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 Is it to shun your brother up and down 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_.

ALEXANDER.

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.

ALEXANDER.

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, Restless again. 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.