Savonarola A Tragedy |
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 | Savonarola |  |
SCENE I.
[The Piazza della Signoria: the main entrance to the Palazzo Pubblico at the back of the stage, and the Loggia de' Lanzi on the right.]Spini, Soderini, Cei, Compagnacci.
SPINI.
I tell you what, my comrades, you must work.
There's little to be earned by merriment,
Since great Lorenzo died.
FIRST COMPAGNACCIO.
Work! I'll not work:
It is a turnspit's task.
SODERINI.
Faith! then you'll starve:
A leaner task than turning any spit.
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Wait till the French King comes. I wager, then
There will be food for fooling.
CEI.
Fools for food,
Will prove more like. Which of you has not heard
His infantry in fight not only fell
But slay their enemies?
FIRST COMP.
Uncivil boors!
They will learn gentler ways in Tuscany.
SPINI.
They're mighty slow at learning, then. The blood
Shed at Rappallo was but Magra's stream
Compared to Arno's, with the torrents loosed
At Fivizzano.
SECOND COMP.
Why, they're monsters!
SODERINI.
Ay,
Monsters in stature, appetite, and lust.
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Upon the hale they wreak their savagery,
Then fall on the unarmed. They covet blood,
But ransom more. Your jewels, caskets, gems,
Velvets, embroideries, satins, silks, brocades,
All to their gullet stands for provender.
They think the stones of Italy, if sucked,
Will yield them oil; so meagre is their land,
So fat is ours.
CEI.
Neither do courteous wiles
Disarm their greed. When Blanche of Montferrat,
Wearing her costliest jewels, on behalf
Of Savoy's Prince, because a minor still,
Proffered a gracious welcome to their King,
He took the precious gewgaws from her neck,
And for ten thousand ducats pawned them straight.
FIRST COMP.
I've got no jewels.
SPINI.
But you've got a neck;
And, failing necklaces, your neck will serve.
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Zounds! that it will.
SODERINI.
I know Rappallo well,
Perched on the lap of olive-crested gorge,
And safely smiling at the smiling sea,
Till these ferocious foragers of death,
With swords for sickles, reaped each standing life,
Ripe or unripe, then gleaned the hospitals
For further slaughter.
FIRST COMP.
But what wants this king
In Italy at all?
CEI.
Why, just what kings,
Since crowns first turned their heads, are wont to want,
A bigger stage to strut on. This one claims
The fief of Naples. Florence has to choose
Whether to show a front or lend a side.
SPINI.
Hither comes one, to tell us more of this,
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A Piagnone, but an honest man.
How doth the slip of such a sturdy stock
Come to be bent by Frà Girolamo?
[Enter Salviati (right), followed by a number of Piagnoni, all dressed soberly, but some of them, like himself, armed.]
What news, Salviati, of the Commonwealth?
SALVIATI.
The latest, Piero hath betaken him,
With Gianfigliazzo and Giannozzo Pucci,
Unto Sarzana, to the French King's camp,
To sue for terms for Florence.
FIRST PIAGNONE.
Sue for terms!
A pretty suitor; barbarous, uncouth,
His mother's son.
SECOND PIAGNONE.
But half a Florentine:
Expert in midnight broils and secret loves
A hero at pallone, passing on
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Ser Bibbiena.
SODERINI.
Who is there denies
He is not like Lorenzo? 'Twere in vain
You asked the duplicate of such a Prince.
But he's Lorenzo's son, a Medici,
And that's enough. Whom would you have to stand
At top of Florence?
FIRST PIAGNONE.
Better none than he.
Our Frà Girolamo's a likelier man.
FIRST COMP.
Savonarola! A Dominican!
SECOND COMP.
A monk! A vagrant from another world!
The pulpit is his place.
SPINI.
A place from which,
Worse plague upon't! already he directs
The hearts of half of Florence.
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And ere long
Will guide them all. Pico, Politian,
Each in the garb of Domenick expired,
By him absolved. Say, did he not foretell
That the French King would come, and in the face
Of reputable citizens predict
Death to Lorenzo and Pope Innocent,
And Ferdinand of Naples last of all?
And each is gone.
SODERINI.
A holy prophecy!
That robs us of Lorenzo, and exalts
Roderigo Borgia to St. Peter's Chair,
Thanks to the mule-loads of ill-gotten gold
Into Ascanio Sforza's palace driven
At time of conclave.
FIRST PIAGNONE.
That was not the work
Of Frà Girolamo. But yesterday
He thundered in the pulpit of Saint Mark
'Gainst the election simoniacal
Of the new Pontiff.
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Whereby he invents
Fresh enemies for Florence. Pious work!
SALVIATI.
The enemies of Florence are within.
Who is there pleads like Frà Girolamo
For restitution of our ancient rights?
PIAGNONI.
And we will have them.
OTHER PIAGNONI.
Have them, that we will.
Down with the Medici!
[Enter (left) Lorenzo Tornabuoni.]
TORNABUONI.
Down, down, yourselves,
You sniggering whimperers, hangers on the skirt
Of an officious shaveling! Clasp your palms,
And mumble litanies, or flog your flesh!
But dare to meddle with the Commonwealth,
There are who will convince you of your place.
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Ay, that there are, and quickly.
[The two parties, the Compagnacci and the Piagnoni, lay their hands on their swords, and assume an attitude of menace towards one another. Salviati, by gesture, seeks to calm the Piagnoni.]
SECOND PIAGNONE.
Heed them not,
Lascivious brawlers! Let us bear their jibes,
And prove our Christian humility.
FIRST COMP.
So very humble: humble as your monk,
Who sets himself above the Signory,
And—
[Enter Savonarola (left), accompanied by Frà Domenico and Frà Silvestro.]
SAVONAROLA.
Brethren! Citizens! Why, what is this!
Is this a time for Pagan acrimony,
When round your city adversaries throng
Dense as lean wolves in wintry Apennine?
Have I not warned you that the Church, and not
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And most this State of Florence, will be scourged,
And renovated next, and that ere long?
Hear yet another vision. In the night
I saw a hand in Heaven, and in the hand
A sword upon whose steel was brightly chased,
“The Sword of the Lord over the earth, swiftly and soon!”
And many voices heard I, plain and clear,
Promising mercy to the good, but loud
Stripes and confusion menacing to the ill,
And clamouring that the wrath of God is nigh.
The air grew pitchy dark, and thickly rained
Swords, lightnings, spears, and fiery javelins.
Rumbled the thunder, and the whole earth lay
A prey to battle, famine, pestilence.
Then, ere the vision vanished, came a voice
Commanding me to frighten you with fear,
And prophesy fresh scourges. Hear again!
The Sword of the Lord over the earth, swiftly and soon!
'Tis imminent to fall, nor can you get
Beyond its smiting. O convert you quick,
Beseeching God to stay His ire and send
True pastors who may win back vagrant souls.
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Swiftly and soon!
TORNABUONI.
And who commissioned you
Such scourges to invoke? If Florence feels
The trembling of the air a sword divides,
Who bade the French King swoop down Apennine,
And hover o'er this city? You are leagued
With Ludovico il Moro to inflict
Upon us this invasion.
SAVONAROLA.
To foretell
Is not to fashion. I but prophesied;
And have not these my prophecies come true?
Lo! I will bring the waters over the Earth!
And over the Earth they are coming! Yet why fear?
Enter the Ark, all ye who will: its doors
Stand open still. Let all of you be quick,
For coming is the time they will be shut,
And who then stand outside the Ark of God,
Will smite their breasts in bootless penitence.
Yes! the New Cyrus comes, God's Scourge he comes,
And all who will repent not shall be scourged.
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At length, at length is here! Over is the time,
Over, O Florence, the time for dance and song,
And in its stead hath come the time for tears.
Thy sins, O Florence! and thy sins, O Rome!
O Italy! thy sins, this scourge have caused.
How often have I clamoured in thy ears,
How often wept, O Florence, that my voice
Might yet suffice thee! Unto Thee, O Lord,
To Thee, to Thee who died for us, I turn!
Pardon the people of Florence who would fain,
Though tardily, be Thine!
TORNABUONI.
[Interrupting him.]
And why should they
Be spared, and others spared not? You have lured
A curse to Italy, and now would waive
The mischief from our heads!
SALVIATI.
And he will do it.
FIRST PIAGNONE.
Trust him, he will, and Florence will be spared.
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Hush, man! He's going to prophesy again.
SAVONAROLA.
And who is man, to argue with his God?
Hath not the potter power upon the clay,
And of the self-same lump may he not make
That vessel to dishonour,—honour this?
Tell me, O Magdalen! why now you dwell
In Paradise, who sinned as even we?
Why, Peter, who on Tabor's Mount beheld
Your Lord transfigured, yet denied Him thrice
Shamefacedly to lowly handmaiden,
Why do you now beatitude possess,
And yours the headship of God's Church? Thy sins,
Thy many sins, are all forgiven thee,
Since thou from alabaster vase didst pour
Unguents, and on His feet repentant tears.
Not for thy merits, Magdalen! and not
For thine, O Florence, art thou privileged,
But that God loves and favours whom He will.
Pray, and give alms, or else the sword will fall!
Hence to Saint Mark's, to Vespers!
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SPINI.
You see the drift he has upon their wills.
They speed along like leaves before the wind,
And only halt until he blows again.
TORNABUONI.
More reason that our breath be timely spent
On things less volatile. Paolo Orsini
Hath left for Lucca, in obedience
To orders from Piero. In his place,
Keep an unwinking eye upon the Gates:
These Whimperers mean mischief. Hence at once;
And while they pray, do more effectual work.
SPINI.
Come, Soderini, Cei, comrades all,
We now have occupation.
[Exeunt Spini and Compagnacci (left).]
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With your leave,
I too, sir, will depart.
TORNABUONI.
Unto your love?
O happy swain, that like the shepherd's star
Are in the evening just as near the sun
As in the morning.
BETTUCCIO.
Prettily conceived:
But you wrong both with your comparisons
She is the star, and follows in my wake,
Although I be no sun. She shines afar
Of her own lovingness, and makes the dark
Glow like the noon, and distance feel as near
As though I touched it.
TORNABUONI.
Ah! I plain can see
You see her plain, although I see her not.
Where is she now?
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With me, in verity:
Ostensibly with Grosso, whose fine touch
Hath begged her for a model.
TORNABUONI.
And you lent!
BETTUCCIO.
Lent willingly. 'Twere churlish to refuse.
TORNABUONI.
Is she then such a model, round and round?
BETTUCCIO.
She hath no other merit save to love;
But this one virtue so transports her sex,
That all her faults are lifted from the ground,
And nothing foul can touch her.
TORNABUONI.
Hath she wit?
BETTUCCIO.
Just enough wit for apprehending mine.
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Moves like the leaf nor wants to be the wind:
Insensibly and passively she lends
Her motions to the instincts of assent,
And spends her freedom in obedience.
You spoke of stars. See you, 'tis not a chain
That makes them one same centre circle round,
But faithful parallels; they, but for these,
Would rush against each other or apart.
TORNABUONI.
Still may to you all stars propitious be!
They love me not.
BETTUCCIO.
It is my low estate
Makes my security. Were I like you,
Noble, esteemed, conspicuous in men's eyes,
The coyest and most shrinking joy there is
Might fly me too. I'm a poor poet, sir!
Cheaply reputed, yet so dearly loved,
That if you thrust your rapier through the Earth
Till it protruded on the other side,
You would not fathom it; and so, farewell!
Prosper in your ambitions!
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Stay, sweet youth;
For the ambition warmest in my blood
Is but to be as happy as you boast.
I love the Lady Candida, but she
Confronts me icily. Now the fair maid,
Who is your shadow, is her shadow too.
I mark them much together.
BETTUCCIO.
They are twin.
But have you never noted, when a maid
Is in the first strange flow and flush of love,
She oft will lavish on the passive form
Of some near maid the fond experiments
Her instinct is too maidenly to prove
On our responsive selves?
TORNABUONI.
You poets mark
So many things in women that we miss.
But I would fain you said an honest word
To this your sweet, that she in turn would say
An honest word for me to—well, you know—
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I yet have tasted but her bitterness.
BETTUCCIO.
I your ambassador will be with zeal.
But from Letizia latterly I heard
That, save for Frà Girolamo's assent,
This comely orphan would her tresses clip,
Frame her young forehead in a plaitless veil,
And at her girdle hang a rosary.
TORNABUONI.
Is it she may the better fly from me?
BETTUCCIO.
Vex not yourself. Whatever maids affect,
Tends but one way. Clasp they a crucifix,
'Tis that there are no baby lips to kiss.
Their prayers are sighs, their vows most virginal
But a deep need for tenderness and tears.
TORNABUONI.
But why doth Frà Girolamo divert
Her footsteps from the cloister?
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Who shall say?
Methinks he favours the Valori's suit,
As I will favour yours.
TORNABUONI.
Well, go and suck
The sweet that waits you.
[Exit Bettuccio (right).]
There are thousand lips
'Twixt Bellosguardo and Fiesole,
Ripening for harvest, that I too might reap,
But keep my sickle for a churlish soil,
And starve amid abundance. Hither come
Del Nero and Ridolfi. They will wean
My pursing lips from bosom that runs dry.
[Enter (left) Del Nero and Ridolfi.]
| Savonarola | |