_The_ POPE’S _bedchamber in the Borgia Apartments_.
MONSIGNORE BURCHARD _at the bed’s head watching: two card-players
at a little table by the bedside. The_ LORD ALEXANDER VI. _is
sitting up in bed, his glazed eyes fixed on the game. A crowd of_
PHYSICIANS, SURGEONS, APOTHECARIES. _The_ CARDINALS _consulting
anxiously with the_ POPE’S CHIEF PHYSICIAN, _the_ LORD BISHOP OF
VENOSA.
CARDINAL SEGOVIA.
Does he see?
Does he attend?
BISHOP OF VENOSA.
He sees; but if the dying
Attend, or how to construe their attention,
Whether their eyes are purged, or focus fresh
We scarce may reckon. These illumined eyes
Are 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.
_Enter_ BONAFEDE, LORD BISHOP OF CHIUSI, _hurriedly_.
BONAFEDE.
Physician!
VENOSA.
Ay, lord Bonafede--you
Come from a bed of even graver sickness,
More tragic, youth contending.
BONAFEDE.
Hush! Duke Cesare
Has but one thought--His Holiness.
VENOSA.
[_Taking the_ BISHOP _by the shoulders to the bed_.] That message,
Repeat it.... Then the trance
May lighten or remove.
BONAFEDE.
[_To the_ POPE.] Most well-beloved,
Duke Cesare asks from his bed of sickness
For tidings of you. Every hour he sends,
And every hour
I droop him with despair. Speak of him, bless him;
Assure him of your energy to live.
ALEXANDER.
[_Smiling from his dark eyes._] Lord Bonafede, you are temporal.
Look there.... I watch the game.
I do not care
Now who is playing or who wins: I watch.
BONAFEDE.
The Duke is very sick.
ALEXANDER.
Look there! The Chance,
And how it tosses to and fro!
BURCHARD.
My lord
Takes interest in the fortunes of the game?
[_The_ POPE _nods_.
ALEXANDER.
I rally--
Ay, honest Burchard, set it down--I rally.
CARDINALS.
Then speak your last requests.
--How can we serve you?
--What of Duke Cesare? Your benediction!
--What of your soul?
ALEXANDER.
I am too busy dying. Bonafede--
This dying is itself a little house,
And one within
That cherishes soft as a nurse, indulgent,
And lets one wake or sleep.
[_To one of the_ CARD-PLAYERS.] How foolish of you!
You have lost your chances, listening to my talk.
You have no meaning
Unless you are intent upon the game.
Kiss me, good Bonafede, and your prayers.
[_Exit_ BONAFEDE _weeping_.
Now leave me to the air.
BISHOP OF VENOSA.
He will fall asleep.
ALEXANDER.
I promise you
That I will make no noise.... I ever
Slept as a child, and wallowed in the feathers
Seven times at waking ... ha! And do you sleep
Till time for the next Office. Burchard dozes;
Put by the cards, and I will watch his face.
[_The_ CROWD _withdraws from the bed: the_ POPE _chuckles, after
fixing his eyes on_ BURCHARD; _then his eyes close_.
CARDINALS.
How wanton of his end!
--What of his soul?
--The noontide
To me is full of strange attentiveness.
Angels, or fiends?
BISHOP OF VENOSA.
Has he not made confession?
CARDINALS.
Ay, of concupiscence and simony,
If one may dare surmise--his open sins.
But of his secret sins! Think how they hide
And loom where fear is with them in men’s thoughts!
--They say he sold his soul to Lucifer
For full eleven years; and all are told.
[_A wind stirs the curtains._
--He comes, he comes!
--An apparition like a monkey! Horror!
A straggling darkness....
--Are you sure? A monkey?
--And sounds!
Far more than seven devils are watching us.
BISHOP OF VENOSA.
He has received Viaticum, Last Unction.
CARDINALS.
Ah, but he cannot die until his Master
Rise from below to take him, cannot die
As sinners do accepted by their God.
--He sleeps when he should die.
--Closed up in sin,
A sullen Viper of the woods!
--Remember....
Think of the death of Cardinal Michele,
Think of the Cardinal Orsini, think
Of Don Alfonso, Duke Astorre!
--Ay,
Think of the Lady Daughter.
BISHOP OF VENOSA.
Tales and bibble-babble!
Go, chatter with your monkey, fraternise!
He will not tickle this last sleep, my lords;
Give him your company.
A CARDINAL.
But tell us, Doctor,
Low in the ear, have not this son and father
Drunk of the cup Orsini and Michele
Drank at their hands? Have they not been envenomed?
BISHOP OF VENOSA.
Yea, by the hand of God, but not of man--
The venom of His secret pestilence,
The fever walking in this August air.
THE SAME CARDINAL.
Both struck together--is not that the singing
Of _cantarella_?
BISHOP OF VENOSA.
By my faith, lords--no.
The hand of God hath struck, and who shall tell
How far His mercy or His wrath is set?
Physicians cure by hope.
_Re-enter_ LORD BONAFEDE.
BONAFEDE.
The lord Duke Cesare
Is worse. Physician!
CARDINAL SEGOVIA.
[_To the_ BISHOP OF VENOSA.] Can you leave this bedside?
You cannot!
BISHOP OF VENOSA.
[_Rising._] Youth!
Youth and desire of life!
[_To attendants._] Fetch me a mule,
And from its hollowed entrails we will tear
Our Cesar reconceived, regenerate:
Or, should the live heat fail, fetch me an oil-jar,
Brimming with vault-drawn water. Haste for life!
The Duke is worse. He shall survive.
[_The_ POPE _has opened his eyes_.
Dear Father,
I will bring you in an hour word that your Duke
Makes speed to visit you.
[_The_ DOCTOR _and the other_ SURGEONS _and_ APOTHECARIES, _with
the_ CARDINALS _and_ ATTENDANTS, _pass in an excited company from
the room_.
ALEXANDER.
[_To himself._] But Burchard
Alters no muscle: nothing of importance
Therefore has passed....
My Chronicler,
And I have never looked into your books!
[_Glancing round, pleased._
Ah, they have left me lonely! How delicious
It is to be neglected when one dies.
[_Mischievously tickling_ BURCHARD’S _nose with a fan that lies on
the bed_.
Burchard, good-night!
BURCHARD.
[_Yawning._] O Holiness!
ALEXANDER.
You are napping at your post!
It does not matter.
You looked so ugly when you lay asleep,
I waked you: comely
You are when stiff and handsome in your clothes.
[BURCHARD _stands formal before his master, who looks up at him,
appealingly_.
Bright eyes,
Take no more record of me: do not publish
These stains, these swollen limbs.
Give me the mirror
That my last breath shall soil--that is its use!
But I will snatch it as in youth.... Vanozza,
Giulia, and a little earlier one--
Well, well, I gave them happiness.
[BURCHARD, _scandalised, seeks a crucifix_.
Good Master
Of the Ceremonies, did you take account
Of my beauty when you chronicled my dress?
I have been very handsome ...
He is gone,
Stolen off in horror at my vanity.
And yet this beauty is not vanity;
The vanity is when it falls away,
And crumbles into nothingness.
Even our Lady
Keeps power of intercession for us all
By loveliness that in simplicity
Draws God to will its pleasure as His will
And perfect pleasure. [_Folding his hands._
_Rosa Mystica_,
O Flower of God, O Rose, O Spotless one,
Thou dost unfold to us thy sweet--in showers
Thy fragrancy, thy dews are shed on me;
Thou droppest on my darkness as soft leaves.
[_He lies back, his eyelids softly stirring._
And there are scents--delicious--violets
And roses--unexpected--dropping down,
And running through the air. So unexpected,
So secret to me ... Violets, a gift,
As women give fresh from the hand ...
The flowers!
[_He lifts himself, rounding his arms to garner the vision._
[BURCHARD _advances with_ LORD BONAFEDE _and several_ CARDINALS.
BURCHARD.
The Lord Duke is revived.
ALEXANDER.
No matter now;
I am dying, I am safe. [_Rolling on his side away from them._
There, do not crowd me--
My heart is offered. _Ite, missa est._