Act 5 — SCENE III

Does he see? Does he attend?

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.

Physician!

Ay, lord Bonafede—you Come from a bed of even graver sickness, More tragic, youth contending.

Hush! Duke Cesare Has but one thought—His Holiness.

[Taking the Bishop by the shoulders to the bed.] That message, Repeat it.... Then the trance May lighten or remove.

[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.

[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.

The Duke is very sick.

Look there! The Chance, And how it tosses to and fro!

My lord Takes interest in the fortunes of the game?

[The Pope nods.

I rally— Ay, honest Burchard, set it down—I rally.

Then speak your last requests. —How can we serve you? —What of Duke Cesare? Your benediction! —What of your soul?

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.

He will fall asleep.

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.

How wanton of his end! —What of his soul? —The noontide To me is full of strange attentiveness. Angels, or fiends?

Has he not made confession?

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.

He has received Viaticum, Last Unction.

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.

Tales and bibble-babble! Go, chatter with your monkey, fraternise! He will not tickle this last sleep, my lords; Give him your company.

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?

Yea, by the hand of God, but not of man— The venom of His secret pestilence, The fever walking in this August air.

Both struck together—is not that the singing Of cantarella?

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.

The lord Duke Cesare Is worse. Physician!

[To the Bishop of Venosa.] Can you leave this bedside? You cannot!

[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.

[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.

Burchard, good-night!

[Yawning.] O Holiness!

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.

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.

The Lord Duke is revived.

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.