Pope Faliero
Dramatis Personae:
Pope Gregory VI (Ordelafo Faliero), henceforth Pope
Fra Bocconcino, the Pope’s Secretary
Fra Barbaresco, the Pope’s confessor
Fra Provolone, the Pope’s hanger-on, cause everyone needs one.
A
Messenger
Ahmed, a Muslim Soldier in Pope Gregory’s army
Bragadoccio, an Italian Soldier in the Pope’s army
Introduction
Here is, after so much delay, a tale
Of one Gregorius Sextus,
episcopus Romanus, who before being such
was one
Ordelafo Faliero of Holstein; it’s short –
but quite dramatic. Its
execution, I do hope, is skilful
enough for you to grant me pardon
for my quite shameless plug about
my othAAR.
From the ghosts of Shakespeare
and Pushkin, in their graves unquiet,
I ask no mercy, like they got none from me.
As to the play itself: for reasons
pertaining to forum rules and board layout mechanics
no pictures will accompany my
magnum opus.
Instead, you must perforce
click on the hyperlinks to see the illustrations.
Enough preambles! Let us start as customary,
in media res.
A big, filthily ostentatious room in the Pope’s Rome residence. Pope is standing in front of the mirror, talking to himself, quite pleased.
Pope:
November the 14th, of the 1130th
year of Our Dear Lord’s dominion.
Oh what a splendid day, what splendid morning!
They’ll mutter and they’ll scheme,
but in the end, they will proclaim.
Habemus Papam!
You were a sickly youth when
la Serenissima,
your
father’s fair domain,
fell to the Germans.
You saw your future dashed upon the jagged
rocks of
Billung greed. You joined the church.
The ruling Pope did not forgive you your
Venetian blood;
he exiled you, may Satan bless his memory!
And where? To the far north, where pizza ovens
scarcely thaw the icicles. Away from Italy
and off into
the land of pickled herring.
You rotted there, and caught a cold a year,
until the day the illness had decided
‘twas not enough to merely occupy your body.
No. It claimed a duchy there, and thence a kingdom
Carved out with a warlike, generous hand,
And dealt out fiefs unto afflictions lesser.
Oh, but now look at you! A pope!
What splendid
hat! What splendid robes!
What splendid splendour of this splendorous day!
Even your sickly paleness is no issue.
Nor skinny neck, nor Autumn years. Right now
Ordelafo, you are the first, the greatest
the
most amazing man of Christendom.
Of course the greedy
growling German needs his
bone;
the Billung needs to be placated. The Pope
in this benighted world is Emperor’s
slave;
or worse still, the hapless
puppet
of some upstart rustic from
bucolic Corsica.
I will appease the Hun by taking up a name
that paints me as yet another German Peter,
loyal to my Holsteiner bishopric. Well, Gregory the Sixth
May well pretend to be a humble man of God,
The Emperor’s good friend, and loyal backer.
Indeed, pope Gregory may even well pretend
that pickled herring’s to his liking. Pope Ordelafo,
however, will one day, provided
his life is long enough, ride in
upon a richly panoplied horse right into Venice.
And failing that, he will build up the holy might of Papal Statehood,
so that one day another Faliero
will do the same, and liberate his homeland,
a Mitred Alexander.
Enter Bocconcino
Bocconcino:
Your Popishness, my holy father,
the rock of Christendom. You’ve been elected, right?
They’ve handed in their ballots.
We all await your first
ex cathedra
and it is getting rather stuffy in the hall.
Ending this wait shall probably preserve
the goodwill of the Cardinal college.
They will be grateful to escape their neighbours
the old men cannot stand the smell
of one another; it makes them vexed. Now go
urbi et orbi proclaim what the new Pope intends.
Make it brief and wry, but not too clever,
the audience might find it patronising.
Don’t
overstay your welcome. No-one
likes hearing an overblown acceptance speech -
And thanking God but once is quite sufficient.
pauses, catches breath
And don’t you think of
thanking Satan
There was one Pope who tried, and before long -
- in fact quite before dinner - he was Antipope
and
two new Popes were waging war on him
among the streets of Rome. It may seem like
a good idea at the time, a riotous hoot
But don’t. They take that seriously here.
Now, now, don’t look at me that way. I’ve seen
So many Popes elected and then die
My observations are statistically proven.
Now go and get them, holy tiger!
Pope and Bocconcino exit.
Behind the curtains one can hear the Pope say a short and to the point speech. There’s thunderous applause. You can almost hear the standing ovation, flag waving, and car horns.
Pope comes back inside, takes off the mitre, pours himself a glass of wine.
Pope:
In truth, I find that being Pope is quite restrictive;
Behold the wealth of Peter’s seat –
it’s vast
And yet my prestige seems a little low
for such a mighty ruler. Too bad I can’t claim duchies
and kingdoms too, for otherwise I’d well be duke of Carthage,
Sicily and Algiers, and Neapolitan King, as well as Pope.
And that’s not all! Look at my piety score!
You’d think a Pope indeed deserves much better.
Enter Provolone
Provolone:
Piety? Your Papacity - why not create some bishopricks? I’d like a spot.
Pope:
Believe me, I have tried. It must be
hard-coded.
Bocconcino enters from behind the curtain.
Pope
Hey, Bocconcino – why can’t I make bishops
And hand out titles like some royal git?
Bocconcino
Your Papality – ‘tis so indeed because
Papal bureaucracy has infinite efficiency. We can rule
twenty thousand counties at a time
and break no sweat.
Pope
Wherefore?
Bocconcino
God doth direct us in minutest detail
in all we do; ‘tis He that guides the hand
of every clerk in calculating profits;
no job too small or tedious
for God to supervise on the behalf of Peter’s throne.
Quod erat demonstrandum, your Papaciousness.
Provolone
Indeed, indeed. Still, I would like to be a bishop-prince.
Enter Barbaresco
Pope (aside)
Here’s some wine to go with the cheese
to Barbaresco
Is it that time of day again?
Barbaresco:
Yes, your Popeness.
Pope to Bocconcino and Provolone
Away, the two of you!
Bocconcino and Provolone exit
Pope:
Forsooth, I know not why I am
so sad…
Barbaresco:
Perhaps the usual, O Prince of Faith,
a bit of the old self-doubting, a tiny tinge
of mortal sin or two; or that old thing,
ahem, you know, like what they say,
“With wine and novices
the Monk hath no need o’ the Devil”.
I’m totally down with that, just so you know.
I would absolve you in a jiffy.
Pope:
Nay, nay, not that. I meant to say,
not all is peaceful in the Holy Kingdom.
Sheer pragmatism has lead to mortal folly
and tolerance of sin unnatural. For Alas!
Sardinia is still posess’d by the
undying Torcotore
accursed by God to be unfit to cease
the title even after death; while Trent
and Sicily’s Crown, Palermo are in the hands
of unrepentant
reprobate Sieghard,
whom the previous Pope, in all his wisdom
had cast away from Mother Church’s ample bosom,
but left him no worse off in temporal strength.
But that’s not all. In Africa, I hear
there’s whole
entire counties
worshipping Mohammad, and not paying taxes.
Oh, but thou art heavy, Peter's Mitre!
Barbaresco:
The sins of omission are in God’s eyes
still sins; and thus forgivable. Now, as penance
I say you go and get those taxes flowing.
Now I absolve you.
Pope:
Thank you, Frater.
Barbaresco exits. Pope nods off on the chair.
Thus ends Act the First. To hear more
of our protagonist's Popish deeds
pop in again into this selfsame thread
Sometime before the next guy writes his piece.
Much thanks for reading. Ta.