Time: Three hours later.
SCENE: A Dungeon on the ground-floor of the
Palazzo Civico.
The stage is bisected from top to
bottom by a wall, on one side of which is seen the
interior of Lucrezia’s cell, on the other
that of Savonarola’s.
Neither he nor she knows that the
other is in the next cell. The audience, however,
knows this.
Each cell (because of the width and
height of the proscenium) is of more than the average
Florentine size, but is bare even to the point of
severity, its sole amenities being some straw, a hunk
of bread, and a stone pitcher. The door of each
is facing the audience. Dim-ish light.
Lucrezia wears long and clanking
chains on her wrists, as does also Savonarola.
Imprisonment has left its mark on both of them.
Savonarola’s hair has turned white.
His whole aspect is that of a very old, old man.
Lucrezia looks no older than before, but has
gone mad.
SAV.
Alas, how long ago this morning seems
This evening! A thousand thousand eons
Are scarce the measure of the gulf betwixt
My then and now. Methinks I must have been
Here since the dim creation of the world
And never in that interval have seen
The tremulous hawthorn burgeon in the brake,
Nor heard the hum o’ bees, nor woven chains
Of buttercups on Mount Fiesole
What time the sap lept in the cypresses,
Imbuing with the friskfulness of Spring
Those melancholy trees. I do forget
The aspect of the sun. Yet I was born
A freeman, and the Saints of Heaven smiled
Down on my crib. What would my sire have said,
And what my dam, had anybody told them
The time would come when I should occupy
A felon’s cell? O the disgrace of it
The scandal, the incredible come-down!
It masters me. I see i’ my mind’s
eye
The public prints—`Sharp Sentence on a
Monk.’
What then? I thought I was of sterner stuff
Than is affrighted by what people think.
Yet thought I so because ’twas thought of me,
And so ’twas thought of me because I had
A hawk-like profile and a baleful eye.
Lo! my soul’s chin recedes, soft to the touch
As half-churn’d butter. Seeming hawk is
dove,
And dove’s a gaol-bird now. Fie out upon
’t!
LUC.
How comes it? I am Empress Dowager
Of China—yet was never crown’d.
This must
Be seen to.
[Quickly gathers some straw and weaves a crown, which
she puts on.]
SAV.
O,
what a degringolade!
The great career I had mapp’d out for me—
Nipp’d i’ the bud. What life, when
I come out,
Awaits me? Why, the very Novices
And callow Postulants will draw aside
As I pass by, and say `That man hath done
Time!’ And yet shall I wince? The worst
of Time
Is not in having done it, but in doing ’t.
LUC.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Eleven billion pig-tails
Do tremble at my nod imperial,—
The which is as it should be.
SAV.
I
have heard
That gaolers oft are willing to carouse
With them they watch o’er, and do sink at last
Into a drunken sleep, and then’s the time
To snatch the keys and make a bid for freedom.
Gaoler! Ho, Gaoler!
[Sounds of lock being turned and bolts withdrawn.
Enter the Borgias’
fool, in plain clothes, carrying bunch of keys.]
I
have seen thy face
Before.
Fool
I
saved thy life this afternoon, Sir.
SAV.
Thou art the Borgias’ Fool?
Fool
Say
rather, was.
Unfortunately I have been discharg’d
For my betrayal of Lucrezia,
So that I have to speak like other men—
Decasyllabically, and with sense.
An hour ago the gaoler of this dungeon
Died of an apoplexy. Hearing which,
I ask’d for and obtain’d his billet.
SAV.
Fetch
A stoup o’ liquor for thyself and me.
Freedom! there’s nothing that thy votaries
Grudge in the cause of thee. That decent man
Is doom’d by me to lose his place again
To-morrow morning when he wakes from out
His hoggish slumber. Yet I care not.
[Re-enter gaoler with a leathern bottle and two
glasses.]
Ho!
This is the stuff to warm our vitals, this
The panacea for all mortal ills
And sure elixir of eternal youth.
Drink, bonniman!
[Gaoler drains a glass and shows signs of instant
intoxication. SAV.
claps him on shoulder and replenishes glass.
Gaoler drinks again, lies
down on floor, and snores. SAV. snatches the
bunch of keys, laughs
long but silently, and creeps out on tip-toe, leaving
door ajar.
LUC. meanwhile has lain down on the straw in her cell,
and fallen
asleep.
Noise of bolts being shot back, jangling of keys,
grating of lock, and
the door of LUC.’S cell flies open. SAV.
takes two steps across the
threshold, his arms outstretched and his upturned
face transfigured
with a great joy.]
How
sweet the open air
Leaps to my nostrils! O the good brown earth
That yields once more to my elastic tread
And laves these feet with its remember’d dew!
Free !—I am free! O naked arc of
heaven,
Enspangled with innumerable—no,
Stars are not there. Yet neither are there clouds!
The thing looks like a ceiling! [Gazes downward.]
And this thing
Looks like a floor. [Gazes around.] And that white
bundle yonder
Looks curiously like Lucrezia.
There must be some mistake.
LUC. [Rises to her feet.]
There
is indeed!
A pretty sort of prison I have come to,
In which a self-respecting lady’s cell
Is treated as a lounge!
SAV.
I
had no notion
You were in here. I thought I was out there.
I will explain—but first I’ll make
amends.
Here are the keys by which your durance ends.
The gate is somewhere in this corridor,
And so good-bye to this interior!
[Exeunt SAV. and LUC. Noise, a moment later,
of a key grating in a
lock, then of gate creaking on its hinges; triumphant
laughs of
fugitives; loud slamming of gate behind them.
In SAV.’s cell the gaoler starts in his
sleep, turns his face to the
wall, and snores more than ever deeply. Through
open door comes a
cloaked figure.]
CLOAKED figure
Sleep on, Savonarola, and awake
Not in this dungeon but in ruby Hell!
[Stabs Gaoler, whose snores cease abruptly. Enter
Pope Julius II, with
Papal retinue carrying torches. MURDERER steps
quickly back into
shadow.]
Pope [To body of gaoler.]
Savonarola, I am come to taunt
Thee in thy misery and dire abjection.
Rise, Sir, and hear me out.
MURD. [Steps forward.]
Great
Julius,
Waste not thy breath. Savonarola’s dead.
I murder’d him.
Pope
Thou
hadst no right to do so.
Who art thou, pray?
MURD.
Cesare
Borgia,
Lucrezia’s brother, and I claim a brother’s
Right to assassinate whatever man
Shall wantonly and in cold blood reject
Her timid offer of a poison’d ring.
Pope
Of this anon.
Our
present business
Is general woe. No nobler corse hath ever
Impress’d the ground. O let the trumpets
speak it!
This was the noblest of the Florentines.
His character was flawless, and the world
Held not his parallel. O bear him hence
With all such honours as our State can offer.
He shall interred be with noise of cannon,
As doth befit so militant a nature.
Prepare these obsequies.
A Papal OFFICER
But
this is not
Savonarola. It is some one else.
Cesare
Lo! ’tis none other than the Fool that I
Hoof’d from my household but two hours agone.
I deem’d him no good riddance, for he had
The knack of setting tables on a roar.
What shadows we pursue! Good night, sweet Fool,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
Pope
Interred shall he be with signal pomp.
No honour is too great that we can pay him.
He leaves the world a vacuum. Meanwhile,
Go we in chase of the accursed villain
That hath made escapado from this cell.
To horse! Away! We’ll scour the
country round
For Sav’narola till we hold him bound.
Then shall you see a cinder, not a man,
Beneath the lightnings of the Vatican!
[Flourish, alarums and excursions, flashes of Vatican
lightning, roll
of drums, etc. Through open door of cell
is led in a large milk-white
horse, which the Pope mounts as the Curtain falls.]
Remember, please, before you formulate
your impressions, that saying of Brown’s:
`The thing must be judged as a whole.’
I like to think that whatever may seem amiss to us
in these Four Acts of his would have been righted
by collation with that Fifth which he did not live
to achieve.
I like, too, to measure with my eyes
the yawning gulf between stage and study. Very
different from the message of cold print to our imagination
are the messages of flesh and blood across footlights
to our eyes and ears. In the warmth and brightness
of a crowded theatre `Savonarola’ might, for
aught one knows, seem perfect. `Then why,’ I
hear my gentle readers asking, `did you thrust the
play on us, and not on a theatrical manager?’
That question has a false assumption
in it. In the course of the past eight years
I have thrust `Savonarola’ on any number of theatrical
managers. They have all of them been (to use
the technical phrase) `very kind.’ All
have seen great merits in the work; and if I added
together all the various merits thus seen I should
have no doubt that `Savonarola’ was the best
play never produced. The point on which all
the managers are unanimous is that they have no use
for a play without an ending. This is why I
have fallen back, at last, on gentle readers, whom
now I hear asking why I did not, as Brown’s literary
executor, try to finish the play myself. Can
they never ask a question without a false assumption
in it? I did try, hard, to finish `Savonarola.’
Artistically, of course, the making of such an attempt was
indefensible. Humanly, not so. It is clear throughout the play—
especially perhaps in Acts III and IV—that if Brown had not
steadfastly in his mind the hope of production on the stage, he had
nothing in his mind at all. Horrified though he would have been by
the idea of letting me kill his Monk, he would rather have done even
this than doom his play to everlasting unactedness. I took,
therefore, my courage in both hands, and made out a scenario….
Dawn on summit of Mount Fiesole. Outspread view of Florence (Duomo,
Giotto’s Tower, etc.) as seen from that eminence.—NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI,
asleep on grass, wakes as sun rises. Deplores his exile from
Florence, LORENZO’S unappeasable hostility, etc. Wonders if he could
not somehow secure the POPE’S favour. Very cynical. Breaks off: But
who are these that scale the mountain-side? | Savonarola and Lucrezia
| Borgia!—Enter through a trap-door, back c. [trap-door veiled from
audience by a grassy ridge], SAV. and LUC. Both gasping and footsore
from their climb. [Still, with chains on their wrists? or not?]—MACH.
steps unobserved behind a cypress and listens.—SAV. has a speech to
the rising sun—Th’ effulgent hope that westers from the east | Daily.
Says that his hope, on the contrary, lies in escape To that which
easters not from out the west, | That fix’d abode of freedom which men
call | America! Very bitter against POPE.—LUC. says that she, for her
part, means To start afresh in that uncharted land | Which austers not
from out the antipod, | Australia!-Exit MACH., unobserved, down trap
door behind ridge, to betray LUC. and SAV.—Several longish speeches by
SAV. and LUC. Time is thus given for MACH. to get into touch with POPE,
and time for POPE and retinue to reach the slope of Fiesole. SAV.,
glancing down across ridge, sees these sleuth-hounds, points them out
to LUC. and cries Bewray’d! LUC. By whom? SAV. I know not, but suspect
| The hand of that sleek serpent Niccolo | Machiavelli.—SAV. and LUC.
rush down c., but find their way barred by the footlights.—LUC. We
will not be ta’en Alive. And here availeth us my lore | In what
pertains to poison. Yonder herb | [points to a herb growing down r.]
Is deadly nightshade. Quick, Monk! Pluck we it !—SAV. and LUC. die
just as POPE appears over ridge, followed by retinue in full cry.—
POPE’S annoyance at being foiled is quickly swept away on the great
wave of Shakespearean chivalry and charity that again rises in him.
He gives SAV. a funeral oration similar to the one meant for him in Act
IV, but even more laudatory and more stricken. Of LUC., too, he
enumerates the virtues, and hints that the whole terrestrial globe
shall be hollowed to receive her bones. Ends by saying: In deference
to this our double sorrow | Sun shall not shine to-day nor shine to-
morrow.—Sun drops quickly back behind eastern horizon, leaving a
great darkness on which the Curtain slowly falls.
All this might be worse, yes. The skeleton passes muster. But in the
attempt to incarnate and ensanguine it I failed wretchedly. I saw
that Brown was, in comparison with me, a master. Thinking I might
possibly fare better in his method of work than in my own, I threw the
skeleton into a cupboard, sat down, and waited to see what Savonarola
and those others would do.
They did absolutely nothing. I sat watching them, pen in hand, ready
to record their slightest movement. Not a little finger did they
raise. Yet I knew they must be alive. Brown had always told me they
were quite independent of him. Absurd to suppose that by the accident
of his own death they had ceased to breathe…. Now and then,
overcome with weariness, I dozed at my desk, and whenever I woke I
felt that these rigid creatures had been doing all sorts of wonderful
things while my eyes were shut. I felt that they disliked me. I came
to dislike them in return, and forbade them my room.
Some of you, my readers, might have better luck with them than I.
Invite them, propitiate them, watch them! The writer of the best
Fifth Act sent to me shall have his work tacked on to Brown’s; and I
suppose I could get him a free pass for the second night.
