University of Virginia Library

BERTRAM:

AN ITALIAN SKETCH.

I.

Scene: The Dungeon of Bertram in the Castle of Leoni.
Leoni. Bertram.
Leoni.
Thou sleep'st as one who hath no fear—no grief!

Bertram.
As one who hath no fear; and, for my griefs,
That they permit me sleep at such an hour,
Would show them much more merciful than thou!

Leoni.
I, too, am merciful—will bring thee sleep,
So deep, as will shut out all sense of grief
From thy unlaboring senses.

Bertram.
Be it soon!

Leoni.
Is this thy prayer?

Bertram.
Dost ask?

Leoni.
Enough! Then hear!
To-morrow thou shalt have no charge in life—
The fair sky shall reject thee; the bright sun
Lend thee no succor—and the wooing breeze,
That sweeps so sweetly through yon window grate,
Shall only stir the long grass on thy grave!
Dost hear what I have spoken? Thou shalt die!

Bertram.
'Tis well!

Leoni.
No more?

Bertram.
What more wouldst have? Thy power
To which I may oppose nor prayer nor pleading,
Needs not my vain acknowledgment of grief;—
And fears I have none.

Leoni.
Is all sense of hope
Utterly dead within thee? Does no dream
Rise up before thy fancies, fraught with pleasure,
That life prolong'd may bring thee—happiest hours,
In sunshine or in shade—such as thy bosom
Was once most blest to dream of? Thou hast been
A very bird of the summer, in thy flight,
No less than music. Thou couldst clip the air
With ever-glad embraces; couldst delight
The groves with the spring sweetness of thy song,
And fed'st on all the flowery fields of life,
With never satiate appetite and hope!—
Is thy privation nothing?—the great loss
Of the things visible and glorious, thou
Hast ever sought with such a fresh delight?
The woods and waters—this fair earth and sky,
Glowing in birds and blossoms; and the night
Proud in its starr'd luxuriance; and that moon,
Whose pallid disk looks mournful through yon bars,
As if to yield thee sympathy. A while,
Her beams will gleam upon thy silent grave,
And seek thee through the grasses on its slopes,
And thou know nothing.

Bertram.
Be it as thou sayest.

Leoni.
I tell thee, by the morrow thou shalt sleep
I' the iron grasp of death.

Bertram.
One word for all!
Time ceased with me to-day—and in her grave
Sleep all my earthly morrows.

Leoni.
Obdurate!
Yet would a prayer become thee.

Bertram.
Not to thee!
My prayers are not for life—nor yet for death—
And, if for mercy, but to Him, whose power
Leads through the awful future, in whose shadows
I see no sway of thine! Thou couldst not answer
To any prayer I make thee.

Leoni.
Not for life?

Bertram.
No!
Life were no mercy now. The light which made
My life on earth, now beckons through the gates
Which thou mayst ope, not shut! Thou hast o'erstept
The limits of thy policy. Thy power,
That smote too soon the victim in thy grasp,
Forever lost its sway, in the foul blow,
That rather spoke the madness of thy hate,
Than made its purpose sure. For prayer of mine,
Invoking life for me, denied to her,
Thou wait'st but vainly. Not to mock thy power
Do I contemn thy mercy; but that blessing
Were now no boon to me. I hear the doom
Thy lips have spoken, and I welcome it!—
Will meet it with no struggle and no prayer,
But, in such meek humility of heart—
Not reft of every hope—which best becomes
These bonds, this weakness—conscious that I breathe
In thy forbearance only. Let the axe
Be sharpen'd and in readiness—the neck
Is bared, and bent already, for the blow!

Leoni.
Die in thy pride! I would have wrung the prayer
From thy unnatural bosom, to deny thee;
Would first have moved thee to an abject homage,
That shame, as well as death, might fasten on thee,
Defiling thy past honors; and have shown thee,
Clipping with eager arms about my knees,
While my feet tramp thee to the kindred dust
Which stains thy insolent forehead.

Bertram.
Oh! I know thee!

Leoni.
Thou know'st me! Well! it needs not that I tell thee
Thy doom is written! With the sun, thou diest!

II.

Bertram—solus.
Bertram.

III.

Friar. Bertram.
Friar.
My son!

Bertram.
Art thou mine executioner?

Friar.
Thy saviour rather—
If I might execute upon thy pride,
Thy sinful thoughts and passions, and thy fears,
By bringing thee, in penitence and sorrow,
To the white feet of Him who came to save,
And perish'd, for thy safety, on the cross!
O son! the moments leave thee. A few hours
Is all the remnant of the time allow'd thee.
I would prepare thee for the terrible change
The morrow brings thee—would entreat thy prayers—
The meek repentance of thy evil passions,
And not less evil thoughts—and such confession
Of each foul secret festering in thy soul,
With the due sorrows which should follow it,
As may commend thee to the Saviour's grace,
And make thee fit for the Eternal Presence!

Bertram.
Behold me then most guilty. Pride was mine,
And sinful thoughts, and dark imaginings,
And reckless passions, and ungracious fancies,
And all the thousand tendencies to evil
Which ever urge the impatient soul of man
To heedless forfeiture of Heaven's sweet mercy.
What need the dark detail—the nice relation—
The name and character of each offence,
Too numerous quite for name, for recollection—
Too foul for the now blushing consciousness
To summon into sight, or give to speech!
Enough, that I have sinn'd—that, in my sorrow,
I could weep tears of blood; and that I perish
Forgiving all mine enemies—imploring
Of all forgiveness—and of God, o'er all!—
Most doubtful of his mercy, as well knowing
How great mine undesert.

Friar.
Alas! my son,
This will not answer thee. Thou must disburden
Thy heart of each dark secret. 'Tis thy pride,
And not the shame and grief of thy contrition,
That locks thy secret up!

Bertram.
I have no secrets
From God, to whom for judgment I must go;
No hope from man, of whom I have no fear,
And no confession for his ears, whose judgment
Can do me hurt or service now no more.

Friar.
Beware, my son! This stubbornness! This woman—
Francesca—who hath perish'd in her guilt—
She was to thee no wife? Her full confession—

Bertram.
Ah! now I know thee! Get thee to Leoni:
I have no secrets for thy keeping, father,
Or thy revealing. Yet a prayer I make thee;
Leave me to God—in quiet.

Friar.
If I leave thee—
Thy conscience unrelieved—the truth unspoken—
I leave thee to the enemy of man,
Who lurks in waiting for thy soul—

Bertram.
Away!

Friar.
The curse—

Bertram.
Oh! fit for curses only—hence!
Thou hast usurp'd the white wings of the dove,
To do the serpent's office! Who is there?

IV.

Francesca. Bertram. Friar.
Bertram.
Ah! now is Heaven most merciful! She comes!
She glides, a form of light, athwart the darkness;
I see her radiant beauties, starr'd by Heaven
With supernatural brightness; and I feel
The lightness of a breath, that's balm for angels,
Uplift me as with wings! Oh! blessed being,
That hallowest where thou com'st—how doth thy presence
Prepare me for the sacrifice! One moment;
I shut mine eyes in doubt! I open them
Once more to rapture! Dost thou see, old man?
Thy lips had spoken curses as from Heaven—
Lo! now, its angel!

Francesca,
[to the Friar.]
Hence, father, to Leoni.

Bertram.
Leoni! Can she speak of him—Leoni!

Francesca,
[to the Friar.]
He summons thee! He needs thee! Hence with speed!

Friar.
Then hast thou answer'd wisely. All goes well!
I leave thee.

Francesca,
[to the Friar.]
Hence!

V.

Francesca. Bertram.
Bertram.
Is it Francesca speaks—
And speaks she of Leoni? Thou wert mine,
Francesca—and in robes elect of heaven,
Speak'st thou of him who was thy enemy,
As he is mine? I tremble, with a dread
That tears my very heart-strings! Oh! Francesca,
Pure spirit of the purest of earth's mortals,
Speak, and uplift me, with a voice of mercy,
From this dark sphere to thine.

Francesca.
Bertram!

Bertram.
That name!
Which still was the dear burden of thy lips
When thou wast mine, and mortal—sounds to me
As thou hast ever said it. There's no change,
To eye or ear, in thee. O heart! be hopeful;
Since death makes free the living to their mission,
Nor robs the loved one of those precious beauties
That fashion'd thought and sense, and fiery passion,
To one sweet frame of love!

Francesca.
Dost think me dead,
Dear Bertram?

Bertram.
Dead, my Francesca—dead to earth—
But oh! not dead to me! They show'd thee to me,
Even through these grates, array'd in innocent white,
And robed as for a bridal with the stars,
In pure white blossoming flowers.

Francesca.
They mock'd thine eyes,
As they have mock'd my ears. I am not dead ...
I live as thou hast known me. I am thine,
As still I was before; but, rouse thee briefly,
For we have little space. Reserve thy wonder
Till we go hence in safety. We must fly—
While the dread baron sleeps. Leoni sleeps—
Sleeps soundly! I have left his bed but now!

Bertram.
Thou! Left his bed but now!

Francesca.
Marvel not, Bertram,
However marvellous all seemings be
That check us in this dungeon. Thou shalt know
The dark, dread truth hereafter.

Bertram.
Left his bed!
His bed! The lustful murderer—the foul satyr,
Whose very eye but taints the thing it looks on,
Whose very breath is incense of pollution,
Whose very touch is sin! O God! I hearken
And live! He lives! ... She lives! Francesca—mine!—
All live! Yet hath she left his bed but now!—
Death! death! O friend! where art thou? I had lost
The sense of fear! I lived but for one hope—
That the short, rapid interval of time
'Twixt this impatient consciousness, and that
Which made my faith assurance absolute,
Of life with thee hereafter—would be o'er,
With but one shock—one moment of thick darkness—
And then all light and rapture!—and I wake,
To feel the scorpion sting of agony,
That tells me of the death that follows death,
In which all hope lies buried—smother'd sure
In loss of that most precious of life's fancies,
Its dream of the pure angel, whit'st of all
Above the cloudy confines of the grave,
Waiting with welcome! Death! Oh, death! Oh, terror!
That I should live for this!—that thou shouldst tell me,
Francesca, with no crimson on thy cheek,
No gushing eyes, no husky, tremulous voice,
That thou com'st freshly from Leoni's bed,
No longer fresh—yet living!

[Falls on his face.
Francesca.
Were thy fears—
Thy dark suspicions true, oh! cruel Bertram,
How vain were tears or tremors, conscious blushes,
Or all the broken agonies of speech,
To show my shame or thine!

Bertram.
Yet didst thou leave
Leoni's bed but now! Thy own lips said it,
Nor falter'd in the speech.

Francesca.
Oh! had I left
My virtues on his bed, there had been need
For faltering and for tears. I left his bed,
But left no living bed, my Bertram! No!
Look on this dagger—let it speak for me!

Bertram.
It bleeds—it drops with blood. The crimson edges
Gleam brightly dark before me. Oh! Francesca,
I see what thou hast done—yet, do not say it!
I feel the terrible need that stood before thee,
And comprehend the fate that forced upon thee
The dreadful stroke of death. And yet, Francesca,
I would it had been any hand but thine
To do this deed!

[Covering his eyes.
Francesca.
Thy life was on it, Bertram—
And mine—and something more to me than life;
And, in my soul, a voice that cried—“Be cruel,
Or thou art lost to Bertram and to Heaven!”
Thou hat'st—thou fear'st me! Ah! I see it, Bertram!

Bertram.
Hate thee, Francesca? No! How much I love thee,
No words may speak. Yet there's a deadly horror
That shakes my frame—that seizes on my heart!
Look how thy hand is crimsoned!—up thine arm,
Even to thine elbow, drips the clotting current!
God! what a terrible stroke! Thou didst not do't—
Thou once so gentle, whom a wounded sparrow
Had brought to feminine sorrows. Thou hast wept
The fate of the cucuyo when I brush'd it,
To loss of wing and glitter, from thy garments;
And not a beggar's babe, with plaint of hunger,
But, with thy bounty, won a boon of tears,
Sweet as the angels weep o'er woes of mortals;
And thou to strike this blow! I'll not believe it;
Some other hand than thine, Francesca!

Francesca.
Mine!
Mine only, Bertram. Do not curse or chide me;
Turn not thy face away. 'Twas for thy safety.

Bertram.
As if Death had one terror in his keeping,
To wound a fear of mine!

Francesca.
Yet, have a thought
Of poor Francesca's danger. See her struggles,
At midnight, in the darkness, with her tyrant;
That bold, bad man, with all his power around him!
Hear her wild shrieks, which all refused to hear:
How vain were all her pleadings! How the danger
Threaten'd the whiteness of her innocent bosom,
That knew no claim but thine; and think how madly
The spasms of fear and horror in my soul
Impell'd the deadly weapon to the heart,
Grown viperous with its lusts—its snakes about me,
Ready to sting with deathsome leprosies!
Oh! think of this, my Bertram!

Bertram.
My Francesca,
Dost think I blame thee! 'Twas a fate that made thee
Thus stern and fearful; yet, to me, thy beauties
Were those of meekness only. In mine eyes,
Thy mould was still of those celestial beings
That find their virtues in their tenderness,
Chasten'd by love to purity. All passions
Grew modest in thy presence. Every feeling
That minister'd to make thy loveliness,
Seem'd to have had its birth in angel meekness,
That spread a hallowing moonlight at its coming,
Making the rugged soft. How could I know thee,
Thus terribly incarnadined with vengeance
For any purpose! Could I dream of thee,
Thus robed in crimson horrors, and believe thee
The pure white thing thou wast, when first I found thee
In groves of green Val d' Arno, singing sweetly,
With eyes of dewy glistening, to pale sisters
That watch'd above in fondness? Oh! thy nature
Hath been o'erwrought to madness! May I fold thee
Once more to this lone bosom, and remember
The thing thou wast, but art not?

Francesca.
Let me save thee,
Even though I lose thee, Bertram.

Bertram.
Lose me, never!
The flight that saves thy Bertram—

Francesca.
Saves not me,
Since thus he holds me alter'd—if he alters
In the dear faith he gave me. The worst death
Grows up before me, though we fly together,
In these so foreign glances—in this speech
That tells how much he loses in the change
That outraged what I was, and, in my terrors,
Made me achieve the deed, however needful,
That makes me thus a terror to his love.
Yet must we fly. These keys undo thy fetters—
See how they fall about thee! Rouse thee, Bertram!
Thy hands, thy feet are free. Thy tyrant sleeps,
No more to cross thy fortunes; and Francesca,
If stain'd with blood, is pure for thee, as ever
In happy vale of Arno. Yet I ask not
That thou shouldst deem me so—that thou shouldst love me,
As then, in those sweet hours.

Bertram.
I've done thee wrong
By this ungrateful chiding. I will take thee,
As all-confiding to this hopeful bosom
As when thy hands were innocently white.
We'll fly together. I am thine, Francesca,
Never to wrong thy hearing with a thought
That love may deem rebuke. Let us away!

Francesca,
(aside.)
Yet is the thought the shadow to the soul,
Though never shown by speech. My doom is written
In the deep horror which his spirit feels,
At what this hand hath done. Oh! in the future,
I see the icy dread—I hear the accent
That speaks the chill'd affection—forced and idle,
As born no more of fondness. I must perish,
In the denial of the love which made me,
At first, a breathing woman. I must perish;
Yet, to the last, in loving him, I cherish
The hope, that when the ice-bolt falls between
Our lives, our hearts shall reunite once more,
And death retrieve the whiteness life hath lost.

Bertram.
Why lingerest thou, Francesca?

Francesca.
But for prayer!—
Heaven's mercy may be yielded to our flight
If not our hearts. Dear Bertram, let me lead thee;
But take the dagger—I will bear the keys!

Bertram.
Oh! give it me; far better graced in mine,
Than in thy hands, Francesca. Give it me!
O heart! 'tis my infirmity that speaks—
But I could easier strike a host of hearts,
Than see it in thy grasp! And yet, Francesca,
I would not wrong thee by reproach. Thy danger
Made the dread weapon a necessity
Thou couldst not 'scape, and shouldst not. Let my arm
Enfold thee; and should danger threaten now,
Thine eye shall see this arm more red than thine,
In shielding thy white bosom.

Francesca,
(timidly)
May I hold
Thy hand, my Bertram?

Bertram.
Heart and hand, Francesca.

[Embracing.
Francesca.
Now could I go to death!

Bertram.
We go to life,
To love and safety, dear one!

Francesca,
(aside.)
Through a night,
Where all is cloud before me, never-lifting
Till the last cloud descends. Oh! love no longer,
As once we knew it—wings and sunniness,
With music in the pauses of the breeze,
While leaves drop down in odors; but a love
That chills while it embraces—and sweet accents
That never warm to meaning.

Bertram.
What say'st thou?

Francesca.
Of cold and darkness, Bertram.

Bertram.
Soon, the light
Will gather round us with its cheerful aspects,
That smile among the stars; and Heaven's fresh breathings—
'Scaped from the pestilent atmosphere of death—
Will lift our spirits with a glad surprise.
The bolts unclose! Oh! see you not, Francesca,
How swiftly darts the messenger of light,
As glad to do us service, o'er the threshold,
And waves his glow-worm torch to guide us on;
While the fond zephyr, through the yawning portal,
Wraps us in sweet embrace, and bears us forward
On wings made free like his? Come forth, Francesca!

Francesca,
(faltering.)
Wither?

Bertram.
To life—from death!—Dost see?

Francesca.
The blessed stars!

Bertram.
Now fly we with the urgent feet of fear;
This valley must not hold us. To our hills:
There we may breathe in safety. But thou shrink'st!

Francesca.
The light! They see—the stars! These bloody proofs—

Bertram,
(averting his eyes.)
And I—alas!

Francesca.
Lead where thou wilt, my Bertram.

Bertram.
Among the hills! I know where runs a brooklet,
Shall cleanse thee of these stains—Jesu! how black!

Francesca.
How black! how black! (aside.)
Alas! the stream may cleanse—
The arm be white once more as when he took it
To wrap about his breast!—but oh! my heart,
The dread impression fasten'd on his soul,
Leaves only night to mine! I follow, Bertram!

Bertram,
(aside.)
How terrible! How had she heart for it!
So fearful, even in her innocent ways,
So tender still, and merciful!

Francesca.
Thou speak'st?

Bertram.
Of the great debt I owe thee—of the struggle
That nerved thee to this blow! And yet, Francesca,
Would we had died before—together died—
Even at the moment when our lips first met
In love's first sweet delirium!

Francesca.
Thou art right!
Would we had died, O Bertram! in that hour,
And had not lived for this!—Would I had died!