PR 
 
m&Bgam£<*€&Bm&> 
 
 
 
 /x:<3rccr 
 
 •msraR8E<8l 
 
 
 <£«€:;<? 
 
 <^.ipmZ^ <Js (ftr ^> 
 
 
 c cl<ml 
 
 «<:£:< 
 
 cm 
 
 €Z€< 
 
 cm 
 
 cc acicac V*-— -- - 
 
 c ccraKi C 
 
 
 # LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.? 
 
 # I 
 
 ' - - /fro * 
 
 f UNITED STATES OP AMERICA.! 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 lite 
 
 |®C ( 
 
 
 

 
 «ga^<^£ 
 
 ^S«S 
 
 BT" <CC<XS©; 
 
 
 
 
 ^g^ess 
 
 r «C? C3« 
 
 
 crcc c<£* 
 
 
 
 <C<3C ,:„C6C.CCC«.C 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 r << 
 
A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 
 
LEGEND OF FLORENCE 
 
 a Pag. 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 \ 
 
 BY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 One step to the death-bed, 
 
 And one to the bier, 
 And one to the charnel, 
 
 And one — oh where ? — Shelley. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 
 
Yt^ 
 
 
 LONDON : 
 BHADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WH1TEFRIARS. 
 
 
 V* 
 
 u 
 
ARMORER DONKIN, ESQ., 
 
 OF NEWCASTLE, 
 
 Without the aid of whose practical wisdom, in combination with 
 his kind heart, the Author might never have had health or leisure 
 enough to indulge himself in an effort of this kind, the following Play 
 is inscribed by his 
 
 Obliged and affectionate Servant, 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 Chelbka, Feb. 6, 1840. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 As it is now the custom to publish new plays on the day 
 of their performance, I am unable to state here what will 
 have been the success or otherwise of the present, as far as 
 regards the stage. But I cannot help taking the first 
 opportunity of saying, how delightful has been the inter- 
 course it has occasioned me with my new friends the per- 
 formers, from the moment when the fair manager first held 
 out to me her cordial hand, down to the last pleasant 
 interchange of jest and earnest during the business of 
 rehearsal. In all my life I never met with a reception, on 
 all sides, so full of what is most precious to an anxious 
 author, — willingness to hear, promptitude to decide, an 
 absence of every species of insincerity and mystification, and, 
 what has particularly touched me, a generous encouragement 
 to proceed in my new efforts, even should the first have 
 tried the philosophy of every party concerned, by proving 
 unsuccessful. When authors are treated in this manner 
 behind the curtain, and the public see what is done to 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 please them by indefatigable attentions to every propriety 
 of the stage, no wonder a sense of cheerfulness and abun- 
 dance is associated with the idea of Covent Garden Theatre 
 in the general mind, and that Madame Vestris, night 
 after night, has seen her larger house fill as the smaller 
 did, in spite of those who had begun to think large 
 houses impracticable, and of the hostility even of that late 
 pertinacious anti-playgoer, the bad weather. 
 
 If I omit specifying by name every one among the repre- 
 sentatives of my dramatis persona who have shown a 
 willingness to befriend me (which indeed includes the whole 
 list), they will attribute it partly to a disinclination to make 
 my thanks appear mechanical and a matter of course. They 
 will not grudge, however, the particular acknowledgments 
 I feel bound to express towards the Stage-manager, Mr. 
 Bartley, for a co-operation no less judicious than warm ; and 
 to Miss Ellen Tree, for entering into the character of the 
 heroine with a sensibility of brain and heart which left 
 me nothing to desire, except that no failure, occasioned 
 by the authorship of the play, might ill reward it. 
 Should I have been destined to undergo that new trial of 
 old habits of endurance, it may be permitted my self-love, 
 by way of consolation, not easily to forget the bright coun- 
 tenance which I saw standing beside me, in a glow of tears 
 and exaltation, at the end of one of the perusals of the 
 piece, — the climax, indeed, of the like kindly sympathies 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 from others of my genial friends behind the curtain. One 
 of the agreeable surprises I met with upon making my first 
 acquaintance with this part of the theatre (for I was never 
 in a green-room before), was this freshness of imagination, 
 and strong propensity to the enjoyment as well as business 
 of the stage, which I had idly fancied to be not common to 
 the profession. I had concluded, with a haste which the 
 pleasures of my own studies should have warned me 
 against, that when the business of a scene was over, they 
 retired to their green-rooms to rest from their fatigues and 
 be silent, or to talk of anything else; but I found them 
 occupied in nothing so certain, unless it was the general 
 playfulness of their animal spirits, — the natural wine, indeed, 
 which is necessary to make an actor's blood what it is, and 
 which manifests itself in a flow of companionship equally 
 liberal and decorous. Such at least I have found the 
 theatrical world, as it exists under the unaffected and 
 generous government of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mathews. 
 
 A word respecting the story of my play. — When I resided 
 near Florence, some years ago, I was in the habit of going 
 through a street in that city, called the " Street of Death," 
 (Via delta Morte), — a name given it from the circumstance 
 of a lady's having passed through it at night-time in her 
 grave-clothes, who had been buried during a trance. The 
 story, which in its mortal particulars resembles several of 
 the like sort that are popular in other countries, and which, 
 
x PREFACE. 
 
 indeed, are no less probable than romantic, has been 
 variously told by Italian authors ; and I have taken my 
 own liberties with it accordingly. But nobody, I believe, in 
 Italy ever doubted the main facts. The names of the parties 
 most concerned are those of real families, and handed 
 down as belonging to the actual persons ; and their characters 
 (if my remembrance of the account given in a Florentine 
 publication does not deceive me*) correspond in their 
 elements with those here attempted to be drawn out. 
 Among the pleasures which I have had in making the 
 endeavour, (for ultimate success, or otherwise, has no 
 more to do with those, than the uses to which a tree may 
 be turned, affect it while growing,) is the melancholy one of 
 thinking, that the beloved friend whom I lost in that 
 country had chosen the same subject for a poem, of which 
 he has left a fragment. The motto from it in my title-page 
 has enabled me to see our names together once more, and 
 upon an occasion which even his noble dramatic genius 
 would have taken to welcome me for love's sake, if for no 
 reason more worthy of the companionship. 
 
 May I add, without appearance of presumption of another 
 sort, that the versification of this play, in passages where 
 the natural quickness and freedom of dialogue seemed to 
 warrant it, is of a less apparent regularity than the drama 
 has been accustomed to for a long time ? I am aware, (and 
 
 * The " Osservatore Fierentino." 
 
PREFACE. xi 
 
 I say it with deepest reverence, and with a deprecation of 
 immodesty even in thinking it necessary so to say it,) that 
 the dramatist, high above all dramatists, has almost sancti- 
 fied a ten-syllable regularity of structure, scarcely ever varied 
 by a syllable, though rich with every other diversity of 
 modulation. But noble as the music is which he has 
 accordingly left us, massy, yet easy, and never failing him, 
 any more than his superhuman abundance of thought and 
 imagery, — I dare venture to think, that had he lived 
 farther off from the times of the princely monotony of 
 " Marlowe's mighty line," he would have carried still farther 
 that rhythmical freedom, of which he was the first to set his 
 own fashion, and have anticipated, and far surpassed, the 
 sprightly licence of Beaumont and Fletcher. All I can 
 say in excuse for my own departure from a custom so 
 ennobled, is, that it suits, as well as I can make it, the 
 amount of power I possess to indulge an impulse which I 
 hold to be proper to dramatic verse, as distinguished from 
 that of narration. But I beg the reader to give me credit 
 for rating the utmost possible success of such a theory no 
 higher than it deserves, when brought into comparison with 
 that " all in all" of passion and imagination, of which it is 
 only the least and lightest of servants. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 Had the public reception of this play been different from 
 what it was, it would still have been my duty, as well as 
 pleasure, to thank the management, and all parties con- 
 cerned, for the way in which it was put upon the stage, and 
 performed. But delightful indeed has the acknowledgment 
 been rendered by good fortune. Most kind have been my 
 old readers to me; for surely the audience on the first 
 night must have been half made up of them, to be so 
 willing to be pleased. Most kind also has been the press, 
 of all parties,— doubtless moved by a like readiness to think 
 the best of a not ill-natured writer ; and especially am I 
 bound to value this general spirit of good- will, and above 
 all, the loud and instantaneous sympathy of the audience 
 with the poetical justice of the catastrophe, when I consider 
 how the treatment of domestic tyranny appears to have 
 puzzled the ethics of some of my literary brethren ; and 
 how questions, which had been accustomed to beg all the 
 delicacies on one side, suddenly and provokingly beheld 
 
xiv PREFACE. 
 
 the possibility of at least an equality of claim shifted to the 
 other. Most heartily do I thank the many who have done 
 me the honour to agree with me, and the few who have 
 kindly differed. 
 
 But gratitude is a poverty-stricken, though a delighted 
 thing. It opens its hands, and says, " What have I to 
 bestow ?" — I wish I could shower upon Miss Ellen Tree 
 pearls and gems, equal to the syllables that she so richly 
 utters, with those bright eyes, and those lips which seem 
 made delightedly to say " Yes/" 1 How touching, when in 
 the character of the unhappy wife, they are forced to show 
 themselves equal mistresses of sorrow ! I will venture to 
 prophesy, that her delivery of passages in this character, 
 like those of the Cibbers and Barrys of old, will be recorded 
 in annals of the stage, though the written part, as a whole, 
 should not survive its author. To Mr. Bartley, who looks 
 to admiration one of those solid yet festive poets of the 
 town class, who flourished in the times, and at the table, of 
 u that good fellow of a Pope, Leo the Tenth," I am indebted 
 for that hearty and emphatic delivery of every word, which 
 happened to be of more importance than it might seem to a 
 right understanding of much of the spirit of the play. What 
 there is of heaviness at present in Mr. Anderson's style is an 
 ore containing gold; and will wear off, as the passion in 
 him, of which he has a great deal, learns to run into a state 
 of fusion, and to overcome intellectual-looking temptations 
 
PREFACE. xv 
 
 to isolated bits of description and illustration. He is the 
 man of all others living, whom I should have desired for the 
 part of my lover, had I not had the good fortune to have 
 him in it. He is young, in earnest, has no tricks, and can 
 be absorbed in another. His burst of feeling, when he finds 
 Ginevra alive, which brought down echoes of thunder from 
 the house, was as if his whole repressed heart had cried out 
 for the first time, and gone mad with delight. And fortunate 
 I was also in obtaining, for the part of Agolanti^ the assist- 
 ance of a gentleman like Mr. Moore, one of the modestest 
 and most zealous men (to judge from a short acquaintance) 
 that I ever met with, and whose sole object is to identify 
 himself with the character he has to represent. He too, 
 like Mr. Anderson, occasionally wants an absorption of the 
 less into the greater ; or to express what I mean more 
 distinctly, the power of painting incidental images and 
 feelings as he goes, without seeming to stop to paint them. 
 But like him also, he has no cant, no self-absorption, and, 
 on the other hand, a faith in passion, which is capable of 
 every acquirable excellence by study. If he failed in 
 Hamlet (and who ever did justice to that epitome of the 
 faculties of man, of all the celebrated actors of the last forty 
 years, including Kean himself ?) I ventured to affirm, that 
 he would have the majority of the public with him in a part 
 like that of Agolanti ; and I rejoice for his sake, as well as 
 my own, that the anticipation has been confirmed. Mr. 
 Vandenhoff I had not the pleasure of seeing on the boards, 
 
xvi PREFACE. 
 
 till he personated the Captain of the Pope's Guards. He is 
 younger than Mr. Moore, and even, I believe, than Mr. 
 Anderson ; and his style works somewhat crudely at present, 
 but not without indications, if I mistake not, of something 
 very relishing, as well as ripe, by-and-by. He is sensitive, 
 intelligent, graceful in feeling, as well as in face and person ; 
 and, like the rest of the performers in this well-met company, 
 is in earnest, and desires to know all that can do him and his 
 author good. It is a very interesting generation, this of the 
 stage, to those who are desirous of what everybody else 
 desires, when the speculation is to be turned upon them- 
 selves, — namely, that of seeing what is good in them. The 
 older ones, with few exceptions, appear to be as young in 
 animal spirits as the youngest ; and the youngest, instead of 
 being nothing but "gay fellows about town," tend as strongly 
 to the domestic affections as the oldest, and are husbands and 
 fathers of families. One of them brings the secret of his 
 tenderness, as the stage lover, from the bosom of his own 
 household ; and another, whom in his love of philology and 
 his Latin quotations you took for a young gentleman not 
 long arrived from college, tells you that he read your play 
 to his wife, the other night, before he went to bed. — But, 
 indeed, all the stirring work of life must be performed by 
 earnest natures, whether off the stage or upon it. 
 
 I beg Mrs. Walter Lacy to accept my thanks for con- 
 senting to perform in so small a part as that of the Page. 
 It was difficult, it seems, with one obvious exception (which 
 other difficulties stood in the way of),— and a second, I 
 
PREFACE. xvii 
 
 conclude, owing to a non-habit of performing in such 
 characters,— to find a lady for the part, who united the 
 triple requisites of song, speech, and a demonstrable pretty 
 leg. The leg, no doubt, was common : but not so the 
 combination with it of the two other virtues ; and Mrs. 
 Lacy was accordingly induced to take pity on us. Miss 
 Lee"^ pleasant little gentle nature did not despise the part 
 of Fiordilisa ; and this reminds me of the obligation I owe 
 to Mr. Payne, the admirable pantomimist, for saving me the 
 peril of entrusting the words of a servant to be spoken by 
 an unknowing mouth,— a hazard which has often given the 
 first cue to the " inextinguishable laughter" of a damnation ! 
 Miss Charles uttered what little she had to say to the provok- 
 ing bad husband, with all the effective pungency of an Esti- 
 fania: and if part of the dirge naturally divided the attention 
 of the audience with the other few words delivered by Mrs. 
 Brougham, the loss must have been made up to her in that 
 beautiful costume and head-dress, which so became her 
 handsome countenance. The whole play, indeed, thanks to 
 the rapid elegance of the hands of Messrs. Grieve, and the 
 pleasant learning, in point of costume, of the new friend I 
 have had the happiness of making — Mr. Planche — (the most 
 misunderstood of influential men in a theatre, by those who 
 think he is not one of the most congenial of authors,) may 
 be said to have been, throughout, painted Italian, — the 
 scenery delighting the spectators with its southern elegance, 
 and the dramatis personce looking as if they had walked out 
 
 b 
 
xviii PREFACE. 
 
 of the frames of Raphael and Titian, No wonder, when 
 the taste and vivacity of a southern nature presides over the 
 management, seconded by a congenial knowledge. It has 
 been objected to Mr. Bishop's charming melody for the song 
 of " Hope," that it is hardly southern enough, though, 
 perhaps, of too great a vivacity ; but, for my own part, I 
 receive so constant a pleasure from it, as it haunts my ear, 
 that I can find in it nothing but to like. As to the more 
 solemn and affecting strains of instrumental and vocal music, 
 kindly furnished to two of my scenes, by my dear friends 
 Vincent Novello and Egerton Webbe, the tears of the 
 audience have stopped the words of the author. 
 
 One word more in all reverence, — perhaps I should rather 
 say reverential fear, — respecting the versification of Shak- 
 speare. What I have ventured to say about it in the first 
 Preface, and which my generous critics will greatly oblige 
 me when they controvert, by not ceasing to bear in mind 
 the reverence with which I have done it, it will become me 
 by and by, should others not anticipate the intention, to 
 enlarge upon, as well as I may be able, in some remarks 
 upon versification in general, and English versification in 
 particular , — subjects which have long required discussion, 
 and which in the hands of scholars who surpass me in a 
 knowledge of languages and music, would be found amply 
 to repay it. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Francesco Agolanti, a noble Florentine . Mr. Moore. 
 
 Antonio Rondinelli, another . . . . Mr. Anderson. 
 
 Fulvio Da Riva, a Poet . . . . . Mr. Bartley. 
 
 Cesake Colonna, an Officer of the Pope's Guards Mr. G. Vandenhoff. 
 
 Gictlio, a Page ...... Mrs Walter Lacy. 
 
 Servant . Mr. Payne. 
 
 Ginevra, Wife to Agolanti 
 Olimpia, friend of Ginevra 
 Diana, another . 
 Fiordilisa, Ginevrds handmaiden 
 
 Miss Ellen Tree. 
 Miss Charles. 
 Mrs. Brougham. 
 Miss Lee. 
 
 Scene — Florence and its Neighbourhood. 
 Time — During the Pontificate of Leo the Tenth. 
 
LEGEND OF FLORENCE 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The High-road from Florence to Rome. 
 
 Enter Da Riva and Colon na, meeting. 
 
 Colonna. Fulvio, immortal boy — poet — good fellow — 
 Punctual moreover, which is wonder's climax, — 
 How dost ? and where hast been these eighteen months ? 
 At grass, eh ? fattening with thy Pegasus, 
 Like the most holy father ! 
 
 Da Riva. Dearest Cesare, 
 
 'Tis you, methinks, are the immortal boy, 
 Growing nor fat nor thin, but still the same ; 
 Still the same bantering, glittering, blithe, good soul, 
 Pretending to give blows, to excuse thy blessings. 
 
 Colonna. Nay, but the poet is the youth for ever, 
 Howe'er he grow ; let him feign even a bit 
 Of a white top, like our old roaring boys, 
 
 B 
 
2 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act i. 
 
 /Etna and Vesuvius, with their sides of wine. 
 
 You know, Da Riva, for those hairs of thine 
 
 I ought to call thee father, if I could ; 
 
 But then thine heart, and this warm hand to match, 
 
 Will never let me think thee, somehow or other, 
 
 A dozen years older than myself. 
 
 Da Riva, Years older ! 
 
 A pretty jest, Yaith, when our souls were twins, 
 And thou but the more light one, like an almond 
 Pack'd in one shell behind a plumper. Well, 
 How dost ? and how does Florio and Filippo ? 
 And is the Pope really and truly come 
 At last, and in his own most sacred person, 
 To see and glorify his native place ? 
 Or hast thou shot before him, like a ray 
 Out of his orb? 
 
 Colonna. Thy simile has it, 'faith : 
 
 Here is his ray, shining upon thyself, 
 As his ray should ; and the good orb meanwhile, 
 Growing a little stout or so, reposes 
 Some nine miles off, and will be here next week, 
 Just by the time your speeches are all ready. 
 
 Da Riva. And toilets ? 
 
 Colonna. Ay, and your extempore odes. 
 
 Well, well ; you see we are insolent as ever, 
 All well and merry. — Not so, eh ? in Florence ? 
 How is Antonio? and pray, who was he, 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 3 
 
 That fellow yonder — there he goes — that left you 
 Just as I came, and went off bowing so, 
 With such a lavish courtesy and close eye ? 
 
 Da Riva. That lavish courtesy and that close eye 
 Will tell you how Antonio is. That fellow, 
 As you call him, is one of the most respectable men 
 In Florence. " Men," do I say ? one of the richest 
 And proudest nobles ; of strict fame withal, 
 Yet courteous ; bows to every one, pays every one 
 
 Colonna. Oh villain ! 
 
 Da Riva. Flatters every one ; in short, 
 
 Is as celestial out of his own house, 
 
 As he is devil within it. ( Whispering in his ear) Ginevra's 
 husband. 
 
 Colonna. The devil it is ! (Looking after him) Methinks 
 he casts a blackness 
 Around him as he walks, and blights the vineyards. 
 And all is true then, is it, which they tell me ? 
 What, quite ? Has he no plea ? no provocation 
 From lover, or from wife ? 
 
 Da Riva. None that I know of, 
 
 Except her patience and the lover's merit. 
 Antonio's love, you know, is old as his, 
 Has been more tried, and, I believe, is spotless. 
 
 Colonna. Dear Rondinelli ! — Well, but has this husband 
 No taste of good in him at all ? no corner 
 In his heart, for some small household grace to sneak in ? 
 
 b 2 
 
4 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act i. 
 
 Da Riva. Nay, what he has of grace in him is not sneaking. 
 In all, except a heart, and a black shade 
 Of superstition, he is man enough ! 
 Has a bold blood, large brain, and liberal hand, 
 As far as the purse goes ; albeit he likes 
 The going to be blown abroad with trumpets. 
 Nay, I won't swear he does not love his wife, 
 As well as a man of no sort of affection 
 Nor any domestic tenderness, can do so. 
 
 Colonna. A mighty attaching gentleman, 'ifaifch, 
 And quite uxorious. 
 
 Da Riva. Why, thus it is. 
 
 He highly approves her virtues, talents, beauty ; 
 Thinks her the sweetest woman in all Florence, 
 Partly, because she is,— partly, because 
 She is his own, and glorifies his choice ; 
 And therefore he does her the honour of making her 
 The representative and epitome 
 Of all he values, — public reputation, 
 Private obedience, delighted fondness, 
 Grateful return for his unamiableness, 
 Love without bounds, in short, for his self-love : — 
 And as she finds it difficult, poor soul, 
 To pay such reasonable demands at sight, 
 With the whole treasure of her heart and smiles, 
 The gentleman takes pity on — himself ! 
 Looks on himself as the most unresponded to 
 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 5 
 
 And unaccountably ill-used bad temper 
 
 In Tuscany ; rages at every word 
 
 And look she gives another ; and fills the house 
 
 With miseries, which, because they ease himself, 
 
 And his vile spleen, he thinks her bound to Suffer; 
 
 And then finds malice in her very suffering ! 
 
 Colonna. And she, they tell me, suffers dangerously ? 
 
 Da Riva. "Tis thought she'll die of it. And yet, observe 
 now : — 
 Such is poor human nature, at least such 
 Is poor human inhuman nature, in this man, 
 That if she were to die, I verily think 
 He'd weep, and sit at the receipt of pity, 
 And call upon the gods, and think he loved her ! 
 
 Colonna. Poor, dear, damn'd tyrant ! — and where goes 
 he now ? 
 
 Da Riva. To Florence, from his country-house ; betwixt 
 Which place and town, what with his jealousy 
 Of the sweet soul, and love of mighty men, 
 He'll lead a devil of a life this fortnight ; 
 Not knowing whether to let her share the holiday 
 For fear of them, and of Antonio ; 
 Or whether, for worse fear, still of Antonio, 
 To keep her in the shades, love's natural haunt. 
 
 Colonna. The town's the hiding-place. Be sure he'll take 
 Some musty lodging in the thick of the town, 
 To hide her in : perhaps within the sound 
 Of the shows, to vex her ; and let hei see what pleasures 
 
6 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act i. 
 
 She loses in not loving him. — Well, here am I, 
 A feather in the cap of the fair advent 
 Of his most pleasant Holiness Pope Leo, 
 Come to make holiday with my Tuscan friends, 
 And lay our loving heads together, to see 
 What can be done to help this gentle lady 
 For poor Antonio's sake, and for her own. 
 
 Da Riva. Ay, and amidst those loving heads, are lovely 
 ones. 
 What think you of the bright Olimpia, 
 And sweet Diana, her more thoughtful friend ? — 
 You recollect them ? 
 
 Colonna. What ! the divine widows, 
 
 That led that bevy of young married dames 
 At the baths of Pisa, and whom we used to call 
 Sunlight and Moonlight ? 
 
 Da Riva, The identical stars ! 
 
 She of the crescent has a country-house, 
 Here in the neighbourhood, close by Agolanti's. 
 There are they both ; and there Antonio is, 
 Waiting us two ; and thence his friends the ladies, 
 Escorted by us two, will go to visit 
 Their friend Ginevra ; partly, if they can, 
 To bring him better news of his saint's health ; 
 Partly, for other reasons which you'll see. 
 
 Colonna. Charming! And wherefore stand you looking 
 then, 
 This way and that ? 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 
 
 Da Riva. Why, this way is our road ; 
 And that way I was looking, to see how far 
 Our friend, the foe, was on his way to town. 
 I have never, you must know, been in his house ; 
 And little thought he, when he saw us here, 
 What unexpected introduction, eh ? 
 Was waiting us. I can't help thinking, somehow, 
 He'll hear of it, and come back. 
 
 Colonna. For Heaven's sake, haste then. •>. 
 What ! loitering ! — May the husband take the hindmost 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in the Villa Agolanti. 
 Enter Giulio and Fiordilisa, meeting. 
 
 Fiordilisa. Alas ! my lady is very angry, Giulio ! 
 
 Giulio. Angry ? At what ? 
 
 Fiordilisa. At Signor Antonio's letter. 
 Oh, she says dreadful things. She says you and I 
 Will kill her ; that we make her, or would make her, 
 Tell falsehoods to her husband, or bring down 
 His justice on our heads ; and she forbids me, 
 However innocent you may call, or think it, 
 
8 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act i. 
 
 Bring letters any more. She bade me give it you 
 Back again — see — unopened. 
 
 Giulio. 'Tis a pity 
 
 That, too. 
 
 Fiordilisa. Why, Giulio ? 
 
 Giulio. Oh, Signor Antonio 
 
 Read it me ; — ay, he did — he's such a gentleman. 
 He said, — " See, Giulio, I would not have you wrong 
 Your mistress in a thought ; nor give you an office 
 Might do yourself the thought of wrong, or harm." 
 You know I told you what he wrote outside — 
 You recollect it — there it is — " Most harmless, — 
 I dare to add, most virtuous ;" and there's more 
 Besides here, underneath. Did she read that ? 
 
 Fiordilisa. I know not. She read very quickly, at any rate; 
 Then held it off, as tho' it frighten'd her, 
 And gave it back. And she look'd angry too ; 
 At least, she did not look as she is used, 
 But turn'd right so, and waived me to be gone. — 
 I cannot bear to do the thing she likes not. 
 Giulio. Nor I. 
 
 Fiordilisa. Well — so I think. But hush — hush— hush ! 
 a step ! [_Runs to the loindow. 
 
 And coming quickly ! — 'Tis the Signor — 'Tis ! 
 So soon come back too ! — Strike up the guitar — 
 Strike up that song of Hope, my lady loves— 
 Quickly now — There's a good little Giulio. [Exit, 
 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 9 
 
 Giulio. Little ! well, — come, for such an immense young 
 gentlewoman 
 That's pretty well ! She has fallen in love, I fear, 
 With some tall elderly person. — But the song. 
 
 Giulio. (Sings.) 
 
 Hope, thou pretty child of heaven ! I prythee, Hope, abide — 
 I will not ask too much of thee — by my suffering side. 
 Grief is good for humbleness, and earth is fair to see ; 
 And if I do my duty, Hope, I think thou'lt stay with me. 
 
 Enter Agolanti. 
 
 Agolanti. What frivolous ante-chamber tinkling now 
 Attunes the pulse to levity ? puts folly 
 In mind of vice, as tho 1 the hint were needed ? 
 {Listening.) The door shuts, now the song's done. What 
 
 was it ? 
 What sang'st thou, boy ? 
 
 Giulio. A song of Hope, sir. 
 
 Agolanti. Hope ! 
 
 What hope ! 
 
 Giulio. I will repeat it, sir, so please you ? 
 The words, not music. \_He repeats the words. 
 
 'Tis a song my lady 
 Is fond of. 
 
 Agolanti. When she's troubled most ? with sickness ? 
 
 Giulio. No, sir, I think when she's most cheerful. 
 
 Agolanti. That 
 
 Paper within thy vest — Is that the words ? 
 Give it me. 
 
10 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [actx. 
 
 Giulio. Nay, sir, it is none of mine. 
 
 Agolanti. Give it me, boy. 
 
 Giulio. I may not, sir. — I will not. 
 
 Agolanti. Play not the lion's cub with me. That letter 
 Was given thee by Antonio Rondinelli. 
 He, and the profane wit, Fulvio da Riva, 
 Were seen this morning by the Baptistery, 
 Talking with thee. Give it me ; or myself 
 Will take the answer to Antonio's house 
 In bloody characters. 
 
 Giulio {aside). 'Tis a most sacred letter, 
 And ought to fell him, like a cuff o 1 the conscience. 
 Farewell, my place ! Farewell, my lady sweet ! 
 Giulio is gone. — There is the letter, sir ; 
 Take it, {aside) and be a devil choked with scripture. 
 
 Agolanti. Unopen'd ! come — thou meanest me well, 
 Giulio ? 
 Ah ! — but — why didst thou loiter in thy message ? 
 How came it that this fair epistle kiss'd not 
 The lady's fairer hands ? for that's the style. 
 
 Giulio. It did, sir. 
 
 Agolanti. Did ! 
 
 Giulio. Yes, sir. My lady had it. 
 
 {Aside) How like you that ? You have not read the whole 
 On the outside. {Aside) His very joy torments him. 
 
 Agolanti. She read it not, like the good lady she is ; 
 But yet you gave it her. 
 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 11 
 
 Giulio. t He read it me ; 
 
 He did, — the noble Antonio read it me, 
 To save my youth, every way, from harm. 
 
 Agolanti (aside). Some vile double signification, ad- 
 dressed 
 To riper brains, must have secured the words. 
 The foresight was too gross, if not a coward's ! 
 There has been, after all, I needs must own it, 
 A strange forbearance, for so hot a lover, 
 In this Antonio. It is now five years 
 Since first he sought Ginevra ; nearly four, 
 Since still he loved her, tho" another's wife ; 
 And — saving that his face is to be noted 
 Looking at hers wherever it appears, 
 At church, or the evening walk, or tournament, — 
 And that IVe mark'd him drooping hereabouts, 
 Yet rather as some witless, lonely man, 
 Than one that shunn'd me, — my sharp household eyes 
 Have fix'd on no confusion of his making ; 
 No blush ; no haste ; no tactics of the chamber ; 
 No pertness of loud servant — not till now — 
 Till now ; — but then this now may show all this 
 To have been but a more deep and quiet mastery 
 Of crime and devilish knowledge — too secure 
 To move uneasily, — and too high scornful 
 Of me, to give me even the grace of trouble. 
 And yet this seal unbroken, and these words — [Reading. 
 
12 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act i. 
 
 " Most harmless ; — I dare to add, most virtuous? " 
 And here again below ; — 
 
 " I have written what I have written on the outside of 
 this letter, hoping that it may move you to believe the 
 possibility of its not being unworthy to meet the purest of 
 mortal eyes."" 
 
 Filthiest hypocrite ! caught in his own bird-lime. 
 
 {Opens and reads the letter.) 
 
 " As you have openefl neither my first letter nor my 
 second, written at intervals of six months each, from the 
 moment when my name was first again mentioned to you 
 since your marriage, I hardly dare hope that the words I 
 am now writing shall have the blessedness of being looked 
 upon, although they truly deserve it. 
 
 " Truly, for most piteously they deserve it. I am going 
 to reward (may I utter such a word ?) your kindness, by the 
 greatest and most dreadful return I can make it. I will 
 write to you no more. 
 
 " But this promise is a thing so terrible to me, and so 
 un supportable, except in the hope of its doing you some 
 good, that I have one reward to beg for myself; not as a 
 condition, but as a last and enduring chanty. 
 
 " I no longer ask you to love me, however innocently, or 
 on the plea of its being some shadow of relief to you (in the 
 sweet thought of loving) from an unhappiness, of which all 
 the world speaks. [Agolanti pauses, greatly moved. 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 13 
 
 Is it so then ? and the world speaks of me, 
 
 And basely speaks ! He has been talking then, 
 
 And acting too. But let me know this all. [Reading. 
 
 " Neither yet will I beg you not to hate me ; for so 
 gentle a heart cannot hate anybody ; and you never were 
 unjust, except to yourself. \_Pauses a little again. 
 
 " But this I do beg ; first, that you will take care of a 
 
 health, which heaven has given you no right to neglect, 
 
 whatever be your unhappiness ; and which, under heaven, 
 
 is the best support of it ; — and secondly, that when you 
 
 think of the friends of whom death has deprived you, or 
 
 may deprive, and whom it will give you joy to meet again 
 
 beyond the grave, you may not be unwilling to behold 
 
 among them the face of 
 
 "Antonio Rondinelli. 
 
 w Written with prayers and tears before the sacred image 
 
 of the Virgin." 
 
 [Agolanti crosses himself, and pauses; then holds the 
 
 letter' apart, as if in disgust ; and then again resumes 
 
 his self-possession. 
 
 Giulio, I think since first I took thee from 
 
 The orphan college, now some three years back, 
 
 I have been no unkind master to thee, nor poor one ; 
 
 Have stinted thee in nought fitting thy station, 
 
 Nor hurt thy growth and blooming ? 
 
 Giulio. Sir, you hired me 
 
 For certain duties, which, with kindly allowance 
 
14 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act i. 
 
 For faults of youth, I hope I have performed. 
 My life has been most happy ; and my lady 
 Most bountiful to her poor songster. [Sheds tears. 
 
 Agolanti. Thou 
 
 Hast haply saved some little treasure then, 
 Against thy day of freedom ? 
 
 Giulio. Not a doit, sir. 
 
 What freedom should I think of, being free 
 From thought itself, and blithe as the blue day ? 
 
 Agolanti. Antonio Rondinelli is not rich. 
 His mother and he hide in proud poverty 
 From all but a few friends. 
 
 Ghdio {aside). Noble Antonio ! 
 
 He gave me a jewel, ere I knew him poor, 
 Worth twenty golden florins ; and his cap 
 Starved for it many a month. 
 
 Agolanti. New employers 
 
 Produce new duties, Giulio ; to the hurt, 
 Sometimes, of old ones ; and 'tis wise betimes 
 To see they vex and tangle not. These mixtures 
 Of services, — these new pure confidences 
 With masters not thine own, — these go-betweens 
 ^Twixt virtue and virtue,— loves desiring not 
 Their own desires, — and such like angel-adulteries 
 (Heaven pardon me the word !)— suit me not, Giulio, 
 Nor a wise house. Therefore, before thine innocent 
 Lady (for such, with mutual love, I own her, 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 15 
 
 And scorn of this poor fop) learns dangerous pity 
 
 Of thy fair-seeming messages, — dangerous, 
 
 Not to her virtue, but her virtue's fame, — 
 
 This house thou leavest ! Thou wouldst taste the pride 
 
 Of poverty, and will, and kinless freedom — 
 
 Do so ! And when thou learn'st how friendship ends, 
 
 In treachery, and in thanklessness begun, 
 
 And the cold crust turns bitter and quarrelsome, 
 
 Blame not thou me ; nor think those tears are payment 
 
 For guilt on thy side, and for love on mine ! 
 
 Giulio {aside). Love ! what a word from him ! and to 
 poor me, 
 Thus thrust upon the world, he knows not whither ; 
 {Aloud). Sir, you mistake my tears ; but 'tis no matter. 
 Guilty or not, I cannot quit this house 
 With thoughts less kind than sorrow. — Sir, farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Agolanti. 'Twas virtuously done, if not most falsely, 
 This seemingly celestial aversion 
 Of the very eyesight from unlawful words. 
 Or was it part of the system ? — of the show, — 
 Which frets me daily with malign excess 
 Of undemanded patience ? cold at best, 
 Resentful as the worst ! Antonio, 
 I do suspect, she loves not ; me, I know, 
 She hates ; me, whom she should love ; whom was bound 
 And sworn to love ; for which contempt and wrong, 
 Fools, that love half a story and whole blame, 
 
16 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act i. 
 
 Begin to babble against the person vvrong'd ! 
 Times are there, when I feel inclined to sweep 
 The world away from me, and lead my own 
 Life to myself, unlook'd into with eyes 
 That know me not ; but use, and sympathy 
 Even with those that wrong me, and the right 
 Of comely reputation, keep me still 
 Wearing a show of good with a grieved heart. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Servant, My lady, sir, hearing of your return 
 Home suddenly, and having visiters, 
 Entreats the honour of your presence. 
 
 Agolanti (aside). Now 
 
 To test this hateful gossip. " Suddenly ; " — 
 Was that her word, or the knave's? No matter. (Aloud) 
 
 Visiters, — 
 Who are they ? 
 
 Servant. Lady Olimpia, and her friend 
 
 Lady Diana, with two gentlemen ; 
 Strangers, I think, sir ; one a Roman gentleman, 
 Come from his Holiness's court. 
 
 Agolanti. The same, 
 
 Doubtless, I saw this morning ; by which token 
 The other is the sneering amorist, 
 Da Riva. He, I thought, respected me ; 
 But see — he knows these women, they Antonio — 
 
scene in.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. J 7 
 
 Have I been hasty ? or is — The black plague choke 
 All meddlers with — 
 
 To the Servant. 
 
 I will come speedily. 
 
 [_ Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Another Boom in Agolanti's house. Ginevra, Olimpia, 
 Diana, Colon n a, and Da Riva, discovered sitting. 
 Fiordilisa standing behind her lady's chair. 
 
 Olimpia. Dearest Lady Ginevra, to remain 
 Shut up when all the world are at the windows, 
 Or otherwise owning the great common joy, 
 Is clearly impossible. — Observe now, pray : — 
 On Friday the Pope comes; Saturday, chapel 
 At the Annunziata; — Sunday, at Saint Lorenzo; 
 Monday, the chase ; Tuesday, the race; Wednesday, 
 The tilts and drama ; and on Thursday he goes. 
 So there's six lives for you ; a life a day, 
 To make you well again, and merry, and careless. 
 
 Colonna. Most vital arguments ! 
 
 Ginevra. Too vital, may-be. 
 
 Remember, Lady Olimpia, I have been ill ; — 
 I am but getting better ; and such draughts 
 Of pleasure and amazement, pour'd unceasing, 
 Might drown the little faculties of poor me. 
 
 c 
 
18 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act i. 
 
 Diana. One day — could you not try one day, and then 
 Enjoy, or fear another, as it suited ? 
 
 Olimpia. Ay, one — one — one. Try but one day, and then 
 Trust me if one day would not give you strength 
 For pretty little two, and prettier three, 
 
 Da Riva. And, madam, the first day is both the noblest 
 And the most gentle, — a flow of princely draperies 
 Through draperied streets ; bringing us, it is true, 
 Emotion, but yet soothing it, and blessing 
 With sacred hand. Weakness itself is touchM 
 At ceremonial sights like these, with sweet 
 And no unstrengthening tears, bathing humility 
 In heavenly reassurance. And, dear lady, 
 'Twill give a nature, so composed as yours 
 With Christian grace and willing cheerfulness, 
 A joy at once sacred, and earthly, and charming, 
 To see the face of the accomplish^ man 
 Whom Providence, most potent seen when mildest, 
 Has raised to be the prince of Christendom 
 In this our day, when wit is questioning faith, 
 And mild religion answers with his eyes 
 Of charity, the unanswerable conclusion. 
 
 Colonna. Da Riva, I am to bring thy verse and thee 
 To his Beatitude's most knowing knowledge ; 
 But do thou step before me, and speak thus, 
 And thou art made a cardinal. 
 
scene in.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 19 
 
 Ginevra. Is his Holiness 
 
 So very and so beautifully gracious 
 To eloquence and letters ? 
 
 Colonna. V faith, madam, 
 
 Our blessed Father seems to be of opinion, 
 That whatsoever good or beauty exists 
 Must needs belong, like angels, to the church ; 
 And as he finds them, where severer men 
 (Not the best judges of angels) might o'erlook them, 
 He makes us know them better ; bids them come 
 Forth from the crowd, and show their winged wits, 
 And rise, and sit within his princely beams. 
 
 Olimpia. Come; — you accord ? you cannot resist reasons 
 Sweet as all these ? and to say truth, there is 
 One gentle reason more, which must convince you. 
 We want your husband's windows, lady mine; — 
 They face the veriest heaven of all the streets 
 For seeing the procession ; and how can we 
 Enter that paradise of a balcony 
 Without the house's angel ? What would people 
 Say to the intruders, you not being there ? 
 
 Ginevra. Oh, nothing very unseasonable, be sure ; 
 Nor what the lilies and roses in their cheeks, 
 And wit in their eyes, could not refute most happily. 
 Well, dear Diana, should my husbands judgment 
 Encourage me to think my health would bear it, 
 I would fain venture, but — I hear him coming. 
 
 c 2 
 
20 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act i. 
 
 At all events, the windows will be gladly 
 
 Fill'd with your pleasures ; the report of which 
 
 Will afterwards make them mine. [Enter Agolanti. 
 
 Sir, the ladies 
 Olimpia and Diana you know well ; 
 Also a name honour'd by all, Da Riva ; 
 Be pleased to know their friend, a courteous gentleman 
 From Rome, the Signor Cesare Colonna. 
 
 Agolanti. He's welcome, for his friend's sake, and his 
 own. 
 I trust our holy Father keeps his health, sir, 
 In this his gracious journey ? 
 
 Colonna. Sir, he holds him, 
 
 As his good habit is, in blest condition, 
 To the great joy of all that love good men 
 And sovereign church. 
 
 Agolanti. You hold, sir, I perceive, 
 
 Some happy office near his sacred person ? 
 
 Colonna. One of the poor captains of his guard, sir ; 
 Nor near enough to make the fortune proud, 
 Nor yet so far removed as not to share 
 Some grace of recognition. 
 
 Agolanti. I may not envy you : 
 
 But I may be allow'd to think such fortune 
 As happy, as 'tis worthily bestow'd. 
 Pardon me ; but this lady's delicate health 
 Will warrant somp small trespass on your courtesies. 
 
scene in.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 21 
 
 {To Ginevra.J How fares it with my love these last three 
 hours ? 
 
 Ginevra. {Cheerfully.) Thanks — I do very well. 
 
 Olimpia. 1 fear' we have tired her 
 
 Somewhat, with our loud talk, Signor Francesco. 
 
 Ginevra. No ; 'tis like bright health come to talk with us : 
 Is it not ? {To her husband.) 
 
 Agolanti. {Aside.) She knows I hate it. — Lady Olimpia 
 Brings ever a sprightly stirring to the spirit, 
 And her fair friend a balm. {Aside to Ginevra.) What 
 
 want they now, 
 This flaunter and this insipidity ? 
 
 Ginevra. {Aloud.) Our neighbour and her friends bring 
 a petition, 
 That it would please you to convenience them 
 With your fair windows for the coming spectacle ; 
 Yourself, if well enough, doubling the grace 
 With your good company. 
 
 Agolanti. {Aside.) I thought as much. 
 
 At every turn my will is to be torn from me, 
 And at her soft suggestion. {Aloud.) My windows 
 Cannot be better filPd, than with such beauty, 
 And wit and modest eloquence. 
 
 Colonna. {Aside to Da Riva.) Is he sneering? 
 Or is his zeal, and fame for polite manners, 
 .Proving itself, in spite of his own teeth ? 
 Sharpening its edge upon this oily venom ? 
 
22 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act i. 
 
 Da Riva. Somewhat of both ; he sneers, because he 
 hates us ; 
 And would not have it seen, because he fears us. 
 His will and vanity count on our obtuseness, 
 Just as it suits them. (Agolanti and the Ladies talk apart.} 
 
 Colonna. Noticed you how pale 
 
 The unhappy lady turn'd, when the song ended, 
 And she bade shut the door ? 
 
 Da Riva. She's paler now. 
 
 Let's interrupt him. — Good Signor Francesco, 
 We thank you much ; but windows, friends, and spectacle, 
 And, let us add, warranted by his love, 
 Husband and all, would miss the topmost flower 
 Of our delight, were this sweet lady absent ; 
 And she has threaten'd us with the cruel chance, 
 Unless your better knowledge of her health 
 Think better, than herself, of its free right. 
 
 Agolanti. Oh Sir, it were impossible to know 
 A lady better than she knows herself. 
 What say you, Madam ? {To Ginevra.) 
 
 Ginevra. The best thought of all, 
 
 Perhaps, were to await the time's arrival, 
 And see how I feel then. 
 
 Agolanti. Truly, methinks, 
 
 A discreet j udgment, and approved by all 
 Who set the lady's welfare above all, 
 As we in this room do. 
 
scene in.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 23 
 
 Olimpia. And every one 
 
 That knows her,— unless it be the devil himself. 
 Manners forgive my uttering his name 
 In such good company. Dearest Ginevra, 
 Come you with me. A word with you in private, 
 As we descend. And we'll request these gentlemen 
 To clear our way before us. 
 
 Colonna and Da Riva. A fair day 
 To Signor Agolanti, and may fairer 
 Befall us this day week. {Going.) 
 
 Olimpia. Yes, Signor mine, 
 
 Be sure you make your wife well by that day, 
 With some transcendent charmingness ; or none 
 But envious wives, and horrible old men, 
 Will think you the good spouse you are, or let you 
 Have any peace. 
 
 Agolanti. {Fiercely to his wife as she is going.) What 
 insolence is this, 
 And woman's plot ? Be in the purple chamber 
 In twenty minutes. Do you hear me speak ? 
 
 (He wrings her hand sharply, and she makes signs 
 of obedience.) 
 A fair day to my courteous visitors, 
 And may they ever have the joy they bring. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 END OF ACT THE FIRST. 
 
24 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act h. 
 
 ACT XL 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Garden of Dianas Villa. 
 
 Enter Rondinelli, Colonna, and Da Riva. 
 
 Colonna. I pray thee, Antonio, be comforted. 
 
 Rondinelli. I am, I am ; as far as friends can comfort 
 me : 
 And they do comfort. How can I love love, 
 And not love all things lovely ? sweet discourse, 
 And kindness, and dear friendships. But this suffering 
 Sweet saint, — the man, the household fiend, I mean — 
 Will kill her. 
 
 Colonna. I tell thee, no. In the first place 
 Her health is really better. Is it not ? 
 
 Da Riva. Olimpia and Diana both have staked 
 Their credit on it. The man's a fool no doubt, 
 But she is wise. 
 
 Colonna. Ay, is she ; for lo ! secondly, 
 
 She loves thee, Antonio. 
 
 Da Riva. Yes ; by that pure look 
 
 We told thee of, at mention of thy name, 
 She does ; — it was as though her mind retreated 
 
scene i ] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 25 
 
 To some blest, serious thought, far off but possible ; 
 Then ended with a sigh. 
 
 Colonna. And blush'd withal. 
 
 {Aside.) I did not see the blush, I must confess; 
 But being so virtuous, there must have been one, 
 And he'll be glad to hear of it. {Aloud.) Well, seeing 
 She loves thee then, as thou must needs believe, 
 For all that modest earthquake of thine head, 
 Bethink thee what a life within a life 
 She has to retire into, sweet and secret, 
 For help from common temper such as his ; 
 Help, none the worse, eh ? for a small, small bit 
 Of stubbornness, such as the best gentle wives 
 
 Must have in self-defence. Now 
 
 Rondinelli. Fear me not. 
 
 Such blessed thoughts must needs give me some comfort; 
 And I shan't quarrel with the comfort's fashion. 
 
 Colonna. Well then, you'll let me have my fashion out? 
 You'll let me speak after my old blithe mood, 
 Secure of my good meaning ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Ay, and thankfully. 
 
 Colonna. Why then, sir, look ; there are a hundred 
 marriages 
 In Florence, and a hundred more to those, 
 And hundreds to those hundreds, bad as this ; 
 As ill assorted, and as lover-hated ; 
 (Always allowing for the nobler difference, 
 
26 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act ii. 
 
 And therefore greater power to bear) ; and yet 
 
 They do not kill ; partly, because of lovers ; 
 
 Partly, of pride ; partly, indifference ; 
 
 Partly, of hate (a good stanch long-lived passion) ; 
 
 Partly, because all know the common case, 
 
 And custom's custom. There'll be a hundred couples 
 
 To-night, 'twixt Porta Pinti and San Gallo, 
 
 Cutting each other's hearts out with mild looks, 
 
 Upon the question, whether the Pope's mule 
 
 Will be in purple or scarlet ;— yet not one 
 
 Will die of it ; no, ' faith ; nor were a death 
 
 To happen, would the survivors' eyes refuse 
 
 A tear to their old disputant and partner, 
 
 That kept life moving somehow. 
 
 Rondinelli. By which logic 
 
 You would infer, to comfort me, that all 
 Marriages are unhappy. 
 
 Colonna. Not unhappy, 
 
 Though not very happy. 
 
 Da Riva. With exceptions? 
 
 Colonna. Surely for such good fellows as ourselves ! 
 
 Da Riva. And doubtless 
 
 A time will come 
 
 Colonna. Oh, ay ; a time will come — 
 
 Poet and prophet — Redeunt Saturnia regna. 
 Now hear him on his favourite golden theme, 
 " A time will come ; " — a time, eh ? when all marriages 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 27 
 
 Shall be like some few dozen ; exceptions, rules ; 
 Every day, Sunday ; and each man's pain in the head 
 A crowning satisfaction ! 
 
 Da Riva. No ; but still 
 
 A time, when sense and reason shall have grown 
 As much more rife than now, and foolish thorns 
 As much less in request, as we, now living, 
 Surpass rude times and savage ancestors. 
 Improvement stopp'd not at the muddy cave, 
 Why at the rush-strewn chamber ? The wild man's dream, 
 Or what he might have dreamt, when at his wildest, 
 Is, to the civilised man, his commonplace : 
 And what should time so reverence in ourselves, 
 As in his due good course, not still to alter? 
 
 Colonna. Till chariots run some twenty miles an hour ? 
 
 Da Riva. Ay, thirty or forty. 
 
 Colonna. Oh ! oh ! Without horses ? 
 
 Say, without horses. 
 
 Da Riva. Well, to oblige you, — yes. 
 
 Colonna. And sailing-boats without a sail ! Ah, ha ! 
 Well, glory be to poetry and to poets ! 
 Their cookery is no mincing ! Ah ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 [ Tliey both laugh. 
 They certainly, while they're about it, do 
 Cut and carve worlds out, with their golden swords, 
 To which poor Alexander's was a pumpkin. 
 What say you, Antonio ? 
 
28 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act ti. 
 
 Rondinelli. My dear friends both, 
 
 What you were saying of the good future time 
 Made me but think too sadly of the present ; 
 Pardon me — I should think more sadly far, 
 But for your loves and ever generous patience. 
 Yet let me take you back to our fair friends, 
 From whom my gusty griefs bore you away. 
 Nay, my good wish rewards me : — see, one comes. 
 
 Enter Olimpia. 
 
 Olimpia. A certain Giulio, in a pretty grief 
 Though for himself alone, and not another, 
 Inquires for Signor Rondinelli. 
 
 [Antonio kisses her hand and exit. 
 'Twas lucky that I saw this Giulio first, 
 For he's a page of pages ; a Spartan boy ; — 
 Quite fix'd on telling his beloved Signor 
 Antonio all the truths which the said Signor 
 May now, or at any time in all futurity, 
 Insist on knowing. Poor fellow ! he's turn'd away. 
 
 Da Riva. For what ? 
 
 Olimpia. Come in, 
 
 And you shall hear. Your ices and sherbets 
 Await you ; and your cheeks will need the cooling. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 29 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Chamber hung with purple, and containing a cabinet 
 picture of the Madonna* but otherwise little furnished* 
 Ginevra discovered sitting at a window. 
 
 Enter Agolanti. 
 Agolanti. Every way she opposes me, even with arms 
 Of peace and love. I bade remove that picture 
 From this deserted room. Can she have had it 
 Brought back this instant, knowing how my anger, 
 Just though it be, cannot behold unmoved 
 The face of suffering heaven ? Oh artifice 
 In very piety ! 'Twere piety to veil it 
 From our discourse, and look another way. 
 
 [During this speech, Ginevra comes forward, and 
 Agolanti, after closing the cabinet doors over the 
 picture, hands her a chair; adjusting another for 
 himself but continuing to stand. 
 Ginevra. (Cheerfully.) The world seems glad after its 
 hearty drink 
 Of rain. I fear'd when you came back this morning, 
 The shower had stopp'd you, or that you were ill. 
 
 Agolanti. You fear'd ! you hoped. What fear you that 
 I fear, 
 Or hope for that I hope for ? A truce, madam, 
 
30 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act ii. 
 
 To these exordiums and pretended interests, 
 Whose only shallow intent is to delay, 
 Or to divert, the sole dire subject, — me. 
 Soh ! you would see the spectacle ! you, who start 
 At openings of doors, and falls of pins. 
 Trumpets and drums quiet a lady's nerves ; 
 And a good hacking blow at a tournament 
 Equals burnt feathers or hartshorn, for a stimulus 
 To pretty household tremblers. 
 
 Ginevra. I express'd 
 
 No wish to see the tournament, nor indeed 
 Anything, of my own accord ; or contrary 
 To your good judgment. 
 
 Agolanti. Oh, of course not. Wishes 
 
 Are never express 1 d for, or by, contraries ; 
 Nor the good judgment of an anxious husband 
 Held forth as a pleasant thing to differ with. 
 
 Ginevra. It is as easy as sitting in my chair, 
 To say I will not go: and I will not. 
 Be pleased to think that settled. 
 
 Agolanti. The more easily, 
 
 As 'tis expected / should go, is it not ? 
 And then you will sit happy at receipt 
 Of letters from Antonio Rondinelli. 
 
 Ginevra. Returned unopen'd, sir. 
 
 Agolanti, How many ? 
 
 Ginevra, Three. 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 31 
 
 AgolantL You are correct, as to those three. How 
 many 
 Open'd? — Your look, madam, is wondrous logical; 
 Conclusive by mere pathos of astonishment ; 
 And cramm'd with scorn, from pure unscornfulness. 
 I have, 'tis true, strong doubts of your regard 
 For him, or any one ; — of your love of power 
 None, — as you know I have reason ; — tho' you take 
 Ways of refined provokingness to wreak it. 
 Antonio knows these fools you saw but now, 
 And fools have foolish friendships, and bad leagues 
 For getting a little power, not natural to them, 
 Out of their laugh'd-at betters. Be it as it may, 
 All this, I will not have these prying idlers 
 Put my domestic troubles to the blush ; 
 Nor you sit thus, in ostentatious meekness, 
 Playing the victim with a pretty breath, 
 And smiles that say " God help me. 1 ' — Well, madam, 
 What do you say? 
 
 Ginevra. I say I will do whatever 
 
 You think best, and desire. 
 
 AgolantL And make the worst of it 
 
 By whatsoever may mislead, and vex? 
 There — now you make a pretty sign, as tho' 
 Your silence were compell'd. 
 
 Ginevra. What can I say, 
 
 Or what alas ! not say, and not be chided ? 
 
32 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act ii. 
 
 You should not use me thus. I have not strength for it, 
 So great as you may think. My late sharp illness 
 Has left me weak. 
 
 Agolanti, Tve known you weaker, madam, 
 
 But never feeble enough to want the strength 
 Of contest and perverseness. Oh, men too, 
 Men may be weak, even from the magnanimity 
 Of strength itself; and women can take poor 
 Advantages, that were in men but cowardice. 
 
 Ginevra. (Aside ) Dear Heaven ! what humblest doubts 
 of our self-knowledge 
 Should we not feel, when tyranny can talk thus. 
 
 Agolanti. Can you pretend, madam, with your surpassing 
 Candour and heavenly kindness, that you never 
 Utter'd one gently-sounding word, not meant 
 To give the hearer pain ? me pain ? your husband ? 
 Whom in all evil thoughts you so pretend 
 To be unlike. 
 
 Ginevra. I cannot dare pretend it. 
 
 I am a woman, not an angel. 
 
 Agolanti. Ay, 
 
 See there — you have ! you own it ! how pretend then 
 To make such griefs of every petty syllable, 
 Wrung from myself by everlasting scorn ? 
 
 Ginevra. One pain is not a thousand ; nor one wrong, 
 Acknowledged and repented of, the habit 
 Of unprovoked and unrepented years. 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 33 
 
 Agolanti. Of unprovoked ! Oh, let all provocation 
 Take every brutish shape it can devise 
 To try endurance with ; taunt it in failure, 
 Grind it in want, stoop it with family shames, 
 Make gross the name of mother, call it fool, 
 Pander, slave, coward, or whatsoever opprobrium 
 Makes the soul swoon within its rage, for want 
 Of some great answer, terrible as its wrong, 
 And it shall be as nothing to this miserable, 
 Mean, meek-voiced, most malignant lie of lies, 
 This angel-mimicking non-provocation 
 From one too cold to enrage, and weak to tread on ! 
 You never loved me once — You loved me not — 
 Never did — no — not when before the altar 
 With a mean coldness, a worldly-minded coldness 
 And lie on your lips, you took me for your husband, 
 Thinking to have a house, a purse, a liberty, 
 By, but not for, the man you scorn'd to love ! 
 
 Ginevra. I scorn'd you not — and knew not what scorn 
 was — 
 Being scarcely past a child, and knowing nothing 
 But trusting thoughts and innocent daily habits. 
 Oh, could you trust yourself — But why repeat 
 What still is thus repeated day by day, 
 Still ending with the question, ii Why repeat?" 
 
 [Rising and moving about. 
 You make the blood at last mount to my brain, 
 
34 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act ii. 
 
 And tax me past endurance. What have I done, 
 Good God ! what have I done, that I am thus 
 At the mercy of a mystery of tyranny, 
 Which from its victim demands every virtue, 
 And brings it none ? 
 
 Agolanti. I thank you, madam, humbly. 
 
 That was sincere, at least. 
 
 Ginevra. I beg your pardon. 
 
 Anger is ever excessive, and speaks wrong. 
 
 Agolanti. This is the gentle, patient, unprovoked, 
 And unprovoking, never-answering she ! 
 
 Ginevra. Nay, nay, say on ; — I do deserve it, — I 
 Who speak such evil of anger, and then am angry. 
 Yet you might pity me too, being like yourself 
 In fellowship there at least. 
 
 Agolanti. A taunt in friendliness ! 
 
 Meekness's happiest condescension ! 
 
 Ginevra. No, 
 
 So help me Heaven ! — I but spoke in consciousness 
 Of what was weak on both sides. There's a love 
 In that, would you but know it, and encourage it. 
 The consciousness of wrong, in wills not evil, 
 Brings charity. Be you but charitable, 
 And I am grateful, and we both shall learn. 
 
 Agolanti. I am conscious of no wrong in this dispute, 
 Nor when we dispute, ever, — except the wrong 
 Done to myself by a will far more wilful, 
 
scene ii] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 35 
 
 Because less moved, and less ingenuous. 
 Let them get charity, that show it. 
 
 Ginevra (icho has reseated herself). I pray you, 
 Let Fiordilisa come to me. My lips 
 Will show you that I faint. 
 
 [Agolanti rings a bell on the table ; and Fiordilisa 
 enters to her mistress. 
 Agolanti. When you have seen your mistress well 
 again, 
 Go to Matteo ; and tell him, from herself, 
 That 'tis her orders she be excused at present 
 To all that come, her state requiring it, 
 And convalescence. Mark you that addition. 
 She's getting well ; but to get well, needs rest. [Exit. 
 
 Fiordilisa. Needs rest ! Alas ! When will you let her 
 rest, 
 But in her grave ? My lady ! My sweet mistress ! 
 
 [Applying a volatile to her temples. 
 She knows me. — He has gone : — the Signor's gone. 
 {Aside.) She sighs, as though she mourn'd him. 
 Ginevra (listening). What's that? 
 
 Fiordilisa. Nothing, madam ; — I heard nothing. 
 Ginevra. Everything 
 
 Gives me a painful wonder ; — you, your face, 
 These walls. My hand seems to me not more human, 
 Than animal ; and all things unaccountable. 
 'Twill pass away. What's that ? [A church-organ is heard 
 
 d 2 
 
36 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act ii. 
 
 Fiordilisa. Yes, I hear that. 
 
 'Tis Father Anselmo, madam, in the chapel, 
 Touching the new organ. In truth, I ask'd him, 
 Thinking that as the Signor is so moved 
 By whatsoever speaks to him of religion, 
 It might have done no harm to you and him, madam, 
 To hear it while conversing. But he's old 
 And slow, is the good father. 
 
 [Ginevra kisses her, and then weeps abundantly. 
 
 Ginevra. Thank Heaven ! thank Heaven and the sweet 
 sounds ! I have not 
 Wept, Fiordilisa, now, for many a day, 
 And the sound freshens me ; — loosens my heart. 
 
 [Music. 
 O blessed music ! at thy feet we lie, 
 Pitied of angels surely. 
 
 Fiordilisa. Perhaps, madam, 
 
 You will rest here, and try to sleep awhile ? 
 
 Ginevra. No, Fiordilisa (rising). Meeting what must be, 
 Is half commanding it ; and in this breath 
 Of heaven my mind feels duty set erect, 
 Fresh out of tears. Bed is for night, not day, 
 When duty's done. So cheer we as we may. 
 
 [Exeunt ; the music continuing, 
 
 END OF ACT THE SECOND. 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 37 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in Agolanti's Villa. 
 
 Enter Agolanti. 
 
 Agolanti. What have I done, great heavens! to be thus 
 tortured ? 
 My gates beset with these inquisitive fools ; 
 A wife, strong as her hate, so I be dumb, 
 Falling in gulfs of weakness for a word ; 
 And all the while, dastardly nameless foes, 
 Who know where I am weak, filling my household 
 With talk of ominous things, — sad mourning shapes 
 That walk my grounds, none knowing how they enter 'd ; 
 And in the dead of night, outcries for help, 
 As of a female crouching to the door. 
 Let me be met by daylight, man to man, 
 If 'tis to come to this ; and to loud lies 
 Answer with my contempt, and with my sword. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Servant The gentlemen that were here the other day, 
 
38 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act hi. 
 
 Signor Da Riva, and the Roman gentleman, 
 Desire to kiss your hands. 
 
 Agolanti. Fool ! were not orders 
 
 Given you to admit no one ? 
 
 Servant. To my lady, sir ; 
 
 We did not understand, to you. 
 
 Agolanti. Idiots and torments ! 
 
 Enter Da Riva and Colonna. Exit Servant. 
 
 Colonna. We kiss your hands, courteous Signor Fran- 
 cesco. 
 
 Da Riva. And come to thank you for the seats you have 
 given us. 
 In all the city there is no such throne 
 Of comfort, for a sovereign command 
 Of the best part o' the show ; which will be glorious. 
 
 Colonna. And with your lady for the queen o' the throne, 
 The Pope himself may look up as he walks, 
 And worship you with envy. 
 
 Agolanti. Nay, sirs, you are too flattering. Perhaps 
 The lady— 
 
 Colonna. And what makes us the more delighted 
 With your determination thus to give her 
 Unto the grateful spectacle, is a certain 
 Vile talk, sir, that has come to our disdainful 
 And most incredulous ears of — What do you think? 
 
 Da Riva. Ay, sir, 'twill tax your fancy. 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 39 
 
 Colonna. Of your jealousy ; 
 
 Nay cruelty, forsooth ! 
 
 Da Riva. We laugh 'd it down ; 
 
 Look'd it Tthe foolish face, and made it blush. 
 Yes, sir, the absurdity was put out of countenance ; 
 But then, you know, that countenance was but one ; 
 And twenty absurd grave faces, going about, 
 Big with a scandal, are as fertile as bees, 
 And make as busy multitudes of fools. 
 
 Agolanti. Sirs, with this sudden incursion of strange 
 news — 
 And your as strange, I must say, though well-meant 
 Fancy, of the necessity of refuting it — 
 
 Colonna. Fancy, good sir ! — Dear sir, we are most loath 
 To shock your noble knowledge of yourself 
 With the whole truth — with the whole credulous fiction ; 
 But to convince you how requisite is the step 
 Thus to be taken in the truth's behalf, 
 The theme is constant, both in court and market-place, 
 That you're a very tyrant ! 
 
 Da Riva. And to a saint ! 
 
 Vex her from morn to night — 
 
 Colonna. Frighten her — 
 
 Da Riva. Cast her 
 
 Into strange swoons, and monstrous shows of death. 
 
 Agolanti. Monstrous indeed ! and shows ! That is most 
 true. 
 
40 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act in- 
 
 Those are the shows ! and I am to be at the spectacle 
 
 To let her face make what display it can 
 
 Of the mean lie, and mock me to the world. 
 
 Pardon me — I'm disturb'd — Pm not myself — 
 
 My house is not quite happy — you see it — Whose is ? 
 
 But look, sir, — Why should Florence fall on me ? 
 
 Why select me, as the scape-goat of a common 
 
 And self-resented misery ? 'Tis a lie, 
 
 A boy's lie, a turn'd-off servant's lie, 
 
 That mine is a worse misery than their own, 
 
 Or more deserved. You know the Strozzi family, 
 
 You know the Baldi, Rossi, Brunelleschi — 
 
 You do, Signor Da Riva, — the Guidi also, 
 
 And Arregucci : — well, — are they all smiles ? 
 
 All comfort? Is there, on the husbands"' sides, 
 
 No roughness ? no plain- speaking ? or, on the wives', 
 
 No answering, tart or otherwise ? — no black looks ? 
 
 No softest spite ; nor meekness, pale with malice ? 
 
 No smile with the teeth set, shivering forth a sneer ? 
 
 Take any dozen couples, the first you think of, 
 
 Those you know best ; and see, if matrimony 
 
 Has been success with them, or a dull failure ; 
 
 Dull at the best ; probably, damn'd with discord ; 
 
 A hell, the worse for being carried about 
 
 With quiet looks ; or, horriblest of all, 
 
 Betwixt habitual hate and fulsome holiday. 
 
 Da Riva. Oh, sir, you wrong poor mixM humanity, 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 41 
 
 And think not bow much nobleness relieves it, 
 Nor what a heap of good old love there lies 
 Sometimes in seeming quarrel. I thought you, sir, 
 I must confess, a more enduring Christian. 
 
 Colonna. And churchman, sir. I own 1 have been 
 astonishM — 
 Pardon one somewhat nearer than yourself 
 Unto the church's prince — to hear you speak 
 Thus strangely of a holy ordinance. 
 
 Agolanti (aside). These men will make me mad. Have 
 they come here 
 To warn me, or to torment me ? — Sir, the earth 
 Holds not a man bows down with lowlier front 
 To holy church and to all holy ordinances: 
 It is their worldly violation mads me. 
 If my poor name be ever in sacred mouths, 
 I pray thee say so ; and add, I am a man 
 Not happy quite perhaps, more than some others 
 Of mankind's fallen race, in my home's Eve ; 
 Who, with some humours, yet is good as fair, 
 And only makes me unhappy in the excess 
 Of my desire to make herself most blessed. 
 My conscience thus discharged, look'ye, fair sir, — 
 A man of a less trusting sort — 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Servant. My lady, sir, 
 
 Being worse since her last seizure at day-break, 
 
42 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act hi. 
 
 The Nurse would fain send in the neighbourhood 
 For— 
 
 Agolanti. Bid her do so. Tell her to send instantly 
 Forwhom she pleases. {Exit Servant.) You will pardon me; — 
 This troubled house of mine — At the good spectacle, 
 I shall behold you. 
 
 Colonna. We take anxious leave, sir, 
 
 Wishing you all good speed with the sweet lady. 
 But something we had forgotten, in our zeal 
 To tell our own poor story, tho' we came 
 Partly to give it you, — a letter, sir, 
 From a most dear and excellent friend of ours ; 
 Who, we dare say it, for reasons which your delicacy 
 Will be glad, too, to turn to like fair grace 
 Of liberal trust and gentle interpretation, 
 Wishes your house all good and quiet fame. 
 'Tis something very special that he writes of, 
 So he assures us, and of instant urgency ; 
 But what we know not. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Agolanti {reads). " If Signor Agolanti values his wife's 
 peace, and life, he will meet the writer of this letter instantly ; 
 who will wait for him, an hour from the receipt of it, in the 
 wood near his gate, by the road-side leading to Cortona. 
 
 "Antonio Rondinelli." 
 'Tis as I fear'd. He knows them, as I thought, 
 And well ? Is it a league ? Conspiracy ? 
 And face to face too ! He ! This beats all boldness. 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 43 
 
 'Sdeath, must my time be his too ! What strange matter 
 
 Can give him right of speech ! " Her life ! " Who seeks it? 
 
 What bloody juggle is to beset me now ? 
 
 I'll meet thee, Antonio ; and before we part, 
 
 Strange mystery shall be pluck'd from some one's heart. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Wood. Rondinelli discovered waiting. 
 
 Rondinelli. My bosom is so full, my heart wants air ; 
 It fears even want of utterance ; fears the man, 
 For very loathing ; fears his horrible right, 
 His lawless claim of lawfulness ; and feels 
 Shame at his poisonous want of shame and manhood. 
 Yet she endures him ; she can smile to him, 
 Would have him better. Oh, heavenly Ginevra ! 
 Name, which to breathe puts pity in the air, 
 I know that to deserve to be thy friend 
 Should be to show all proofs of gentlest right. 
 Oh be the spirit of thine hand on mine ; — 
 Hang by me, like a light, a face, an angel, 
 To whom I turn for privilege of blest patience, 
 Letting me call thee my soul's wife ! 
 
 He comes. 
 
44 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act hi. 
 
 Enter Agolanti. 
 
 Agolanti. I recognise the Signor Rondinelli ; 
 And in him, if I err not, the inditer 
 Of a strange letter. — He would speak with me ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Pardon me. I am sensible that I trespass 
 On many delicacies, which at first confuse me. 
 Be pleased to look upon them all as summM 
 In this acknowledgment, and as permitted me 
 To hold acquitted in your coming hither. 
 I would fain speak all calmly and christianly. 
 
 Agolanti. You spoke of my wife's life. 'Twas that that 
 brought me. 
 
 Rondinelli. Many speak of it. 
 
 Agolanti. To what end ? 
 
 Rondinelli. They doubt 
 
 If you are aware on what a delicate thread 
 It hangs. 
 
 Agolanti. Mean you of health ? 
 
 Rondinelli. I do. 
 
 Agolanti. 'Twere strange, 
 
 If I knew not the substance of the tenure, 
 Seeing it daily. 
 
 Rondinelli. A daily sight — pardon me — 
 May, on that very account, be but a dull one. — 
 I pray you, do not think I use plain words 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 45 
 
 From wish to offend : I have but one object— such 
 As all must have, who know, or ever have known, 
 The lady, — you above all others. 
 
 Agolanti. Truly, sir, 
 
 You, and these knowing friends of yours, or hers, 
 Whom I know not, might leave the proverb alone, 
 Which says that a fool knows better what occurs 
 In his own house, than a wise man does in another's. 
 Good Signor Antonio, I endure you 
 Out of a sort of pity : you understand me; 
 Perhaps not quite a just one. This same letter 
 Is not the first of yours, that has intruded 
 Into my walls. 
 
 Rondinelli. We understand each other 
 In some things, Signor Agolanti, and well ; 
 In some things one of us is much mistaken ; 
 But one thing we know perfectly, both of us, — 
 The spotlessness of her, concerning whom 
 We speak, with conscious souls, thus face to face. — 
 Signor Agolanti, I humbly beg of you, 
 Well nigh with tears, which you may pity, and welcome, 
 So you deny them not, that it will please you 
 To recollect, that the best daily eyes, 
 The wisest and the kindest, made secure 
 By custom and gradation, may see not 
 In the fine dreadful fading of a face 
 What others see. 
 
46 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act hi. 
 
 Agolanti. Signor Antonio, — 
 
 When others allow others to rule their houses, 
 To dictate commonplaces, and to substitute 
 For long experience and uncanting love 
 Their meddling self-sufficiency, their envious 
 Wish to find fault, and most impertinent finding it, 
 When this is the custom and the fashion, then, 
 And not till then, will I throw open my doors 
 To all my kind good masters of fair Florence, 
 To come and know more in my house than I do ; 
 To see more, hear more, have a more inward taste 
 Of whatsoever is sweet and sacred in it, 
 And then vouchsafe me their opinions : order me 
 About, like some new household animal 
 CalFd servant-husband, they being husband-gods, 
 Yet condescending to all collateral offices 
 Of gossip, eaves-dropper, consulting-doctor, 
 Beggarly paymaster of discarded page, 
 Themselves discarded suitor. 
 
 Rondinelli. {Aside.) Help me, angel, 
 
 Against a pride, that, seeing thee, is nothing. — 
 You know full well, Francesco Agolanti, 
 That though a suitor for the prize you won 
 (Oh ! what a prize ! and what a winning ! enough 
 Surely to make you bear with him that lost) 8 
 Discarded I could not be, never, alas ! 
 Having found acceptation. My acquaintance 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 
 
 Not long preceded yours ; and was too brief 
 
 To let my love win on her filial eyes, 
 
 Before your own came beaming with that wealth, 
 
 Which, with all other shows of good and prosperous, 
 
 Her parents justly thought her due. For writing to her 
 
 Since, with whatever innocence (as you know) 
 
 And for any opinions of yourself 
 
 In which I may have wrong'd you, I am desirous 
 
 To hold my own will in a constant state 
 
 Of pardon-begging and self-sacrifice, 
 
 And will engage never to trouble more 
 
 Your blessed doors (for such I'll hope they will be) 
 
 One thing provided. — Sir, it is, 
 
 That in consideration of your possessing 
 
 A treasure, which all men will think and speak of 
 
 (The more to the just pride of him that owns it), 
 
 You will be pleased to show, even ostentatiously, 
 
 What more than care, at this supposed sad juncture, 
 
 You take of it : will call in learned eyes 
 
 To judge of what your own too happy ones 
 
 May slide o'er too securely ; will thus revenge 
 
 Your wrong on ill mouths, by refuting them ; 
 
 And secure kindlier ones from the misfortune 
 
 Of being uncharitable towards yourself. 
 
 Agolanti. I will not suffer, more than other men, 
 That wrong should be assumed of me, and bend me 
 To what it pleases. What I know, I know ; 
 
48 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act hi. 
 
 ■M 
 
 What in that knowledge have'done, shall still do. 
 The more you speak, the greater is the insult 
 To one that asks not your advice, nor needs it ; 
 Nor am I to be tricked into submission — 
 To a pedantic and o'erweening insolence, 
 Because it treats me like a child, with gross 
 Self-reconciling needs and sugary fulsomeness. 
 Go back to the world you speak of, you yourself, 
 True infant ; and learn better from its own school. 
 You tire me. 
 
 Rondinelli. Stay; my last words must be heard. — 
 In nothing then will there be any difference 
 From what the world now see ? 
 
 AgolantL In nothing, fool ! — 
 
 Why should there ? Am I a painter's posture-figure ? 
 A glove to be made to fit ? a public humour ? 
 To hear you is preposterous ; not to trample you 
 A favour, which I know not why I show. 
 
 Rondinelli. I'll tell you. 
 
 'Tis because you, with cowardly tyranny, 
 Presume on the bless'd shape that stands between us ; 
 Ay, with an impudence of your own, immeasurable, 
 Skulk at an angel's skirts. 
 
 Agolanti. I laugh at you. 
 
 And let me tell you at parting, that the way 
 To serve a lady best, and have her faults 
 Lightliest admonished by her lawful helper, 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 49 
 
 Is not to thrust a lawless vanity 
 'Twixt him and his vex'd love. 
 
 jRondinelli. Utter that word 
 No second time. Blaspheme not its religion. 
 And mark me, once for all. I know you proud, 
 Rich, sanguine during passion, sullen after it, 
 Purchasing shows of mutual respect, 
 With bows as low, as their recoil is lofty ; 
 And thinking that the world and you, being each 
 No better than each other, may thus ever, 
 In smooth accommodation of absurdity, 
 Move prosperous to your graves. But also I know you 
 Misgiving amidst all of it ; more violent 
 Than bold, more superstitious ev'n than formal ; 
 More propp'd up by the public breath, than vital 
 In very self-conceit, Now mark me 
 
 Agolanti. A beggar 
 
 Mad with detection, barking like his cur ! 
 
 Rondinelli. Mark me, impostor. Let that saint be 
 worse 
 By one hair's- breadth of sickness, and you take 
 No step to show that you would have prevented it, 
 And every soul in Florence, from the beggar 
 Up to the princely sacredness now coming, 
 Shall be loud on you, and loathe you. Boys shall follow 
 
 you, 
 
 Plucking your shuddering skirts ; women forego, 
 
50 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act hi. 
 
 For woman's sake, their bashfulness, and speak 
 Words at you, as you pass ; old friends not know you ; 
 Enemies meet you, friend-like ; and when, for shame, 
 You shut yourself in-doors, and take to your bed, 
 And die of this world by day, and the next by night, 
 The nurse, that makes a penny of your pillow, 
 And would desire you gone, but your groans pay her. 
 Shall turn from the last agony in your throat, 
 And count her wages ! 
 
 Agolanti [drawing his sword). Death in thine own throat. 
 
 Rondinelli. Tempt me not. 
 
 Agolanti. Coward ! 
 
 Rondinelli [drawing his sivord). All you saints bear wit- 
 ness ! 
 
 \_Cries of" Agolanti ! Signor Agolanti ! " 
 
 Enter Servants in disorder. 
 
 First Servant. My lady, sir. 
 
 Agolanti. What of her ? 
 
 Servant. Sir, she is dead. 
 
 Agolanti. Thou say'st what cannot be. A hundred 
 times 
 Fve seen her worse than she is now. 
 
 Rondinelli. Oh horror ! 
 
 To hear such words, knowing the end ! — Oh dreadful ! 
 But is it true, good fellow ? Thou art a man, 
 And hast moist eyes. Say that they served thee dimly. 
 
scene 11.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 51 
 
 Servant Hark, sir. 
 
 [ The passing-bell is heard. They all take off their 
 caps, except Agolanti. 
 Rondinelli. She's gone ; and I am alone. Earth's blank ; 
 Misery certain.— The cause, alas ! the cause ! 
 
 [Passionately to Agolanti. 
 Uncover thee, irreverent infamy ! 
 
 Agolanti {uncovering). Infamy thou, to treat thus 
 ruffianly 
 A mute-struck sorrow. 
 
 Rondinelli. Oh God ! to hear him talk ! 
 
 To hear him talk, and know that he has slain her ! 
 Bear witness, you — you of his household — you, 
 That knew him best, and what a poison he was — 
 He has slain her. — What you all fear'd would be, has come, 
 And the mild thread that held her heart, is broken. 
 
 Agolanti (going off with the Servants). Pietro, I say, and 
 Giotto ! away ! away ! 
 
 {Exit with Servants. 
 
 Rondinelli. Ay, ay ; to justice with him ! Whither with 
 
 me ? {Exeunt opposite. 
 
 EXD OF ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act iv. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in the House of Da Riva. Colonna, Olimpia, 
 and Diana, discovered, the first looking out of a windoio. 
 A funeral-bell is tolling at intervals. 
 
 Colonna. By the moving of the crowd the funeral comes. 
 No ; — yet I thought I heard the Choristers. 
 
 Diana, You did. Hark now — 
 
 [A faint sound of Choristers, 
 And now like some sweet sigh 
 Of heaven and earth it pauses. — You look sadder, 
 Signor Colonna, than you thought you should, 
 Within this festal week. 
 
 Colonna. "Faith, gentle lady, 
 I'd rather hear upon a winter's night, 
 A dozen trumpets of the enemy 
 
 Blow 'gainst my nestled cheek, than this poor weakness, 
 Which comes to pass us, standing idly thus, 
 Swallowing the lumpish sorrow in one's throat, 
 'Twixt rage and pity. 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 53 
 
 Olimpia. I have noted oft, 
 That eyes, that have kept dry their cups of tears, 
 The moment they were touch'd by music's fingers, 
 Trembled, brim full. 
 
 Diana, It is the meeting, love, 
 
 Of beauty so divine, with earth so weak. 
 We swell within us with immortal thoughts, 
 And then take pity on the feeble riddle, 
 That lies thus cold, and thus rebuked in death. 
 
 [Choristers resume, and continue during the 
 dialogue. 
 
 Colonna. I heard as I came in, one who has seen her 
 Laid on the bier, say that she looks most heavenly. 
 
 Diana. I saw her lately, as you'll see her now, 
 Lying but newly dead, her blind sweet looks 
 Border'd with lilies, which her pretty maiden, 
 'Twixt tears and kisses, put about her hair, 
 To show her spotless life, and that wrong man 
 Dared not forbid, for very piteous truth ; 
 And as she lay thus, not more unresisting 
 Than all her life, I pitied even him, 
 To think, that let him weep, or ask her pardon 
 Never so much, she could not answer more. 
 
 Colonna. They turn the corner now, and now they pass. 
 [The Choristers suddenly become loud, and are 
 heard passing underneath the window. After 
 they have passed, Colonna resumes. 
 
54 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act iv. 
 
 Farewell, sweet soul ! Death and thy patient life 
 Were so well match'd, I scarce can think thee alter'd. 
 
 Enter Da Riva. 
 How now, Da Riva ? Found you not Antonio, 
 That thus you look amazed ? What is't ? No harm 
 To his poor self ? 
 
 Da Riva. None, none ; to him, or any ; 
 None that shall be; monstrous, and strange, and horrible, 
 As ignorance of the peril might have made it. 
 
 Colonna, \ 
 
 Olimpia, > To whom? 
 and Diana.) 
 
 Da Riva. Prepare to hear, and to endure, 
 A chance, the very hope of which is awful, 
 It raises up a vision with a look 
 So mixed of life and death. 
 
 Colonna, \ 
 
 Olimpia, \ What is it ? 
 and Diana.) 
 
 Da Riva. You, 
 Colonna, will to Antonio instantly, 
 To keep him ignorant till all be known : 
 You, my sweet friends, with me, to seek some nest 
 Of balm and comfort, close upon the spot, 
 Against a chance — Think me not mad, but hearken. 
 
 Diana. He has murdered her ! He thought to murder 
 her, 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 55 
 
 And his hand failed. 
 
 Olimpia. Poison ! Oh Heavens ! 
 
 Colonna. P ra y? calm them. 
 
 Da Riva. Scarcely ten minutes had I left you here, 
 When Fiordilisa, paler than her mistress, 
 Found me with Giulio by Antonio's door. 
 
 Colonna. You have not seen him then ? 
 
 Da Riva. Yes; — the poor maiden 
 Told us of an appearance she had noted 
 All night about the lips of the dear lady 
 Which made her call to mind stories, too true, 
 Of horrors in the dreadful pestilence, 
 Of hasty shrouds, sleeps found to have been sleeps only, 
 And gentle creatures grown so desperate, 
 That they had raised their hands against their lives 
 For waking to the sense of life itself. 
 
 Olimpia. Where now they bear her ! 
 
 Diana. Not unknown. 
 
 Colonna. Be tranquil, 
 
 Watch has been set ? 
 
 Da Riva. And will look close till morn. 
 Giulio, from time to time, 'twixt them and us, 
 Will fly with news ; and meantime sweep we all 
 Each to our tasks, and bless the hope that sets them. 
 If true, oh think where but in sleep she lies : 
 If vain, she still will bless us from the skies. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
56 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act iv. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Cemetery, with an open Vault in the back-ground, and 
 a dim noise of revelry, as from some house in the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 Enter Giulio. 
 Ghdio. What devilishness, and outrage to the dead, 
 About whose homes the rudest-footed churl 
 Treads softly, e'en by day. The noble hearts 
 I serve, have been so generous, that these drunkards 
 Count it but as a folly worth their cheating, 
 And have shut up their promised vigilance 
 Within the roaring wine-house. (Noise again.) Only one 
 Remains within the gate, who let me in, 
 Staring 'twixt sleep and glass-eyed sottish ness. 
 Yet see — the vault has been left open, wide 
 As fear could wish. What, if ! — Methinks the man 
 LookM at me yonder; — yes, and is still looking ; — (Noise 
 
 again) 
 And now the noise allures him, and he turns. 
 Hark ! Not a sound, but when the riot swells! 
 So still all else, that I can hear the grass 
 Whisper, as in lament, through its lorn hair. 
 Til in, and look. —What if a hope almost 
 

 scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 57 
 
 As dreadful, for the moment, as worst fear, 
 
 Show to my heart its selfish cowardice, 
 
 And I should see her, not still laid, but risen ! 
 
 Sitting perhaps, with eyes encountering mine, 
 
 And muttering lips ! I'll take thy burden, horror, 
 
 Upon me, for love's sake and gratitude's ; 
 
 Oh will I, Heaven ! e'en should my knees melt under me, 
 
 And every pore turn to a swoon of water. 
 
 \_He enters the Vault, and returns. 
 Gone ! Borne away ? or of her own self gone ? 
 Gone; without friend to help, or to pursue ! 
 And whither ? or with help itself how dreadful ! 
 What hands for lilied innocence in the night !j 
 Perhaps that very house — What ho, there ! — you ! 
 
 \_The gate of the Cemetery is loudly shut. 
 He shuts the gate ! he shuts, and is himself 
 Gone ! and forbid it, Heaven, not for my sake, 
 But hers, but hers, left me, perhaps on purpose, 
 To call in vain, and 'gainst the bolts grow mad ! 
 Pardon, sweet Heavens ! I'll not be mad, for fear 
 Of madness, but be calm. What ho, there ! Stay ! 
 Come back, for Heaven's sweet sake, and ope the doors. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
58 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act iv. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Room in Agolanti's House in Florence. Agolanti 
 discovered looking out of an open window, and then quit- 
 ting it. Sound of lutes in the distance. 
 
 Agolanti. That sound of homeward lutes, which I arose 
 Out of my restless bed, to feel companion 'd with, 
 For some few passing moments, was the last 
 To-night in Florence. Not a footstep more 
 Touches the sleeping streets ; that now seem witch'd 
 With the same fears that walk around me still, 
 Ready to greet me with unbearable eyes. 
 All air seems whispering of me ; and things visible 
 Take meaning in their shapes, not safe to know. 
 Oh that a masculine and religious soul 
 Should be thus feeble ! And why ? what should I fear ? 
 My name has worship still ; and still will have it, 
 If honourable wealth and sacred friends 
 Can shield it from mad envy ; and if I err'd 
 Sometimes as husband, she I loved err'd more, 
 With spirit so swelling as outstrain'd her life. 
 Oh, every man^s infirmities, more or less, 
 Mix with his love ; and they who in excess 
 Feel not all passions, felt not love like mine, 
 

 scene in.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 59 
 
 Nor knew what worlds, when my despair seem'd angriest, 
 
 I could have given for one, for but one look 
 
 Of sure and heartfelt pity in her eyes. 
 
 But she is gone ; and for whate'er I did 
 
 Not well, I have humbled me to the god of power ; 
 
 And given the shrine, near which her dust is laid, 
 
 New glorious beams of paintings and of gold, 
 
 Doubling its heaven to the white angelical tapers ; 
 
 For which, they say, the sovereign Holiness 
 
 Himself will thank me. And yet, — thus, even thus, 
 
 I feel, — a shudderer at the very silence, 
 
 Which seems preparing me some angriness. 
 
 I'll close the window ; and rouse Ippolito 
 
 To read to me in some religious book. 
 
 \Going towards the window^ he stops and listens. 
 What was it ? a step ? a voice ? 
 
 Ginevra (is heard outside). Agolanti ! 
 Francesco Agolanti ! husband ! 
 
 Agolanti {crossing himself and moving towards the 
 window). It draws me, 
 In horror, to look on it. — Oh God ! —I see it ! 
 There is — something there — standing in the moonlight. 
 
 Ginevra. Come forth, and help me in — Oh help me in ! 
 
 Agolanti. It speaks ! (very loudly) I cannot bear the 
 dreadfulness ! 
 The horror's in my throat, my hair, my brain ! 
 Detestable thing ! witch ! mockery of the blessed ! 
 
60 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act iv. 
 
 Hide thee ! Be nothing ! Come heaven and earth betwixt us! 
 [He closes the shutters in a frenzy, and then rushes apart. 
 Oh God ! a little life ; — a little reason ; — 
 Till I reach the arms of the living.— Ippolito ! 
 Tonio ! Giuseppe ! Lights ! Wake Father Angelo ! 
 
 \_He staggers out, 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A retired corner in Florence, injrontofRoNDiNELu's House, 
 with Garden-wall and Trees. Rondinelli out oj 
 doors^ musing. 
 
 Rondinelli. A gentle night, clothed with the moon and 
 silence. — 
 Blessed be God, who lets us see the stars ; 
 Who puts no black and sightless gulf between 
 Those golden gazers out of immensity, 
 And mortal eyes, yearning with hope and love ! — 
 She's now a blessed spirit beyond those lights, 
 With happy eternal cheek. And yet, methinks, 
 Serious as well as sweet is bliss in heaven, 
 And permits pity for those that are left mourning. 
 Gentle is greatest and habitual nature ! 
 Gentle the starry space ! gentle the air ! 
 Gentle the softly ever-moving trees ! 
 
scene iv.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 61 
 
 Gentle time past and future ! both asleep, 
 
 While the quick present is loud by daylight only. 
 
 And gently I come to nature, to be worthy 
 
 Of comfort and of her, and mix myself 
 
 With the everlasting mildness in which she lives. — 
 
 Sweetest and best ! my couch a widower seems, 
 
 Altho' it knew thee not ; and I came forth 
 
 To join thee as I could ; for thou and I 
 
 Are thus unhoused alike, and in no home. 
 
 The wide earth holds us both. 
 
 Ginevra enters, and halts apart, looking at him. 
 
 Ginevra. Antonio ! 
 
 JRondinelli. Oh earth and heaven ! What art thou? 
 
 Ginevra. Fear not to look on me, Antonio! 
 I am Ginevra — buried, but not dead, 
 And have got forth and none will let me in. 
 Even my mother is frighten'd at my voice, 
 And I have wander 1 d to thy gentle doors. 
 Have pity on me, good Antonio, 
 And take me from the dreadful streets at night. 
 
 Rondinelli. Oh Heaven ! Oh all things terrible and 
 beautiful ! 
 Art thou not angel, showing me some dread sight 
 Of trial and reproof ? Or art thou indeed 
 Still living, and may that hand be touch'd with mine ? 
 
 [She has held out her hand to him. 
 
62 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act iv. 
 
 Ginevra. Clasp it, and help me towards thy door ; for 
 wonder 
 And fear, and that long deadly swoon, have made 
 Me too a terror to myself, and scarcely 
 I know how I stand thus. 
 
 Rondinelli (moving slowly \ but eagerly >, and breathless towards 
 her). Infold us, air ! 
 Infold us, night and time, if it be vision ! 
 If not — if not — 
 
 [He touches her hand, and clasps her to his heart. 
 It is Ginevra's self, 
 And in Antonio's arms ! — She faints ! Oh sweetest ! 
 Oh cheek, whose tears have been with mine — She'll die ! — 
 She'll die, and I shall have kill'd her ! 
 
 Ginevra (sliding down on her knees). Strength has risen 
 o'er me from the depths of weakness. 
 Oh Signor Rondinelli ! Oh good Antonio, 
 Be all I think thee, and think not ill of me, 
 Nor let me pass thy threshold, having a fear 
 Of the world's speech, to stain a spotless misery. 
 
 Rondinelli. Oh rise ; and when I think that thou canst 
 stand 
 Unhelp'd of these most glad but reverent arms, 
 Aloof will I wait from thee, as far apart 
 As now I closely grasp'd thee. I was mad, 
 And am, with joy, to find thee alive, and near me ; 
 But, oh blest creature ! Oh lady ! Antonio's angel ! 
 
scene iv] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 63, 
 
 Say but the word — do — and I love thee so, 
 That after thou hast tasted food and wine, 
 Myself will bear thee to thy house, thy husband, 
 Laying a heav'n on his repentant heart. 
 
 Ginevra. Never. The grave itself has been between us ; 
 The hand of heaven has parted us, acknowledged 
 By his own driving me from his shrieking doors : 
 And none but thy door, and a convent's now, 
 To which thy honourable haste will guide me, 
 Shall open to me in this world again. 
 Shelter me till the morn. Thou hast a mother ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Blessed be Heav'n, [ have ; — a right good 
 mother — 
 Gentle, and strong, and pious. She will be yours, 
 So long as our poor walls boast of inclosing you, 
 And instantly. You scarcely shall have set 
 Your foot in the house, but with religious joy, 
 She will arise, and take you to her bed, 
 And make a child of you, lady, till you sleep. 
 
 Ginevra. Blessed be Heav'n indeed. I can walk strangely. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 END OF ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
64 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act v. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in the House of Rondinelli, ivho enters. 
 
 Rondinelli. Five blessed days, and not a soul but we 
 Knows what this house in its rich bosom holds. 
 The man whom dear Diana bribed to secrecy 
 For our sakes, is now secret for his own ; 
 And here, our guest is taken for a kinswoman, 
 Fled from a wealthy but a hated suitor, 
 Out of no hatred, haply, to myself; 
 For which, as well as for her own sweet sake, 
 The servants love her, and will keep her close. 
 She holds my mother's hand, and loves her eyes; — - 
 And yester evening she twice spake my name, 
 Meaning another's. Hence am I most proud, 
 Hence potent ; hence, such bliss it is to love 
 With smallest thought of being loved again, 
 That though I know not how this heav'n on earth 
 Can change to one still heaven lier, nor less hoh r , 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 65 
 
 I am caught up, like saints in ecstacies, 
 
 Above the ground ; — tread air ; — see not the streets 
 
 Through which I pass, for swiftness of delight, 
 
 And hugging to my secret heart one bosom. 
 
 T live, as though the earth held but two faces, 
 
 And mine perpetually look'd on hers. 
 
 Enter Giulio. 
 How now, sweet Giulio? why so hushM ? our visitor 
 No longer sleeps by day. (Giulio kisses his hand ) 
 
 And why this style 
 Of pretty reverence and zeal, as though 
 You came betwixt myself and some new trouble ? 
 
 Giulio. Nay, sir. 
 
 Rondinelli. You smile, to reassure me. Well ; 
 
 Yet you breathe hard, and have been flying hither, 
 Your pretty plumage beaten with the wind, 
 And look as haggard pale, as when you brought 
 The daybreak to us from that cage, and found 
 Safe-housed our bird of paradise. What is it? 
 
 Giulio. T came, that Marco might not come. I thought, 
 Dear lord and master, GiuhVs lips had best 
 Bring news of one whose face the servants know not, 
 Now in the hall, asking to speak with you. 
 
 Rondineli. What face? — Who is it? 
 
 Giulio. He saw me, and started ; 
 
 And yet not angrily. 
 
66 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act v. 
 
 Rondinelli. Who saw ? No kinsman 
 
 Of my dear mother's guest ? 
 
 Giulio. No, sir ; no kinsman. 
 
 Rondinelli. No officer from the court, or clergy ? 
 
 Giulio. Neither. 
 
 Rondinelli. Our mutual friends are all, this instant, 
 with us, 
 Here, in the house. They, if they saw this man — 
 Say — would they know him ? 
 
 Giulio. Surely, sir ; none better, 
 
 Or with less willingness; — though five short days 
 Have bow'd him down, as with a score of years; 
 His eye that was so proud, now seems but stretch'd 
 With secret haste and sore anxiety ; 
 And what he speaks, he seems yet not to think of. 
 
 Rondinelli. Come, let us speak his name, lest a mad 
 chance 
 That 'tis not he, make me repent the cowardice. 
 'Tishe? the man? 
 
 Giulio. The Signor Agolanti. 
 
 Rondinelli (aside). Life is struck black. Yet not so, 
 sweetest face, 
 Not so. He shall not hurt a hair of thy head, 
 While the earth holds us. — Guess you what he knows ? 
 
 Giulio. All. 
 
 Rondinelli. How ? 
 
 Giulio. I saw, coming from out his door, 
 
scene i.j A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 67 
 
 The sexton's boy, his lowering front in smiles 
 
 For some triumphant craft ; and not long afterwards 
 
 Came he, half staggering, shrouding with his cap 
 
 His haggard eyes. He bent his steps this way, 
 
 And I took wings before him, to give Marco 
 
 Speech for him should he come, and be his harbinger, 
 
 Sir, with yourself. 
 
 Rondinelli. Best boy ! my friend, and brother ! 
 But, Giulio, say you not a word elsewhere. 
 You understand me ? 
 
 Giulio. Oh sir, — yes. 
 
 RondinellL Bid Marco 
 
 Conduct him hither. 
 
 Giulio. Geri and myself 
 
 May remain then ? Not within hearing, sir, 
 But within call? 
 
 Rondinelli. Good lad ! but there's no need. 
 
 See you, that not another eye in the house 
 Behold him coming. — Let him be shown up. 
 
 [Exit Giulio ; and after a while, enter Agolanti, 
 looking round the room. They pause a little, and 
 regard one another. 
 
 Agolanti. You know why I am here? 
 Rondinelli. I do. 
 
 Agolanti. Five days — 
 
 (Aside) Rouse thee, Agolanti. Never shook'st thou yet 
 
 F 2 
 
68 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act v. 
 
 At Jiving face: — what quaiFd thee, coming hither ? 
 
 (To Rondinklli.) Five days, and nothing told a husband ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Nothing ! 
 
 Agolanti. Nothing that he deem'd mortal. — But with 
 whom 
 Am I thus speaking? With one honourable? 
 One who though lawless in his wish, was held 
 Scrupulous in action ? of nice thought for others ? 
 
 Rondinelli. The angel who came hither, is angel still. 
 
 Agolanti. Signor Rondinelli, respect this grief. 
 It respects thee, if thou art still the man 
 I thought thee once. A graver faith than most, 
 And love most loving, if its truth were known, 
 Did, from excess of both — But what is past, 
 Is past; — a gentleman is before me ;— his foe, 
 Or one he deem'd such, at a disadvantage ; 
 Illness, on all sides, gone ;— I am here; am ready 
 To beg her pardon for that sore mistake, 
 Which for its very madness, friends, methinks, 
 Might haste to pardon ; — and so take her home. 
 
 Rondinelli. Your words are gentle, Signor Agolanti :— 
 I thank you ; and would to Heav'n, what must be borne, 
 Were always borne so well. The thing you speak of, 
 Seems easy, but in truth is not so. 
 
 Agolanti. How ? 
 
 Rondinelli, A bar has risen. 
 
 Agolanti. A bar ! 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 69 
 
 Rondinelli. Which, to speak briefly, 
 
 Has render'd it not possible. 
 
 Agolanti. Not possible ! 
 
 (Aside.) He said that she was " angel still.'" — (To Ron- 
 dinelli.) She still 
 Is living ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Yes. 
 
 Agolanti. And here? 
 
 Rondinelli. She is so. 
 
 Agolanti. Able 
 
 To move ? recover'd ? 
 
 Rondinelli. She is still but weak, 
 
 Yet hourly gaining strength. 
 
 Agolanti. What hinders then — 
 
 You do not speak. Tell me, what strange prevention, 
 What inconceivable " bar," I think, you call'd it — 
 
 Rondinelli. Signor Francesco, I shall distress you 
 greatly ; 
 And, for all sakes, as you will see too well, 
 Would to God any other man on earth 
 Had to make this disclosure. 
 
 Agolanti. In God's name then, 
 
 What is it ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Her own consent would be required. 
 
 Agolanti. Well? 
 
 Rondinelli. And 'twould not be given. — She "11 not return. 
 
 Agolanti. Will not return .'—How "not return?" She's 
 well? 
 
70 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act r. 
 
 She's better — perhaps would wait some days—yes, yes — 
 Well, sir — when will she ? Ill see her instantly, 
 And then we'll settle when. But you can tell me 
 At once. — Be pleased to say, sir, when you think 
 She'll come. 
 
 Rondinelli. 'Tis her own terrible word I speak, sir, 
 The night when she stood houseless at my door, 
 Dead to the past, alive to virtue only, 
 And honourable grief. She will return 
 Never. 
 
 Agolanti. Never return ! Ginevra Agolanti 
 Never return ? not come to her own house ? 
 Impossible ! — Witchcraft has been here ! Seduction ! 
 Where is she ? Let me see her — instantly, sir I 
 Would you part man and wife ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Alas ! she holds them 
 
 Parted already, not by me. 
 
 Agolanti. A wife 
 
 Has but one home, sir. 
 
 Rondinelli. Sir, she thought so. 
 
 Agolanti. Sir, fever and delirium would not have 
 made 
 A friend unpardonable in my eyes 
 For having mis-beheld me. 
 
 Rondinelli. Surely, sir : — 
 
 Yet I conceive there is a difference. 
 But I am not the judge. 
 
scene i.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 71 
 
 Agolanti. You are, sir ; — I fear 
 
 You are ; — I fear you have made yourself the judge, sir, 
 The criminal — the detainer. Why say nothing 
 Of her being here? Why let me find it out 
 From a gross boy, who has quarrell'd with his master, 
 And makes my shame his profit ? Housed with thee too ! 
 
 Rondinelli. Nay, in the melancholy convent housed, 
 Soon as its doors, now hung with flowers for Rome, 
 Be open to admit the appeals of sorrow ! 
 
 Agolanti. Appeals of lies and crimes.— And so my wounds 
 Must be torn open afresh ! hidden from none ! 
 All eyes must stare upon me ! I demand 
 To see my wife ; — the lady Agolanti: — 
 She is detain'd here. Horrible light begins 
 To dawn ; there has been dreadful mockery — 
 Conspiracy ! Worse ! You have dishonour'd her. 
 
 Rondinelli. 'Tis false. — Be calm. Let both be calm, 
 nor startle 
 Feminine ears with words. Wait in this room, 
 Here, on the left, awhile ; — I'll bring herself 
 To look upon thy speech, if it so please her ; 
 If not, my mother, sir, — you have heard of her, — 
 From whom, so help me God, I never yet 
 Beheld her separate. 
 
 Agolanti. I demand — 
 
 Rondinelli. This way. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
72 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act v, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Another Room. 
 
 Enter Rondinelli ; and to him, from the opposite side, Giulio 
 with Fjordilisa, who kisses his hand. 
 
 Rondinelli. Sweet Fiordilisa, you attend your mistress 
 Too closely. You grow pale. 
 
 Fiordilisa. 'Twas Giulio's paleness, sir, 
 
 Struck me with mine. 
 
 Rondinelli. Fear not for him, or any one; 
 
 You see me pale, yet see me smiling too : 
 Now go, and with the like good flag advanced 
 Of comfort beyond trouble, tell your lady 
 I would entreat one word with her, alone. 
 
 Fiordilisa. I'll think, sir, trouble cannot come to stay 
 Within so quiet and so blessM a house ; 
 And so I'll try to look. [Exit Fiordilisa. 
 
 Rondinelli (who has been writing something). And now 
 you, Giulio, 
 Go tell the friends who come to greet her rise 
 From the sick bed, what shade has folio w'd them. 
 I fear, from some deep whispering on the stairs 
 I caught but now, as we were coming up, 
 They heard us wrangling. Say, all's quiet now — 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 73 
 
 They'll see me soon ; and give this to my mother. 
 
 [Exit Giqlio with the paper ; and enter Ginevra. 
 
 My mother would have been before me, lady, 
 To beg an audience for her son ; but you, 
 Being still the final and sole arbitress 
 Of a new question, come with sudden face ; 
 It might befit you also, for more reasons 
 Than I may speak, to be its first sole hearer. 
 
 Ginevra. What is it ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Nothing that need bring those eyes 
 
 Out of the orbs of their sweet self-possession. 
 Your thoughts may stay within their heaven, and hear it. 
 'Twixt it and you, there is all heaven, and earth. 
 
 Ginevra. My story is known, ere I have reach'd the 
 convent ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Even so. 
 
 Ginevra. And somebody has come to claim me ? 
 From him ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Not from him. 
 
 Ginevra. From the church then ? No ! 
 
 The state ? 
 
 Rondinelli. I said not from him. He is shaken 
 Far more than you should be, being what you are, 
 And all hearts loving you. 
 
 Ginevra. Himself ! 
 
 Rondinelli. Himself. — 
 
74 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act v. 
 
 His haughty neck yet stooping with that night, 
 Which smote his hairs half grey. (She weeps.) 
 
 Ginevra (aside). Alas ! — yet more 
 
 Alas, that I should say it. — Not loud then? 
 Not angry ? 
 
 Rondinelli. Only with your vows of refuge, 
 And those that stand betwixt his will and power ; 
 Else humble ; nay, in tears, and seeking pardon. 
 (Aside.) She's wrung to the core ! — With grief is't ? and 
 
 what grief? 
 Oh now, all riddles of the heart of love, 
 When 'twould at once be generous, yet most mean ; 
 All truth, yet craft ; a sacrifice, yet none ; 
 Risk all in foppery of supposed desert, 
 And then be ready in anguish to cry out 
 At being believed, and thought the love it is, 
 Martyr beyond all fires, renouncing heaven 
 By very reason that none can so have earn'd it ; — 
 Oh, if she pities him, and relents, and goes 
 Back to that house, let her yet weep for me ! 
 
 Ginevra. When I said " Never 1 ' to that word " return," 
 He had not suffered thus; had not shown sorrow ; 
 Was not bow'd down with a grey penitence. — 
 Sir — I would say, kind host — most kind of men — 
 My friend and my preserver — 
 
 Rondinelli. Say no more, 
 
 So you think well of me. 
 
 Ginevra. I could say on, 
 
scene ii.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 75 
 
 And twenty times as much, so you would think it 
 Best, some day hence. — Speak not. — 
 
 Rondinelli. Yes, honour bids me ; 
 
 Honour, above all doubts, even of poor self, 
 Whether to gain or lose ; — bids me say bravely, 
 Be wise, while generous — Guard the best one's peace, 
 Whoe'er that is ; — her peace — the rights of goodness 
 And vindication of the o'er-seeing heavens, 
 High above all wrong hearts, — his, — or mine own. 
 
 Ginevra. Although you call me " best," who am not so, 
 I'll write that last and noblest admonition 
 Within the strongest memory of my soul, 
 For all our sakes. The way to him. 
 
 Rondinelli. One word. 
 
 My mother — she — will see you again sometimes 
 In your lot's bettering from its former state, 
 As surely it must, your friends now knowing all, 
 He sad for all. 
 
 Ginevra. It is a help I look for. 
 
 Rondinelli. Her son forgive him that at this last 
 moment 
 He makes this first and only mention of him, 
 Since you vouchsafed to rest your troubles with us, — 
 His first — his last ; — may he too, as a friend, 
 Hope — that a thought of him — a passing memory — 
 Will sometimes mix with hers ? 
 
 Ginevra. To think of her 
 
 Will be to think of both. 
 
76 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act v. 
 
 Eondinelli. Oh gentlest creature, 
 
 If what I am about to say to thee 
 Offend thee in the least, count it such madness 
 As innocence may pity ; and show no sign 
 Of thy displeasure. Be but mute ; and sorrow 
 With as mute thanks shall resume common words. 
 But if, in thy late knowledge of Antonio, 
 Thou hast seen nought, that under happier omens 
 And with all righteous sanction, might have hinder^ thee 
 From piecing out his nature's imperfections 
 With thy sweet thoughts and hourly confidence, 
 Reach him, oh reach, but for one blissful moment, 
 And to make patience beautiful for ever, 
 Thy most true woman's hand. 
 
 [She turns aside, and holds out to him her hand. 
 My heart would drink it. 
 \_He strains it with both hands against his bosom. 
 Do thy worst, memory, now. — We have known each other 
 For twenty years in this. Your tears embolden you 
 Even to look at me through their glittering veil, 
 And set me some sweet miserable task : — 
 I understand ; — yes, we'll go quietly, 
 And you will let me keep this hand to the door ? 
 We will walk thus. This little walk contains 
 A life ! — Might you say one word to me at parting? 
 Ginevra. Antonio ! — may your noble heart be happy. 
 
 [She clasps her hands, and speaks with constant 
 vehemence, looking towards the audience. 
 
scene it.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 77 
 
 Alas ! alas ! Why was that one word utter'd 
 
 To bear down the last patience of my soul, 
 
 And make me cry aloud to Heaven and misery ? 
 
 I am most miserable. I am a creature 
 
 That now, for fifteen years, from childhood upwards, 
 
 Till this hard moment, when the heavens forbid it, 
 
 Have known not what it was to shed a tear, 
 
 Which others met with theirs. Therefore mine eyes 
 
 Did learn to hush themselves, and young, grow dry. 
 
 For my poor father knew not how I loved him, 
 
 Nor mother neither ; and my severe husband 
 
 Demanded love, not knowing lovingness. 
 
 And now I cry out, wishing to be right, 
 
 And being wrong ; and by the side of me 
 
 Weeps the best heart, which ought not so to weep, 
 
 And duty's self seems to turn round upon me, 
 
 And mock me ; by whose law nevertheless 
 
 Do I abide, and will I ; so pray Heaven 
 
 To keep me in my wits, and teach me better. 
 
 Turn me aside, sweet saints, and let me go. 
 
 I While Rondinelli, who has fallen on his knee, is 
 stretching his hands toivards her, the voices of 
 Agolantt, Colonna, and Da Riva, are 
 heard in violent quarrel*. 
 
 * The following words of the quarrel are supposed to be uttered during 
 the most violent confusion, and partly at once : — 
 
 Agolanti. Who sent you here ? I never asked for you, 
 Nor you — 
 
 Colonna. And who for you ? 
 
78 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act v. 
 
 Ginevra. His voice ! In anger too ? Did you not say 
 That he was calm? Heart- stricken ? 
 
 Rondinelli. He seem'd so. 
 
 Ginevra. Perhaps is so, and they mistake his sorrow. 
 There's mercy in it: for when danger comes, 
 Duty cries loudest. Ay, and here's the friend 
 Will not forsake me still, but bear me on, 
 Right where the trumpet of the angel calls. 
 
 \_He speeds her out. 
 
 SCENE THE LAST, 
 
 Another Room in Rondinelli's House. Agolanti and 
 Colonna, in loud dispute, with their Swords drawn, 
 Da Riva interposing. 
 
 Agolanti. I say — 
 
 Colonna. What say you then ? 
 
 Da Riva. Well, let him speak. 
 
 Agolanti. Who ? 
 
 Da Riva. Shut the door, 
 
 I say. 
 
 Colonna. Ay, who? What idiot, or what brute 
 Could that be ? 
 
 Agolanti. Heaven itself, whom you blaspheme. 
 My voice shall reach it. 
 
 Da Riva. Door ! the door ! he has open'd it 
 
 On purpose ; see you not ? Follow him out. 
 
scene last.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 79 
 
 Agolanti. I say, that nothing upon earth, no insolence — 
 
 Colonna. House-coward ! 
 
 Da Riva. Hush. 
 
 Agolanti. Nor prudent friend — 
 
 Colonna. Still, coward. 
 
 Agolanti. Nor talk of law, nor threats of church itself. 
 Shall move my foot one jot from where I stand, 
 Till she whom law, church, heaven and earth join'd to me, 
 Shall join me again, and quit this infamous house. 
 
 Da Riva. To be twice slain in thine ? 
 
 Colonna. And twice thrust forth, 
 
 If she return to fright thee ? 
 
 Agolanti. I've seen the page here; 
 
 Seen you ; guess at your women ; and shall know 
 What hideous trap has steepYl her soul in blushes, 
 If she come not. 
 
 Colonna (going to attack him) Blush in thy grave to 
 say so. 
 
 Enter Rondinelli with Ginevra, followed by his Mother, 
 Olimpia, Diana, Giulio, Fiordilisa, and Servants. 
 
 Rondinelli. Forbear ! an angel comes. Take her, and 
 pray 
 
 Just Heaven to make her happy as thyself. 
 
 Colonna. Antonio, thou art damn'd to think it. See — 
 Da Riva. He shrinks from her again in very fear, 
 
 Which in his rage of vanity hell avenge. 
 
80 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act v. 
 
 Agolanti. I hear not what they say, my poor Ginevra, 
 Thinking of thee alone. — Come, bear thee up, 
 And bravely, — as thou dost. We'll leave this place — 
 This way — So — so — 
 
 Da Riva. Antonio, will you let him ? 
 
 Think of herself.— 'Tis none of yours, this business, 
 But the whole earth's. 
 
 Rondinelli. She will not have me stay him — 
 
 I dare not — My own house too — See, she goes with him. 
 
 Da Riva. Call in the neighbours — 
 
 Colonna. Do, there's a right soul — 
 
 Tell all. 
 
 Agolanti She's with me still ! She's mine ! Who stays us. 
 
 Olimpia and Diana. Ginevra ! sweetest friend ! 
 
 Agolanti. Who triumphs now ? Who laughs ? Who 
 mocks at pandars, 
 Cowards, and shameless women ? 
 
 Ginevra (bursting away from him). Loose me, and 
 hearken. 
 Madness will crush my senses in, or speak : — 
 The fire of the heavenward sense of my wrongs crowns me; 
 The voice of the patience of a life cries out of me ; 
 Every thing warns me. I will not return. 
 I claim the judgment of most holy church. 
 Til not go back to that un sacred house, 
 Where heavenly ties restrain not hellish discord, 
 Loveless, remorseless, never to be taught. 
 
scene last.] A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. 81 
 
 I came to meet with pity, and find shame ; 
 Tears, and find triumph ; peace, and a loud sword. 
 The convent walls— Bear me to those — In secret, 
 If it may be ; if not, as loudly as strife, — 
 Drawing a wholesome tempest through the streets ; 
 And there, as close as bonded hands may cling, 
 I'll hide, and pray for ever, to my grave. — 
 Come you, and you, and you, and help me walk. 
 
 Agolanti. Let her not stir. Nor dare to stir one soul, 
 Lest in the madness of my wrongs I smite ye. 
 
 Ginevra {to Agolanti), Look at me, and remember. 
 Think how oft 
 I've seen as sharp a point turn-d on thyself 
 To fright me ; how, upon a weaker breast ; 
 And what a world of shames unmasculine 
 These woman's cheeks would have to burn in telling. — 
 The white wrath festers in his face, and then 
 He's devilish. 
 
 Rondinelli. Will you let her fall ? She swoons. 
 
 [He catches he?' in his arms. 
 
 Agolanti {turning to kill him). Where'er she goes, she 
 shall not go there. 
 
 Colonna {intercepting him with his own sword). Dastard! 
 Strike at a man so pinion'd ? 
 
 Agolanti. Die then for him. {Strikes at Colon na.) 
 
 Diana and Olimpia. Help ! Help ! 
 
 [The doors fly open, enter Giulio followed by 
 Officer and Guard. 
 
 G 
 
82 A LEGEND OF FLORENCE. [act v. 
 
 Giulio. Tis here ! Part them, for mercy's sake. 
 Colonna. Die thou. {He pierces him.) 
 Da Riva. He's slain ! What hast thou done ? 
 Colonna. The deed 
 
 Of his own will. One must have perish'd, sir {to Officer) ; 
 One, my dear friend (to Da Riva.) Which was the 
 corse to be ? 
 Da Riva {looking at it). There's not a heart here, but 
 will say, 'Twas he. 
 
 [Curtain falls. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON : 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRlARb. 
 
DRAMATIC LIBRARY. 
 
 In One Volume, with Portrait, Vignette, and Index, price Ids. cloth, 
 THE 
 
 DRAMATIC WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKSPE ARE 
 
 WITH REMARKS OX HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS, 
 
 BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 In One Volume, with Portrait, Vignette, and Index, price 24s. cloth, 
 
 THE WORKS OF BEN JONSON ; 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR OF HI3 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 In One Volume, price 20s. cloth, 
 
 THE WORKS OF MASSINGER AND FORD. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION, 
 
 BY HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 In Two Volumes, 
 
 THE WORKS OF BEAUMONT & FLETCHER ; 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION, 
 
 BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL.D., 
 
 POET LAUREATE, ETC. ETC. 
 
 In One Volume, 
 
 THE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 WYCHERLEY, VANBRUGH, FARQUHAR, 
 AND CONGREVE. 
 
 WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES, 
 
 BY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 
 
Wt 
 
 <CCC: 
 
 Tec Ik c <XOX? <«P^^^^ l^CCC< 
 
 
 «q«ree§r> si,« 
 
 
 
 «r< ccci 
 
 Ti C<2< 
 
 £^B3E^ 
 
 mat 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 VvCCCs j 
 
 it 
 
 'in* «sp 
 
 
 
 i* ccc<; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
wsm* 
 
 
 re cere 
 
 
 < <E tc# « :^ 5r 33 
 
 C<J ^<^££ r «^ SS ^ 
 
 
 
 c 
 
 T 
 
 So 
 
 
 CCc 
 GELc 
 
 «^< 
 
 GT< 
 
 
 
 <rr cc 
 
 
 
 MH 
 
 
 
 T Q5 C 
 
 ^ 
 
 <* 
 
 
 ?■ 
 
 : «i 
 
 '« 
 
 B£^F *lte~Svx3 
 
 :cac 
 
 xccccc 
 recede 
 
 2 OdCM 
 
 c re ccccca 
 
 *g«#^i£WK 
 
 
 c:^: 
 
 C3CCCCO 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS