 | Plays and Poems |  |
SCENE I.
The Same. The Garden of the Castle. Enter Pepe, singing.Pepe.
'T is jolly to walk in the shady greenwood
With a damsel by your side;
'T is jolly to walk from the chapel-door,
With the hand of your pretty bride;
'T is jolly to rest your weary head,
When life runs low and hope is fled,
On the heart where you confide:
'T is jolly, jolly, jolly, they say,
They say—but I never tried.
With a damsel by your side;
'T is jolly to walk from the chapel-door,
With the hand of your pretty bride;
'T is jolly to rest your weary head,
When life runs low and hope is fled,
On the heart where you confide:
'T is jolly, jolly, jolly, they say,
They say—but I never tried.
Nor shall I ever till they dress their girls
In motley suits, and pair us, to increase
The race of fools. 'T would be a noble thing,
A motley woman, had she wit enough
To bear the bell. But there 's the misery:
You may make princes out of any stuff;
Fools come by nature. She'll make fifty kings—
Good, hearty tyrants, sound, cruel governors—
For one fine fool. There is Paolo, now,
A sweet-faced fellow with a wicked heart—
Talk of a flea, and you begin to scratch.
Lo! here he comes. And there 's fierce crook-back's bride
Walking beside him—O, how gingerly!
Take care, my love! that is the very pace
We trip to hell with. Hunchback is away—
That was a fair escape for you; but, then,
The devil 's ever with us, and that 's worse.
See, the Ravenna giglet, Mistress Ritta,
And melancholy as a cow.—How 's this?
I'll step aside, and watch you, pretty folks.
In motley suits, and pair us, to increase
The race of fools. 'T would be a noble thing,
A motley woman, had she wit enough
To bear the bell. But there 's the misery:
You may make princes out of any stuff;
Fools come by nature. She'll make fifty kings—
Good, hearty tyrants, sound, cruel governors—
For one fine fool. There is Paolo, now,
A sweet-faced fellow with a wicked heart—
Talk of a flea, and you begin to scratch.
Lo! here he comes. And there 's fierce crook-back's bride
Walking beside him—O, how gingerly!
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We trip to hell with. Hunchback is away—
That was a fair escape for you; but, then,
The devil 's ever with us, and that 's worse.
See, the Ravenna giglet, Mistress Ritta,
And melancholy as a cow.—How 's this?
I'll step aside, and watch you, pretty folks.
[Hides behind the bushes.]
(Enter Paolo and Francesca, followed by Ritta. He seats himself in an arbor, and reads. Ritta and Francesca advance.)
Francesca.
Ritta.
Ritta.
My lady.
Fran.
You look tired.
Rit.
I'm not.
Fran.
Go to your chamber.
Rit.
I would rather stay,
If it may please you. I require a walk
And the fresh atmosphere of breathing flowers,
To stir my blood. I am not very well.
Fran.
I knew it, child. Go to your chamber, dear.
Paolo has a book to read to me.
Rit.
What, the romance? I should so love to hear!
I dote on poetry; and Count Paolo
Sweetens the Tuscan with his mellow voice.
I 'm weary now, quite weary, and would rest.
Fran.
Just now you wished to walk.
Rit.
Ah! did I so?
Walking, or resting, I would stay with you.
Fran.
The Count objects. He told me, yesterday,
That you were restless while he read to me;
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And yawned, until he almost paused.
Rit.
Indeed
I will be quiet.
Fran.
But he will not read.
Rit.
Let me go ask him.
[Runs towards Paolo.]
Fran.
Stop! Come hither, Ritta.
[She returns.]
I saw your new embroidery in the hall,—
The needle in the midst of Argus' eyes;
It should be finished.
Rit.
I will bring it here.—
O no! my finger 's sore; I cannot work.
Fran.
Go to your room.
Rit.
Let me remain, I pray.
'T is better, lady; you may wish for me:
I know you will be sorry if I go.
Fran.
I shall not, girl. Do as I order you.
Will you be headstrong?
Rit.
Do you wish it, then?
Fran.
Yes, Ritta.
Rit.
Yet you made pretexts enough,
Before you ordered.
Fran.
You are insolent.
Will you remain against my will?
Rit.
Yes, lady;
Rather than not remain.
Fran.
Ha! impudent!
Rit.
You wrong me, gentle mistress. Love like mine
Does not ask questions of propriety,
Nor stand on manners. I would do you good,
Even while you smote me; I would push you back,
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Of some high rock o'er which you toppled me.
Fran.
What do you mean?
Rit.
I know.
Fran.
Know what?
Rit.
Too much.
Pray, do not ask me.
Fran.
Speak!
Rit.
I know—dear lady,
Be not offended—
Fran.
Tell me, simpleton!
Rit.
You know I worship you; you know I'd walk
Straight into ruin for a whim of yours;
You know—
Fran.
I know you act the fool. Talk sense!
Rit.
I know Paolo loves you.
Fran.
Should he not?
He is my brother.
Rit.
More than brother should.
Fran.
Ha! are you certain?
Rit.
Yes, of more than that.
Fran.
Of more?
Rit.
Yes, lady; for you love him too.
I 've said it! Fling me to the carrion crows,
Kill me by inches, boil me in the pot
Count Guido promised me,—but, O, beware!
Back, while you may! Make me the sufferer,
But save yourself!
Fran.
Now, are you not ashamed,
To look me in the face with that bold brow?
I am amazed!
Rit.
I am a woman, lady;
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Its arts, and its deceits. Your frowning face,
And seeming indignation, do not cheat.
Your heart is in my hand.
Paolo.
(Calls.)
Francesca!
Fran.
Hence,
Thou wanton-hearted minion! hence, I say!—
And never look me in the face again!—
Hence, thou insulting slave!
Rit.
(Clinging to her.)
O lady, lady—
Fran.
Begone!
[Throws her off.]
Rit.
I have no friends—no one to love—
O, spare me!
Fran.
Hence!
Rit.
Was it for this I loved—
Cared for you more than my own happiness—
Ever at heart your slave—without a wish
For greater recompense than your stray smiles?
Paolo.
(Calls.)
Francesca!
Fran.
Hurry!
Rit.
I am gone. Alas!
God bless you, lady! God take care of you,
When I am far away! Alas, alas!
[Exit weeping.]
Fran.
Poor girl!—but were she all the world to me,
And held my future in her tender grasp,
I 'd cast her off, without a second thought,
To savage death, for dear Paolo's sake!
Paolo, hither! Now he comes to me;
I feel his presence, though I see him not,
Stealing upon me like the fervid glow
Of morning sunshine. Now he comes too near—
He touches me—O Heaven!
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Our poem waits.
I have been reading while you talked with Ritta.
How did you get her off?
Fran.
By some device.
She will not come again.
Paolo.
I hate the girl:
She seems to stand between me and the light.
And now for the romance. Where left we off?
Fran.
Where Lancelot and Queen Guenevra strayed
Along the forest, in the youth of May.
You marked the figure of the birds that sang
Their melancholy farewell to the sun—
Rich in his loss, their sorrow glorified—
Like gentle mourners o'er a great man's grave.
Was it not there? No, no; 't was where they sat
Down on the bank, by one impulsive wish
That neither uttered.
Paolo.
(Turning over the book.)
Here it is. (Reads.)
“So sat
Guenevra and Sir Lancelot”—'T were well
To follow them in that.
[They sit upon a bank.]
Fran.
I listen: read.
Nay, do not; I can wait, if you desire.
Paolo.
My dagger frets me; let me take it off.
[Rises.]
In thoughts of love, we'll lay our weapons by.
[Lays aside his dagger, and sits again.]
Draw closer: I am weak in voice to-day.
[Reads.]
“So sat Guenevra and Sir Lancelot,
Under the blaze of the descending sun,
But all his cloudy splendors were forgot.
Each bore a thought, the only secret one,
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Both with sweet mystery well-nigh overrun.
Anon, Sir Lancelot, with gentle start,
Put by the ripples of her golden hair,
Gazing upon her with his lips apart.
He marvelled human thing could be so fair;
Essayed to speak; but, in the very deed,
His words expired of self-betrayed despair.
Little she helped him, at his direst need,
Roving her eyes o'er hill, and wood, and sky,
Peering intently at the meanest weed;
Ay, doing aught but look in Lancelot's eye.
Then, with the small pique of her velvet shoe,
Uprooted she each herb that blossomed nigh;
Or strange wild figures in the dust she drew;
Until she felt Sir Lancelot's arm around
Her waist, upon her cheek his breath like dew.
While through his fingers timidly he wound
Her shining locks; and, haply, when he brushed
Her ivory skin, Guenevra nearly swound:
For where he touched, the quivering surface blushed,
Firing her blood with most contagious heat,
Till brow, check, neck, and bosom, all were flushed.
Each heart was listening to the other beat.
As twin-born lilies on one golden stalk,
Drooping with Summer, in warm languor meet,
So met their faces. Down the forest walk
Sir Lancelot looked—he looked cast, west, north, south—
No soul was nigh, his dearest wish to balk:
She smiled; he kissed her full upon the mouth.”
[Kisses Francesca.]
I'll read no more!
[Starts up, dashing down the book.]
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Paolo!
Paolo.
I am mad!
The torture of unnumbered hours is o'er,
The straining cord has broken, and my heart
Riots in free delirium! O, Heaven!
I struggled with it, but it mastered me!
I fought against it, but it beat me down!
I prayed, I wept, but Heaven was deaf to me;
And every tear rolled backward on my heart,
To blight and poison!
Fran.
And dost thou regret?
Paolo.
The love? No, no! I'd dare it all again,
Its direst agonies and meanest fears,
For that one kiss. Away with fond remorse!
Here, on the brink of ruin, we two stand;
Lock hands with me, and brave the fearful plunge!
Thou canst not name a terror so profound
That I will look or falter from. Be bold!
I know thy love—I knew it long ago—
Trembled and fled from it. But now I clasp
The peril to my breast, and ask of thee
A kindred desperation.
Fran.
(Throwing herself into his arms.)
Take me all,—
Body and soul! The women of our clime
Do never give away but half a heart:
I have not part to give, part to withhold,
In selfish safety. When I saw thee first,
Riding alone amid a thousand men,
Sole in the lustre of thy majesty,
And Guido da Polenta said to me,
“Daughter, behold thy husband!” with a bound
My heart went forth to meet thee. He deceived,
He lied to me—ah! that 's the aptest word—
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And meet him, craft with craft? Paolo, love.
Thou 'rt dull—thou 'rt dying like a feeble fire
Before the sunshine. Was it but a blaze,
A flash of glory, and a long, long night?
Paolo.
No, darling, no! You could not bend me back;
My course is onward; but my heart is sick
With coming fears.
Fran.
Away with them! Must I
Teach thee to love? and reïnform the ear
Of thy spent passion with some sorcery
To raise the chilly dead?
Paolo.
Thy lips have not
A sorcery to rouse me as this spell.
[Kisses her.]
Fran.
I give thy kisses back to thee again:
And, like a spendthrift, only ask of thee
To take while I can give.
Paolo.
Give, give forever!
Have we not touched the height of human bliss?
And if the sharp rebound may hurl us back
Among the prostrate, did we not soar once?—
Taste heavenly nectar, banquet with the gods
On high Olympus? If they cast us, now,
Amid the furies, shall we not go down
With rich ambrosia clinging to our lips,
And richer memories settled in our hearts?
Francesca.
Fran.
Love?
Paolo.
The sun is sinking low
Upon the ashes of his fading pyre,
And gray possesses the eternal blue;
The evening star is stealing after him,
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The world is shutting up its heavy eye
Upon the stir and bustle of to-day;—
On what shall it awake?
Fran.
On love that gives
Joy at all seasons, changes night to day,
Makes sorrow smile, plucks out the barbéd dart
Of moaning anguish, pours celestial balm
In all the gaping wounds of earth, and lulls
The nervous fancies of unsheltered fear
Into a slumber sweet as infancy's!
On love that laughs at the impending sword,
And puts aside the shield of caution: cries,
To all its enemies, “Come, strike me now!—
Now, while I hold my kingdom, while my crown
Of amaranth and myrtle is yet green,
Undimmed, unwithered; for I cannot tell
That I shall e'er be happier!” Dear Paolo,
Would you lapse down from misery to death,
Tottering through sorrow and infirmity?
Or would you perish at a single blow,
Cut off amid your wildest revelry,
Falling among the wine-cups and the flowers,
And tasting Bacchus when your drowsy sense
First gazed around eternity? Come, love!
The present whispers joy to us; we'll hear
The voiceless future when its turn arrives.
Paolo.
Thou art a siren. Sing, forever sing!
Hearing thy voice, I cannot tell what fate
Thou hast provided when the song is o'er;—
But I will venture it.
Fran.
In, in, my love!
[Exeunt.]
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Pepe.
O, brother Lanciotto!—O, my stars!—
If this thing lasts, I simply shall go mad!
[Laughs, and rolls on the ground.]
O Lord! to think my pretty lady puss
Had tricks like this, and we ne'er know of it!
I tell you, Lanciotto, you and I
Must have a patent for our foolery!
“She smiled; he kissed her full upon the mouth!”—
There 's the beginning; where 's the end of it?
O poesy! debauch thee only once,
And thou 'rt the greatest wanton in the world!
O cousin Lanciotto—ho, ho, ho!
[Laughing.]
Can a man die of laughter? Here we sat;
Mistress Francesca so demure and calm;
Paolo grand, poetical, sublime!—
Eh! what is this? Paolo's dagger? Good!
Here is more proof, sweet cousin Broken-back.
“In thoughts of love, we'll lay our weapons by!”
[Mimicking Paolo.]
That 's very pretty! Here 's its counterpart:
In thoughts of hate, we'll pick them up again!
[Takes the dagger.]
Now for my soldier, now for crook-backed Mars!
Ere long all Rimini will be ablaze.
He'll kill me? Yes: what then? That 's nothing new,
Except to me; I'll bear for custom's sake.
More blood will follow; like the royal sun,
I shall go down in purple. Fools for luck;
The proverb holds like iron. I must run,
Ere laughter smother me.—O, ho, ho, ho!
[Exit, laughing.]
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