University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The Same. An Apartment in the Castle. Enter Lanciotto.
Lanciotto.
It cannot be that I have duped myself,
That my desire has played into the hand
Of my belief; yet such a thing might be.
We palm more frauds upon our simple selves
Than knavery puts upon us. Could I trust
The open candor of an angel's brow,
I must believe Francesca's. But the tongue
Should consummate the proof upon the brow,
And give the truth its word. The fault lies there.
I 've tried her. Press her as I may to it,
She will not utter those three little words—
“I love thee.” She will say, “I'll marry you;—
I'll be your duteous wife;—I'll cheer your days;—
I'll do whate'er I can.” But at the point
Of present love, she ever shifts the ground,
Winds round the word, laughs, calls me “Infidel!—
How can I doubt?” So, on and on. But yet,
For all her dainty ways, she never says,
Frankly, I love thee. I am jealous—true!
Suspicious—true! distrustful of myself;—
She knows all that. Ay, and she likewise knows,
A single waking of her morning breath
Would blow these vapors off. I would not take
The barren offer of a heartless hand,
If all the Indies cowered under it.
Perhaps she loves another? No; she said,
“I love you, Count, as well as any man;”
And laughed, as if she thought that precious wit.
I turn her nonsense into argument,
And think I reason. Shall I give her up?
Rail at her heartlessness, and bid her go
Back to Ravenna? But she clings to me,
At the least hint of parting. Ah! 't is sweet,
Sweeter than slumber to the lids of pain,
To fancy that a shadow of true love
May fall on this God-stricken mould of woe,
From so serene a nature. Beautiful
Is the first vision of a desert brook,
Shining beneath its palmy garniture,
To one who travels on his easy way;
What is it to the blood-shot, aching eye
Of some poor wight who crawls with gory feet,
In famished madness, to its very brink;
And throws his sun-scorched limbs upon the cool
And humid margin of its shady strand,
To suck up life at every eager gasp?
Such seems Francesca to my thirsting soul;
Shall I turn off and die?

(Enter Pepe.)
Pepe.
Good-morning, cousin!

Lan.
Good-morning to your foolish majesty!

Pepe.
The same to your majestic foolery!

Lan.
You compliment!

Pepe.
I am a troubadour,
A ballad-monger of fine mongrel ballads,
And therefore running o'er with elegance.
Wilt hear my verse?

Lan.
With patience?

Pepe.
No, with rapture.
You must go mad—weep, rend your clothes, and roll
Over and over, like the ancient Greeks,
When listening to Iliad.

Lan.
Sing, then, sing!
And if you equal Homer in your song,
Why, roll I must, by sheer compulsion.

Pepe.
[Sings.]

Lan.
Most marvellous!
You struggle with a legend worth your art.

Pepe.
Now to the second stanza. Note the hint
I drop about the baby's parentage:
So delicately too! A maid might sing,
And never blush at it. Girls love these songs
Of sugared wickedness. They'll go miles about,
To say a foul thing in a cleanly way.
A decent immorality, my lord,
Is art's specific. Get the passions up,
But never wring the stomach.

Lan.
Triumphant art!

Pepe.
(Sings.)
My father combed his blue-black head,
My uncle combed his red head—maybe,
My mother combed my head, and said,
Sing high ho! my red-haired baby!

Lan.
Fie, fie! go comb your hair in private.

Pepe.
[Sings.]

Lan.
Why, what a hair-rending!

Pepe.

Lan.
Peace, fool!
So all this cunning thing was wound about,
To cast a jibe at my deformity?
[Tears off Pepe's cap.]
There lies your cap, the emblem that protects
Your head from chastisement. Now, Pepe, hark!
Of late you 've taken to reviling me;
Under your motley, you have dared to jest
At God's inflictions. Let me tell you, fool,
No man e'er lived, to make a second jest
At me, before your time!

Pepe.
Boo! bloody-bones!
If you 're a coward—which I hardly think—
You'll have me flogged, or put into a cell,
Or fed to wolves. If you are bold of heart,
You'll let me run. Do not; I'll work you harm!
I, Beppo Pepe, standing as a man,
Without my motley, tell you, in plain terms,
I'll work you harm—I'll do you mischief, man!

Lan.
I, Lanciotto, Count of Rimini,
Will hang you, then. Put on your jingling cap;
You please my father. But remember, fool,
No jests at me!

Pepe.
I will try earnest next.

Lan.
And I the gallows.

Pepe.
Well, cry quits, cry quits!
I'll stretch your heart, and you my neck—quits, quits!

Lan.
Go, fool! Your weakness bounds your malice.

Pepe.
Yes:
So you all think, you savage gentlemen,
Until you feel my sting. Hang, hang away!
It is an airy, wholesome sort of death,
Much to my liking. When I hang, my friend,
You'll be chief mourner, I can promise you.
Hang me! I 've quite a notion to be hung:
I'll do my utmost to deserve it.—Hang!

[Exit.]
Lan.
I am bemocked on all sides. My sad state
Has given the licensed and unlicensed fool
Charter to challenge me at every turn.
The jester's laughing bauble blunts my sword,
His gibes cut deeper than its fearful edge;
And I, a man, a soldier, and a prince,
Before this motley patchwork of a man,
Stand all appalled, as if he were a glass
Wherein I saw my own deformity.
O Heaven! a tear—one little tear—to wash
This aching dryness of the heart away!

(Enter Paolo.)
Paolo.
What ails the fool? He passed me, muttering
The strangest garbage in the fiercest tone.
“Ha! ha!” cried he, “they made a fool of me—
A motley man, a slave; as if I felt
No stir in me of manly dignity!
Ha! ha! a fool—a painted plaything, toy—
For men to kick about this dirty world!—
My world as well as theirs.—God's world, I trow!
I will get even with them yet—ha! ha!
In the democracy of death we'll square.
I'll crawl and lie beside a king's own son;
Kiss a young princess, dead lip to dead lip;
Pull the Pope's nose; and kick down Charlemagne,
Throne, crown, and all, where the old idiot sprawls,
Safe as he thinks, rotting in royal state!”
And then he laughed and gibbered, as if drunk
With some infernal ecstasy.

Lan.
Poor fool!
That is the groundwork of his malice, then,—
His conscious difference from the rest of men?
I, of all men, should pity him the most.
Poor Pepe! I'll be kinder. I have wronged
A feeling heart. Poor Pepe!

Paolo.
Sad again!
Where has the rapture gone of yesterday?

Lan.
Where are the leaves of Summer? Where the snows
Of last year's Winter? Where the joys and griefs
That shut our eyes to yesternight's repose,
And woke not on the morrow? Joys and griefs,
Huntsmen and hounds, ye follow us as game,
Poor panting outcasts of your forest-law!
Each cheers the others,—one with wild halloos,
And one with whines and howls.—A dreadful chase,
That only closes when horns sound amort!

Paolo.
Thus ever up and down! Arouse yourself,
Balance your mind more evenly, and hunt
For honey in the wormwood.

Lan.
Or find gall
Hid in the hanging chalice of the rose:
Which think you better? If my mood offend,
We'll turn to business,—to the empty cares
That make such pother in our feverish life.
When at Ravenna, did you ever hear
Of any romance in Francesca's life?
A love-tilt, gallantry, or anything
That might have touched her heart?

Paolo.
Not lightly even.
I think her heart as virgin as her hand.

Lan.
Then there is hope.

Paolo.
Of what?

Lan.
Of winning her.

Paolo.
Grammercy! Lanciotto, are you sane?
You boasted yesterday—

Lan.
And changed to-day.
Is that so strange? I always mend the fault
Of yesterday with wisdom of to-day.
She does not love me.

Paolo.
Pshaw! she marries you:
'T were proof enough for me.

Lan.
Perhaps, she loves you.

Paolo.
Me, Lanciotto, me! For mercy's sake,
Blot out such thoughts—they madden me! What, love—
She love—yet marry you!

Lan.
It moves you much.
'T was but a fleeting fancy, nothing more.

Paolo.
You have such wild conjectures!

Lan.
Well, to me
They seem quite tame; they are my bed-fellows.
Think, to a modest woman, what must be
The loathsome kisses of an unloved man—
A gross, coarse ruffian!

Paolo.
O! good heavens, forbear!

Lan.
What shocks you so?

Paolo.
The picture which you draw,
Wronging yourself by horrid images.

Lan.
Until she love me, till I know, beyond
The cavil of a doubt, that she is mine—
Wholly, past question—do you think that I
Could so afflict the woman whom I love?

Paolo.
You love her, Lanciotto!

Lan.
Next to you,
Dearer than anything in nature's scope.

Paolo.
(Aside.)
O! Heaven, that I must bear this! Yes, and more,—
More torture than I dare to think upon,
Spreads out before me with the coming years,
And holds a record blotted with my tears,
As that which I must suffer!

Lan.
Come, Paolo,
Come help me woo. I need your guiding eye,
To signal me, if I should sail astray.

Paolo.
O! torture, torture! [Aside.]


Lan.
You and I, perchance,
Joining our forces, may prevail at last.
They call love like a battle. As for me,
I'm not a soldier equal to such wars,
Despite my arduous schooling. Tutor me
In the best arts of amorous strategy.
I am quite raw, Paolo. Glances, sighs,
Sweets of the lip, and arrows of the eye,
Shrugs, cringes, compliments, are new to me;
And I shall handle them with little art.
Will you instruct me?

Paolo.
Conquer for yourself.
Two captains share one honor: keep it all.
What if I ask to share the spoils?

Lan.
(Laughing.)
Ha! ha!
I'll trust you, brother. Let us go to her:
Francesca is neglected while we jest.
I know not how it is, but your fair face,
And noble figure, always cheer me up,
More than your words; there 's healing in them, too,
For my worst griefs. Dear brother, let us in.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

The Same. A Chamber in the Same. Francesca and Ritta discovered at the bridal toilet.
Ritta.
(Sings.)

Francesca.
A mournful ballad!

Ritta.
I scarce knew I sang.
I'm weary of this wreath. These orange-flowers
Will never be adjusted to my taste:
Strive as I will, they ever look awry.
My fingers ache!

Fran.
Not more than my poor head.
There, leave them so.

Rit.
That 's better, yet not well.

Fran.
They are but fading things, not worth your pains:
They'll scarce outlive the marriage merriment.
Ritta, these flowers are hypocrites; they show
An outside gayety, yet die within,
Minute by minute. You shall see them fall,
Black with decay, before the rites are o'er.

Rit.
How beautiful you are!

Fran.
Fie, flatterer!
White silk and laces, pearls and orange-flowers,
Would do as much for any one.

Rit.
No, no!
You give them grace, they nothing give to you.
Why, after all, you make the wreath look well;
But somewhat dingy, where it lies against
Your pulsing temple, sullen with disgrace.
Ah! well, your Count should be the proudest man
That ever led a lady into church,
Were he a modern Alexander. Poh!
What are his trophies to a face like that?

Fran.
I seem to please you, Ritta.

Rit.
Please yourself,
And you will please me better. You are sad:
I marked it ever since you saw the Count.
I fear the splendor of his victories,
And his sweet grace of manner—for, in faith,
His is the gentlest, grandest character,
Despite his—

Fran.
Well?

Rit.
Despite his—

Fran.
Ritta, What?

Rit.
Despite his difference from Count Paolo.—
[Francesca staggers.]
What is the matter?

[Supporting her.]
Fran.
Nothing; mere fatigue.
Hand me my kerchief. I am better now.
What were you saying?

Rit.
That I fear the Count
Has won your love.

Fran.
Would that be cause for fear?

[Laughing.]
Rit.
O! yes, indeed! Once—long ago—I was
Just fool enough to tangle up my heart
With one of these same men. 'T was terrible!
Morning or evening, waking or asleep,
I had no peace. Sighs, groans, and standing tears,
Counted my moments through the blessed day.
And then to this there was a dull, strange ache
Forever sleeping in my breast,—a numbing pain,
That would not for an instant be forgot.
O! but I loved him so, that very feeling
Became intolerable. And I believed
This false Giuseppe, too, for all the sneers,
The shrugs and glances, of my intimates.
They slandered me and him, yet I believed.
He was a noble, and his love to me
Was a reproach, a shame, yet I believed.
He wearied of me, tried to shake me off,
Grew cold and formal, yet I would not doubt.
O! lady, I was true! Nor till I saw
Giuseppe walk through the cathedral door
With Dora, the rich usurer's niece, upon
The very arm to which I clung so oft,
Did I so much as doubt him. Even then—
More is my shame—I made excuses for him.
“Just this or that had forced him to the course:
Perhaps, he loved me yet—a little yet.
His fortune, or his family, had driven
My poor Giuseppe thus against his heart.
The low are sorry judges for the great.
Yes, yes, Giuseppe loved me!” But at last
I did awake. It might have been with less:
There was no need of crushing me, to break
My silly dream up. In the street, it chanced,
Dora and he went by me, and he laughed—
A bold, bad laugh—right in my poor pale face,
And turned and whispered Dora, and she laughed.
Ah! then I saw it all. I 've been awake,
Ever since then, I warrant you. And now
I only pray for him sometimes, when friends
Tell his base actions towards his hapless wife.—
O! I am lying—I pray every night!

[Weeps.]
Fran.
Poor Ritta!

[Weeping.]
Rit.
No! blest Ritta! Thank kind Heaven,
That kept me spotless when he tempted me,
And my weak heart was pleading with his tongue.
Pray, do not weep. You spoil your eyes for me.
But never love; O! it is terrible!

Fran.
I'll strive against it.

Rit.
Do: because, my lady,
Even a husband may be false, you know;
Ay, even to so sweet a wife as you.
Men have odd tastes. They'll surfeit on the charms
Of Cleopatra, and then turn aside
To woo her blackamoor. 'T is so, in faith;
Or Dora's uncle's gold had ne'er outbid
The boundless measure of a love like mine.
Think of it, lady, to weigh love with gold!
What could be meaner?

Fran.
Nothing, nothing, Ritta.
Though gold 's the standard measure of the world,
And seems to lighten everything beside.
Yet heap the other passions in the scale,
And balance them 'gainst that which gold outweighs—
Against this love—and you shall see how light
The most supreme of them are in the poise!
I speak by book and history; for love
Slights my high fortunes. Under cloth of state
The urchin cowers from pompous etiquette,
Waiving his function at the scowl of power,
And seeks the rustic cot to stretch his limbs
In homely freedom. I fulfil a doom.
We who are topmost on this heap of life
Are nearer to Heaven's hand than you below;
And so are used, as ready instruments,
To work its purposes. Let envy hide
Her witless forehead at a prince's name,
And fix her hopes upon a clown's content.
You, happy lowly, know not what it is
To groan beneath the crownéd yoke of state,
And bear the goadings of the sceptre. Ah!
Fate drives us onward in a narrow way,
Despite our boasted freedom.
(Enter Paolo, with Pages bearing torches.)
Gracious saints!
What brought you here?

Paolo.
The bridegroom waits.

Fran.
He does?
Let him wait on forever! I'll not go!
O! dear Paolo—

Paolo.
Sister!

Fran.
It is well.
I have been troubled with a sleepless night.
My brain is wild. I know not what I say.
Pray, do not call me sister: it is cold.
I never had a brother, and the name
Sounds harshly to me. When you speak to me,
Call me Francesca.

Paolo.
You shall be obeyed.

Fran.
I would not be obeyed. I 'd have you do it
Because—because you love me—as a sister—
And of your own good-will, not my command,
Would please me.—Do you understand?

Paolo.
Too well!
[Aside.]
'T is a nice difference.

Fran.
Yet you understand?
Say that you do.

Paolo.
I do.

Fran.
That pleases me.
'T is flattering if our—friends appreciate
Our nicer feelings.

Paolo.
I await you, lady.

Fran.
Ritta, my gloves.—Ah! yes, I have them on;
Though I 'm not quite prepared. Arrange my veil;
It folds too closely. That will do; retire.
[Ritta retires.]
So, Count Paolo, you have come, hot haste,
To lead me to the church,—to have your share
In my undoing? And you came, in sooth,
Because they sent you? You are very tame!
And if they sent, was it for you to come?

Paolo.
Lady, I do not understand this scorn.
I came, as is my duty, to escort
My brother's bride to him. When next you 're called,
I'll send a lackey.

Fran.
I have angered you.

Paolo.
With reason: I would not appear to you
Low or contemptible.

Fran.
Why not to me?

Paolo.
Lady, I'll not be catechized.

Fran.
Ha! Count!

Paolo.
No! if you press me further, I will say
A word to madden you.—Stand still! You stray
Around the margin of a precipice.
I know what pleasure 't is to pluck the flowers
That hang above destruction, and to gaze
Into the dread abyss, to see such things
As may be safely seen. 'T is perilous:
The eye grows dizzy as we gaze below,
And a wild wish possesses us to spring
Into the vacant air. Beware, beware!
Lest this unholy fascination grow
Too strong to conquer!

Fran.
You talk wildly, Count;
There 's not a gleam of sense in what you say;
I cannot hit your meaning.

Paolo.
Lady, come!

Fran.
Count, you are cruel!

[Weeps.]
Paolo.
O! no; I would be kind.
But now, while reason over-rides my heart,
And seeming anger plays its braggart part—
In heaven's name, come!

Fran.
One word—one question more:
Is it your wish this marriage should proceed?

Paolo.
It is.

Fran.
Come on! You shall not take my hand:
I'll walk alone—now, and forever!

Paolo.
(Taking her hand.)
Sister!

[Exeunt Paolo and Francesca, with Pages.]
Ritta.
O! misery, misery!—it is plain as day—
She loves Paolo! Why will those I love
Forever get themselves ensnared, and heaven
Forever call on me to succor them?
Here was the mystery, then—the sighs and tears,
The troubled slumbers, and the waking dreams!
And now she 's walking through the chapel-door,
Her bridal robe above an aching heart,
Dressed up for sacrifice. 'T is terrible!
And yet she'll smile and do it. Smile, for years,
Until her heart breaks; and the nurses ask
The doctor of the cause. He'll answer too,
In hard thick Latin, and believe himself.
O! my dear mistress! Heaven, pray torture me!
Send back Giuseppe, let him ruin me,
And scorn me after; but, sweet heaven, spare her!
I'll follow her. O! what a world is this!

[Exit.]

SCENE III.

The Same. Interior of the Cathedral. Lanciotto, Francesca, Paolo, Malatesta, Guido, Ritta, Pepe, Lords, Knights, Priests, Pages, a bridal-train of Ladies, Soldiers, Citizens, Attendants, &c., discovered before the High Altar. Organ music. The rites being over, they advance.
Malatesta.
By heaven—

Pepe.
O! uncle, uncle, you 're in church!

Mal.
I'll break your head, knave!

Pepe.
I claim sanctuary.

Mal.
Why, bridegroom, will you never kiss the bride?
We all are mad to follow you.

Pepe.
Yes, yes;
Here was Paolo wetting his red lips
For the last minute. Kiss, and give him room.

Mal.
You heaven-forsaken imp, be quiet now!

Pepe.
Then there 'd be naught worth hearing.

Mal.
Bridegroom, come!

Pepe.
Lord! he don't like it! Hey!—I told you so—
He backs at the first step. Does he not know
His trouble 's just begun?

Lanciotto.
Gentle Francesca,
Custom imposes somewhat on thy lips:
I'll make my levy.
[Kisses her. The others follow.]
(Aside.)
Ha! she shrank! I felt
Her body tremble, and her quivering lips
Seemed dying under mine! I heard a sigh,
Such as breaks hearts—O! no, a very groan;
And then she turned a sickly, miserable look
On pale Paolo, and he shivered too!
There is a mystery hangs around her,—ay,
Paolo knows it too.—By all the saints,
I'll make him tell it, at the dagger's point!
Paolo!—here! I do adjure you, brother,
By the great love I bear you, to reveal
The secret of Francesca's grief.

Paolo.
I cannot.

Lan.
She told you nothing?

Paolo.
Nothing.

Lan.
Not a word?

Paolo.
Not one.

Lan.
What heard you at Ravenna, then?

Paolo.
Nothing

Lan.
Here?

Paolo.
Nothing.

Lan.
Not the slightest hint?—
Don't stammer, man! Speak quick! I am in haste.

Paolo.
Never.

Lan.
What know you?

Paolo.
Nothing that concerns
Your happiness, Lanciotto. If I did,
Would I not tell unquestioned?

Lan.
Would you not?
You ask a question for me: answer it.

Paolo.
I have.

Lan.
You juggle, you turn deadly pale,
Fumble your dagger, stand with head half round,
Tapping your feet.—You dare not look at me!
By Satan! Count Paolo, let me say,
You look much like a full-convicted thief!

Paolo.
Brother!—

Lan.
Pshaw! brother! You deceive me, sir:
You and that lady have a devil's league,
To keep a devil's secret. Is it thus
You deal with me? Now, by the light above,
I 'd give a dukedom for some fair pretext
To fly you all! She does not love me? Well,
I could bear that, and live away from her.
Love would be sweet, but want of it becomes
An early habit to such men as I.
But you—ah! there 's the sorrow—whom I loved
An infant in your cradle; you who grew
Up in my heart, with every inch you gained;
You whom I loved for every quality,
Good, bad, and common, in your natural stock;
Ay, for your very beauty! It is strange, you'll say,
For such a crippled horror to do that,
Against the custom of his kind! O! yes,
I love, and you betray me!

Paolo.
Lanciotto,
This is sheer frenzy. Join your bride.

Lan.
I'll not!
What, go to her, to feel her very flesh
Crawl from my touch?—to hear her sigh and moan,
As if God plagued her? Must I come to that?
Must I endure your hellish mystery
With my own wife, and roll my eyes away
In sentimental bliss? No, no! until
I go to her, with confident belief
In her integrity and candid love,
I'll shun her as a leper!

[Alarm-bells toll.]
Mal.
What is that?

(Enter, hastily, a Messenger in disorder.)
Messenger.
My lord, the Ghibelins are up—

Lan.
And I
Will put them down again! I thank thee, Heaven,
For this unlooked-for aid!

[Aside.]
Mal.
What force have they?

Lan.
It matters not,—nor yet the time, place, cause,
Of their rebellion. I would throttle it,
Were it a riot, or a drunken brawl!

Mal.
Nay, son, your bride—

Lan.
My bride will pardon me;
Bless me, perhaps, as I am going forth;—
Thank me, perhaps, if I should ne'er return.
[Aside.]
A soldier's duty has no bridals in it.

Paolo.
Lanciotto, this is folly. Let me take
Your usual place of honor.

Lan.
(Laughing.)
Ha! ha! ha!
What! thou, a tilt-yard soldier, lead my troops!
My wife will ask it shortly. Not a word
Of opposition from the new-made bride?
Nay, she looks happier. O! accursed day,
That I was mated to an empty heart!

[Aside.]
Mal.
But, son—

Lan.
Well, father?

Pepe.
Uncle, let him go.
He'll find it cooler on a battle-field
Than in his—

Lan.
Hark! the fool speaks oracles.
You, soldiers, who are used to follow me,
And front our charges, emulous to bear
The shock of battle on your forward arms,—
Why stand ye in amazement? Do your swords
Stick to their scabbards with inglorious rust?
Or has repose so weakened your big hearts,
That you can dream with trumpets at your ears?
Out with your steel! It shames me to behold
Such tardy welcome to my war-worn blade!
[Draws.]
(The Knights and Soldiers draw.)
Ho! draw our forces out! Strike camp, sound drums,
And set us on our marches! As I live,
I pity the next foeman who relies
On me for mercy! Farewell! to you all—
To all alike—a soldier's short farewell!
[Going.]
(Paolo stands before him.)
Out of my way, thou juggler!

[Exit.]
Paolo.
He is gone!