Borgia A Period Play |
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| 2. | SCENE II |
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 | Borgia |  |
SCENE II
The Vatican—a Loggia. Don Alfonso and Donna Lucrezia Borgia d'Aragon are seated together. There are peaches on a golden dish by them, a golden wine-jug and goblet. Two quails and a peacock sun themselves on the ground. A monkey plays with the ribbons of the Duchess's dress; she wears white, with a green and gold veil twisted in her long hair.LUCREZIA.
Why do you sigh?
ALFONSO.
You are so full of bliss—
You contemplate me as I were a jewel.
LUCREZIA.
You are, and mine.
ALFONSO.
Why, you have many jewels.
LUCREZIA.
The gift of others: but this jewelled thing
Is you. Alfonso!—and the painters say
You are the loveliest boy in Italy.
You sigh again—why do you sigh? You shall not.
[She caresses him and offers him half of a peach.
ALFONSO.
Ay, half—
Half of a pleasure! I would have you all,
And always. If I am to stay in Rome
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The streets of Rome, so to escape temptation?
Even yesterday ... Lucrece, he concentrates
Such fury in me as I look on him
I shiver, and for hours, after long hours
I find myself still trembling.
LUCREZIA.
[With deep acquiescence.]
Yes ....
ALFONSO.
And you can suffer
That I should bear the insult of his carriage;
That is the wound: no flashing from your lips,
When I am injured, and no least regret
When you are summoned from me to confer
With His Holiness apart, or by his side
Parry the orators when they grow angry,
And growl from their chafed monarchs.
If to please you
I stay in Rome . . .
LUCREZIA.
[Laying her hands firmly over his.]
You are too young, impatient,
To bear long audience of the orators.
[Twining her arm in his.]
But come—why will you speak of yesterday
Or of to-morrow? It is midsummer;
Lucrezia is your own, Lucrezia
So blissful in your arms that, malcontent,
You sigh.
ALFONSO.
I would you loved me less, I would
You did not hold me here as in your clutches.
Midsummer! I shall never see my own:
I have seen you. Beauty, you have no season,
Nor warmth, I think; you are a cruel goddess,
That loves her mortal, and can let him die,
Her fit of doting ended.
LUCREZIA.
Will you quarrel?
[The Pope's voice is heard calling through the halls.
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Where is she?
Lucrezia, Lucrezia! My little nurse!
Lucrezia!
[He enters.
LUCREZIA.
[Rising with Alfonso.]
We are here, dear father.
ALEXANDER.
Ha!
Feast of S. John, is this austerity?
Skinning cool peaches in a vestibule?
You should have seen the bull-fight, my fair Spaniard.
Cesare ....
But he is Hercules! There, in his doublet,
With his short sword he faced five bulls.
I watched
The issue, not the contest; for ... conceive!—
Five spurting carcases, the animals
So swiftly struck one could not draw one's breath
Between the passes. But the beasts were slain
Before his presence as in sacrifice!
The bloody smoke rose up as to a god.
Ah, little Spaniard, and you kept the hour
Toying with Naples.
[He gives a chuckling whistle.]
An arena, child—
Above a reeking tiger there was silence
When Commodus, the golden-haired, stood up;
But when our Spada smote, and at one blow down tumbled
A huge, protesting head, the multitude
Lifted a crowd of shouts into the sky,
And saw no more; hearing was everywhere.
Then, as the noise grew thinner, he emerged
In beauty ... oh, an athlete! oh, a David!
ALFONSO.
You must record this as a miracle.
Does it belong, your Blessèdness,
To Pagan legend or the Church?
LUCREZIA.
To us.
But I repent I did not see him there,
Magnificent before all Rome.
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You sparkle!
I pardon you. He scarcely will.
[The Pope nods his head and rises to go.
LUCREZIA.
[Detaining him.]
A peach! . . .
It is a little fountain
That grottoes under cloud of this red skin.
There, father, from my hand.
[The Pope seats himself again.
And this dear Cesare,
You will no more reproach him,
When he grows dull and drowses in the sun:
We let our lions drowse.
ALEXANDER.
[Eating the fruit.]
Delicious!
So cordial in its essence it revives,
But sets the senses light enough to slumber.
We let our lions drowse . . .
I am drowsing now;
A midsummer sweet napping. Guard my rest,
Bright angels!
Nay, Alfonso, do not budge.
I shall be fast asleep.
[The Pope falls asleep; at intervals he snores.
LUCREZIA.
[To Alfonso.]
Dear Blessèdness,
How could you flee from him? Look, there is kindness
In every crease of his face; look at his lips
That almost bubble in his sleep with mirth
And comfort that he takes in every pleasure.
He never could make sorrowful, Alfonso.
ALFONSO.
I did not flee from him.
LUCREZIA.
But you make sorrow,
Alfonso, with your fears. You are growing restless,
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On this midsummer-day
When even the little demons of the wood
Are turned delighted into lovers' elves,
When all things take enchantment, even sin,
And pardon waits if one should sin too deep
[Pointing to the Pope.]
Of Heaven itself, shall we not be content?
Shall we not cease from talking?
ALFONSO.
[Vehemently drawing her to his breast.]
While he sleeps.
| Borgia | |