University of Virginia Library

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.]