Even so, however, I am not blind to the great merits of the play as it stands. It is well that the writer of poetic drama should be a dramatist and a poet. Here is a play that abounds in striking situations, and I have searched it vainly for one line that does not scan. What I nowhere feel is that I have not elsewhere been thrilled or lulled by the same kind of thing. I do not go so far as to say that Brown inherited his parents' deplorable lack of imagination. But I do wish he had been less sensitive than he was to impressions, or else had seen and read fewer poetic dramas ancient and modern. Remembering that visionary look in his eyes, remembering that he was as displeased as I by the work of all living playwrights, and as dissatisfied with the great efforts of the Elizabethans, I wonder that he was not more immune from influences.

Also, I cannot but wish still that he had faltered in his decision to make no scenario. There is much to be said for the theory that a dramatist should first vitalise his characters and then leave them unfettered; but I do feel that Brown's misused the confidence he reposed in them. The labour of so many years has somewhat the air of being a mere improvisation. Savonarola himself, after the First Act or so, strikes me as utterly inconsistent. It may be that he is just complex, like Hamlet. He does in the Fourth Act show traces of that Prince. I suppose this is why he struck Brown as having become 'more human.' To me he seems merely a poorer creature.

But enough of these reservations. In my anxiety for poor Brown's sake that you should not be disappointed, perhaps I have been carrying tactfulness too far and prejudicing you against that for which I specially want your favour. Here, without more ado, is

SAVONAROLA

A TRAGEDY

By L. Brown

ACT I

SCENE: A Room in the Monastery of San Marco, Florence.

TIME: 1490, A.D. A summer morning.

Enter the SACRISTAN and a FRIAR.

SACR.

Savonarola looks more grim to-day Than ever. Should I speak my mind, I'd say That he was fashioning some new great scourge To flay the backs of men.

FRI.

'Tis even so.

Brother Filippo saw him stand last night In solitary vigil till the dawn Lept o'er the Arno, and his face was such As men may wear in Purgatory--nay, E'en in the inmost core of h.e.l.l's own fires.

SACR.

I often wonder if some woman's face, Seen at some rout in his old worldling days, Haunts him e'en now, e'en here, and urges him To fierier fury 'gainst the Florentines.

FRI.

Savonarola love-sick! Ha, ha, ha!

Love-sick? He, love-sick? 'Tis a goodly jest!

The CONfirm'd misogyn a ladies' man!

Thou must have eaten of some strange red herb That takes the reason captive. I will swear Savonarola never yet hath seen A woman but he spurn'd her. Hist! He comes.

[Enter SAVONAROLA, rapt in thought.]

Give thee good morrow, Brother.

SACR.

And therewith A mult.i.tude of morrows equal-good Till thou, by Heaven's grace, hast wrought the work Nearest thine heart.

SAV.

I thank thee, Brother, yet I thank thee not, for that my thankfulness (An such there be) gives thanks to Heaven alone.

FRI. [To SACR.]

'Tis a right answer he hath given thee.

Had Sav'narola spoken less than thus, Methinks me, the less Sav'narola he.

As when the snow lies on yon Apennines, White as the hem of Mary Mother's robe, And insusceptible to the sun's rays, Being harder to the touch than temper'd steel, E'en so this great gaunt monk white-visaged Upstands to Heaven and to Heav'n devotes The scarped thoughts that crown the upper slopes Of his abrupt and AUStere nature.

SACR.

Aye.

[Enter LUCREZIA BORGIA, ST. FRANCIS OF a.s.sISI, and LEONARDO DA VINCI. LUC. is thickly veiled.]

ST. FRAN.

This is the place.

LUC. [Pointing at SAV.]

And this the man! [Aside.] And I-- By the hot blood that courses i' my veins I swear it ineluctably--the woman!

SAV.

Who is this wanton?

[LUC. throws back her hood, revealing her face. SAV. starts back, gazing at her.]

ST. FRAN.

Hush, Sir! 'Tis my little sister The poisoner, right well-belov'd by all Whom she as yet hath spared. Hither she came Mounted upon another little sister of mine-- A mare, caparison'd in goodly wise.

She--I refer now to Lucrezia-- Desireth to have word of thee anent Some matter that befrets her.

SAV. [To LUC.]

Hence! Begone!

Savonarola will not tempted be By face of woman e'en tho' 't be, tho' 'tis, Surpa.s.sing fair. All hope abandon therefore.

I charge thee: Vade retro, Satanas.

LEONARDO Sirrah, thou speakst in haste, as is the way Of monkish men. The beauty of Lucrezia Commends, not discommends, her to the eyes Of keener thinkers than I take thee for.

I am an artist and an engineer, Giv'n o'er to subtile dreams of what shall be On this our planet. I foresee a day When men shall skim the earth i' certain chairs Not drawn by horses but sped on by oil Or other matter, and shall thread the sky Birdlike.

LUC.

It may be as thou sayest, friend, Or may be not. [To SAV.] As touching this our errand, I crave of thee, Sir Monk, an audience Instanter.

FRI.

Lo! Here Alighieri comes.

I had methought me he was still at Parma.

[Enter DANTE.]

ST. FRAN. [To DAN.]

How fares my little sister Beatrice?

DAN.

She died, alack, last sennight.

ST. FRAN.

Did she so?

If the condolences of men avail Thee aught, take mine.