University of Virginia Library

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!