LUCREZIA BORGIA
PROLOGUE
Venice -- city of magic and mystery, where days and nights seem shorter.
The perfect resting spot for Gennaro and his friends, fellow soldiers of fortune. Yesterday Verona, tomorrow on to Ferrara, city by the Po, domain of the Borgias, where Duke Alfonso, husband of the
infamous Lucrezia Borgia, holds a tight grip on the reins of power. Her fourth husband, by the way. Ask not what became of the other three.
Orsini, youngest and sprightliest of the soldiers, whose close
friendship with Gennrao has been forged out of shared dangers on the
battlefield, foresees trouble in Ferrara.
Ever prone to dramatize, he
recalls an ominous warning, with eerie,
supernatural overtones delivered mid wailing night winds by a spectral stranger
dressed in black: “Beware the
Borgias! Deal with Lucrezia, you die!”
Needless to say, this
melodramatic nonsense is dismissed with the disdain that it deserves.
Amid this boistrous, jovial group,
one person does seem oddly miscast.
Evidently a newcomer, there is something shifty, something unsavory about the man. Purportedly a Spaniard by the name of
Beverano, who knows who he really
is? We would urge these happy-go-lucky
soldiers to check his credentials.
As Gennaro sleeps, a veiled woman
enters and hovers about him, gazing
tenderly, maternally -- an uncharacteristic role for Lucrezia
Borgia, whose life has been steeped in
cruelty and violence, where she has
been both victim and per-petrator:
The sleep I long for!
Ever serene and tranquil
May his repose continue.
At peace, may his soul be
shielded
From the remorse I suffer --
Dark nights of horror,
Haunted and tormented.
Born into a nest of scorpians and vipers, she has been subjected to rape and incest, to treachery and
betrayal. She has witnessed, one after another, the murder of those dear to her. From this sordid, turbulent past she has emerged hardened, embittered and reckless, yet blessed by one single precious saving
grace -- a son that she bore in secluded
secrecy, whom she managed to rescue
from the poisonous fangs of his predatory relatives only by secreting him
away, by denying his very existence, and concealing his identity even from
himself. And by keeping a watchful
though distant eye on him for twenty anxious, lonely years, allowing herself
not even the luxury of the briefest encounter. It is precisely this opportunity that has now drawn her to
Venice, discreetly followed by her
servant Gubetta, whom you may recognize as the purported Spaniard seen
earlier. Fol-lowed also, despite her
precautions, by Duke Alfonso, her husband, jealous and suspicious as ever,
quick to leap to the obvious conclusion:
who would she be meeting so furtively at night, in hazardous territory,
except a lover?
The meeting yields even more than Lucrecia dared hope for.
Gennaro awakens and is instantly drawn to this warmly sympathetic
unknown woman in whom he sees the idealized mother that he has always longed
for:
Gone is the need to dream of her;
In you I see her smiling.
All that a mother means to me
In you I rediscover . . .
Their blissful rapport is
rudely interrupted by his returning friends, who know the mysterious woman’s identity all too well:
Not the woman she seems, but a demon
Full of venom and void of scruple.
Diabolic, deceitful, degraded,
She’s a monster beneath human nature.
Held in fear even more than she’s hated,
Elevated to power and fame.
ACT ONE
On to Ferrara, domain of Duke
Alfonso, husband of Lucrezia, where Gen-naro is quartered conveniently close to
the Ducal palace, thanks to the deft
maneuvering of Rustighello, the Duke’s
right-hand man.
All-powerful, a favorite of
fortune, above the laws that hamper
lesser mortals, the Duke plays many
roles -- lion, tiger,
wolf, serpent. His present role is that of the dishonored
husband, hungry for vengeance.
DUKE:
A favorite of fortune,
I hold the reins of power.
My appetite I satisfy
When lesser mortals cringe and cower.
A fortress and a citadel,
My home is not a hovel.
For popular approval. No!
An heir to rank and privilege,
No man has mounted higher.
By right divine, I claim as
mine
The place that all desire . . .
Utterly disenchanted on learning that the sympathtic stranger to whom
he poured out his heart is none other than the loathed Lucrezia, Gennaro demon-strates his revulsion with a
brash schoolboy prank that is nonetheless lethally insulting. By removing the first letter from her name
on her doorway, BORGIA becomes ORGIA. Laugh if you dare.
Rustighello, employed by the Duke, and Gubetta, employed by the
Duchess, both out to grab Gennaro, albeit for opposite purposes, engage in a
waiting contest:
Which contender will prevail?
Crafty fox or mighty lion --
One to prosper, one to fail.
Rustighello, prompt in the execution of duty, reports back to the Duke inside the palace. Gennaro is under arrest for the desecration
inflicted on the name of Borgia.
Lucrezia, already stung to the quick, humiliated in front of Gennaro by his friends, then learning that
humiliation has been followed by mockery, presumably by one of these friends,
storms in to demand punishment for the prankster, whoever he may be. The
death penalty, no less. Alfonso, pleasantly surprized, is only too willing to oblige. With rare docility, he vows to give his wife exactly what she
asks for.
Lucrezia is soon to find out that she has walked into her own trap
-- that Gennaro is the one whose death
she has been demanding. Quickly
changing course, she now pleads with
Alfonso to relent, to dismiss her
previous raving as a passing caprice, April weather. Alfonso, proudly
standing on principle, refuses to go
back on his oath. Death he promised,
death he will deliver:
DUKE:
Swearing vengeance, I gave you my promise,
And I never go back on my word . . .
Your demand for death I’m sworn to honor.
In fact, he is inspired to an
added refinement. Since Lucrezia was
so eager to see the culprit die, it is
only fitting that she herself administer the fatal potion: wine from the vase
of gold, special vintage of Borgia.
ACT TWO
Gennaro has survived a sampling of the special vintage Borgia wine,
thanks to the frantic intervention of Lucrezia with an antidote. Knowing full well that it is only a matter
of time before the Duke learns that he has been outsmarted, she has begged, insisted that Gennaro get
out of Ferrara as fast as possible -- a warning that he is not inclined to dismiss
lightly.
But his friend Orsini in whom he confides sees the matter
differently: theatrics on the part of
Lucrezia, the seductive bid for
attention of a woman no longer in the springtime of youth, casting herself in the role of heroine
rushing to the rescue:
ORSINI:
Hoping for a smile more tender,
This old-fashioned melodrama she’s invented:
Poison brings the leading lady to the rescue.
On this make-believe you base your foolish fear.
Gullible Genaro! To fall for
such a transparent ruse! Why would the
Duke want to do away with him? Danger
indeed! And pass up a party at the
Princess Negroni’s? If need be, he can leave town afterwards. At dawn, in fact, they can leave together.
As one might expect, Alfonso’s
capable spies are lurking in the shadows,
eager to pounce. But why
hurry? The fish has already taken the
bait. The situation is under control.
For that fish the hook is baited;
We can land it when we like.
Though in ambush we have waited,
Now is not the time to strike . . .
The party at Princess Negroni’s is in full swing -- just what a young soldier starved for
pleasure has been looking forward to.
But there are disturbing signs,
especially to those who may recall that the five friends have recently
incurred the wrath of Lucrezia.
What is Beverano the two-faced Spaniard doing there, off-putting as ever? Why does he seem to make a point of goading
on poor Orsini to the verge of violence?
So what if the hot-headed young soldier is not the world’s greatest song
writer? Is Beverano deliberately trying to stir up a scene to scare away the
ladies? And why is he not drinking the
wine that is being passed around so generously?
From outside, a faintly heard
chorus of god-fearing monks sounds weirdly incongruous. Suddenly the torches are
extinguished. In the dark, it is discov-ered that the doors are locked and bolted from outside. Swords have already been quietly
confiscated. What’s going on? Where are they? They are soon to find out.
But meanwhile, back to the
party. The night is young. Drink up!
ORSINI:
Fellow soldiers, all birds of a
feather,
Bear in mind when bemoaning the hours
That regardless of change in the weather,
Our garden is bursting with flowers.
So drink up, and with
friendship and laughter
Celebrate the delights of today;
Time enough for lamenting hereafter,
When December is somber and gray.
Too late, Lucrezia learns that among the young soldiers who have dared insult her, she has poisoned her beloved only son, who dies in her arms.