A Monologue by Lucio, Servant to the Count of Tyrol, Delivered to his Master:
You speak in jest, your grace, and so I laugh,
imagining too-fit epitaph,
“Here lies a servant, hungry for reports
of scandal at his own and foreign courts.”
5 A jest indeed! No, sire, my care must be
for gentle Barbara, underneath yon tree
of supple pears. Faith, sir, my appetite
is whetted, yes, but whetted that I might
protect your interests, for I’d ne’er presume
10 have interests of my own. What? Yes, the tomb
I think was marble, master. You have guessed
my reason. If Ferrara laid to rest
his loath’d, adulterous bride in such a—Sir?
Did I say that indeed? Lucrezia? Her
15 know I so little of, my lord. I yawn,
in truth, whenever forced to think upon
the dreary tale of her I chanced to hear
in backstairs gossip not fit for—The ear?
Your lordship misremembers. ’Twas the hand.
20 The ear—those arms!—came from the Holy Land—
Oh! You anticipate me? Yes, “I fear
such gossip is not fit, sire, for your ear,”
indeed, your grace, is what I meant. My drift
you follow perfectly, as always. Lift,
25 my lord, your eyes to heaven. Look how vast
the chasm ’twixt us spans! And now, sire, cast
your eye upon Ferrara, who, I’m told
could bridge that gap with rubies, emeralds, gold,
and still possess a fortune full immense
30 enough to dwarf the wealth of any prince
in Christendom. Think how the wars have drained
the treasury of Tyrol. Think. Regained
through your belovèd daughter’s shrewd new match
your former wealth could be, with one small catch.
35 Supply her dower, sire. Invest and earn
your father’s right: a manifold return
in solid gold. Ferrara needs a bride.
Think not you cannot tempt him. Far and wide
he’s searched for one to fill his duchess’ bed,
40 left empty since Lucrezia lost…’Tis said—
I whisper, sire, for fear such trifles should
distract weak-minded servants. Then they would
neglect their—Sir? Oh, yes, your grace, ’tis said
she lost her virtue. Though she was well-bred,
45 she so forgot her station that she stoop’d
to show her favor to—No, never duped,
sire, was the duke. When she fell sudden ill
and died, he shed no tear. It was his will
that she should die, so noised the vulgar tale,
50 long whispered in the shadows. Nay, we fail
in our great enterprise, sire, if we let
such umbrous shades affright us. Sire, forget
her slight misfortune. Dwell instead on gain.
Think not of some dead wanton’s fleeting pain,
55 nor let that foul hand haunt you—Pardon, sir?
What hand? ’Tis unimportant, to be sure.
2003
By Sarah Jett
The Treasure that Tyrol Needs to Recover
Another Italian Tomb, Marble Like Lucrezia's (Though Probably Nicer)
RelicsAlfonso d'Este, Duke of Ferrara
Lucrezia?????
Lucio, Ever Loyal
Servants, the Faceless Enemy
