University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Ravenna. A Room in Guido's Palace. Enter Guido and a Cardinal.
Cardinal.
I warn thee, Count.

Guido.
I'll take the warning, father,
On one condition: show me but a way
For safe escape.

Car.
I cannot.

Gui.
There 's the point:
We Ghibelins are fettered hand and foot.
There 's not a florin in my treasury;
Not a lame soldier, I can lead to war;
Not one to man the walls. A present siege,
Pushed with the wonted heat of Lanciotto,
Would deal Ravenna such a mortal blow
As ages could not mend. Give me but time
To fill the drainéd arteries of the land.
The Guelfs are masters, we their slaves; and we
Were wiser to confess it, ere the lash
Teach it too sternly. It is well for you
To say you love Francesca. So do I;
But neither you nor I have any voice
For or against this marriage.

Car.
'T is too true.

Gui.
Say we refuse: Why, then, before a week,
We'll hear Lanciotto rapping at our door,
With twenty hundred ruffians at his back.
What 's to say then? My lord, we waste our breath.
Let us look fortune in the face, and draw
Such comfort from the wanton as we may.

Car.
And yet I fear—

Gui.
You fear! and so do I.
I fear Lanciotto as a soldier, though,
More than a son-in-law.

Car.
But have you seen him?

Gui.
Ay, ay, and felt him, too. I 've seen him ride
The best battalions of my horse and foot
Down like mere stubble: I have seen his sword
Hollow a square of pikemen, with the ease
You 'd scoop a melon out.

Car.
Report declares him
A prodigy of strength and ugliness.

Gui.
Were he the devil—But why talk of this?—
Here comes Francesca.

Car.
Ah! unhappy child!

Gui.
Look you, my lord! you'll make the best of it;
You will not whimper. Add your voice to mine,
Or woe to poor Ravenna!

(Enter Francesca and Ritta.)
Francesca.
Ha! my lord—
And you, my father!—But do I intrude
Upon your counsels? How severe you look!
Shall I retire?

Gui.
No, no.

Fran.
You moody men
Seem leagued against me. As I passed the hall,
I met your solemn Dante, with huge strides
Pacing in measure to his stately verse.
The sweeping sleeves of his broad scarlet robe
Blew out behind, like wide-expanded wings,
And seemed to buoy him in his level flight.
Thinking to pass, without disturbing him,
I stole on tip-toe; but the poet paused,
Subsiding into man, and steadily
Bent on my face the lustre of his eyes.
Then, taking both my trembling hands in his—
You know how his God-troubled forehead awes—
He looked into my eyes, and shook his head,
As if he dared not speak of what he saw;
Then muttered, sighed, and slowly turned away
The weight of his intolerable brow.
When I glanced back, I saw him, as before,
Sailing adown the hall on out-spread wings.
Indeed, my lord, he should not do these things:
They strain the weakness of mortality
A jot too far. As for poor Ritta, she
Fled like a doe, the truant.

Ritta.
Yes, forsooth:
There 's something terrible about the man.
Ugh! if he touched me, I should turn to ice.
I wonder if Count Lanciotto looks—

Gui.
Ritta, come here.

[Takes her apart.]
Rit.
My lord.

Gui.
'T was my command,
You should say nothing of Count Lanciotto.

Rit.
Nothing, my lord.

Gui.
You have said nothing, then?

Rit.
Indeed, my lord.

Gui.
'T is well. Some years ago,
My daughter had a very silly maid,
Who told her sillier stories. So, one day,
This maiden whispered something I forbade—
In strictest confidence, for she was sly:
What happened, think you?

Rit.
I know not, my lord.

Gui.
I boiled her in a pot.

Rit.
Good heaven! my lord.

Gui.
She did not like it. I shall keep that pot
Ready for the next boiling.

[Walks back to the others.]
Rit.
Saints above!
I wonder if he ate her! Boil me—me!
I'll roast or stew with pleasure; but to boil
Implies a want of tenderness,—or rather
A downright toughness—in the matter boiled,
That 's slanderous to a maiden. What, boil me—
Boil me! O! mercy, how ridiculous!

[Retires, laughing.]
(Enter a Messenger.)
Messenger.
Letters, my lord, from great Prince Malatesta.

[Presents them, and exit.]
Gui.
(Aside.)
Hear him, ye gods!—“from great Prince Malatesta!”
Greeting, no doubt, his little cousin Guido.
Well, well, just so we see-saw up and down.
[Reads.]
“Fearing our treachery,”—by heaven, that 's blunt,
And Malatesta-like!—“he will not send
His son, Lanciotto, to Ravenna, but”—
But what?—a groom, a porter? or will he
Have his prey sent him in an iron cage?
By Jove, he shall not have her! O! no, no;
“He sends his younger son, the Count Paolo,
To fetch Francesca back to Rimini.”
That 's well, if he had left his reasons out.
And, in a postscript—by the saints, 't is droll!—
“'Twould not be worth your lordship's while, to shut
Paolo in a prison; for, my lord,
I'll only pay his ransom in plain steel:
Besides, he 's not worth having.” Is there one,
Save this ignoble offshoot of the Goths,
Who 'd write such garbage to a gentleman?
Take that, and read it.

[Gives letter to Cardinal.]
Car.
I have done the most.
She seems suspicious.

Gui.
Ritta's work.

Car.
Farewell!

[Exit.]
Fran.
Father, you seem distempered.

Gui.
No, my child,
I am but vexed. Your husband 's on the road,
Close to Ravenna. What 's the time of day?

Fran.
Past noon, my lord.

Gui.
We must be stirring, then.

Fran.
I do not like this marriage.

Gui.
But I do.

Fran.
But I do not. Poh! to be given away,
Like a fine horse or falcon, to a man
Whose face I never saw!

Rit.
That's it, my lady.

Gui.
Ritta, run down, and see if my great pot
Boils to your liking.

Rit.
(Aside.)
O! that pot again!
My lord, my heart betrays me; but you know
How true 't is to my lady.

[Exit.]
Fran.
What ails Ritta?

Gui.
The ailing of your sex, a running tongue.
Francesca, 't is too late to beat retreat:
Old Malatesta has me—you, too, child—
Safe in his clutch. If you are not content,
I must unclose Ravenna, and allow
His son to take you. Poh, poh! have a soul
Equal with your estate. A prince's child
Cannot choose husbands. Her desires must aim,
Not at herself, but at the public good.
Both as your prince and father, I command;
As subject and good daughter, you'll obey.

Fran.
I knew that it must be my destiny,
Some day, to give my hand without my heart;
But—

Gui.
But, and I will but you back again!
When Guido da Polenta says to you,
Daughter, you must be married,—what were best?

Fran.
'T were best Francesca, of the self-same name,
Made herself bridal-garments.

[Laughing.]
Gui.
Right!

Fran.
My lord,
Is Lanciotto handsome—ugly—fair—
Black—sallow—crabbed—kind—or what is he?

Gui.
You'll know ere long. I could not alter him,
To please your taste.

Fran.
You always put me off;
You never have a whisper in his praise.

Gui.
The world reports it.—Count my soldiers' scars,
And you may sum Lanciotto's glories up.

Fran.
I shall be dutiful, to please you, father.
If aught befall me through my blind submission,
Though I may suffer, you must bear the sin.
Beware, my lord, for your own peace of mind!
My part has been obedience; and now
I play it over to complete my task;
And it shall be with smiles upon my lips,—
Heaven only knows with what a sinking heart!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

The Same. Before the Gates of the City. The walls hung with banners, flowesr, &c., and crowded with citizens. At the side of the scene is a canopied dais, with chairs of state upon it. Music, bells, shouts, and other sounds of rejoicing, are occasionally heard. Enter Guido, the Cardinal, Noblemen, Knights, Guards, &c., with banners, arms, &c.
Guido.
My lord, I'll have it so. You talk in vain.
Paolo is a marvel in his way:
I 've seen him often. If Francesca take
A fancy to his beauty, all the better;
For she may think that he and Lanciotto
Are like as blossoms of one parent branch.
In truth, they are, so far as features go—
Heaven help the rest! Get her to Rimini,
By any means, and I shall be content.
The fraud cannot last long; but long enough
To win her favor to the family.

Cardinal.
'T is a dull trick. Thou hast not dealt with her
Wisely nor kindly, and I dread the end.
If, when this marriage was enjoined on thee,
Thou hadst informed Francesca of the truth,
And said, Now, daughter, choose between
Thy peace and all Ravenna's; who that knows
The constant nature of her noble heart
Could doubt the issue? There 'd have been some tears,
Some frightful fancies of her husband's looks;
And then she 'd calmly walk up to her fate,
And bear it bravely. Afterwards, perchance,
Lanciotto might prove better than her fears,—
No one denies him many an excellence,—
And all go happily. But, as thou wouldst plot,
She'll be prepared to see a paragon,
And find a satyr. It is dangerous.
Treachery with enemies is bad enough,
With friends 't is fatal.

Gui.
Has your lordship done?

Car.
Never, Count Guido, with so good a text.
Do not stand looking sideways at the truth;
Craft has become thy nature. Go to her.

Gui.
I have not heart.

Car.
I have.

[Going.]
Gui.
Hold, Cardinal!
My plan is better. Get her off my hands,
And I care not.

Car.
What will she say of thee,
In Rimini, when she detects the cheat?

Gui.
I'll stop my ears up.

Car.
Guido, thou art weak,
And lack the common fortitude of man.

Gui.
And you abuse the license of your garb,
To lesson me. My lord, I do not dare
To move a finger in these marriage-rites.
Francesca is a sacrifice, I know,—
A limb delivered to the surgeon's knife,
To save our general health. A truce to this.
Paolo has the business in his hands:
Let him arrange it as he will; for I
Will give Count Malatesta no pretext
To recommence the war.

Car.
Farewell, my lord.
I'll neither help nor countenance a fraud.
You crafty men take comfort to yourselves,
Saying, deceit dies with discovery.
'T is false; each wicked action spawns a brood,
And lives in its succession. You, who shake
Man's moral nature into storm, should know
That the last wave which passes from your sight
Rolls in and breaks upon eternity!

[Exit.]
Gui.
Why, that 's a very grand and solemn thought:
I'll mention it to Dante. Gentlemen,
What see they from the wall?

Nobleman
The train, my lord.

Gui.
Inform my daughter.

Nob.
She is here, my lord.

(Enter Francesca, Ritta, Ladies, Attendants, &c.)
Francesca.
See, father, what a merry face I have,
And how my ladies glisten! I will try
To do my utmost, in my love for you
And the good people of Ravenna. Now,
As the first shock is over, I expect
To feel quite happy. I will wed the Count,
Be he whate'er he may. I do not speak
In giddy recklessness. I 've weighed it all,—
'T wixt hope and fear, knowledge and ignorance,—
And reasoned out my duty to your wish.
I have no yearnings towards another love:
So, if I show my husband a desire
To fill the place with which he honors me,
According to its duties, even he—
Were he less noble than Count Lanciotto—
Must smile upon my efforts, and reward
Good will with willing grace. One pang remains.
Parting from home and kindred is a thing
None but the heartless, or the miserable,
Can do without a tear. This home of mine
Has filled my heart with two-fold happiness,
Taking and giving love abundantly.
Farewell, Ravenna! If I bless thee not,
'T is that thou seem'st too blessed; and 't were strange
In me to offer what thou 'st always given.

Gui.
(Aside.)
This is too much! If she would rail a while
At me and fortune, it could be endured.

[Shouts, music, &c. within.]
Fran.
Ha! there 's the van just breaking through the wood!
Music! that 's well; a welcome forerunner.
Now, Ritta—here—come talk to me. Alas!
How my heart trembles! What a world to me
Lies 'neath the glitter of you cavalcade!
Is that the Count?

Ritta.
Upon the dapple-gray?

Fran.
Yes, yes.

Rit.
No; that 's his—

Gui.
(Apart to her.)
Ritta!

Rit.
Ay; that 's—that 's—

Gui.
Ritta, the pot! [Apart to her.]


Rit.
O! but this lying chokes!
[Aside.]
Ay, that 's Count Somebody, from Rimini.

Fran.
I knew it was. Is that not glorious?

Rit.
My lady, what?

Fran.
To see a cavalier
Sit on his steed with such familiar grace.

Rit.
To see a man astraddle on a horse!
It don't seem much to me.

Fran.
Fie! stupid girl!
But mark the minstrels thronging round the Count!
Ah! that is more than gallant horsemanship.
The soul that feeds itself on poesy,
Is of a quality more fine and rare
Than Heaven allows the ruder multitude.
I tell you, Ritta, when you see a man
Beloved by poets, made the theme of song,
And chaunted down to ages, as a gift
Fit for the rich embalmment of their verse,
There 's more about him than the patron's gold.
If that 's the gentleman my father chose,
He must have picked him out from all the world.
The Count alights. Why, what a noble grace
Runs through his slightest action! Are you sad?
You too, my father? Have I given you cause?
I am content. If Lanciotto's mind
Bear any impress of his fair outside,
We shall not quarrel ere our marriage-day.
Can I say more? My blushes speak for me:
Interpret them as modesty's excuse
For the short-comings of a maiden's speech.

Rit.
Alas! dear lady! [Aside.]


Gui.
(Aside.)
'Sdeath! my plot has failed,
By overworking its design. Come, come;
Get to your places. See, the Count draws nigh.

(Guido and Francesca seat themselves upon the dais, surrounded by Ritta, Ladies, Attendants, Guards, &c, Music shouts,

---

384

ringing of bells, &c. Enter Men-at arms, with banners, &c.; Pages bearing costly presents on cushions; then Paolo, surrounded by Noblemen, Knights, Minstrels, &c., and followed by other Men-at-arms. They range themselves opposite the dais.)
Gui.
Ravenna welcomes you, my lord, and I
Add my best greeting to the general voice.
This peaceful show of arms from Rimini
Is a new pleasure, stranger to our sense
Than if the East blew zephyrs, or the balm
Of Summer loaded rough December's gales,
And turned his snows to roses.

Paolo.
Noble sir,
We looked for welcome from your courtesy,
Not from your love; but this unhoped for sight
Of smiling faces, and the gentle tone
In which you greet us, leave us naught to win
Within your hearts. I need not ask, my lord,
Where bides the precious object of my search;
For I was sent to find the fairest maid
Ravenna boasts, among her many fair.
I might extend my travel many a league,
And yet return, to take her from your side.
I blush to bear so rich a treasure home,
As pledge and hostage of a sluggish peace;
For beauty such as hers was meant by Heaven
To spur our race to gallant enterprise,
And draw contending deities around
The dubious battles of a second Troy.

Gui.
Sir Count, you please to lavish on my child
The high-strained courtesy of chivalry;
Yet she has homely virtues that, I hope,
May take a deeper hold in Rimini,
After the fleeting beauty of her face
Is spoiled by time, or faded to the eye
By its familiar usage.

Paolo.
As a man
Who ever sees Heaven's purpose in its works,
I must suppose so rare a tabernacle
Was framed for rarest virtues. Pardon me
My public admiration. If my praise
Clash with propriety, and bare my words
To cooler judgment, 't is not that I wish
To win a flatterer's grudged recompense,
And gain by falsehood what I 'd win through love.
When I have brushed my travel from my garb,
I'll pay my court in more befitting style.

(Music. Exit with his train.)
Gui.
(Advancing.)
Now, by the saints, Lanciotto's deputy
Stands in this business with a proper grace,
Stretching his lord's instructions till they crack.
A zealous envoy! Not a word said he
Of Lanciotto—not a single word;
But stood there, staring in Francesca's face
With his devouring eyes.—By Jupiter,
I but half like it!

Fran.
(Advancing.)
Father?

Gui.
Well, my child.

Fran.
How do you like—

Gui.
The coxcomb! I 've done well!

Fran.
No, no; Count Lanciotto?

Gui.
Well enough.
But hang this fellow—hang your deputies!
I'll never woo by proxy.

Fran.
Deputies!
And woo by proxy!

Gui.
Come to me anon.
I'll strip this cuckoo of his gallantry!

[Exit with Guards, &c.]
Fran.
Ritta, my father has strange ways of late.

Rit.
I wonder not.

Fran.
You wonder not?

Rit.
No, lady:
He is so used to playing double games,
That even you must come in for your share.
Plague on his boiling! I will out with it.
[Aside.]
Lady, the gentleman who passed the gates—

Fran.
Count Lanciotto? As I hope for grace,
A gallant gentleman! How well he spoke!
With what sincere and earnest courtesy
The rounded phrases glided from his lips!
He spoke in compliments that seemed like truth.
Methinks I 'd listen through a summer's day,
To hear him woo.—And he must woo to me—
I'll have our privilege—he must woo a space,
Ere I'll be won, I promise.

Rit.
But, my lady,
He'll woo you for another.

Fran.
He?—ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
I should not think it from the prologue, Ritta.

Rit.
Nor I.

Fran.
Nor any one.

Rit.
'T is not the Count—
'T is not Count Lanciotto.

Fran.
Gracious saints!
Have you gone crazy? Ritta, speak again,
Before I chide you.

Rit.
'T is the solemn truth.
That gentleman is Count Paolo, lady,
Brother to Lanciotto, and no more
Like him than—than—

Fran.
Than what?

Rit.
Count Guido's pot,
For boiling waiting-maids, is like the bath
Of Venus on the arras.

Fran.
Are you mad,—
Quite mad, poor Ritta?

Rit.
Yes; perhaps I am.
Perhaps Lanciotto is a proper man—
Perhaps I lie—perhaps I speak the truth—
Perhaps I gabble like a fool. O! heavens,
That dreadful pot!

Fran.
Dear Ritta!—

Rit.
By the mass,
They shall not cozen you, my gentle mistress!
If my lord Guido boiled me, do you think
I should be served up to the garrison,
By way of pottage? Surely they would not waste me.

Fran.
You are an idle talker. Pranks like these
Fit your companions. You forget yourself.

Rit.
Not you, though, lady. Boldly I repeat,
That he who looked so fair, and talked so sweet,
Who rode from Rimini upon a horse
Of dapple-gray, and walked through yonder gate,
Is not Count Lanciotto.

Fran.
This you mean?

Rit.
I do, indeed!

Fran.
Then I am more abused—
More tricked, more trifled with, more played upon—
By him, my father, and by all of you,
Than anything, suspected of a heart,
Was ever yet!

Rit.
In Count Paolo, lady,
Perchance there was no meditated fraud.

Fran.
How, dare you plead for him?

Rit.
I but suppose:
Though in your father—O! I dare not say.

Fran.
I dare. It was ill usage, gross abuse,
Treason to duty, meanness, craft—dishonor!
What if I 'd thrown my heart before the feet
Of this sham husband! cast my love away
Upon a counterfeit! I was prepared
To force affection upon any man
Called Lanciotto. Anything of silk,
Tinsel, and gewgaws, if he bore that name,
Might have received me for the asking. Yes,
I was inclined to venture more than half
In this base business—shame upon my thoughts!—
All for my father's peace and poor Ravenna's.
And this Paolo, with his cavalcade,
His minstrels, music, and his pretty airs,
His showy person, and his fulsome talk,
Almost made me contented with my lot.
O! what a fool!—in faith, I merit it—
Trapped by mere glitter! What an easy fool!
Ha! ha! I'm glad it went no further, girl;
[Laughing.
I'm glad I kept my heart safe, after all.
There was my cunning. I have paid them back,
I warrant you! I'll marry Lanciotto;
I'll seem to shuffle by this treachery. No!
I'll seek my father, put him face to face
With his own falsehood; and I'll stand between,
Awful as justice, meting out to him
Heaven's dreadful canons 'gainst his conscious guilt.
I'll marry Lanciotto. On my faith,
I would not live another wicked day
Here, in Ravenna, only for the fear
That I should take to lying, with the rest.
Ha! ha! it makes me merry, when I think
How safe I kept this little heart of mine!

[Laughing.]
[Exit, with Attendants, &c.]
Rit.
So, 't is all ended—all except my boiling,
And that will make a holiday for some.
Perhaps I'm selfish. Fagot, axe, and gallows,
They have their uses, after all. They give
The lookers-on a deal of harmless sport.
Though one may suffer, twenty hundred laugh;
And that 's a point gained. I have seen a man—
Poor Dora's uncle—shake himself with glee,
At the bare thought of the ridiculous style
In which some villain died. “Dancing,” quoth he,
“To the poor music of a single string!
Biting,” quoth he, “after his head was off!
What use of that?” Or, “Shivering,” quoth he,
“As from an ague, with his beard afire!”
And then he 'd roar until his ugly mouth
Split at the corners. But to see me boil—
O! that will be the queerest thing of all!
I wonder if they'll put me in a bag,
Like a great suet-ball? I'll go, and tell
Count Guido, on the instant. How he'll laugh
To think his pot has got an occupant!
I wonder if he really takes delight
In such amusements? Nay, I have kept faith:
I only said the man was not Lanciotto;
No word of Lanciotto's ugliness.
I may escape the pot, for all. Pardee!
I wonder if they'll put me in a bag!

[Exit, laughing.]

SCENE III.

The Same. A Room in Guido's Palace. Enter Guido and Ritta.
Ritta.
There now, my lord, that is the whole of it:
I love my mistress more than I fear you.
If I could save her finger from the axe,
I 'd give my head to do it. So, my lord,
I am prepared to stew.

Guido.
Boil, Ritta, boil.

Rit.
No; I prefer to stew.

Gui.
And I to boil.

Rit.
'T is very hard, my lord, I cannot choose
My way of cooking. I shall laugh, I vow,
In the grim headsman's face, when I remember
That I am dying for my lady's love.
I leave no one to shed a tear for me;
Father nor mother, kith nor kin, have I,
To say, “Poor Ritta!” o'er my lifeless clay.
They all have gone before me, and 't were well
If I could hurry after them.

Gui.
Poor child!
[Aside
But, baggage, said you aught of Lanciotto?

Rit.
No, not a word; and he 's so ugly, too!

Gui.
Is he so ugly?

Rit.
Ugly! he is worse
Than Pilate on the hangings.

Gui.
Hold your tongue
Here, and at Rimini, about the Count,
And you shall prosper.

Rit.
Am I not to boil?

Gui.
No, child. But be discreet at Rimini.
Old Malatesta is a dreadful man—
Far worse than I—he bakes his people, Ritta;
Lards them, like geese, and bakes them in an oven.

Rit.
Fire is my fate, I see that.

Gui.
Have a care
It do not follow you beyond this world.
Where is your mistress?

Rit.
In her room, my lord.
After I told her of the Count Paolo,
She flew to have an interview with you;
But on the way—I know not why it was—
She darted to her chamber, and there stays
Weeping in silence. It would do you good—
More than a hundred sermons—just to see
A single tear, indeed it would, my lord.

Gui.
Ha! you are saucy. I have humored you
Past prudence, malpert! Get you to your room!
[Exit Ritta.]
More of my blood runs in yon damsel's veins
Than the world knows. Her mother to a shade;
The same high spirit, and strange martyr-wish
To sacrifice herself, body and soul,
For some loved end. All that she did for me;
And yet I loved her not. O! memory!
The darkest future has a ray of hope,
But thou art blacker than the sepulchre!
Thy horrid shapes lie round, like scattered bones,
Hopeless forever! I am sick at heart.
The past crowds on the present: as I sowed,
So am I reaping. Shadows from myself
Fall on the picture, as I trace anew
These rising spectres of my early life,
And add their gloom to what was dark before.
O! memory, memory! How my temples throb!

[Sits.]
(Enter Francesca, hastily.)
Francesca.
My lord, this outrage— (He looks up.)
Father are you ill?
You seem unhappy. Have I troubled you?
You heard how passionate and bad I was,
When Ritta told me of the Count Paolo.
Dear father, calm yourself; and let me ask
A child's forgiveness. 'T was undutiful
To doubt your wisdom. It is over now.
I only thought you might have trusted me
With any counsel.

Gui.
(Aside.)
Would I had!

Fran.
Ah! well,
I understand it all, and you were right.
Only the danger of it. Think, my lord,
If I had loved this man at the first sight:
We all have heard of such things. Think, again,
If I had loved him—as I then supposed
You wished me to—'t would have been very sad.
But no, dear sir, I kept my heart secure,
Nor will I loose it till you give the word.
I 'm wiser than you thought me, you perceive.
But when we saw him, face to face, together,
Surely you might have told me then.

Gui.
Francesca,
My eyes are old—I did not clearly see—
Faith, it escaped my thoughts. Some other things
Came in my head. I was as ignorant
Of Count Paolo's coming as yourself.
The brothers are so like.

Fran.
Indeed?

Gui.
Yes, yes.
One is the other's counterpart, in fact;
And even now it may not be—O! shame!
I lie by habit. [Aside.]


Fran.
Then there is a hope?
He may be Lanciotto, after all?
O! joy—

(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.
The Count Paolo.

[Exit.]
Fran.
Misery!
That name was not Lanciotto!

Gui.
Farewell, child.
I'll leave you with the Count: he'll make it plain.
It seems 't was Count Paolo.

[Going.]
Fran.
Father!

Gui.
Well.

Fran.
You knew it from the first! (Exit Guido.)
Let me begone:
I could not look him in the face again
With the old faith. Besides, 't would anger him
To have a living witness of his fraud
Ever before him; and I could not trust—
Strive as I might—my happiness to him,
As once I did. I could not lay my hand
Upon his shoulder, and look up to him,
Saying, Dear father, pilot me along
Past this dread rock, through yonder narrow strait.
Saints, no! The gold that gave my life away
Might, even then, be rattling in his purse,
Warm from the buyer's hand. Look on me, Heaven!
Him thou didst sanctify before my eyes,
Him thou didst charge, as thy great deputy,
With guardianship of a weak orphan girl,
Has fallen from grace, has paltered with his trust;
I have no mother to receive thy charge,—
O! take it on thyself; and when I err,
Through mortal blindness, Heaven, be thou my guide!
Worse cannot fall me. Though my husband lack
A parent's tenderness, he yet may have
Faith, truth, and honor—the immortal bonds
That knit together honest hearts as one.
Let me away to Rimini. Alas!
It wrings my heart to have outlived the day
That I can leave my home with no regret!

[Weeps.]
(Enter Paolo.)
Paolo.
Pray, pardon me.

[Going.]
Fran.
You are quite welcome, Count
A foolish tear, a weakness, nothing more:
But present weeping clears our future sight.
They tell me you are love's commissioner,
A kind of broker in the trade of hearts:
Is it your usual business? or may I
Flatter myself, by claiming this essay
As your first effort?

Paolo.
Lady, I believed
My post, at starting, one of weight and trust;
When I beheld you, I concluded it
A charge of honor and high dignity.
I did not think to hear you underrate
Your own importance, by dishonoring me.

Fran.
You are severe, my lord.

Paolo.
No, not severe;
Say candid, rather. I am somewhat hurt
By my reception. If I feel the wound,
'T is not because I suffer from the jest,
But that your lips should deal it.

Fran.
Compliments
Appear to be the staple of your speech.
You ravish one with courtesy, you pour
Fine words upon one, till the listening head
Is bowed with sweetness. Sir, your talk is drugged;
There 's secret poppy in your sugared phrase:
I'll taste before I take it.

Paolo.
Gentle lady—

Fran.
I am not gentle, or I missed my aim.
I am no hawk to fly at every lure.
You courtly gentlemen draw one broad rule—
All girls are fools. It may be so, in truth,
Yet so I'll not be treated.

Paolo.
Have you been?
If I implied such slander by my words,
They wrong my purpose. If I compliment,
'T is not from habit, but because I thought
Your face deserved my homage as its due.
When I have clearer insight, and you spread
Your inner nature o'er your lineaments,
Even that face may darken in the shades
Of my opinion. For mere loveliness
Needs inward light to keep it always bright.
All things look badly to unfriendly eyes.
I spoke my first impression; cooler thought
May work strange changes.

Fran.
Ah! Sir Count, at length
There 's matter in your words.

Paolo.
Unpleasant stuff,
To judge by your dark brows. I have essayed
Kindness and coldness, yet you are not pleased.

Fran.
How can I be?

Paolo.
How, lady?

Fran.
Ay, sir, how?
Your brother—my good lord that is to be—
Stings me with his neglect; and in the place
He should have filled, he sends a go-between,
A common carrier of others' love;
How can the sender, or the person sent,
Please overmuch? Now, were I such as you,
I 'd be too proud to travel round the land
With other peoples' feelings in my heart;
Even to fill the void which you confess
By such employment.

Paolo.
Lady, 't is your wish
To nettle me, to break my breeding down,
And see what natural passions I have hidden
Behind the outworks of my etiquette.
I neither own nor feel the want of heart
With which you charge me. You are more than cruel;
You rouse my nerves until they ache with life,
And then pour fire upon them. For myself
I would not speak, unless you had compelled.
My task is odious to me. Since I came,
Heaven bear me witness how my traitor heart
Has fought against my duty; and how oft
I wished myself in Lanciotto's place,
Or him in mine.

Fran.
You riddle.

Paolo.
Do I? Well,
Let it remain unguessed.

Fran.
You wished yourself
At Rimini, or Lanciotto here?
You may have reasons.

Paolo.
Well interpreted!
The Sphinx were simple in your skilful hands!

Fran.
It has become your turn to sneer.

Paolo.
But I
Have gall to feed my bitterness, while you
Jest in the wanton ease of happiness.
Stop! there is peril in our talk.

Fran.
As how?

Paolo.
'T is dangerous to talk about one's self;
It panders selfishness. My duty waits.

Fran.
My future lord's affairs? I quite forgot
Count Lanciotto.

Paolo.
I, too, shame upon me! [Aside.]


Fran.
Does he resemble you?

Paolo.
Pray drop me, lady.

Fran.
Nay, answer me.

Paolo.
Somewhat—in feature.

Fran.
Ha!
Is he so fair?

Paolo.
No, darker. He was tanned
In long campaigns, and battles hotly fought,
While I lounged idly with the troubadours,
Under the shadow of his watchful sword.

Fran.
In person?

Paolo.
He is shorter, I believe,
But broader, stronger, more compactly knit.

Fran.
What of his mind?

Paolo.
Ah! now you strike the key!
A mind just fitted to his history,
An equal balance 'twixt desert and fame.
No future chronicler shall say of him,
His fame outran his merit; or his merit
Halted behind some adverse circumstance,
And never won the glory it deserved.
My love might weary you, if I rehearsed
The simple beauty of his character;
His grandeur and his gentleness of heart,
His warlike fire and peaceful love, his faith,
His courtesy, his truth. I'll not deny
Some human weakness, to attract our love,
Harbors in him, as in the rest of us.
Sometimes against our city's enemies
He thunders in the distance, and devotes
Their homes to ruin. When the brand has fallen,
He ever follows with a healing rain,
And in his pity shoulders by revenge.
A thorough soldier, lady. He grasps crowns,
While I pick at the laurel.

Fran.
Stay, my lord!
I asked your brother's value, with no wish
To hear you underrate yourself. Your worth
May rise in passing through another's lips.
Lanciotto is perfection, then?

Paolo.
To me:
Others may think my brother over-nice
Upon the point of honor; over-keen
To take offence where no offence is meant;
A thought too prodigal of human life,
Holding it naught when weighed against a wrong;
Suspicious of the motives of his friends;
Distrustful of his own high excellence;
And with a certain gloom of temperament,
When thus disturbed, that makes him terrible
And rash in action. I have heard of this;
I never felt it. I distress you, lady?
Perhaps I throw these points too much in shade,
By catching at an enemy's report.
But, then, Lanciotto said, “You'll speak of me,
Not as I ought to be, but as I am.”
He loathes deceit.

Fran.
That 's noble! Have you done?
I have observed a strange reserve, at times,
An over-carefulness in choosing words,
Both in my father and his nearest friends,
When speaking of your brother; as if they
Picked their way slowly over rocky ground,
Fearing to stumble. Ritta, too, my maid,
When her tongue rattles on in full career,
Stops at your brother's name, and with a sigh
Settles herself to dismal silence. Count,
These things have troubled me. From you I look
For perfect frankness. Is there naught withheld?

Paolo.
(Aside.)
O, base temptation! What if I betray
His crippled person—imitate his limp—
Laugh at his hip, his back, his sullen moods
Of childish superstition?—tread his heart
Under my feet, to climb into his place?—
Use his own warrant 'gainst himself; and say,
Because I loved her, and misjudged your jest,
Therefore I stole her? Why, a common thief
Would hang for just such thinking! Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
I reckon on her love, as if I held
The counsels of her bosom. No, I swear,
Francesca would despise so mean a deed.
Have I no honor either? Are my thoughts
All bound by her opinion?

Fran.
This is strange!
Is Lanciotto's name a spell to all?
I ask a simple question, and straight you
Start to one side, and mutter to yourself,
And laugh, and groan, and play the lunatic,
In such a style that you astound me more
Than all the others. It appears to me
I have been singled as a common dupe
By every one. What mystery is this
Surrounds Count Lanciotto? If there be
A single creature in the universe
Who has a right to know him as he is,
I am that one.

Paolo.
I grant it. You shall see,
And shape your judgment by your own remark.
All that my honor calls for I have said.

Fran.
I am content. Unless I greatly err,
Heaven made your breast the seat of honest thoughts.
You know, my lord, that, once at Rimini,
There can be no retreat for me. By you,
Here at Ravenna, in your brother's name,
I shall be solemnly betrothed. And now
I thus extend my maiden hand to you;
If you are conscious of no secret guilt,
Take it.

Paolo.
I do.

[Takes her hand.]
Fran.
You tremble!

Paolo.
With the hand,
Not with the obligation.

Fran.
Farewell, Count!
'T were cruel to tax your stock of compliments,
That waste their sweets upon a trammelled heart;
Go fly your fancies at some freer game.

[Exit.]
Paolo.
O, heaven, if I have faltered and am weak,
'T is from my nature! Fancies, more accursed
Than haunt a murderer's bedside, throng my brain—
Temptations, such as mortal never bore
Since Satan whispered in the ear of Eve,
Sing in my ear—and all, all are accursed!
At heart I have betrayed my brother's trust,
Francesca's openly. Turn where I will,
As if enclosed within a mirrored hall,
I see a traitor. Now to stand erect,
Firm on my base of manly constancy;
Or, if I stagger, let me never quit
The homely path of duty, for the ways
That bloom and glitter with seductive sin!

[Exit.]