Act 1 — SCENE V

I thank God for this sleep. Those fearful days I knelt against his door! The raving wildness I heard at times—inhospitable sorrow, Aloof from our Creator! Then, dashed down, The heavy frame wept like a haunted child’s. Then silence Too perilous to spread! I beat the door.

We stood and watched and prayed you might prevail.

And when he opened—Jesu, he was faded As a dead fish; slack chin, and Arab eyes Glassy in fever, with a vengeful thirst. If only he had known the murderer, And could have struck him down to deepest hell—

Each moment He snatches ends of this dark mystery, As he unravelled at the dead of night The broidery on a frame he could but feel.

True, true! It turns the brain that no one knows. Some whisper ’twas the Lord of Pesaro Revenged himself for ridicule and the shame Of his divorce.

[Shaking his head.] He has no credit here.

Some roundly have it The Lord Ascanio Sforza did the deed, For he and Gandia quarrelled the same day That our fine Duke was struck.

It was a masterpiece Of secrecy—this murder.

No more news?

By item all I know is told to you, My Lord Segovia.

[From the bed.] Ah!

I will retire, And send the Lord Francesco Borgia up To urge his cousin’s appetite. Behold!

[Poto, turning to the bed, finds the Pope sitting up, a beatific smile on his face.

But I have seen my son in Paradise....

How fares your Holiness this morning?

Poto, There was no scar on him, not the least wound; That is the truth: and he stood armed again. As bright as San Michele he looked down Upon us from the wall, his gonfalon Swathing around him as he stood. His face Was to me as an angel’s. [He weeps quietly.] I repent, I will change all to meet that boy again In Paradise, no wound on him, no scar. And yet the sight of him, O Poto, drove down to the rasping quick Of conscience through my heart. All shall be changed, The Vatican be cleared of sin. These bastards ... Let me not see them more! Joffré, Lucrezia— Joffré must mind his government afar, I banish him. Lucrece—oh, I shall gather The seas between us; she shall dwell in Spain, Dwell in Valencia, deep, where I was born, White little demon-girl! [He rises, trembling, and Poto robes him.] No priest henceforward Shall hold two benefices; simony No more shall breed among us. God would punish Some sin in us; it could not be Giovanni Deserved a death so cruel. Gently, Poto, You are too violent.

Patience, Holiness, You slit the silk.

Where is the Cardinal I called my son? Unnatural, where are they? The children I have fostered in my bosom, Where are they?

Holiness, Donna Lucrezia in the Sistine Convent Prays day and night.

Sweet soul!

The Lord Valencia—

Ah, what of him? Where is his piety?

When your affliction broke on you, before it Men fled as from a pest. Lord Cesare Is shut within his palace; duteously, Almost from hour to hour, his servants pass For tidings of your health.

The Governor Of Rome prays for the Presence.

He has tidings? Oh, it will break my heart! I would lie down Within my coffin—and that tapestry About the portal, with its shaking folds, Opens and shuts the lid. Let him come in.

[The Governor comes to the Pontiff’s feet.

I would not question you; give full relation; Do not repeat the tales of yesterday.

Most Holy Father, there is little new Of the Lord Duke to certify—his mule Was found hard by the Palace Barbarini.

[To Poto.] My lad, my lad! We know what beauty there Looks into Tiber like the moon! I thank you For your devotion.

Shall we still further search?

Expressly, till the recreant be slain. He dies within my thoughts a several death Each time I front the dark where he is lost. God damn him deeper every day! Search, search!

[Exit Governor.

His mule, and at that spot! Gaspare, breathe around The Palace, bribe the women. If a stab From jealousy—we stop the inquisition. Mea culpa, mea culpa!

O Francesco, What do you bear so carefully—the Host?

Nay, but a little food.

I cannot eat. Gaspare, bear it from the room. Go all Away from me!

[Exeunt all save Cardinal Borgia, who quietly remains.

Cousin, you wait for news? It is too true The boy has perished by his father’s sins. I must make expiation for his lust: I have lived ill. Before the Consistory I will make full confession.

Holiness, If I may trust the murmur in my ears From men to whose free speech I gave safe conduct, it is not for you To make avowal. Heaven requires of you Such greatness and capacity of pardon As in extent it touched the limits of, Setting its brand of safety upon Cain.

What, Joffré?

No, not Joffré ... but a son. Belovèd, exercise the privilege Of God’s vicegerent. Wash away this guilt, Remove it from you; pardon secretly.

Not Joffré? Joffré is my heir.... You lay A heavy stone upon Giovanni’s grave To keep me from him. But it is not true, It cannot be! We Borgia do no harm To any of our kin.

And yet to certainty Drive the suspicion, and forgive the crime.

[The Pope paces, wringing his hands.

He never made complaint. I have been thoughtless, Thoughtless to Cesare.... He has been absent Too often from our ceremonials, From our investitures. I drove him jealous By welcome of his brother out of Spain. I did him wrong. Good kinsman, you have taught me To dry my tears ... and I have still a son. Fetch me again the little dish of food, The wine.... I am grown faint. See that this bruit Come never to his mother. He is all To her as if he were her eldest born. God knows my love to him is infinite! But—bid him keep his palace. I forbid His presence here.... My sins have plunged my children In death and hell, and I must live alone.