FRANCESCA. Past noon, my lord.

GUIDO. We must be stirring, then.

FRANCESCA. I do not like this marriage.

GUIDO. But I do.

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

RITTA. That's it, my lady.

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

RITTA. [Aside.] O! that pot again! My lord, my heart betrays me; but you know How true 'tis to my lady. [Exit.

FRANCESCA. What ails Ritta?

GUIDO. The ailing of your sex, a running tongue. Francesca, 'tis 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.

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

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

FRANCESCA. 'Twere best Francesca, of the self-same name, Made herself bridal garments. [Laughing.

GUIDO. Right!

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

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

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

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

FRANCESCA. 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, flowers, etc., 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, etc., with banners, arms, etc.

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 favour to the family.

CARDINAL. Tis 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 'tis fatal.

GUIDO. Has your lordship done?

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

GUIDO. I have not heart.

CARDINAL. I have. [Going.

GUIDO. Hold, Cardinal! My plan is better. Get her off my hands, And I care not.

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

GUIDO. I'll stop my ears up.

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

GUIDO. 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.

CARDINAL. Farewell, my lord. I'll neither help nor countenance a fraud. You crafty men take comfort to yourselves, Saying, deceit dies with discovery. 'Tis 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.

GUIDO. 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.

GUIDO. Inform my daughter.

NOBLEMAN. She is here, my lord.

Enter FRANCESCA, RITTA, LADIES, ATTENDANTS, etc.

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,— 'Twixt 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 honours 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, Tis that thou seem'st too blessed; and 'twere strange In me to offer what thou'st always given.

GUIDO. [Aside.] This is too much! If she would rail a while At me and fortune, it could be endured. [Shouts, music, etc., within.

FRANCESCA. 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 yon cavalcade! Is that the Count?

RITTA. Upon the dapple-gray?

FRANCESCA. Yes, yes.

RITTA. No; that's his—

GUIDO. [Apart to her.] Ritta!

RITTA. Ay; that's—that's—

GUIDO. Ritta, the pot! [Apart to her.

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

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

RITTA. My lady, what?

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

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

FRANCESCA. 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.

RITTA. Alas! dear lady! [Aside.

GUIDO. [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, etc. Music, shouts, ringing of bells, etc. Enter MEN-AT-ARMS, with banners, etc.; PAGES bearing costly presents on cushions; then PAOLO, surrounded by NOBLEMEN, KNIGHTS, MINSTRELS, etc., and followed by other MEN-AT-ARMS. They range themselves opposite the dais.

GUIDO. 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.

GUIDO. 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, 'tis 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.

GUIDO. [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!

FRANCESCA. [Advancing.] Father?

GUIDO. Well, my child.

FRANCESCA. How do you like—

GUIDO. The coxcomb! I've done well!

FRANCESCA. No, no; Count Lanciotto?

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

FRANCESCA. Deputies! And woo by proxy!

GUIDO. Come to me anon. I'll strip this cuckoo of his gallantry! [Exit with GUARDS, etc.

FRANCESCA. Ritta, my father has strange ways of late.

RITTA. I wonder not.

FRANCESCA. You wonder not?

RITTA. 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—

FRANCESCA. 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.

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

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

RITTA. Nor I.

FRANCESCA. Nor any one.

RITTA. 'Tis not the Count— 'Tis not Count Lanciotto.

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

RITTA. 'Tis the solemn truth. That gentleman is Count Paolo, lady, Brother to Lanciotto, and no more Like him than—than—

FRANCESCA. Than what?

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

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

RITTA. 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!

FRANCESCA. Dear Ritta!—

RITTA. 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.

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

RITTA. 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.

FRANCESCA. This you mean?

RITTA. I do, indeed!

FRANCESCA. 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!

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

FRANCESCA. How, dare you plead for him?

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

FRANCESCA. I dare. It was ill usage, gross abuse, Treason to duty, meanness, craft—dishonour! 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, etc.

RITTA. So, 'tis 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— 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.

RITTA. No; I prefer to stew.

GUIDO. And I to boil.

RITTA. Tis 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 'twere well If I could hurry after them.

GUIDO. Poor child. [Aside.] But, baggage, said you aught of Lanciotto?

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

GUIDO. Is he so ugly?

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

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

RITTA. Am I not to boil?

GUIDO. 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.

RITTA. Fire is my fate, I see that.

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

RITTA. 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.

GUIDO. Ha! you are saucy. I have honoured 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. 'Twas undutiful To doubt your wisdom. It is over now. I only thought you might have trusted me With any counsel.

GUIDO. [Aside.] Would I had!

FRANCESCA. 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—'twould 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.

GUIDO. 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.

FRANCESCA. Indeed?

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

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

Enter a SERVANT.

SERVANT. The Count Paolo. [Exit.

FRANCESCA. Misery! That name was not Lanciotto!

GUIDO. Farewell, child. I'll leave you with the Count: he'll make it plain. It seems 'twas Count Paolo. [Going.

FRANCESCA. Father!

GUIDO. Well.

FRANCESCA. 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, 'twould 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 honour—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.

FRANCESCA. 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 honour and high dignity. I did not think to hear you underrate Your own importance, by dishonouring me.

FRANCESCA. You are severe, my lord.

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

FRANCESCA. 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—

FRANCESCA. 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, 'Tis 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.

FRANCESCA. 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.

FRANCESCA. How can I be?

PAOLO. How, lady?

FRANCESCA. 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 people's feelings in my heart; Even to fill the void which you confess By such employment.

PAOLO. Lady, 'tis 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.

FRANCESCA. You riddle.

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

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

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

FRANCESCA. 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.

FRANCESCA. As how?

PAOLO. 'Tis dangerous to talk about one's self; It panders selfishness. My duty waits.

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

PAOLO. I, too, shame upon me. [Aside.

FRANCESCA. Does he resemble you?

PAOLO. Pray drop me, lady.

FRANCESCA. Nay, answer me.

PAOLO. Somewhat—in feature.

FRANCESCA. 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.

FRANCESCA. In person?

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

FRANCESCA. 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, Harbours 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.

FRANCESCA. 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 honour; 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.

FRANCESCA. 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 honour either? Are my thoughts All bound by her opinions?

FRANCESCA. 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 honour calls for I have said.

FRANCESCA. 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.

FRANCESCA. You tremble!

PAOLO. With the hand, Not with the obligation.

FRANCESCA. Farewell, Count! 'Twere 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, Tis 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.



ACT III

SCENE I. Rimini. A Room in the Castle. LANCIOTTO discovered reading.

LANCIOTTO. O! fie, philosophy! This Seneca Revels in wealth, and whines about the poor! Talks of starvation while his banquet waits, And fancies that a two hours' appetite Throws light on famine! Doubtless he can tell, As he skips nimbly through his dancing-girls, How sad it is to limp about the world A sightless cripple! Let him feel the crutch Wearing against his heart, and then I'd hear This sage talk glibly; or provide a pad, Stuffed with his soft philosophy, to ease His aching shoulder. Pshaw! he never felt, Or pain would choke his frothy utterance. 'Tis easy for the doctor to compound His nauseous simples for a sick man's health; But let him swallow them, for his disease, Without wry faces. Ah! the tug is there. Show me philosophy in rags, in want, Sick of a fever, with a back like mine, Creeping to wisdom on these legs, and I Will drink its comforts. Out! away with you! There's no such thing as real philosophy! [Throws down the book.]

[Enter PEPE.]

Here is a sage who'll teach a courtier The laws of etiquette, a statesman rule, A soldier discipline, a poet verse, And each mechanic his distinctive trade; Yet bring him to his motley, and how wide He shoots from reason! We can understand All business but our own, and thrust advice In every gaping cranny of the world; While habit shapes us to our own dull work, And reason nods above his proper task. Just so philosophy would rectify All things abroad, and be a jade at home. Pepe, what think you of the Emperor's aim Towards Hungary?

PEPE. A most unwise design; For mark, my lord—

LANCIOTTO. Why, there! the fact cries out. Here's motley thinking for a diadem!— Ay, and more wisely in his own regard.

PEPE. You flout me, cousin.

LANCIOTTO. Have you aught that's new?— Some witty trifle, some absurd conceit?

PEPE. Troth, no.

LANCIOTTO. Why not give up the Emperor, And bend your wisdom on your duties, Pepe?

PEPE. Because the Emperor has more need of wisdom Than the most barren fool of wit.

LANCIOTTO. Well said! Mere habit brings the fool back to his art. This jester is a rare philosopher. Teach me philosophy, good fool.

PEPE. No need. You'll get a teacher when you take a wife. If she do not instruct you in more arts Than Aristotle ever thought upon, The good old race of woman has declined Into a sort of male stupidity. I had a sweetheart once, she lectured grandly; No matter on what subject she might hit, T was all the same, she could talk and she would. She had no silly modesty; she dashed Straight in the teeth of any argument, And talked you deaf, dumb, blind. Whatever struck Upon her ear, by some machinery, Set her tongue wagging. Thank the Lord, she died!— Dropped in the middle of a fierce harangue, Like a spent horse. It was an even thing, Whether she talked herself or me to death. The latest sign of life was in her tongue; It wagged till sundown, like a serpent's tail, Long after all the rest of her was cold. Alas! poor Zippa!

LANCIOTTO. Were you married, fool?

PEPE. Married! Have I the scars upon me? No; I fell in love; and that was bad enough, And far enough for a mere fool to go. Married! why, marriage is love's purgatory, Without a heaven beyond.

LANCIOTTO. Fie, atheist! Would you abolish marriage?

PEPE. Yes.

LANCIOTTO. What?

PEPE. Yes.

LANCIOTTO. Depopulate the world?

PEPE. No fear of that. I'd have no families, no Malatesti, Strutting about the land, with pedigrees And claims bequeathed them by their ancestors; No fellows vapouring of their royal blood; No one to seize a whole inheritance, And rob the other children of the earth. By Jove! you should not know your fathers, even! I'd have you spring, like toadstools, from the soil— Mere sons of women—nothing more nor less— All base-born, and all equal. There, my lord, There is a simple commonwealth for you! In which aspiring merit takes the lead, And birth goes begging.

LANCIOTTO. It is so, in truth; And by the simplest means I ever heard.

PEPE. Think of it, cousin. Tell it to your friends, The statesmen, soldiers, and philosophers; Noise it about the earth, and let it stir The sluggish spirits of the multitudes. Pursue the thought, scan it, from end to end, Through all its latent possibilities. It is a great seed dropped, I promise you, And it must sprout. Thought never wholly dies; It only wants a name—a hard Greek name— Some few apostles, who may live on it— crowd of listeners, with the average dulness That man possesses—and we organize; Spread our new doctrine, like a general plague; Talk of man's progress and development, Wrongs of society, the march of mind, The Devil, Doctor Faustus, and what not; And, lo! this pretty world turns upside down, All with a fool's idea!

LANCIOTTO. By Jupiter, You hit our modern teachers to a hair! I knew this fool was a philosopher. Pepe is right. Mechanic means advance; Nature bows down to Science' haughty tread, And turns the wheel of smutty artifice: New governments arise, dilate, decay, And foster creeds and churches to their tastes: At each advance, we cry, "Behold, the end!" Till some fresh wonder breaks upon the age. But man, the moral creature, midst it all Stands still unchanged; nor moves towards virtue more, Nor comprehends the mysteries in himself, More than when Plato taught academies, Or Zeno thundered from his Attic porch.

PEPE. I know not that; I only want my scheme Tried for a while. I am a politician, A wrongs-of-man man. Hang philosophy! Let metaphysics swallow, at a gulp, Its last two syllables, and purge itself Clean of its filthy humours! I am one Ready for martyrdom, for stake and fire, If I can make my great idea take root! Zounds! cousin, if I had an audience, I'd make you shudder at my eloquence! I have an itching to reform the world.

LANCIOTTO. Begin at home, then.

PEPE. Home is not my sphere; Heaven picked me out to teach my fellow-men. I am a very firebrand of truth— A self-consuming, doomed, devoted brand— That burns to ashes while I light the world! I feel it in me. I am moved, inspired, Stirred into utterance, by some mystic power Of which I am the humble instrument.

LANCIOTTO. A bad digestion, sage, a bilious turn, A gnawing stomach, or a pinching shoe.

PEPE. O! hear, but spare the scoffer! Spare the wretch Who sneers at the anointed man of truth! When we reached that, I and my followers Would rend you limb from limb. There!—ha! ha! ha! [Laughing.] Have I not caught the slang these fellows preach; A grand, original idea, to back it; And all the stock in trade of a reformer?

LANCIOTTO. You have indeed; nor do I wonder, Pepe. Fool as you are, I promise you success In your new calling, if you'll set it up. The thing is far too simple.

Trumpet sounds within.

PEPE. Hist! my lord.

LANCIOTTO. That calls me to myself.

PEPE. At that alarm, All Rimini leaped up upon its feet. Cousin, your bridal-train. You groan! 'Ods wounds! Here is the bridegroom sorely malcontent— The sole sad face in Rimini. Since morn, A quiet man could hardly walk the streets, For flowers and streamers. All the town is gay. Perhaps 'tis merry o'er your misery.

LANCIOTTO. Perhaps; but that it knows not.

PEPE. Yes, it does: It knows that when a man's about to wed, He's ripe to laugh at. Cousin, tell me, now, Why is Paolo on the way so long? Ravenna's but eight leagues from Rimini—

LANCIOTTO. That's just the measure of your tongue, good fool. You trouble me. I've had enough of you— Begone!

PEPE. I'm going; but you see I limp. Have pity on a cripple, gentle Count. [Limps.

LANCIOTTO. Pepe!

PEPE. A miracle, a miracle! See, see, my lord, at Pepe's saintly name The lame jog on.

MALATESTA. [Without.] Come, Lanciotto!

LANCIOTTO. Hark! My father calls.

PEPE. If he were mine, I'd go— That's a good boy! [Pats LANCIOTTO'S back.

LANCIOTTO. [Starting.] Hands off! you'll rue it else! [Exit.

PEPE. [Laughing.] Ha! ha! I laid my hand upon his hump! Heavens, how he squirmed! And what a wish I had To cry, Ho! camel! leap upon his back, And ride him to the devil! So, we've had A pleasant flitting round philosophy! The Count and Fool bumped heads, and struck ideas Out by the contact! Quite a pleasant talk— A friendly conversation, nothing more— 'Twixt nobleman and jester. Ho! my bird, I can toss lures as high as any man. So, I amuse you with my harmless wit? Pepe's your friend now—you can trust in him— An honest, simple fool! Just try it once, You ugly, misbegotten clod of dirt! Ay, but the hump—the touch upon the hump— The start and wriggle—that was rare! Ha! ha!

[Exit, laughing.



SCENE II.

The Same. The Grand Square before the Castle. SOLDIERS on guard, with banners, etc. CITIZENS, in holiday dresses, cross the scene. The houses are hung with trophies, banners, garlands, etc. Enter MALATESTA, with GUARDS, ATTENDANTS, etc.

MALATESTA. Captain, take care the streets be not choked up By the rude rabble. Send to Caesar's bridge A strong detachment of your men, and clear The way before them. See that nothing check The bride's first entrance into Rimini. Station your veterans in the front. Count Guido Comes with his daughter, and his eyes are sharp. Keep up a show of strength before him, sir; And set some labourers to work upon The broken bastion. Make all things look bright; As if we stood in eager readiness, And high condition, to begin a war.

CAPTAIN. I will, my lord.

MALATESTA. Keep Guido in your eye; And if you see him looking over-long On any weakness of our walls, just file Your bulkiest fellows round him; or get up A scuffle with the people; anything— Even if you break a head or two—to draw His vision off. But where our strength is great, Take heed to make him see it. You conceive?

CAPTAIN. Trust me, my lord. [Exit with GUARDS.

Enter PEPE.

PEPE. Room, room! A hall; a hall! I pray you, good man, has the funeral passed?

MALATESTA. Who is it asks?

PEPE. Pepe of Padua, A learned doctor of uncivil law.

MALATESTA. But how a funeral?

PEPE. You are weak of wit. Francesca of Ravenna's borne to church, And never issues thence.

MALATESTA. How, doctor, pray?

PEPE. Now, for a citizen of Rimini, You're sadly dull. Does she not issue thence Fanny of Rimini? A glorious change,— kind of resurrection in the flesh!

MALATESTA. [Laughing.] Ha! ha! thou cunning villain! I was caught. I own it, doctor.

PEPE. [Aside.] This old fool would laugh To see me break a straw, because the bits Were of unequal lengths. My character Carries more dulness, in the guise of wit, Than would suffice to break an ass's back.

[Distant shouts, music, &c.]

Hark! here comes Jeptha's daughter, jogging on With timbrels and with dances.

MALATESTA. Jeptha's daughter! How so?

PEPE. Her father's sacrifice.

MALATESTA. [Laughing.] Ho! ho! You'll burst my belt! O! you outrageous wretch, To jest at Scripture!

PEPE. You outlandish heathen, Tis not in Scripture!

MALATESTA. Is it not?

PEPE. No more Than you are in heaven. Mere Hebrew history. She went up to the mountains, to bewail The too-long keeping of her honesty. There's woman for you! there's a character! What man would ever think of such a thing? Ah! we of Rimini have little cause For such a sorrow. Would she'd been my wife! I'll marry any woman in her case.

MALATESTA. Why, Pepe?

PEPE. Why? because, in two months' time, Along comes father Jeptha with his knife, And there's an end. Where is your sacrifice? Where's Isaac, Abraham? Build your altar up: One pile will do for both.

MALATESTA. That's Scripture, sure.

PEPE. Then I'm a ram, and you may slaughter me In Isaac's stead.

MALATESTA. Here comes the vanguard. Where, Where is that laggard?

PEPE. At the mirror, uncle, Making himself look beautiful. He comes, [Looking out.] Fresh as a bridegroom! Mark his doublet's fit Across the shoulders, and his hose!— By Jove, he nearly looks like any other man!

MALATESTA. You'd best not let him hear you. Sirrah, knave, I have a mind to swinge you! [Seizes his ear.

PEPE. Loose my ear! You've got the wrong sow, swineherd! You're unjust. Being his father, I was fool sufficient To think you fashioned him to suit yourself, By way of a variety. The thought Was good enough, the practice damnable.

MALATESTA. Hush! or I'll clap you in the pillory.

Enter LANCIOTTO.

PEPE. [Sings.] Ho, ho, ho, ho!—old Time has wings— We're born, we mourn, we wed, we bed, We have a devilish aching head; So down we lie, And die, and fry; And there's a merry end of things!

[Music, &c., within.]

Here come Ravenna's eagles for a roost In Rimini! The air is black with them. When go they hence? Wherever yon bird builds, The nest remains for ages. Have an eye, Or Malatesta's elephant may feel The eagle's talons.

LANCIOTTO. You're a raven, croaker.

PEPE. And you no white crow, to insure us luck.

MALATESTA. There's matter in his croak.

PEPE. There always is; But men lack ears.

MALATESTA. Then eyes must do our work. Old Guido shall be looked to. If his force Appear too great, I'll camp him out of town.

LANCIOTTO. Father, you are a sorry host.

MALATESTA. Well, well, I'm a good landlord, though. I do not like This flight of eagles more than Pepe. 'Sdeath! Guido was ever treacherous.

LANCIOTTO. My lord, You mar my holiday by such a thought. My holiday! Dear saints! it seems to me That all of you are mocking me.

PEPE. So—so— Guido was ever treacherous?—so—so!

MALATESTA. So—so! How so?

PEPE. What if this treachery Run in the blood? We'll tap a vein then—so!

MALATESTA. Sew up your mouth, and mind your fooling fool!

PEPE. Am I not fooling? Why, my lord, I thought The fooling exquisite.

LANCIOTTO. [Aside.] This thoughtless knave Hits near us sometimes with his random shafts. Marriage for me! I cannot comprehend, I cannot take it to my heart; the thing Seems gross, absurd, ridiculous. Ah! well, My father bears the folly of it all; I'm but an actor in his comedy. My part is bad, but I must through with it. [Retires.

Shouts, music, &c., within.

PEPE. Look! here's the whole parade! Mark yonder knave— The head one with the standard. Nature, nature! Hadst thou a hand in such a botch-work? Why, A forest of his legs would scarcely make A bunch of fagots. Mark old Guido, too! He looks like Judas with his silver. Ho! Here's news from sweet Ravenna!

MALATESTA. [Laughing.] Ha! ha! ha!

PEPE. Ah! now the bride!—that's something—she is tooth-some. Look you, my lord—now, while the progress halts— Cousin Paolo, has he got the dumps? Mercy! to see him, one might almost think 'T was his own marriage. What a doleful face! The boy is ill. He caught a fever, uncle, Travelling across the marshes. Physic! physic! If he be really dying, get a doctor, And cut the matter short. 'Twere merciful.

MALATESTA. For heaven's sake, cease your clamour! I shall have No face to meet them else. 'Tis strange, for all: What ails Paolo?

PEPE. Dying, by this hand!

MALATESTA. Then I will hang you.

PEPE. Don't take up my craft. Wit's such a stranger in your brain that I Scarce knew my lodger venturing from your mouth. Now they come on again.

MALATESTA. Stand back!

PEPE. [Looking round.] The bridegroom? He flies betimes, before the bride shows fight. [Walks back, looking for LANCIOTTO.

Music, shouts, ringing of bells, &c. Enter MEN-AT-ARMS, with banners, &c., GUIDO, CARDINAL, KNIGHTS, ATTENDANTS, &c.; then PAOLO, conducting FRANCESCA, followed by RITTA, LADIES, PAGES, &c., and other MEN-AT-ARMS. They file around the stage, and halt.

MALATESTA. Welcome, to Rimini, Count Guido! Welcome, And fair impressions of our poor abode, To you, my daughter! You are well returned, My son, Paolo! Let me bless you, son.

[PAOLO approaches.] How many spears are in old Guido's train?

[Apart to PAOLO.

PAOLO. Some ten-score.

MALATESTA. Footmen?

PAOLO. Double that.

MALATESTA. 'Tis well. Again I bid you welcome! Make no show Of useless ceremony with us. Friends Have closer titles than the empty name. We have provided entertainment, Count, For all your followers, in the midst of us. We trust the veterans of Rimini May prove your soldiers that our courtesy Does not lag far behind their warlike zeal. Let us drop Guelf and Ghibelin henceforth, Coupling the names of Rimini and Ravenna As bridegroom's to his bride's.

GUIDO. Count Malatesta, I am no rhetorician, or my words Might keep more even with the love I feel: Simply, I thank you. With an honest hand I take the hand which you extend to me, And hope our grasp may never lose its warmth.— You marked the bastion by the water-side? Weak as a bulrush. [Apart to a KNIGHT.

KNIGHT. Tottering weak, my lord.

GUIDO. Remember it; and when you're private, sir, Draw me a plan.

KNIGHT. I will, my lord.

GUIDO. How's this? I do not see my future son-in-law.

MALATESTA. Lanciotto!

LANCIOTTO. [Advancing.] I am here, my lord.

FRANCESCA. [Starting.] O! heaven! Is that my husband, Count Paolo? You, You then, among the rest, have played me false! He is—[Apart to PAOLO.

PAOLO My brother.

LANCIOTTO [Aside.] Ha! she turns from me.

PEPE. [Approaching LANCIOTTO, sings.]

Around, around the lady turned, She turned not to her lord; She turned around to a gallant, gallant knight, Who ate at his father's board.

A pretty ballad! all on one string though.

LANCIOTTO. Pepe, go hence! [PEPE retires.] [Aside.] I saw her start and pale, Turn off with horror; as if she had seen— What?—simply me. For, am I not enough, And something over, to make ladies quail, Start, hide their faces, whisper to their friends, Point at me—dare she?—and perform such tricks As women will when monsters blast their sight? O! saints above me, have I come so low? Yon damsel of Ravenna shall bewail That start and shudder. I am mad, mad, mad! I must be patient. They have trifled with her: Lied to her, lied! There's half the misery Of this broad earth, all crowded in one word. Lied, lied!—Who has not suffered from a lie? They're all aghast—all looking at me too. Francesca's whiter than the brow of fear: Paolo talks.—Brother, is that well meant? What if I draw my sword, and fight my way Out of this cursed town? 'Twould be relief. Has shame no hiding-place? I've touched the depth Of human infamy, and there I rest. By heaven, I'll brave this business out! Shall they Say at Ravenna that Count Lanciotto, Who's driven their shivering squadrons to their homes, Haggard with terror, turned before their eyes And slunk away? They'll look me from the field, When we encounter next. Why should not I Strut with my shapeless body, as old Guido Struts with his shapeless heart? I'll do it! [Offers, but shrinks back.] 'Sdeath! Am I so false as to forswear myself? Lady Francesca! [Approaches FRANCESCA.

FRANCESCA. Sir—my lord—

LANCIOTTO. Dear lady, I have a share in your embarrassment, And know the feelings that possess you now.

FRANCESCA. O! you do not.

PAOLO. [Advancing.] My lady—

LANCIOTTO. Gentle brother, Leave this to me. [PAOLO retires.

FRANCESCA. Pray do not send him off.

LANCIOTTO. 'Tis fitter so.

FRANCESCA. He comforts me.

LANCIOTTO Indeed? Do you need comfort?

FRANCESCA. No, no—pardon me! But then—he is—you are—

LANCIOTTO. Take breath, and speak.

FRANCESCA. I am confused, 'tis true. But, then, my lord, You are a stranger to me; and Paolo I've known so long!

LANCIOTTO. Since yesterday.

FRANCESCA. Ah! well: But the relationship between us two Is of so close a nature, while the knowledge, That each may have of each, so slender is That the two jar. Besides, Paolo is Nothing to me, while you are everything. Can I not act? [Aside.

LANCIOTTO. I scarcely understand. You say your knowledge of me, till to-day, Was incomplete. Has naught been said of me By Count Paolo or your father?

FRANCESCA. Yes; But nothing definite.

LANCIOTTO. Perchance, no hint As to my ways, my feelings, manners, or— Or—or—as I was saying—ha! ha!—or— [Laughing.] As to my person?

FRANCESCA. Nothing, as to that.

LANCIOTTO. To what?

FRANCESCA. Your—person.

LANCIOTTO. That's the least of all. [Turns aside.] Now, had I Guido of Ravenna's head Under this heel, I'd grind it into dust! False villain, to betray his simple child! And thou, Paolo—not a whit behind— Helping his craft with inconsiderate love!— Lady Francesca, when my brother left, I charged him, as he loved me, to conceal Nothing from you that bore on me: and now That you have seen me, and conversed with me, If you object to anything in me,— Go, I release you.

FRANCESCA. But Ravenna's peace?

LANCIOTTO. Shall not be perilled.

GUIDO. [Coming behind, whispers her.] Trust him not, my child; I know his ways; he'd rather fight than wed. Tis but a wish to have the war afoot. Stand firm for poor Ravenna!

LANCIOTTO. Well, my lady, Shall we conclude a lasting peace between us By truce or marriage rites?

GUIDO. [Whispers her.] The devil tempts thee: Think of Ravenna, think of me!

LANCIOTTO. My lord, I see my father waits you. [GUIDO retires.

FRANCESCA. Gentle sir, You do me little honour in the choice.

LANCIOTTO. My aim is justice.

FRANCESCA. Would you cast me off?

LANCIOTTO. Not for the world, if honestly obtained; Not for the world would I obtain you falsely.

FRANCESCA. The rites were half concluded ere we met.

LANCIOTTO. Meeting, would you withdraw?

FRANCESCA. No. Bitter word! [Aside.

LANCIOTTO. No! Are you dealing fairly?

FRANCESCA. I have said.

LANCIOTTO. O! rapture, rapture! Can it be that I— Now I'll speak plainly; for a choice like thine Implies such love as woman never felt. Love me! Then monsters beget miracles, And Heaven provides where human means fall short. Lady, I'll worship thee! I'll line thy path With suppliant kings! Thy waiting-maids shall be Unransomed princesses! Mankind shall bow One neck to thee, as Persia's multitudes Before the rising sun! From this small town, This centre of my conquests, I will spread An empire touching the extremes of earth! I'll raise once more the name of ancient Rome; And what she swayed she shall reclaim again! If I grow mad because you smile on me, Think of the glory of thy love; and know How hard it is, for such a one as I, To gaze unshaken on divinity! There's no such love as mine alive in man. From every corner of the frowning earth, It has been crowded back into my heart. Now, take it all! If that be not enough, Ask, and thy wish shall be omnipotent! Your hand. [Takes her hand.] It wavers.

FRANCESCA. So does not my heart.

LANCIOTTO. Bravo! Thou art every way a soldier's wife; Thou shouldst have been a Caesar's! Father, hark! I blamed your judgment, only to perceive The weakness of my own.

MALATESTA. What means all this?

LANCIOTTO. It means that this fair lady—though I gave Release to her, and to Ravenna—placed The liberal hand, which I restored to her, Back in my own, of her own free good-will. Is it not wonderful?

MALATESTA. How so?

LANCIOTTO. How so!

PAOLO. Alas! 'tis as I feared! [ Aside.

MALATESTA. You're humble?—How?

LANCIOTTO. Now shall I cry aloud to all the world, Make my deformity my pride, and say, Because she loves me, I may boast of it? [Aside.] No matter, father, I am happy; you, As the blessed cause, shall share my happiness. Let us be moving. Revels, dashed with wine, Shall multiply the joys of this sweet day! There's not a blessing in the cup of life I have not tasted of within an hour!

FRANCESCA. [Aside.] Thus I begin the practice of deceit, Taught by deceivers, at a fearful cost. The bankrupt gambler has become the cheat, And lives by arts that erewhile ruined me. Where it will end, Heaven knows; but I— I have betrayed the noblest heart of all!

LANCIOTTO. Draw down thy dusky vapours, sullen night— Refuse, ye stars, to shine upon the world— Let everlasting blackness wrap the sun, And whisper terror to the universe! We need ye not! we'll blind ye, if ye dare Peer with lack-lustre on our revelry! I have at heart a passion, that would make All nature blaze with recreated light! [Exeunt.



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 candour 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 vapours 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! 'tis 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!

LANCIOTTO. Good-morning to your foolish majesty!

PEPE. The same to your majestic foolery!

LANCIOTTO. 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?

LANCIOTTO. 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.

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

PEPE. Nay, You lack the temper of the fine-eared Greek. You will not roll; but that shall not disgrace My gallant ballad, fallen on evil times. [Sings.]

My father had a blue-black head, My uncle's head was reddish—maybe, My mother's hair was noways red, Sing high ho! the pretty baby!

Mark the simplicity of that! 'Tis called "The Babe's Confession," spoken just before His father strangled him.

LANCIOTTO. 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.

LANCIOTTO. 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.

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

PEPE. What! Will you not hear? Now comes the tragedy. [Sings.]

My father tore my red, red head, My uncle tore my father's—maybe, My mother tore both till they bled— Sing high ho! your brother's baby!

LANCIOTTO. Why, what a hair-rending!

PEPE. Thence wigs arose; A striking epoch in man's history. But did you notice the concluding line, Sung by the victim's mother? There's a hit!

"Sing high ho! your brother's baby!"

Which brother's, pray you? That's the mystery, The adumbration of poetic art, And there I leave it to perplex mankind. It has a moral, fathers should regard,— A black-haired dog breeds not a red-haired cur. Treasure this knowledge: you're about to wive; And no one knows what accident—

LANCIOTTO. 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!

LANCIOTTO. 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.

LANCIOTTO. And I the gallows.

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

LANCIOTTO. 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.

LANCIOTTO. 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— 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.

LANCIOTTO. 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?

LANCIOTTO. 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 a mort!

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

LANCIOTTO. 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.

LANCIOTTO. Then there is hope.

PAOLO. Of what?

LANCIOTTO. Of winning her.

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

LANCIOTTO. 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: 'Twere proof enough for me.

LANCIOTTO. 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!

LANCIOTTO. It moves you much. 'Twas but a fleeting fancy, nothing more.

PAOLO. You have such wild conjectures!

LANCIOTTO. 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!

LANCIOTTO. What shocks you so?

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

LANCIOTTO. 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!

LANCIOTTO. 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!

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

PAOLO. O! torture, torture! [Aside.

LANCIOTTO. 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 honour: keep it all. What if I ask to share the spoils?

LANCIOTTO. [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.] Ring high, ring high! to earth and sky; A lady goes a-wedding; The people shout, the show draws out, And smiles the bride is shedding.

No bell for you, ye ragged few; A beggar goes a-wedding; The people sneer, the thing's so queer, And tears the bride is shedding.

Ring low, ring low! dull bell of woe, One tone will do for either; The lady glad, and beggar sad, Have both lain down together.

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!

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

RITTA. That's better, yet not well.

FRANCESCA. 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.

RITTA. How beautiful you are!

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

RITTA. 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?

FRANCESCA. I seem to please you, Ritta.

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

FRANCESCA. Well?

RITTA. Despite his—

FRANCESCA. Ritta, what?

RITTA. Despite his difference from Count Paolo.— [FRANCESCA staggers.] What is the matter? [Supporting her.

FRANCESCA. Nothing; mere fatigue. Hand me my kerchief. I am better now. What were you saying?

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

FRANCESCA. Would that be cause for fear? [Laughing.

RITTA. O! yes, indeed! Once—long ago—I was Just fool enough to tangle up my heart With one of these same men. 'Twas 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.

FRANCESCA. Poor Ritta. [Weeping.

RITTA. 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!

FRANCESCA. I'll strive against it.

RITTA. 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. 'Tis 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?

FRANCESCA. 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 crowned 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.

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

PAOLO. Sister!

FRANCESCA. 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.

FRANCESCA. 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.] 'Tis a nice difference.

FRANCESCA. Yet you understand? Say that you do.

PAOLO. I do.

FRANCESCA. That pleases me. 'Tis flattering if our—friends appreciate Our nicer feelings.

PAOLO. I await you, lady.

FRANCESCA. 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.

FRANCESCA. I have angered you.

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

FRANCESCA. Why not to me?

PAOLO. Lady, I'll not be catechized.

FRANCESCA. 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 'tis to pluck the flowers That hang above destruction, and to gaze Into the dread abyss, to see such things As may be safely seen. Tis 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!

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

PAOLO. Lady, come!

FRANCESCA. 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!

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

PAOLO. It is.

FRANCESCA. 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. Tis 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, etc., discovered before the High Altar. Organ music. The rites being over, they advance.

MALATESTA. By heaven—

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

MALATESTA. I'll break your head, knave!

PEPE. I claim sanctuary.

MALATESTA. 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.

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

PEPE. Then there'd be naught worth hearing.

MALATESTA. 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.

LANCIOTTO. She told you nothing?

PAOLO. Nothing.

LANCIOTTO. Not a word?

PAOLO. Not one.

LANCIOTTO. What heard you at Ravenna, then?

PAOLO. Nothing.

LANCIOTTO. Here?

PAOLO. Nothing.

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

PAOLO. Never.

LANCIOTTO. What know you?

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

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

PAOLO. I have.

LANCIOTTO. 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!—

LANCIOTTO. 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.

LANCIOTTO. 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.

MALATESTA. What is that?

Enter, hastily, a MESSENGER in disorder.

MESSENGER. My lord, the Ghibelins are up—

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

MALATESTA. What force have they?

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

MALATESTA. Nay, son, your bride—

LANCIOTTO. 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 honour.

LANCIOTTO. [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.

MALATESTA. But, son—

LANCIOTTO. Well, father?

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

LANCIOTTO. 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!



ACT V.

SCENE I. The Same. The Garden of the Castle. Enter PEPE, singing.

PEPE. 'Tis jolly to walk in the shady greenwood With a damsel by your side; 'Tis jolly to walk from the chapel-door, With the hand of your pretty bride; 'Tis jolly to rest your weary head, When life runs low and hope is fled, On the heart where you confide: 'Tis jolly, jolly, jolly, they say, They say—but I never tried.

Nor shall I ever till they dress their girls In motley suits, and pair us, to increase The race of fools. 'Twould be a noble thing, A motley woman, had she wit enough To bear the bell. But there's the misery: You may make princes out of any stuff; Fools come by nature. She'll make fifty kings— Good, hearty tyrants, sound, cruel governors— For one fine fool. There is Paolo, now, A sweet-faced fellow with a wicked heart— Talk of a flea, and you begin to scratch. Lo! here he comes. And there's fierce crook-back's bride Walking beside him—O, how gingerly! Take care, my love! that is the very pace We trip to hell with. Hunchback is away— That was a fair escape for you; but, then, The devil's ever with us, and that's worse. See, the Ravenna giglet, Mistress Ritta, And melancholy as a cow.—How's this? I'll step aside, and watch you, pretty folks. [Hides behind the bushes.

Enter PAOLO and FRANCESCA, followed by RITTA. He seats himself in an arbour, and reads. RITTA and FRANCESCA advance.

FRANCESCA. Ritta.

RITTA. My lady.

FRANCESCA. You look tired.

RITTA. I'm not.

FRANCESCA. Go to your chamber.

RITTA. I would rather stay. If it may please you. I require a walk And the fresh atmosphere of breathing flowers, To stir my blood. I am not very well.

FRANCESCA. I knew it, child. Go to your chamber, dear. Paolo has a book to read to me.

RITTA. What, the romance? I should so love to hear! I dote on poetry; and Count Paolo Sweetens the Tuscan with his mellow voice. I'm weary now, quite weary, and would rest.

FRANCESCA. Just now you wished to walk.

RITTA. Ah! did I so? Walking or resting, I would stay with you.

FRANCESCA. The Count objects. He told me, yesterday, That you were restless while he read to me; And stirred your feet amid the grass, and sighed, And yawned, until he almost paused.

RITTA. Indeed I will be quiet.

FRANCESCA. But he will not read.

RITTA. Let me go ask him. [Runs toward PAOLO.

FRANCESCA. Stop! Come hither, Ritta. [She returns.] I saw your new embroidery in the hall,— The needle in the midst of Argus' eyes; It should be finished.

RITTA. I will bring it here.— O no! my finger's sore; I cannot work.

FRANCESCA. Go to your room.

RITTA. Let me remain, I pray. 'Tis better, lady; you may wish for me: I know you will be sorry if I go.

FRANCESCA. I shall not, girl. Do as I order you. Will you be headstrong?

RITTA. Do you wish it, then?

FRANCESCA. Yes, Ritta.

RITTA. Yet you made pretexts enough, Before you ordered.

FRANCESCA. You are insolent. Will you remain against my will?

RITTA. Yes, lady; Rather than not remain.

FRANCESCA. Ha! impudent!

RITTA. You wrong me, gentle mistress. Love like mine Does not ask questions of propriety, Nor stand on manners. I would do you good, Even while you smote me; I would push you back, With my last effort, from the crumbling edge Of some high rock o'er which you toppled me.

FRANCESCA. What do you mean?

RITTA. I know.

FRANCESCA. Know what?

RITTA. Too much. Pray, do not ask me.

FRANCESCA. Speak!

RITTA. I know—dear lady, Be not offended—

FRANCESCA. Tell me, simpleton!

RITTA. You know I worship you; you know I'd walk Straight into ruin for a whim of yours; You know—

FRANCESCA. I know you act the fool. Talk sense!

RITTA. I know Paolo loves you.

FRANCESCA. Should he not? He is my brother.

RITTA. More than brother should.

FRANCESCA. Ha! are you certain?

RITTA. Yes, of more than that.

FRANCESCA. Of more?

RITTA. Yes, lady; for you love him, too. I've said it! Fling me to the carrion crows, Kill me by inches, boil me in the pot Count Guido promised me,—but, O, beware! Back, while you may. Make me the sufferer, But save yourself!

FRANCESCA. Now, are you not ashamed, To look me in the face with that bold brow? I am amazed!

RITTA. I am a woman, lady; I too have been in love; I know its ways, Its arts, and its deceits. Your frowning face, And seeming indignation, do not cheat. Your heart is in my hand.

PAOLO. [Calls.] Francesca!

FRANCESCA. Hence, Thou wanton-hearted minion! hence, I say!— And never look me in the face again!— Hence, thou insulting slave!

RITTA. [Clinging to her.] O lady, lady—

FRANCESCA. Begone! [Throws her off.

RITTA. I have no friends—no one to love— O, spare me!

FRANCESCA. Hence!

RITTA. Was it for this I loved— Cared for you more than my own happiness— Ever at heart your slave—without a wish For greater recompense than your stray smiles?

PAOLO. [Calls.] Francesca!

FRANCESCA. Hurry!

RITTA. I am gone. Alas! God bless you, lady! God take care of you, When I am far away! Alas, alas! [Exit weeping.

FRANCESCA. Poor girl!—but were she all the world to me, And held my future in her tender grasp, I'd cast her off, without a second thought, To savage death, for dear Paolo's sake! Paolo, hither! Now he comes to me; I feel his presence, though I see him not, Stealing upon me like the fervid glow Of morning sunshine. Now he comes too near— He touches me—O heaven!

PAOLO. Our poem waits. I have been reading while you talked with Ritta. How did you get her off?

FRANCESCA. By some device. She will not come again.

PAOLO. I hate the girl: She seems to stand between me and the light. And now for the romance. Where left we off?

FRANCESCA. Where Lancelot and Queen Guenevra strayed Along the forest, in the youth of May. You marked the figure of the birds that sang Their melancholy farewell to the sun— Rich in his loss, their sorrow glorified— Like gentle mourners o'er a great man's grave. Was it not there? No, no; 'twas where they sat Down on the bank, by one impulsive wish That neither uttered.

PAOLO. [Turning over the book.] Here it is. [Reads.] "So sat Guenevra and Sir Lancelot"—'Twere well To follow them in that. [They sit upon a bank.