Act 4 — SCENE VII

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

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 languishes In the strict prison of the Borgia Tower; And so has languished Since his vile traitor-nephew was entangled At Sinigaglia in the wondrous net.

Until he be Death’s treasure, can you pounce, Holiness, on his treasure? Can you feed The 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 murderers It may be of Giovanni.... Ho! what cold!... Well, well! A cruel kindred, a most wicked race, Our enemies, our enemies, and worthy Of death’s extinguishing. [Reading again. The postscript? Show me This cantarella. [Pincione gives him a phial. Ha! It is like a sugar Of pearl; like the rare dust that Cleopatra Drank of a dis-orbed pearl. Its facture? Tell me The elements, how braised and how compounded?

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boar being killed, and arsenic-poison salted About the entrails thrown to putrefaction, From thence at last a liquid is withdrawn In thrice-stilled deadliness.

The action?

Slow, But sure in death....

[Calling.] Poto!

Monsignore Burchard Finds 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 authority For what must intervene?

Good Poto, Take Messer Pincione to the jailer Who keeps the Tower. [To Pincione.] 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 stand Till doomsday with your little heap Of cruel pearls?

[Outside.] A gift for Holy Father!

No, boy, go back! The chamber is deep-secret. On the pain Of 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. [Exit Poto with Pincione. ’Twere merciful! Queen Cleopatra drank the like for glory, As this Orsini for his body’s ease.... The cold! How sudden is my age Upon me as a drift! By all the devils, I might be turned to stone!

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 munificence Lord Cardinal Orsini on his mistress Bestowed this wonder; at his mother’s prayer It is presented to you for the boon That 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 nature Endowed 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....

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

The paper—so! An order Prius cibum Et potum ministrare Cardinali. This charitable Brief well buys such beauty. Comfort his mother; bid her Season his dishes, but take cognizance We 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 Burchard takes the Boy out.

[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 offered This 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 out To 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 appeal To Providence to feed my raven, my Young, ominous, black raven! He will come Down on me from his camp: then ... Dio meo! I would give half my Papacy if never He might return.... Nay, nay!... Mater Purissima, O gracious sun-pearl!

[Without unmasking.] Splendid! Put it by— France has forbidden me another stroke Of arms, and I have ridden Swift as the wind rides air, by day, by night, To reach your counsel, fix our policy.

I have found France of late a slackening friend; And I have dandled Spain and sung her soft; At the first open moment she is ours.

Spain! You would threaten France? Diavolo, It is a game of patience quivering Upon its leash....

Are all the rebel-mercenaries slaughtered?

Of the Orsini only one—Giordano Braves us at Bracciano.... Some one knocks. Send them away. [He hides in a further closet.

Enter!

Your Blessedness, Lord Cardinal Orsini died this morning; All our physicians Could not subdue his terror that has summoned The death it feared.

You watched?

I watched him; as a babe, he breathed his last.

Good, good Orsini—as a babe! His mother Bears but the common loss. I am shaking, Poto. Quick, to his private house, surprise the treasure; Go, seal it ours; go, inventory all. [Exit Poto. [At the door.] Command Burcardus lay the Cardinal Where it is public to the scrutiny Of the whole world he died a natural death.

Burcardus, Holiness, refuses portion In this affair.

Poltroonery! Then, Poto, Command his office. [Returning.] Heaven has interposed. [To Cesare, who advances.] Lord Cardinal Orsini Is dead now....

Cantarella does not check. It is game!

Most sure. But, Cesare, The joy, the fortune—he has died by nature, And can be shown lying in simple death....

[Cesare laughs derisively.

Your coming struck him dead, fair basilisk. Unshadow you.... The face!

No, I am soiled and marred. I am not well.

Giordano Flaunts it at Bracciano? Cesare, Unroost him; we will finish the whole brood.

He clings to France; we must not threaten him Till we can threaten Louis.

Straight You shall unroost him.

No! The Lilies Of France are the white badges of my fortune. I shall not break with France too suddenly.

This is my will and I must be obeyed.

[His fingers twisting his sword-chain.] Not mine.

Unless you do this thing and bury The brood that hates us, I withdraw from you My treasure and I excommunicate A disobedient son. It is my will.

I am your fool.... The fool of all these Kings, this Pope. No throne! There is no throne.... [With a low bow.] Your abject servitor!

Hush! But in this my will. Paternity Sees with hot passion where the foe is hidden. You yield obedience, son?

Your fool, your fool!

The voice so slack, my heart, Its cordiality unbraced! Nay, nay, You are over-wearied. Come into your Stanze. At your bedside, when you are laid to rest, And have drunk wine and eaten, I will ponder Our state-craft, and receive from you the story Of Sinigaglia.

That is past. Our talk must all lie onward.... Whew, the pain Of riding rough for hours!

I hate you black like this—night on your face.

I am marred.

—But as you will. Come, rest.