Chapter 4

CARDINAL.

CARDINAL. I warn thee, Count.

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

CARDINAL. I cannot.

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

CARDINAL. 'Tis too true.

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

CARDINAL. And yet I fear--

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

CARDINAL. But have you seen him?

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

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

GUIDO. Were he the devil--But why talk of this?-- Here comes Francesca.

CARDINAL. Ah! unhappy child!

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

_Enter_ FRANCESCA _and_ RITTA.

FRANCESCA. Ha! my lord-- And you, my father!--But do I intrude Upon your counsels? How severe you look! Shall I retire?

GUIDO. No, no.

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

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

GUIDO. Ritta, come here. [_Takes her apart._

RITTA. My lord.

GUIDO. 'Twas my command, You should say nothing of Count Lanciotto.

RITTA. Nothing, my lord.

GUIDO. You have said nothing, then?

RITTA. Indeed, my lord.

GUIDO. 'Tis well. Some years ago, My daughter had a very silly maid, Who told her sillier stories. So, one day, This maiden whispered something I forbade-- In strictest confidence, for she was sly: What happened, think you?

RITTA. I know not, my lord.

GUIDO. I boiled her in a pot.

RITTA. Good heaven! my lord.

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

[_Walks back to the others._

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

[_Retires, laughing._

_Enter a_ MESSENGER.

MESSENGER. Letters, my lord, from great Prince Malatesta. [_Presents them, and exit._

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

CARDINAL. I have done the most. She seems suspicious.

GUIDO. Ritta's work.

CARDINAL. Farewell!

FRANCESCA. Father, you seem distempered.

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

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._