benefactions I have lavishedUpon Firenze, City of the Flowers,But for the love that in this rugged breastI bear you.[The yells have now died away, and there is a sharp fall in dubiousmurmurs. The cobbler down c. says, in an ear-piercing whisper, ‘Thelove he bears us,’ drops his lower jaw, nods his head repeatedly, andawaits in an intolerable state of suspense the orator’s next words.]I am not a blameless man,[Some dubious murmurs.]Yet for that I have lov’d you passing much,Shall some things be forgiven me.[Noises of cordial assent.]There dwellsIn this our city, known unto you all,A man more virtuous than I am, andA thousand times more intellectual;Yet envy not I him, for—shall I name him?—He loves not you. His name? I will not cutYour hearts by speaking it. Here let it stayOn tip o’ tongue.[Insistent clamour.]Then steel you to the shock!—Savonarola.[For a moment or so the crowd reels silently under the shock. Cobblerdown c. is the first to recover himself and cry ‘Death to Savonarola!’The cry instantly becomes general. LOR. holds up his hand andgradually imposes silence.]His twin bug-bears areYourselves and that New Learning which I holdLess dear than only you.[Profound sensation. Everybody whispers ‘Than only you’ to everybodyelse. A woman near steps of Loggia attempts to kiss hem of LOR.‘sgarment.]Would you but conWith me the old philosophers of Hellas,Her fervent bards and calm historians,You would arise and say ‘We will not hearAnother word against them!’[The crowd already says this, repeatedly, with great emphasis.]Take the DialoguesOf Plato, for example. You will findA spirit far more truly ChristianIn them than in the ravings of the sour-soul’dSavonarola.[Prolonged cries of ‘Death to the Sour-Souled Savonarola!’ Severalcobblers detach themselves from the crowd and rush away to read thePlatonic Dialogues. Enter SAVONAROLA. The crowd, as he makes his waythrough it, gives up all further control of its feelings, and makes anoise for which even the best zoologists might not find a goodcomparison. The staves and bill-hooks wave like twigs in a storm.One would say that SAV. must have died a thousand deaths already. Heis, however, unharmed and unruffled as he reaches the upper step ofthe Loggia. LOR. meanwhile has rejoined COS. in the Piazza.]SAV.Pax vobiscum, brothers![This does but exacerbate the crowd’s frenzy.]VOICE OF A COBBLERHear his false lips cry Peace when there is noPeace!SAV.Are not you ashamed, O Florentines,[Renewed yells, but also some symptoms of manly shame.]That hearken’d to Lorenzo and now reelInebriate with the exuberanceOf his verbosity?[The crowd makes an obvious effort to pull itself together.]A man can foolSome of the people all the time, and canFool all the people sometimes, but he cannotFool ALL the people ALL the time.[Loud cheers. Several cobblers clap one another on the back. Criesof ‘Death to Lorenzo!’ The meeting is now well in hand.]To-dayI must adopt a somewhat novel courseIn dealing with the awful wickednessAt present noticeable in this city.I do so with reluctance. HithertoI have avoided personalities.But now my sense of duty forces meTo a departure from my custom ofNaming no names. One name I must and shallName.[All eyes are turned on LOR., who smiles uncomfortably.]No, I do not mean Lorenzo. HeIs ‘neath contempt.[Loud and prolonged laughter, accompanied with hideous grimaces at LOR.Exeunt LOR. and COS.]I name a woman’s name,[The women in the crowd eye one another suspiciously.]A name known to you all—four-syllabled,Beginning with an L.[Pause. Enter hurriedly LUC., carrying the ring. She stands,unobserved by any one, on outskirt of crowd. SAV. utters the name:]Lucrezia!LUC. [With equal intensity.]Savonarola![SAV. starts violently and stares in direction of her voice.]Yes, I come, I come![Forces her way to steps of Loggia. The crowd is much bewildered, andthe cries of ‘Death to Lucrezia Borgia!’ are few and sporadic.]Why didst thou call me?[SAV. looks somewhat embarrassed.]What is thy distress?I see it all! The sanguinary mobClusters to rend thee! As the antler’d stag,With fine eyes glazed from the too-long chase,Turns to defy the foam-fleck’d pack, and thinks,In his last moment, of some graceful hindSeen once afar upon a mountain-top,E’en so, Savonarola, didst thou think,In thy most dire extremity, of me.And here I am! Courage! The horrid houndsDroop tail at sight of me and fawn awayInnocuous.[The crowd does indeed seem to have fallen completely under the swayof LUC.‘s magnetism, and is evidently convinced that it had been aboutto make an end of the monk.]Take thou, and wear henceforth,As a sure talisman ‘gainst future perils,This little, little ring.[SAV. makes awkward gesture of refusal. Angry murmurs from the crowd.Cries of ‘Take thou the ring!’ ‘Churl!’ ‘Put it on!’ etc.Enter the Borgias’ FOOL and stands unnoticed on fringe of crowd.]I hoped you ‘ld like it—Neat but not gaudy. Is my taste at fault?I’d so look’d forward to—[Sob.] No, I’m not crying,But just a little hurt.[Hardly a dry eye in the crowd. Also swayings and snarlingsindicative that SAV.‘s life is again not worth a moment’s purchase.SAV. makes awkward gesture of acceptance, but just as he is about toput ring on finger, the FOOL touches his lute and sings:—]Wear not the ring,It hath an unkind sting,Ding, dong, ding.Bide a minute,There’s poison in it,Poison in it,Ding-a-dong, dong, ding.LUC.The fellow lies.[The crowd is torn with conflicting opinions. Mingled cries of ‘Wearnot the ring!’ ‘The fellow lies!’ ‘Bide a minute!’ ‘Death to theFool!’ ‘Silence for the Fool!’ ‘Ding-a-dong, dong, ding!’ etc.]FOOL [Sings.]Wear not the ring,For Death’s a robber-king,Ding, [etc.]There’s no trinketIs what you think it,What you think it,Ding-a-dong, [etc.][SAV. throws ring in LUC.‘s face. Enter POPE JULIUS II, with Papalarmy.]POPEArrest that man and woman![Re-enter Guelfs and Ghibellines fighting. SAV. and LUC. are arrestedby Papal officers. Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. ANDREA DEL SARTO appears for amoment at a window. PIPPA passes. Brothers of the Misericordia go by,singing a Requiem for Francesca da Rimini. Enter BOCCACCIO, BENVENUTOCELLINI, and many others, making remarks highly characteristic ofthemselves but scarcely audible through the terrific thunderstormwhich now bursts over Florence and is at its loudest and darkestcrisis as the Curtain falls.]
ACT IVTIME: Three hours later.SCENE: A Dungeon on the ground-floor of the Palazzo Civico.The stage is bisected from top to bottom by a wall, on one side ofwhich is seen the interior of LUCREZIA’S cell, on the other that ofSAVONAROLA’S.Neither he nor she knows that the other is in the next cell. Theaudience, however, knows this.Each cell (because of the width and height of the proscenium) is ofmore than the average Florentine size, but is bare even to the pointof severity, its sole amenities being some straw, a hunk of bread, anda stone pitcher. The door of each is facing the audience. Dimishlight.LUCREZIA wears long and clanking chains on her wrists, as does alsoSAVONAROLA. Imprisonment has left its mark on both of them. SAVONAROLA’Shair has turned white. His whole aspect is that of a very old, oldman. LUCREZIA looks no older than before, but has gone mad.SAV.Alas, how long ago this morning seemsThis evening! A thousand thousand eonsAre scarce the measure of the gulf betwixtMy then and now. Methinks I must have beenHere since the dim creation of the worldAnd never in that interval have seenThe tremulous hawthorn burgeon in the brake,Nor heard the hum o’ bees, nor woven chainsOf buttercups on Mount FiesoleWhat time the sap lept in the cypresses,Imbuing with the friskfulness of SpringThose melancholy trees. I do forgetThe aspect of the sun. Yet I was bornA freeman, and the Saints of Heaven smiledDown on my crib. What would my sire have said,And what my dam, had anybody told themThe time would come when I should occupyA felon’s cell? O the disgrace of itThe scandal, the incredible come-down!It masters me. I see i’ my mind’s eyeThe public prints—‘Sharp Sentence on a Monk.’What then? I thought I was of sterner stuffThan is affrighted by what people think.Yet thought I so because ‘twas thought of me,And so ‘twas thought of me because I hadA hawk-like profile and a baleful eye.Lo! my soul’s chin recedes, soft to the touchAs half-churn’d butter. Seeming hawk is dove,And dove’s a gaol-bird now. Fie out upon ‘t!LUC.How comes it? I am Empress DowagerOf China—yet was never crown’d. This mustBe seen to.[Quickly gathers some straw and weaves a crown, which she puts on.]SAV.O, what a degringolade!The great career I had mapp’d out for me—Nipp’d i’ the bud. What life, when I come out,Awaits me? Why, the very NovicesAnd callow Postulants will draw asideAs I pass by, and say ‘That man hath doneTime!’ And yet shall I wince? The worst of TimeIs not in having done it, but in doing ‘t.LUC.Ha, ha, ha, ha! Eleven billion pig-tailsDo tremble at my nod imperial,—The which is as it should be.SAV.I have heardThat gaolers oft are willing to carouseWith them they watch o’er, and do sink at lastInto a drunken sleep, and then’s the timeTo snatch the keys and make a bid for freedom.Gaoler! Ho, Gaoler![Sounds of lock being turned and bolts withdrawn. Enter the Borgias’FOOL, in plain clothes, carrying bunch of keys.]I have seen thy faceBefore.FOOLI saved thy life this afternoon, Sir.SAV.Thou art the Borgias’ Fool?FOOLSay rather, was.Unfortunately I have been discharg’dFor my betrayal of Lucrezia,So that I have to speak like other men—Decasyllabically, and with sense.An hour ago the gaoler of this dungeonDied of an apoplexy. Hearing which,I ask’d for and obtain’d his billet.SAV.FetchA stoup o’ liquor for thyself and me.[Exit GAOLER.]Freedom! there’s nothing that thy votariesGrudge in the cause of thee. That decent manIs doom’d by me to lose his place againTo-morrow morning when he wakes from outHis hoggish slumber. Yet I care not.[Re-enter GAOLER with a leathern bottle and two glasses.]Ho!This is the stuff to warm our vitals, thisThe panacea for all mortal illsAnd sure elixir of eternal youth.Drink, bonniman![GAOLER drains a glass and shows signs of instant intoxication. SAV.claps him on shoulder and replenishes glass. GAOLER drinks again, liesdown on floor, and snores. SAV. snatches the bunch of keys, laughslong but silently, and creeps out on tip-toe, leaving door ajar.LUC. meanwhile has lain down on the straw in her cell, and fallenasleep.Noise of bolts being shot back, jangling of keys, grating of lock, andthe door of LUC.‘S cell flies open. SAV. takes two steps across thethreshold, his arms outstretched and his upturned face transfiguredwith a great joy.]How sweet the open airLeaps to my nostrils! O the good brown earthThat yields once more to my elastic treadAnd laves these feet with its remember’d dew![Takes a few more steps, still looking upwards.]Free!—I am free! O naked arc of heaven,Enspangled with innumerable—no,Stars are not there. Yet neither are there clouds!The thing looks like a ceiling! [Gazes downward.] And this thingLooks like a floor. [Gazes around.] And that white bundle yonderLooks curiously like Lucrezia.[LUC. awakes at sound of her name, and sits up sane.]There must be some mistake.LUC. [Rises to her feet.]There is indeed!A pretty sort of prison I have come to,In which a self-respecting lady’s cellIs treated as a lounge!SAV.I had no notionYou were in here. I thought I was out there.I will explain—but first I’ll make amends.Here are the keys by which your durance ends.The gate is somewhere in this corridor,And so good-bye to this interior![Exeunt SAV. and LUC. Noise, a moment later, of a key grating in alock, then of gate creaking on its hinges; triumphant laughs offugitives; loud slamming of gate behind them.In SAV.‘s cell the GAOLER starts in his sleep, turns his face to thewall, and snores more than ever deeply. Through open door comes acloaked figure.]CLOAKED FIGURESleep on, Savonarola, and awakeNot in this dungeon but in ruby Hell![Stabs Gaoler, whose snores cease abruptly. Enter POPE JULIUS II, withPapal retinue carrying torches. MURDERER steps quickly back intoshadow.]POPE [To body of GAOLER.]Savonarola, I am come to tauntThee in thy misery and dire abjection.Rise, Sir, and hear me out.MURD. [Steps forward.]Great Julius,Waste not thy breath. Savonarola’s dead.I murder’d him.POPEThou hadst no right to do so.Who art thou, pray?MURD.Cesare Borgia,Lucrezia’s brother, and I claim a brother’sRight to assassinate whatever manShall wantonly and in cold blood rejectHer timid offer of a poison’d ring.POPEOf this anon.[Stands over body of GAOLER.]Our present businessIs general woe. No nobler corse hath everImpress’d the ground. O let the trumpets speak it![Flourish of trumpets.]This was the noblest of the Florentines.His character was flawless, and the worldHeld not his parallel. O bear him henceWith all such honours as our State can offer.He shall interred be with noise of cannon,As doth befit so militant a nature.Prepare these obsequies.[Papal officers lift body of GAOLER.]A PAPAL OFFICERBut this is notSavonarola. It is some one else.CESARELo! ‘tis none other than the Fool that IHoof’d from my household but two hours agone.I deem’d him no good riddance, for he hadThe knack of setting tables on a roar.What shadows we pursue! Good night, sweet Fool,And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!POPEInterred shall he be with signal pomp.No honour is too great that we can pay him.He leaves the world a vacuum. Meanwhile,Go we in chase of the accursed villainThat hath made escapado from this cell.To horse! Away! We’ll scour the country roundFor Sav’narola till we hold him bound.Then shall you see a cinder, not a man,Beneath the lightnings of the Vatican![Flourish, alarums and excursions, flashes of Vatican lightning, rollof drums, etc. Through open door of cell is led in a large milk-whitehorse, which the POPE mounts as the Curtain falls.]
Remember, please, before you formulate your impressions, that saying of Brown’s: ‘The thing must be judged as a whole.’ I like to think that whatever may seem amiss to us in these Four Acts of his would have been righted by collation with that Fifth which he did not live to achieve.
I like, too, to measure with my eyes the yawning gulf between stage and study. Very different from the message of cold print to our imagination are the messages of flesh and blood across footlights to our eyes and ears. In the warmth and brightness of a crowded theatre ‘Savonarola’ might, for aught one knows, seem perfect. ‘Then why,’ I hear my gentle readers asking, ‘did you thrust the play on US, and not on a theatrical manager?’
That question has a false assumption in it. In the course of the past eight years I have thrust ‘Savonarola’ on any number of theatrical managers. They have all of them been (to use the technical phrase) ‘very kind.’ All have seen great merits in the work; and if I added together all the various merits thus seen I should have no doubt that ‘Savonarola’ was the best play never produced. The point on which all the managers are unanimous is that they have no use for a play without an ending. This is why I have fallen back, at last, on gentle readers, whom now I hear asking why I did not, as Brown’s literary executor, try to finish the play myself. Can they never ask a question without a false assumption in it? I did try, hard, to finish ‘Savonarola.’
Artistically, of course, the making of such an attempt was indefensible. Humanly, not so. It is clear throughout the play—especially perhaps in Acts III and IV—that if Brown had not steadfastly in his mind the hope of production on the stage, he had nothing in his mind at all. Horrified though he would have been by the idea of letting me kill his Monk, he would rather have done even this than doom his play to everlasting unactedness. I took, therefore, my courage in both hands, and made out a scenario....
Dawn on summit of Mount Fiesole. Outspread view of Florence (Duomo, Giotto’s Tower, etc.) as seen from that eminence.—NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI, asleep on grass, wakes as sun rises. Deplores his exile from Florence, LORENZO’S unappeasable hostility, etc. Wonders if he could not somehow secure the POPE’S favour. Very cynical. Breaks off: But who are these that scale the mountain-side? | Savonarola and Lucrezia | Borgia!—Enter through a trap-door, back c. [trap-door veiled from audience by a grassy ridge], SAV. and LUC. Both gasping and footsore from their climb. [Still, with chains on their wrists? or not?]—MACH. steps unobserved behind a cypress and listens.—SAV. has a speech to the rising sun—Th’ effulgent hope that westers from the east | Daily. Says that his hope, on the contrary, lies in escape To that which easters not from out the west, | That fix’d abode of freedom which men call | America! Very bitter against POPE.—LUC. says that she, for her part, means To start afresh in that uncharted land | Which austers not from out the antipod, | Australia!—Exit MACH., unobserved, down trap-door behind ridge, to betray LUC. and SAV.—Several longish speeches by SAV. and LUC. Time is thus given for MACH. to get into touch with POPE, and time for POPE and retinue to reach the slope of Fiesole. SAV., glancing down across ridge, sees these sleuth-hounds, points them out to LUC. and cries Bewray’d! LUC. By whom? SAV. I know not, but suspect | The hand of that sleek serpent Niccolo | Machiavelli.—SAV. and LUC. rush down c., but find their way barred by the footlights.—LUC. We will not be ta’en Alive. And here availeth us my lore | In what pertains to poison. Yonder herb | [points to a herb growing down r.] Is deadly nightshade. Quick, Monk! Pluck we it!—SAV. and LUC. die just as POPE appears over ridge, followed by retinue in full cry.—POPE’S annoyance at being foiled is quickly swept away on the great wave of Shakespearean chivalry and charity that again rises in him. He gives SAV. a funeral oration similar to the one meant for him in Act IV, but even more laudatory and more stricken. Of LUC., too, he enumerates the virtues, and hints that the whole terrestrial globe shall be hollowed to receive her bones. Ends by saying: In deference to this our double sorrow | Sun shall not shine to-day nor shine to-morrow.—Sun drops quickly back behind eastern horizon, leaving a great darkness on which the Curtain slowly falls.
All this might be worse, yes. The skeleton passes muster. But in the attempt to incarnate and ensanguine it I failed wretchedly. I saw that Brown was, in comparison with me, a master. Thinking I might possibly fare better in his method of work than in my own, I threw the skeleton into a cupboard, sat down, and waited to see what Savonarola and those others would do.
They did absolutely nothing. I sat watching them, pen in hand, ready to record their slightest movement. Not a little finger did they raise. Yet I knew they must be alive. Brown had always told me they were quite independent of him. Absurd to suppose that by the accident of his own death they had ceased to breathe.... Now and then, overcome with weariness, I dozed at my desk, and whenever I woke I felt that these rigid creatures had been doing all sorts of wonderful things while my eyes were shut. I felt that they disliked me. I came to dislike them in return, and forbade them my room.
Some of you, my readers, might have better luck with them than I. Invite them, propitiate them, watch them! The writer of the best Fifth Act sent to me shall have his work tacked on to Brown’s; and I suppose I could get him a free pass for the second night.