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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1308-0.txt b/1308-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f117bc0 --- /dev/null +++ b/1308-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2041 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous, by Oscar Wilde, +Edited by Robert Ross + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous + + +Author: Oscar Wilde + +Editor: Robert Ross + +Release Date: April 8, 2015 [eBook #1308] +[This file was first posted on April 3, 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OSCAR WILDE MISCELLANEOUS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1917 Methuen and Co. edition of Salomé etc. by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous + + +CONTENTS + +Preface vii +La Sainte Courtisane 111 +A Florentine Tragedy 127 + + + + +PREFACE + + + ‘_As to my personal attitude towards criticism_, _I confess in brief + the following_:—“_If my works are good and of any importance whatever + for the further development of art_, _they will maintain their place + in spite of all adverse criticism and in spite of all hateful + suspicions attached to my artistic intentions_. _If my works are of + no account_, _the most gratifying success of the moment and the most + enthusiastic approval of as augurs cannot make them endure_. _The + waste-paper press can devour them as it has devoured many others_, + _and I will not shed a tear . . . and the world will move on just the + same_.”’—RICHARD STRAUSS. + +THE contents of this volume require some explanation of an historical +nature. It is scarcely realised by the present generation that Wilde’s +works on their first appearance, with the exception of _De Profundis_, +were met with almost general condemnation and ridicule. The plays on +their first production were grudgingly praised because their obvious +success could not be ignored; but on their subsequent publication in book +form they were violently assailed. That nearly all of them have held the +stage is still a source of irritation among certain journalists. +_Salomé_ however enjoys a singular career. As every one knows, it was +prohibited by the Censor when in rehearsal by Madame Bernhardt at the +Palace Theatre in 1892. On its publication in 1893 it was greeted with +greater abuse than any other of Wilde’s works, and was consigned to the +usual irrevocable oblivion. The accuracy of the French was freely +canvassed, and of course it is obvious that the French is not that of a +Frenchman. The play was passed for press, however, by no less a writer +than Marcel Schwob whose letter to the Paris publisher, returning the +proofs and mentioning two or three slight alterations, is still in my +possession. Marcel Schwob told me some years afterwards that he thought +it would have spoiled the spontaneity and character of Wilde’s style if +he had tried to harmonise it with the diction demanded by the French +Academy. It was never composed with any idea of presentation. Madame +Bernhardt happened to say she wished Wilde would write a play for her; he +replied in jest that he had done so. She insisted on seeing the +manuscript, and decided on its immediate production, ignorant or +forgetful of the English law which prohibits the introduction of +Scriptural characters on the stage. With his keen sense of the theatre +Wilde would never have contrived the long speech of Salomé at the end in +a drama intended for the stage, even in the days of long speeches. His +threat to change his nationality shortly after the Censor’s interference +called forth a most delightful and good-natured caricature of him by Mr. +Bernard Partridge in _Punch_. + +Wilde was still in prison in 1896 when _Salomé_ was produced by Lugne Poë +at the Théàtre de L’Œuvre in Paris, but except for an account in the +_Daily Telegraph_ the incident was hardly mentioned in England. I gather +that the performance was only a qualified success, though Lugne Poë’s +triumph as Herod was generally acknowledged. In 1901, within a year of +the author’s death, it was produced in Berlin; from that moment it has +held the European stage. It has run for a longer consecutive period in +Germany than any play by any Englishman, not excepting Shakespeare. Its +popularity has extended to all countries where it is not prohibited. It +is performed throughout Europe, Asia and America. It is played even in +Yiddish. This is remarkable in view of the many dramas by French and +German writers who treat of the same theme. To none of them, however, is +Wilde indebted. Flaubert, Maeterlinck (some would add Ollendorff) and +Scripture, are the obvious sources on which he has freely drawn for what +I do not hesitate to call the most powerful and perfect of all his +dramas. But on such a point a trustee and executor may be prejudiced +because it is the most valuable asset in Wilde’s literary estate. Aubrey +Beardsley’s illustrations are too well known to need more than a passing +reference. In the world of art criticism they excited almost as much +attention as Wilde’s drama has excited in the world of intellect. + +During May 1905 the play was produced in England for the first time at a +private performance by the New Stage Club. No one present will have +forgotten the extraordinary tension of the audience on that occasion, +those who disliked the play and its author being hypnotised by the +extraordinary power of Mr. Robert Farquharson’s Herod, one of the finest +pieces of acting ever seen in this country. My friends the dramatic +critics (and many of them are personal friends) fell on _Salomé_ with all +the vigour of their predecessors twelve years before. Unaware of what +was taking place in Germany, they spoke of the play as having been +‘dragged from obscurity.’ The Official Receiver in Bankruptcy and myself +were, however, better informed. And much pleasure has been derived from +reading those criticisms, all carefully preserved along with the list of +receipts which were simultaneously pouring in from the German +performances. To do the critics justice they never withdrew any of their +printed opinions, which were all trotted out again when the play was +produced privately for the second time in England by the Literary Theatre +Society in 1906. In the _Speaker_ of July 14th, 1906, however, some of +the iterated misrepresentations of fact were corrected. No attempt was +made to controvert the opinion of an ignorant critic: his veracity only +was impugned. The powers of vaticination possessed by such judges of +drama can be fairly tested in the career of _Salomé_ on the European +stage, apart from the opera. In an introduction to the English +translation published by Mr. John Lane it is pointed out that Wilde’s +confusion of Herod Antipas (Matt. xiv. 1) with Herod the Great (Matt. ii. +1) and Herod Agrippa I. (Acts xii. 23) is intentional, and follows a +mediæval convention. There is no attempt at historical accuracy or +archæological exactness. Those who saw the marvellous _décor_ of Mr. +Charles Ricketts at the second English production can form a complete +idea of what Wilde intended in that respect; although the stage +management was clumsy and amateurish. The great opera of Richard Strauss +does not fall within my province; but the fag ends of its popularity on +the Continent have been imported here oddly enough through the agency of +the Palace Theatre, where _Salomé_ was originally to have been performed. +Of a young lady’s dancing, or of that of her rivals, I am not qualified +to speak. I note merely that the critics who objected to the horror of +one incident in the drama lost all self-control on seeing that incident +repeated in dumb show and accompanied by fescennine corybantics. Except +in ‘name and borrowed notoriety’ the music-hall sensation has no relation +whatever to the drama which so profoundly moved the whole of Europe and +the greatest living musician. The adjectives of contumely are easily +transmuted into epithets of adulation, when a prominent ecclesiastic +succumbs, like King Herod, to the fascination of a dancer. + +It is not usually known in England that a young French naval officer, +unaware that Dr. Strauss was composing an opera on the theme of _Salomé_, +wrote another music drama to accompany Wilde’s text. The exclusive +musical rights having been already secured by Dr. Strauss, Lieutenant +Marriotte’s work cannot be performed regularly. One presentation, +however, was permitted at Lyons, the composer’s native town, where I am +told it made an extraordinary impression. In order to give English +readers some faint idea of the world-wide effect of Wilde’s drama, my +friend Mr. Walter Ledger has prepared a short bibliography of certain +English and Continental translations. + + * * * * * + +At the time of Wilde’s trial the nearly completed MS. of _La Sainte +Courtisane_ was entrusted to Mrs. Leverson, the well-known novelist, who +in 1897 went to Paris on purpose to restore it to the author. Wilde +immediately left the only copy in a cab. A few days later he laughingly +informed me of the loss, and added that a cab was a very proper place for +it. I have explained elsewhere that he looked on his works with disdain +in his last years, though he was always full of schemes for writing +others. All my attempts to recover the lost work failed. The passages +here reprinted are from some odd leaves of a first draft. The play is, +of course, not unlike _Salomé_, though it was written in English. It +expanded Wilde’s favourite theory that when you convert some one to an +idea, you lose your faith in it; the same motive runs through _Mr. W. H._ +Honorius the hermit, so far as I recollect the story, falls in love with +the courtesan who has come to tempt him, and he reveals to her the secret +of the love of God. She immediately becomes a Christian, and is murdered +by robbers. Honorius the hermit goes back to Alexandria to pursue a life +of pleasure. Two other similar plays Wilde invented in prison, _Ahab and +Isabel_ and _Pharaoh_; he would never write them down, though often +importuned to do so. _Pharaoh_ was intensely dramatic and perhaps more +original than any of the group. None of these works must be confused +with the manuscripts stolen from 16 Tite Street in 1895—namely, the +enlarged version of _Mr. W. H._, the second draft of _A Florentine +Tragedy_, and _The Duchess of Padua_ (which, existing in a prompt copy, +was of less importance than the others); nor with _The Cardinal of +Arragon_, the manuscript of which I never saw. I scarcely think it ever +existed, though Wilde used to recite proposed passages for it. + + * * * * * + +Some years after Wilde’s death I was looking over the papers and letters +rescued from Tite Street when I came across loose sheets of manuscript +and typewriting, which I imagined were fragments of _The Duchess of +Padua_; on putting them together in a coherent form I recognised that +they belonged to the lost _Florentine Tragedy_. I assumed that the +opening scene, though once extant, had disappeared. One day, however, +Mr. Willard wrote that he possessed a typewritten fragment of a play +which Wilde had submitted to him, and this he kindly forwarded for my +inspection. It agreed in nearly every particular with what I had taken +so much trouble to put together. This suggests that the opening scene +had never been written, as Mr. Willard’s version began where mine did. +It was characteristic of the author to finish what he never began. + +When the Literary Theatre Society produced _Salomé_ in 1906 they asked me +for some other short drama by Wilde to present at the same time, as +_Salomé_ does not take very long to play. I offered them the fragment of +_A Florentine Tragedy_. By a fortunate coincidence the poet and +dramatist, Mr. Thomas Sturge Moore, happened to be on the committee of +this Society, and to him was entrusted the task of writing an opening +scene to make the play complete. It is not for me to criticise his work, +but there is justification for saying that Wilde himself would have +envied, with an artist’s envy, such lines as— + + We will sup with the moon, + Like Persian princes that in Babylon + Sup in the hanging gardens of the King. + +In a stylistic sense Mr. Sturge Moore has accomplished a feat in +reconstruction, whatever opinions may be held of _A Florentine Tragedy_ +by Wilde’s admirers or detractors. The achievement is particularly +remarkable because Mr. Sturge Moore has nothing in common with Wilde +other than what is shared by all real poets and dramatists: He is a +landed proprietor on Parnassus, not a trespasser. In England we are more +familiar with the poachers. Time and Death are of course necessary +before there can come any adequate recognition of one of our most +original and gifted singers. Among his works are _The Vinedresser and +other Poems_ (1899), _Absalom_, _A Chronicle Play_ (1903), and _The +Centaur’s Booty_ (1903). Mr. Sturge Moore is also an art critic of +distinction, and his learned works on Dürer (1905) and Correggio (1906) +are more widely known (I am sorry to say) than his powerful and +enthralling poems. + +Once again I must express my obligations to Mr. Stuart Mason for revising +and correcting the proofs of this new edition. + + ROBERT ROSS + + + + +LA SAINTE COURTISANE +A FRAGMENT + +_First Published in Book Form by Methuen and _October_ _1908_ +Co. in_ ‘_Miscellanies_’ (_Limited Editions +on handmade paper and Japanese Vellum_) +_First F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _November_ _1909_ +_Second F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _October_ _1910_ +_Third F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _December_ _1911_ +_Fourth F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _May_ _1915_ +_Fifth F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _1917_ + + + + +LA SAINTE COURTISANE +OR, THE WOMAN COVERED WITH JEWELS + + +_The scene represents the corner of a valley in the Thebaid_. _On the +right hand of the stage is a cavern. In front of the cavern stands a +great crucifix_. + +_On the left_ [_sand dunes_]. + +_The sky is blue like the inside of a cup of lapis lazuli_. _The hills +are of red sand_. _Here and there on the hills there are clumps of +thorns_. + +FIRST MAN. Who is she? She makes me afraid. She has a purple cloak and +her hair is like threads of gold. I think she must be the daughter of +the Emperor. I have heard the boatmen say that the Emperor has a +daughter who wears a cloak of purple. + +SECOND MAN. She has birds’ wings upon her sandals, and her tunic is of +the colour of green corn. It is like corn in spring when she stands +still. It is like young corn troubled by the shadows of hawks when she +moves. The pearls on her tunic are like many moons. + +FIRST MAN. They are like the moons one sees in the water when the wind +blows from the hills. + +SECOND MAN. I think she is one of the gods. I think she comes from +Nubia. + +FIRST MAN. I am sure she is the daughter of the Emperor. Her nails are +stained with henna. They are like the petals of a rose. She has come +here to weep for Adonis. + +SECOND MAN. She is one of the gods. I do not know why she has left her +temple. The gods should not leave their temples. If she speaks to us +let us not answer, and she will pass by. + +FIRST MAN. She will not speak to us. She is the daughter of the +Emperor. + +MYRRHINA. Dwells he not here, the beautiful young hermit, he who will +not look on the face of woman? + +FIRST MAN. Of a truth it is here the hermit dwells. + +MYRRHINA. Why will he not look on the face of woman? + +SECOND MAN. We do not know. + +MYRRHINA. Why do ye yourselves not look at me? + +FIRST MAN. You are covered with bright stones, and you dazzle our eyes. + +SECOND MAN. He who looks at the sun becomes blind. You are too bright +to look at. It is not wise to look at things that are very bright. Many +of the priests in the temples are blind, and have slaves to lead them. + +MYRRHINA. Where does he dwell, the beautiful young hermit who will not +look on the face of woman? Has he a house of reeds or a house of burnt +clay or does he lie on the hillside? Or does he make his bed in the +rushes? + +FIRST MAN. He dwells in that cavern yonder. + +MYRRHINA. What a curious place to dwell in! + +FIRST MAN. Of old a centaur lived there. When the hermit came the +centaur gave a shrill cry, wept and lamented, and galloped away. + +SECOND MAN. No. It was a white unicorn who lived in the cave. When it +saw the hermit coming the unicorn knelt down and worshipped him. Many +people saw it worshipping him. + +FIRST MAN. I have talked with people who saw it. + + . . . . . + +SECOND MAN. Some say he was a hewer of wood and worked for hire. But +that may not be true. + + . . . . . + +MYRRHINA. What gods then do ye worship? Or do ye worship any gods? +There are those who have no gods to worship. The philosophers who wear +long beards and brown cloaks have no gods to worship. They wrangle with +each other in the porticoes. The [ ] laugh at them. + +FIRST MAN. We worship seven gods. We may not tell their names. It is a +very dangerous thing to tell the names of the gods. No one should ever +tell the name of his god. Even the priests who praise the gods all day +long, and eat of their food with them, do not call them by their right +names. + +MYRRHINA. Where are these gods ye worship? + +FIRST MAN. We hide them in the folds of our tunics. We do not show them +to any one. If we showed them to any one they might leave us. + +MYRRHINA. Where did ye meet with them? + +FIRST MAN. They were given to us by an embalmer of the dead who had +found them in a tomb. We served him for seven years. + +MYRRHINA. The dead are terrible. I am afraid of Death. + +FIRST MAN. Death is not a god. He is only the servant of the gods. + +MYRRHINA. He is the only god I am afraid of. Ye have seen many of the +gods? + +FIRST MAN. We have seen many of them. One sees them chiefly at night +time. They pass one by very swiftly. Once we saw some of the gods at +daybreak. They were walking across a plain. + +MYRRHINA. Once as I was passing through the market place I heard a +sophist from Cilicia say that there is only one God. He said it before +many people. + +FIRST MAN. That cannot be true. We have ourselves seen many, though we +are but common men and of no account. When I saw them I hid myself in a +bush. They did me no harm. + + . . . . . + +MYRRHINA. Tell me more about the beautiful young hermit. Talk to me +about the beautiful young hermit who will not look on the face of woman. +What is the story of his days? What mode of life has he? + +FIRST MAN. We do not understand you. + +MYRRHINA. What does he do, the beautiful young hermit? Does he sow or +reap? Does he plant a garden or catch fish in a net? Does he weave +linen on a loom? Does he set his hand to the wooden plough and walk +behind the oxen? + +SECOND MAN. He being a very holy man does nothing. We are common men +and of no account. We toll all day long in the sun. Sometimes the +ground is very hard. + +MYRRHINA. Do the birds of the air feed him? Do the jackals share their +booty with him? + +FIRST MAN. Every evening we bring him food. We do not think that the +birds of the air feed him. + +MYRRHINA. Why do ye feed him? What profit have ye in so doing? + +SECOND MAN. He is a very holy man. One of the gods whom he has offended +has made him mad. We think he has offended the moon. + +MYRRHINA. Go and tell him that one who has come from Alexandria desires +to speak with him. + +FIRST MAN. We dare not tell him. This hour he is praying to his God. +We pray thee to pardon us for not doing thy bidding. + +MYRRHINA. Are ye afraid, of him? + +FIRST MAN. We are afraid of him. + +MYRRHINA. Why are ye afraid of him? + +FIRST MAN. We do not know. + +MYRRHINA. What is his name? + +FIRST MAN. The voice that speaks to him at night time in the cavern +calls to him by the name of Honorius. It was also by the name of +Honorius that the three lepers who passed by once called to him. We +think that his name is Honorius. + +MYRRHINA. Why did the three lepers call to him? + +FIRST MAN. That he might heal them. + +MYRRHINA. Did he heal them? + +SECOND MAN. No. They had committed some sin: it was for that reason +they were lepers. Their hands and faces were like salt. One of them +wore a mask of linen. He was a king’s son. + +MYRRHINA. What is the voice that speaks to him at night time in his +cave? + +FIRST MAN. We do not know whose voice it is. We think it is the voice +of his God. For we have seen no man enter his cavern nor any come forth +from it. + + . . . . . + +MYRRHINA. Honorius. + +HONORIUS (_from within_). Who calls Honorius? + +MYRRHINA. Come forth, Honorius. + + . . . . . + +My chamber is ceiled with cedar and odorous with myrrh. The pillars of +my bed are of cedar and the hangings are of purple. My bed is strewn +with purple and the steps are of silver. The hangings are sewn with +silver pomegranates and the steps that are of silver are strewn with +saffron and with myrrh. My lovers hang garlands round the pillars of my +house. At night time they come with the flute players and the players of +the harp. They woo me with apples and on the pavement of my courtyard +they write my name in wine. + +From the uttermost parts of the world my lovers come to me. The kings of +the earth come to me and bring me presents. + +When the Emperor of Byzantium heard of me he left his porphyry chamber +and set sail in his galleys. His slaves bare no torches that none might +know of his coming. When the King of Cyprus heard of me he sent me +ambassadors. The two Kings of Libya who are brothers brought me gifts of +amber. + +I took the minion of Cæsar from Cæsar and made him my playfellow. He +came to me at night in a litter. He was pale as a narcissus, and his +body was like honey. + +The son of the Præfect slew himself in my honour, and the Tetrarch of +Cilicia scourged himself for my pleasure before my slaves. + +The King of Hierapolis who is a priest and a robber set carpets for me to +walk on. + +Sometimes I sit in the circus and the gladiators fight beneath me. Once +a Thracian who was my lover was caught in the net. I gave the signal for +him to die and the whole theatre applauded. Sometimes I pass through the +gymnasium and watch the young men wrestling or in the race. Their bodies +are bright with oil and their brows are wreathed with willow sprays and +with myrtle. They stamp their feet on the sand when they wrestle and +when they run the sand follows them like a little cloud. He at whom I +smile leaves his companions and follows me to my home. At other times I +go down to the harbour and watch the merchants unloading their vessels. +Those that come from Tyre have cloaks of silk and earrings of emerald. +Those that come from Massilia have cloaks of fine wool and earrings of +brass. When they see me coming they stand on the prows of their ships +and call to me, but I do not answer them. I go to the little taverns +where the sailors lie all day long drinking black wine and playing with +dice and I sit down with them. + +I made the Prince my slave, and his slave who was a Tyrian I made my lord +for the space of a moon. + +I put a figured ring on his finger and brought him to my house. I have +wonderful things in my house. + +The dust of the desert lies on your hair and your feet are scratched with +thorns and your body is scorched by the sun. Come with me, Honorius, and +I will clothe you in a tunic of silk. I will smear your body with myrrh +and pour spikenard on your hair. I will clothe you in hyacinth and put +honey in your mouth. Love— + +HONORIUS. There is no love but the love of God. + +MYRRHINA. Who is He whose love is greater than that of mortal men? + +HONORIUS. It is He whom thou seest on the cross, Myrrhina. He is the +Son of God and was born of a virgin. Three wise men who were kings +brought Him offerings, and the shepherds who were lying on the hills were +wakened by a great light. + +The Sibyls knew of His coming. The groves and the oracles spake of Him. +David and the prophets announced Him. There is no love like the love of +God nor any love that can be compared to it. + +The body is vile, Myrrhina. God will raise thee up with a new body which +will not know corruption, and thou shalt dwell in the Courts of the Lord +and see Him whose hair is like fine wool and whose feet are of brass. + +MYRRHINA. The beauty . . . + +HONORIUS. The beauty of the soul increases until it can see God. +Therefore, Myrrhina, repent of thy sins. The robber who was crucified +beside Him He brought into Paradise. + + [_Exit_. + +MYRRHINA. How strangely he spake to me. And with what scorn did he +regard me. I wonder why he spake to me so strangely. + + . . . . . + +HONORIUS. Myrrhina, the scales have fallen from my eyes and I see now +clearly what I did not see before. Take me to Alexandria and let me +taste of the seven sins. + +MYRRHINA. Do not mock me, Honorius, nor speak to me with such bitter +words. For I have repented of my sins and I am seeking a cavern in this +desert where I too may dwell so that my soul may become worthy to see +God. + +HONORIUS. The sun is setting, Myrrhina. Come with me to Alexandria. + +MYRRHINA. I will not go to Alexandria. + +HONORIUS. Farewell, Myrrhina. + +MYRRHINA. Honorius, farewell. No, no, do not go. + + . . . . . + +I have cursed my beauty for what it has done, and cursed the wonder of my +body for the evil that it has brought upon you. + +Lord, this man brought me to Thy feet. He told me of Thy coming upon +earth, and of the wonder of Thy birth, and the great wonder of Thy death +also. By him, O Lord, Thou wast revealed to me. + +HONORIUS. You talk as a child, Myrrhina, and without knowledge. Loosen +your hands. Why didst thou come to this valley in thy beauty? + +MYRRHINA. The God whom thou worshippest led me here that I might repent +of my iniquities and know Him as the Lord. + +HONORIUS. Why didst thou tempt me with words? + +MYRRHINA. That thou shouldst see Sin in its painted mask and look on +Death in its robe of Shame. + + + + +A FLORENTINE TRAGEDY +WITH OPENING SCENE BY T. STURGE MOORE + + +_This play is only a fragment and was never completed_. _For the +purposes of presentation_, _the well-known poet_, _Mr. T. Sturge Moore_, +_has written an opening scene which is here included_. _Wilde’s work +begins with the entrance of Simone_. + +_A private performance was given by the Literary Theatre Club in_ 1906. +_The first public presentation was given by the New English Players at +the Cripplegate Institute_, _Golden Lane_, _E.C._, _in_ 1907. _German_, +_French and Hungarian translations have been presented on the Continental +stage_. + +_Dramatic and literary rights are the property of Robert Ross_. _The +American literary and dramatic rights are vested in John Luce and Co._, +_Boston_, _U.S.A._ + +_First Published by Methuen and Co._ _February_ _1908_ +(_Limited Editions on handmade paper and +Japanese vellum_) +_First F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _November_ _1909_ +_Second F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _October_ _1910_ +_Third F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _December_ _1911_ +_Fourth F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _May_ _1915_ +_Fifth F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _1917_ + + + + +CHARACTERS + + +GUIDO BARDI, A Florentine prince. + +SIMONE, a merchant. + +BIANNA, his wife. + +MARIA, a tire-woman. + + _The action takes place at Florence in the early sixteenth century_. + + + +A FLORENTINE TRAGEDY + + +[_The scene represents a tapestried upper room giving on to a balcony or +loggia in an old house at Florence_. _A table laid for a frugal meal_, +_a spinning-wheel_, _distaff_, _etc._, _chests_, _chairs and stools_.] + + _As the Curtain rises enter_ BIANCA, _with her Servant_, MARIA. + + MARIA. Certain and sure, the sprig is Guido Bardi, + A lovely lord, a lord whose blood is blue! + + BIANCA. But where did he receive you? + + MARIA. Where, but there + In yonder palace, in a painted hall!— + Painted with naked women on the walls,— + Would make a common man or blush or smile + But he seemed not to heed them, being a lord. + + BIANCA. But how know you ’tis not a chamberlayne, + A lackey merely? + + MARIA. Why, how know I there is a God in heaven? + Because the angels have a master surely. + So to this lord they bowed, all others bowed, + And swept the marble flags, doffing their caps, + With the gay plumes. Because he stiffly said, + And seemed to see me as those folk are seen + That will be never seen again by you, + ‘Woman, your mistress then returns this purse + Of forty thousand crowns, is it fifty thousand? + Come name the sum will buy me grace of her.’ + + BIANCA. What, were there forty thousand crowns therein? + + MARIA. I know it was all gold; heavy with gold. + + BIANCA. It must be he, none else could give so much. + + MARIA. ’Tis he, ’tis my lord Guido, Guido Bardi. + + BIANCA. What said you? + + MARIA. I, I said my mistress never + Looked at the gold, never opened the purse, + Never counted a coin. But asked again + What she had asked before, ‘How young you looked? + How handsome your lordship looked? What doublet + Your majesty had on? What chains, what hose + Upon your revered legs?’ And curtseyed + I, . . . + + BIANCA. What said he? + + MARIA. Curtseyed I, and he replied, + ‘Has she a lover then beside that old + Soured husband or is it him she loves, my God! + Is it him?’ + + BIANCA. Well? + + MARIA. Curtseyed I low and said + ‘Not him, my lord, nor you, nor no man else. + Thou art rich, my lord, and honoured, my lord, and she + Though not so rich is honoured . . .’ + + BIANCA. Fool, you fool, + I never bid you say a word of that. + + MARIA. Nor did I say a word of that you said; + I said, ‘She loves him not, my lord, nor loves + Any man else. Yet she might like to love, + If she were loved by one who pleased her well; + For she is weary of spinning long alone. + She is not rich and yet she is not poor; but young + She is, my lord, and you are young. + + [_Pauses smiling_.] + + BIANCA. Quick, quick! + + MARIA. There, there! ’Twas but to show you how I smiled + Saying the lord was young. It took him too; + For he said, ‘This will do! If I should call + To-night to pay respect unto your lovely— + Our lovely mistress, tell her that I said, + Our lovely mistress, shall I be received?’ + And I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘Then say I come and if + All else is well let her throw down some favour + When as I pass below.’ He should be there! + Look from the balcony; he should be there!— + And there he is, dost see? + + BIANCA. Some favour. Yes. + This ribbon weighted by this brooch will do. + Maria, be you busy near within, but, till + I call take care you enter not. Go down + And let the young lord in, for hark, he knocks. + + [_Exit_ MARIA.] + + Great ladies might he choose from and yet he + Is drawn . . . ah, there my fear is! Was he drawn + By love to me—by love’s young strength alone? + That’s where it is, if I were sure he loved, + I then might do what greater dames have done + And venge me on a husband blind to beauty. + But if! Ah if! he is a wandering bee, + Mere gallant taster, who befools poor flowers . . . + + [MARIA _opens the door for_ GUIDO BARDI, _and then withdraws_.] + + My lord, I learn that we have something here, + In this poor house, which thou dost wish to buy. + My husband is from home, but my poor fate + Has made me perfect in the price of velvets, + Of silks and gay brocades. I think you offered + Some forty thousand crowns, or fifty thousand, + For something we have here? And it must be + That wonder of the loom, which my Simone + Has lately home; it is a Lucca damask, + The web is silver over-wrought with roses. + Since you did offer fifty thousand crowns + It must be that. Pray wait, for I will fetch it. + + GUIDO. Nay, nay, thou gracious wonder of a loom + More cunning far than those of Lucca, I + Had in my thought no damask silver cloth + By hunch-back weavers woven toilsomely, + If such are priced at fifty thousand crowns + It shames me, for I hoped to buy a fabric + For which a hundred thousand then were little. + + BIANCA. A hundred thousand was it that you said? + Nay, poor Simone for so great a sum + Would sell you everything the house contains. + The thought of such a sum doth daze the brains + Of merchant folk who live such lives as ours. + + GUIDO. Would he sell everything this house contains? + And every one, would he sell every one? + + BIANCA. Oh, everything and every one, my lord, + Unless it were himself; he values not + A woman as a velvet, or a wife + At half the price of silver-threaded woof. + + GUIDO. Then I would strike a bargain with him straight, + + BIANCA. He is from home; may be will sleep from home; + But I, my lord, can show you all we have; + Can measure ells and sum their price, my lord. + + GUIDO. It is thyself, Bianca, I would buy. + + BIANCA. O, then, my lord, it must be with Simone + You strike your bargain; for to sell myself + Would be to do what I most truly loathe. + Good-night, my lord; it is with deep regret + I find myself unable to oblige + Your lordship. + + GUIDO. Nay, I pray thee let me stay + And pardon me the sorry part I played, + As though I were a chapman and intent + To lower prices, cheapen honest wares. + + BIANCA. My lord, there is no reason you should stay. + + GUIDO. Thou art my reason, peerless, perfect, thou, + The reason I am here and my life’s goal, + For I was born to love the fairest things . . . + + BIANCA. To buy the fairest things that can be bought. + + GUIDO. Cruel Bianca! Cover me with scorn, + I answer born to love thy priceless self, + That never to a market could be brought, + No more than winged souls that sail and soar + Among the planets or about the moon. + + BIANCA. It is so much thy habit to buy love, + Or that which is for sale and labelled love, + Hardly couldst thou conceive a priceless love. + But though my love has never been for sale + I have been in a market bought and sold. + + GUIDO. This is some riddle which thy sweet wit reads + To baffle mine and mock me yet again. + + BIANCA. My marriage, sir, I speak of marriage now, + That common market where my husband went + And prides himself he made a bargain then. + + GUIDO. The wretched chapman, how I hate his soul. + + BIANCA. He was a better bidder than thyself, + And knew with whom to deal . . . he did not speak + Of gold to me, but in my father’s ear + He made it clink: to me he spoke of love, + Honest and free and open without price. + + GUIDO. O white Bianca, lovely as the moon, + The light of thy pure soul and shining wit + Shows me my shame, and makes the thing I was + Slink like a shadow from the thing I am. + + BIANCA. Let that which casts the shadow act, my lord, + And waste no thought on what its shadow does + Or has done. Are youth, and strength, and love + Balked by mere shadows, so that they forget + Themselves so far they cannot be recalled? + + GUIDO. Nobility is here, not in the court. + There are the tinsel stars, here is the moon, + Whose tranquil splendour makes a day of night. + I have been starved by ladies, specks of light, + And glory drowns me now I see the moon. + + BIANCA. I have refused round sums of solid gold + And shall not be by tinsel phrases bought. + + GUIDO. Dispute no more, witty, divine Bianca; + Dispute no more. See I have brought my lute! + Close lock the door. We will sup with the moon + Like Persian princes, that, in Babylon + Sup in the hanging gardens of the king. + I know an air that can suspend the soul + As high in heaven as those towered-gardens hang. + + BIANCA. My husband may return, we are not safe. + + GUIDO. Didst thou not say that he would sleep from home? + + BIANCA. He was not sure, he said it might be so. + He was not sure—and he would send my aunt + To sleep with me, if he did so decide, + And she has not yet come. + + GUIDO [_starting_] Hark, what’s that? + + [_They listen_, _the sound of_ MARIA’S _voice in anger with some one is + faintly heard_.] + + BIANCA. It is Maria scolds some gossip crone. + + GUIDO. I thought the other voice had been a man’s. + + BIANCA. All still again, old crones are often gruff. + You should be gone, my lord. + + GUIDO. O, sweet Bianca! + How can I leave thee now! Thy beauty made + Two captives of my eyes, and they were mad + To feast them on thy form, but now thy wit, + The liberated perfume of a bud, + Which while a bud seemed perfect, but now is + That which can make its former self forgot: + How can I leave the flower who loved the leaf? + Till now I was the richest prince in Florence, + I am a lover now would shun its throngs, + And put away all state and seek retreat + At Bellosguardo or Fiesole, + Where roses in their fin’st profusion hide + Some marble villa whose cool walls have rung + A laughing echo to Decameron, + And where thy laughter shall as gaily sound. + Say thou canst love or with a silent kiss + Instil that balmy knowledge on my soul. + + BIANCA. Canst tell me what love is? + + GUIDO. It is consent, + The union of two minds, two souls, two hearts, + In all they think and hope and feel. + + BIANCA. Such lovers might as well be dumb, for those + Who think and hope and feel alike can never + Have anything for one another’s ear. + + GUIDO. Love is? Love is the meeting of two worlds + In never-ending change and counter-change. + + BIANCA. Thus will my husband praise the mercer’s mart, + Where the two worlds of East and West exchange. + + GUIDO. Come. Love is love, a kiss, a close embrace. + It is . . . + + BIANCA. My husband calls that love + When he hath slammed his weekly ledger to. + + GUIDO. I find my wit no better match for thine + Than thou art match for an old crabbed man; + But I am sure my youth and strength and blood + Keep better tune with beauty gay and bright + As thine is, than lean age and miser toil. + + BIANCA. Well said, well said, I think he would not dare + To face thee, more than owls dare face the sun; + He’s the bent shadow such a form as thine + Might cast upon a dung heap by the road, + Though should it fall upon a proper floor + Twould be at once a better man than he. + + GUIDO. Your merchant living in the dread of loss + Becomes perforce a coward, eats his heart. + Dull souls they are, who, like caged prisoners watch + And envy others’ joy; they taste no food + But what its cost is present to their thought. + + BIANCA. I am my father’s daughter, in his eyes + A home-bred girl who has been taught to spin. + He never seems to think I have a face + Which makes you gallants turn where’er I pass. + + GUIDO. Thy night is darker than I dreamed, bright Star. + + BIANCA. He waits, stands by, and mutters to himself, + And never enters with a frank address + To any company. His eyes meet mine + And with a shudder I am sure he counts + The cost of what I wear. + + GUIDO. Forget him quite. + Come, come, escape from out this dismal life, + As a bright butterfly breaks spider’s web, + And nest with me among those rosy bowers, + Where we will love, as though the lives we led + Till yesterday were ghoulish dreams dispersed + By the great dawn of limpid joyous life. + + BIANCA. Will I not come? + + GUIDO. O, make no question, come. + They waste their time who ponder o’er bad dreams. + We will away to hills, red roses clothe, + And though the persons who did haunt that dream + Live on, they shall by distance dwindled, seem + No bigger than the smallest ear of corn + That cowers at the passing of a bird, + And silent shall they seem, out of ear-shot, + Those voices that could jar, while we gaze back + From rosy caves upon the hill-brow open, + And ask ourselves if what we see is not + A picture merely,—if dusty, dingy lives + Continue there to choke themselves with malice. + Wilt thou not come, Bianca? Wilt thou not? + + [_A sound on the stair_.] + + GUIDO. What’s that? + + [_The door opens_, _they separate guiltily_, _and the husband enters_.] + + SIMONE. My good wife, you come slowly; were it not better + To run to meet your lord? Here, take my cloak. + Take this pack first. ’Tis heavy. I have sold nothing: + Save a furred robe unto the Cardinal’s son, + Who hopes to wear it when his father dies, + And hopes that will be soon. + + But who is this? + Why you have here some friend. Some kinsman doubtless, + Newly returned from foreign lands and fallen + Upon a house without a host to greet him? + I crave your pardon, kinsman. For a house + Lacking a host is but an empty thing + And void of honour; a cup without its wine, + A scabbard without steel to keep it straight, + A flowerless garden widowed of the sun. + Again I crave your pardon, my sweet cousin. + + BIANCA. This is no kinsman and no cousin neither. + + SIMONE. No kinsman, and no cousin! You amaze me. + Who is it then who with such courtly grace + Deigns to accept our hospitalities? + + GUIDO. My name is Guido Bardi. + + SIMONE. What! The son + Of that great Lord of Florence whose dim towers + Like shadows silvered by the wandering moon + I see from out my casement every night! + Sir Guido Bardi, you are welcome here, + Twice welcome. For I trust my honest wife, + Most honest if uncomely to the eye, + Hath not with foolish chatterings wearied you, + As is the wont of women. + + GUIDO. Your gracious lady, + Whose beauty is a lamp that pales the stars + And robs Diana’s quiver of her beams + Has welcomed me with such sweet courtesies + That if it be her pleasure, and your own, + I will come often to your simple house. + And when your business bids you walk abroad + I will sit here and charm her loneliness + Lest she might sorrow for you overmuch. + What say you, good Simone? + + SIMONE. My noble Lord, + You bring me such high honour that my tongue + Like a slave’s tongue is tied, and cannot say + The word it would. Yet not to give you thanks + Were to be too unmannerly. So, I thank you, + From my heart’s core. + + It is such things as these + That knit a state together, when a Prince + So nobly born and of such fair address, + Forgetting unjust Fortune’s differences, + Comes to an honest burgher’s honest home + As a most honest friend. + + And yet, my Lord, + I fear I am too bold. Some other night + We trust that you will come here as a friend; + To-night you come to buy my merchandise. + Is it not so? Silks, velvets, what you will, + I doubt not but I have some dainty wares + Will woo your fancy. True, the hour is late, + But we poor merchants toil both night and day + To make our scanty gains. The tolls are high, + And every city levies its own toll, + And prentices are unskilful, and wives even + Lack sense and cunning, though Bianca here + Has brought me a rich customer to-night. + Is it not so, Bianca? But I waste time. + Where is my pack? Where is my pack, I say? + Open it, my good wife. Unloose the cords. + Kneel down upon the floor. You are better so. + Nay not that one, the other. Despatch, despatch! + Buyers will grow impatient oftentimes. + We dare not keep them waiting. Ay! ’tis that, + Give it to me; with care. It is most costly. + Touch it with care. And now, my noble Lord— + Nay, pardon, I have here a Lucca damask, + The very web of silver and the roses + So cunningly wrought that they lack perfume merely + To cheat the wanton sense. Touch it, my Lord. + Is it not soft as water, strong as steel? + And then the roses! Are they not finely woven? + I think the hillsides that best love the rose, + At Bellosguardo or at Fiesole, + Throw no such blossoms on the lap of spring, + Or if they do their blossoms droop and die. + Such is the fate of all the dainty things + That dance in wind and water. Nature herself + Makes war on her own loveliness and slays + Her children like Medea. Nay but, my Lord, + Look closer still. Why in this damask here + It is summer always, and no winter’s tooth + Will ever blight these blossoms. For every ell + I paid a piece of gold. Red gold, and good, + The fruit of careful thrift. + + GUIDO. Honest Simone, + Enough, I pray you. I am well content; + To-morrow I will send my servant to you, + Who will pay twice your price. + + SIMONE. My generous Prince! + I kiss your hands. And now I do remember + Another treasure hidden in my house + Which you must see. It is a robe of state: + Woven by a Venetian: the stuff, cut-velvet: + The pattern, pomegranates: each separate seed + Wrought of a pearl: the collar all of pearls, + As thick as moths in summer streets at night, + And whiter than the moons that madmen see + Through prison bars at morning. A male ruby + Burns like a lighted coal within the clasp + The Holy Father has not such a stone, + Nor could the Indies show a brother to it. + The brooch itself is of most curious art, + Cellini never made a fairer thing + To please the great Lorenzo. You must wear it. + There is none worthier in our city here, + And it will suit you well. Upon one side + A slim and horned satyr leaps in gold + To catch some nymph of silver. Upon the other + Stands Silence with a crystal in her hand, + No bigger than the smallest ear of corn, + That wavers at the passing of a bird, + And yet so cunningly wrought that one would say, + It breathed, or held its breath. + + Worthy Bianca, + Would not this noble and most costly robe + Suit young Lord Guido well? + + Nay, but entreat him; + He will refuse you nothing, though the price + Be as a prince’s ransom. And your profit + Shall not be less than mine. + + BIANCA. Am I your prentice? + Why should I chaffer for your velvet robe? + + GUIDO. Nay, fair Bianca, I will buy the robe, + And all things that the honest merchant has + I will buy also. Princes must be ransomed, + And fortunate are all high lords who fall + Into the white hands of so fair a foe. + + SIMONE. I stand rebuked. But you will buy my wares? + Will you not buy them? Fifty thousand crowns + Would scarce repay me. But you, my Lord, shall have them + For forty thousand. Is that price too high? + Name your own price. I have a curious fancy + To see you in this wonder of the loom + Amidst the noble ladies of the court, + A flower among flowers. + + They say, my lord, + These highborn dames do so affect your Grace + That where you go they throng like flies around you, + Each seeking for your favour. + + I have heard also + Of husbands that wear horns, and wear them bravely, + A fashion most fantastical. + + GUIDO. Simone, + Your reckless tongue needs curbing; and besides, + You do forget this gracious lady here + Whose delicate ears are surely not attuned + To such coarse music. + + SIMONE. True: I had forgotten, + Nor will offend again. Yet, my sweet Lord, + You’ll buy the robe of state. Will you not buy it? + But forty thousand crowns—’tis but a trifle, + To one who is Giovanni Bardi’s heir. + + GUIDO. Settle this thing to-morrow with my steward, + Antonio Costa. He will come to you. + And you shall have a hundred thousand crowns + If that will serve your purpose. + + SIMONE. A hundred thousand! + Said you a hundred thousand? Oh! be sure + That will for all time and in everything + Make me your debtor. Ay! from this time forth + My house, with everything my house contains + Is yours, and only yours. + + A hundred thousand! + My brain is dazed. I shall be richer far + Than all the other merchants. I will buy + Vineyards and lands and gardens. Every loom + From Milan down to Sicily shall be mine, + And mine the pearls that the Arabian seas + Store in their silent caverns. + + Generous Prince, + This night shall prove the herald of my love, + Which is so great that whatsoe’er you ask + It will not be denied you. + + GUIDO. What if I asked + For white Bianca here? + + SIMONE. You jest, my Lord; + She is not worthy of so great a Prince. + She is but made to keep the house and spin. + Is it not so, good wife? It is so. Look! + Your distaff waits for you. Sit down and spin. + Women should not be idle in their homes, + For idle fingers make a thoughtless heart. + Sit down, I say. + + BIANCA. What shall I spin? + + SIMONE. Oh! spin + Some robe which, dyed in purple, sorrow might wear + For her own comforting: or some long-fringed cloth + In which a new-born and unwelcome babe + Might wail unheeded; or a dainty sheet + Which, delicately perfumed with sweet herbs, + Might serve to wrap a dead man. Spin what you will; + I care not, I. + + BIANCA. The brittle thread is broken, + The dull wheel wearies of its ceaseless round, + The duller distaff sickens of its load; + I will not spin to-night. + + SIMONE. It matters not. + To-morrow you shall spin, and every day + Shall find you at your distaff. So Lucretia + Was found by Tarquin. So, perchance, Lucretia + Waited for Tarquin. Who knows? I have heard + Strange things about men’s wives. And now, my lord, + What news abroad? I heard to-day at Pisa + That certain of the English merchants there + Would sell their woollens at a lower rate + Than the just laws allow, and have entreated + The Signory to hear them. + + Is this well? + Should merchant be to merchant as a wolf? + And should the stranger living in our land + Seek by enforced privilege or craft + To rob us of our profits? + + GUIDO. What should I do + With merchants or their profits? Shall I go + And wrangle with the Signory on your count? + And wear the gown in which you buy from fools, + Or sell to sillier bidders? Honest Simone, + Wool-selling or wool-gathering is for you. + My wits have other quarries. + + BIANCA. Noble Lord, + I pray you pardon my good husband here, + His soul stands ever in the market-place, + And his heart beats but at the price of wool. + Yet he is honest in his common way. + + [_To_ SIMONE] + + And you, have you no shame? A gracious Prince + Comes to our house, and you must weary him + With most misplaced assurance. Ask his pardon. + + SIMONE. I ask it humbly. We will talk to-night + Of other things. I hear the Holy Father + Has sent a letter to the King of France + Bidding him cross that shield of snow, the Alps, + And make a peace in Italy, which will be + Worse than a war of brothers, and more bloody + Than civil rapine or intestine feuds. + + GUIDO. Oh! we are weary of that King of France, + Who never comes, but ever talks of coming. + What are these things to me? There are other things + Closer, and of more import, good Simone. + + BIANCA [_To Simone_]. I think you tire our most gracious guest. + What is the King of France to us? As much + As are your English merchants with their wool. + + * * * * * + + SIMONE. Is it so then? Is all this mighty world + Narrowed into the confines of this room + With but three souls for poor inhabitants? + Ay! there are times when the great universe, + Like cloth in some unskilful dyer’s vat, + Shrivels into a handbreadth, and perchance + That time is now! Well! let that time be now. + Let this mean room be as that mighty stage + Whereon kings die, and our ignoble lives + Become the stakes God plays for. + + I do not know + Why I speak thus. My ride has wearied me. + And my horse stumbled thrice, which is an omen + That bodes not good to any. + + Alas! my lord, + How poor a bargain is this life of man, + And in how mean a market are we sold! + When we are born our mothers weep, but when + We die there is none weeps for us. No, not one. + + [_Passes to back of stage_.] + + BIANCA. How like a common chapman does he speak! + I hate him, soul and body. Cowardice + Has set her pale seal on his brow. His hands + Whiter than poplar leaves in windy springs, + Shake with some palsy; and his stammering mouth + Blurts out a foolish froth of empty words + Like water from a conduit. + + GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, + He is not worthy of your thought or mine. + The man is but a very honest knave + Full of fine phrases for life’s merchandise, + Selling most dear what he must hold most cheap, + A windy brawler in a world of words. + I never met so eloquent a fool. + + BIANCA. Oh, would that Death might take him where he stands! + + SIMONE [_turning round_]. Who spake of Death? Let no one speak of + Death. + What should Death do in such a merry house, + With but a wife, a husband, and a friend + To give it greeting? Let Death go to houses + Where there are vile, adulterous things, chaste wives + Who growing weary of their noble lords + Draw back the curtains of their marriage beds, + And in polluted and dishonoured sheets + Feed some unlawful lust. Ay! ’tis so + Strange, and yet so. _You_ do not know the world. + _You_ are too single and too honourable. + I know it well. And would it were not so, + But wisdom comes with winters. My hair grows grey, + And youth has left my body. Enough of that. + To-night is ripe for pleasure, and indeed, + I would be merry as beseems a host + Who finds a gracious and unlooked-for guest + Waiting to greet him. [_Takes up a lute_.] + But what is this, my lord? + Why, you have brought a lute to play to us. + Oh! play, sweet Prince. And, if I am too bold, + Pardon, but play. + + GUIDO. I will not play to-night. + Some other night, Simone. + + [_To_ BIANCA] You and I + Together, with no listeners but the stars, + Or the more jealous moon. + + SIMONE. Nay, but my lord! + Nay, but I do beseech you. For I have heard + That by the simple fingering of a string, + Or delicate breath breathed along hollowed reeds, + Or blown into cold mouths of cunning bronze, + Those who are curious in this art can draw + Poor souls from prison-houses. I have heard also + How such strange magic lurks within these shells + That at their bidding casements open wide + And Innocence puts vine-leaves in her hair, + And wantons like a mænad. Let that pass. + Your lute I know is chaste. And therefore play: + Ravish my ears with some sweet melody; + My soul is in a prison-house, and needs + Music to cure its madness. Good Bianca, + Entreat our guest to play. + + BIANCA. Be not afraid, + Our well-loved guest will choose his place and moment: + That moment is not now. You weary him + With your uncouth insistence. + + GUIDO. Honest Simone, + Some other night. To-night I am content + With the low music of Bianca’s voice, + Who, when she speaks, charms the too amorous air, + And makes the reeling earth stand still, or fix + His cycle round her beauty. + + SIMONE. You flatter her. + She has her virtues as most women have, + But beauty in a gem she may not wear. + It is better so, perchance. + + Well, my dear lord, + If you will not draw melodies from your lute + To charm my moody and o’er-troubled soul + You’ll drink with me at least? + + [_Motioning_ GUIDO _to his own place_.] + + Your place is laid. + Fetch me a stool, Bianca. Close the shutters. + Set the great bar across. I would not have + The curious world with its small prying eyes + To peer upon our pleasure. + + Now, my lord, + Give us a toast from a full brimming cup. + + [_Starts back_.] + + What is this stain upon the cloth? It looks + As purple as a wound upon Christ’s side. + Wine merely is it? I have heard it said + When wine is spilt blood is spilt also, + But that’s a foolish tale. + + My lord, I trust + My grape is to your liking? The wine of Naples + Is fiery like its mountains. Our Tuscan vineyards + Yield a more wholesome juice. + + GUIDO. I like it well, + Honest Simone; and, with your good leave, + Will toast the fair Bianca when her lips + Have like red rose-leaves floated on this cup + And left its vintage sweeter. Taste, Bianca. + + [BIANCA _drinks_.] + + Oh, all the honey of Hyblean bees, + Matched with this draught were bitter! + Good Simone, + You do not share the feast. + + SIMONE. It is strange, my lord, + I cannot eat or drink with you, to-night. + Some humour, or some fever in my blood, + At other seasons temperate, or some thought + That like an adder creeps from point to point, + That like a madman crawls from cell to cell, + Poisons my palate and makes appetite + A loathing, not a longing. + + [_Goes aside_.] + + GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, + This common chapman wearies me with words. + I must go hence. To-morrow I will come. + Tell me the hour. + + BIANCA. Come with the youngest dawn! + Until I see you all my life is vain. + + GUIDO. Ah! loose the falling midnight of your hair, + And in those stars, your eyes, let me behold + Mine image, as in mirrors. Dear Bianca, + Though it be but a shadow, keep me there, + Nor gaze at anything that does not show + Some symbol of my semblance. I am jealous + Of what your vision feasts on. + + BIANCA. Oh! be sure + Your image will be with me always. Dear + Love can translate the very meanest thing + Into a sign of sweet remembrances. + But come before the lark with its shrill song + Has waked a world of dreamers. I will stand + Upon the balcony. + + GUIDO. And by a ladder + Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls + Will come to meet me. White foot after foot, + Like snow upon a rose-tree. + + BIANCA. As you will. + You know that I am yours for love or Death. + + GUIDO. Simone, I must go to mine own house. + + SIMONE. So soon? Why should you? The great Duomo’s bell + Has not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen + Who with their hollow horns mock the pale moon, + Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile. + I fear we may not see you here again, + And that fear saddens my too simple heart. + + GUIDO. Be not afraid, Simone. I will stand + Most constant in my friendship, But to-night + I go to mine own home, and that at once. + To-morrow, sweet Bianca. + + SIMONE. Well, well, so be it. + I would have wished for fuller converse with you, + My new friend, my honourable guest, + But that it seems may not be. + + And besides + I do not doubt your father waits for you, + Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think, + Are his one child? He has no other child. + You are the gracious pillar of his house, + The flower of a garden full of weeds. + Your father’s nephews do not love him well + So run folks’ tongues in Florence. I meant but that. + Men say they envy your inheritance + And look upon your vineyards with fierce eyes + As Ahab looked on Naboth’s goodly field. + But that is but the chatter of a town + Where women talk too much. + + Good-night, my lord. + Fetch a pine torch, Bianca. The old staircase + Is full of pitfalls, and the churlish moon + Grows, like a miser, niggard of her beams, + And hides her face behind a muslin mask + As harlots do when they go forth to snare + Some wretched soul in sin. Now, I will get + Your cloak and sword. Nay, pardon, my good Lord, + It is but meet that I should wait on you + Who have so honoured my poor burgher’s house, + Drunk of my wine, and broken bread, and made + Yourself a sweet familiar. Oftentimes + My wife and I will talk of this fair night + And its great issues. + + Why, what a sword is this. + Ferrara’s temper, pliant as a snake, + And deadlier, I doubt not. With such steel, + One need fear nothing in the moil of life. + I never touched so delicate a blade. + I have a sword too, somewhat rusted now. + We men of peace are taught humility, + And to bear many burdens on our backs, + And not to murmur at an unjust world, + And to endure unjust indignities. + We are taught that, and like the patient Jew + Find profit in our pain. + + Yet I remember + How once upon the road to Padua + A robber sought to take my pack-horse from me, + I slit his throat and left him. I can bear + Dishonour, public insult, many shames, + Shrill scorn, and open contumely, but he + Who filches from me something that is mine, + Ay! though it be the meanest trencher-plate + From which I feed mine appetite—oh! he + Perils his soul and body in the theft + And dies for his small sin. From what strange clay + We men are moulded! + + GUIDO. Why do you speak like this? + + SIMONE. I wonder, my Lord Guido, if my sword + Is better tempered than this steel of yours? + Shall we make trial? Or is my state too low + For you to cross your rapier against mine, + In jest, or earnest? + + GUIDO. Naught would please me better + Than to stand fronting you with naked blade + In jest, or earnest. Give me mine own sword. + Fetch yours. To-night will settle the great issue + Whether the Prince’s or the merchant’s steel + Is better tempered. Was not that your word? + Fetch your own sword. Why do you tarry, sir? + + SIMONE. My lord, of all the gracious courtesies + That you have showered on my barren house + This is the highest. + + Bianca, fetch my sword. + Thrust back that stool and table. We must have + An open circle for our match at arms, + And good Bianca here shall hold the torch + Lest what is but a jest grow serious. + + BIANCA [_To Guido_]. Oh! kill him, kill him! + + SIMONE. Hold the torch, Bianca. + + [_They begin to fight_.] + + SIMONE. Have at you! Ah! Ha! would you? + + [_He is wounded by_ GUIDO.] + + A scratch, no more. The torch was in mine eyes. + Do not look sad, Bianca. It is nothing. + Your husband bleeds, ’tis nothing. Take a cloth, + Bind it about mine arm. Nay, not so tight. + More softly, my good wife. And be not sad, + I pray you be not sad. No; take it off. + What matter if I bleed? + + [_Tears bandage off_.] + + Again! again! + + [SIMONE _disarms_ GUIDO] + + My gentle Lord, you see that I was right + My sword is better tempered, finer steel, + But let us match our daggers. + + BIANCA [_to_ GUIDO] + Kill him! kill him! + + SIMONE. Put out the torch, Bianca. + + [BIANCA _puts out torch_.] + + Now, my good Lord, + Now to the death of one, or both of us, + Or all three it may be. [_They fight_.] + + There and there. + Ah, devil! do I hold thee in my grip? + + [SIMONE _overpowers Guido and throws him down over table_.] + + GUIDO. Fool! take your strangling fingers from my throat. + I am my father’s only son; the State + Has but one heir, and that false enemy France + Waits for the ending of my father’s line + To fall upon our city. + + SIMONE. Hush! your father + When he is childless will be happier. + As for the State, I think our state of Florence + Needs no adulterous pilot at its helm. + Your life would soil its lilies. + + GUIDO. Take off your hands + Take off your damned hands. Loose me, I say! + + SIMONE. Nay, you are caught in such a cunning vice + That nothing will avail you, and your life + Narrowed into a single point of shame + Ends with that shame and ends most shamefully. + + GUIDO. Oh! let me have a priest before I die! + + SIMONE. What wouldst thou have a priest for? Tell thy sins + To God, whom thou shalt see this very night + And then no more for ever. Tell thy sins + To Him who is most just, being pitiless, + Most pitiful being just. As for myself. . . + + GUIDO. Oh! help me, sweet Bianca! help me, Bianca, + Thou knowest I am innocent of harm. + + SIMONE. What, is there life yet in those lying lips? + Die like a dog with lolling tongue! Die! Die! + And the dumb river shall receive your corse + And wash it all unheeded to the sea. + + GUIDO. Lord Christ receive my wretched soul to-night! + + SIMONE. Amen to that. Now for the other. + + [_He dies_. SIMONE _rises and looks at_ BIANCA. _She comes towards him + as one dazed with wonder and with outstretched arms_.] + + BIANCA. Why + Did you not tell me you were so strong? + + SIMONE. Why + Did you not tell me you were beautiful? + + [_He kisses her on the mouth_.] + + CURTAIN + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OSCAR WILDE MISCELLANEOUS*** + + +******* This file should be named 1308-0.txt or 1308-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/3/0/1308 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous + + +Author: Oscar Wilde + +Editor: Robert Ross + +Release Date: April 8, 2015 [eBook #1308] +[This file was first posted on April 3, 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OSCAR WILDE MISCELLANEOUS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1917 Methuen and Co. edition of +Salomé etc. by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous</h1> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>Preface</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#pagevii">vii</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>La Sainte Courtisane</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page111">111</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A Florentine Tragedy</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>PREFACE</h2> +<blockquote><p>‘<i>As to my personal attitude towards +criticism</i>, <i>I confess in brief the +following</i>:—“<i>If my works are good and of any +importance whatever for the further development of art</i>, +<i>they will maintain their place in spite of all adverse +criticism and in spite of all hateful suspicions attached to my +artistic intentions</i>. <i>If my works are of no +account</i>, <i>the most gratifying success of the moment and the +most enthusiastic approval of as augurs cannot make them +endure</i>. <i>The waste-paper press can devour them as it +has devoured many others</i>, <i>and I will not shed a tear . . . +and the world will move on just the +same</i>.”’—<span class="smcap">Richard +Strauss</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> contents of this volume require +some explanation of an historical nature. It is scarcely +realised by the present generation that Wilde’s works on +their first appearance, with the exception of <i>De +Profundis</i>, were met with almost general condemnation and +ridicule. The plays on their first production were +grudgingly praised because their obvious success could not be +ignored; but on their subsequent publication in book form they +were violently assailed. That nearly all of them have held +the stage is still a source of irritation among certain +journalists. <i>Salomé</i> however enjoys a singular +career. As every one knows, it was prohibited by the Censor +when in rehearsal by Madame Bernhardt at the Palace Theatre in +1892. On its publication in 1893 it was greeted with +greater abuse than any other of Wilde’s works, and was +consigned to the usual irrevocable oblivion. The accuracy +of the French was freely canvassed, and of course it is obvious +that the French is not that of a Frenchman. The play was +passed for press, however, by no less a writer than Marcel Schwob +whose letter to the Paris publisher, returning the proofs and +mentioning two or three slight alterations, is still in my +possession. Marcel Schwob told me some years afterwards +that he thought it would have spoiled the spontaneity and +character of Wilde’s style if he had tried to harmonise it +with the diction demanded by the French Academy. It was +never composed with any idea of presentation. Madame +Bernhardt happened to say she wished Wilde would write a play for +her; he replied in jest that he had done so. She insisted +on seeing the manuscript, and decided on its immediate +production, ignorant or forgetful of the English law which +prohibits the introduction of Scriptural characters on the +stage. With his keen sense of the theatre Wilde would never +have contrived the long speech of Salomé at the end in a +drama intended for the stage, even in the days of long +speeches. His threat to change his nationality shortly +after the Censor’s interference called forth a most +delightful and good-natured caricature of him by Mr. Bernard +Partridge in <i>Punch</i>.</p> +<p>Wilde was still in prison in 1896 when <i>Salomé</i> +was produced by Lugne Poë at the Théàtre de +L’Œuvre in Paris, but except for an account in the +<i>Daily Telegraph</i> the incident was hardly mentioned in +England. I gather that the performance was only a qualified +success, though Lugne Poë’s triumph as Herod was +generally acknowledged. In 1901, within a year of the +author’s death, it was produced in Berlin; from that moment +it has held the European stage. It has run for a longer +consecutive period in Germany than any play by any Englishman, +not excepting Shakespeare. Its popularity has extended to +all countries where it is not prohibited. It is performed +throughout Europe, Asia and America. It is played even in +Yiddish. This is remarkable in view of the many dramas by +French and German writers who treat of the same theme. To +none of them, however, is Wilde indebted. Flaubert, +Maeterlinck (some would add Ollendorff) and Scripture, are the +obvious sources on which he has freely drawn for what I do not +hesitate to call the most powerful and perfect of all his +dramas. But on such a point a trustee and executor may be +prejudiced because it is the most valuable asset in Wilde’s +literary estate. Aubrey Beardsley’s illustrations are +too well known to need more than a passing reference. In +the world of art criticism they excited almost as much attention +as Wilde’s drama has excited in the world of intellect.</p> +<p>During May 1905 the play was produced in England for the first +time at a private performance by the New Stage Club. No one +present will have forgotten the extraordinary tension of the +audience on that occasion, those who disliked the play and its +author being hypnotised by the extraordinary power of Mr. Robert +Farquharson’s Herod, one of the finest pieces of acting +ever seen in this country. My friends the dramatic critics +(and many of them are personal friends) fell on +<i>Salomé</i> with all the vigour of their predecessors +twelve years before. Unaware of what was taking place in +Germany, they spoke of the play as having been ‘dragged +from obscurity.’ The Official Receiver in Bankruptcy +and myself were, however, better informed. And much +pleasure has been derived from reading those criticisms, all +carefully preserved along with the list of receipts which were +simultaneously pouring in from the German performances. To +do the critics justice they never withdrew any of their printed +opinions, which were all trotted out again when the play was +produced privately for the second time in England by the Literary +Theatre Society in 1906. In the <i>Speaker</i> of July +14th, 1906, however, some of the iterated misrepresentations of +fact were corrected. No attempt was made to controvert the +opinion of an ignorant critic: his veracity only was +impugned. The powers of vaticination possessed by such +judges of drama can be fairly tested in the career of +<i>Salomé</i> on the European stage, apart from the +opera. In an introduction to the English translation +published by Mr. John Lane it is pointed out that Wilde’s +confusion of Herod Antipas (Matt. xiv. 1) with Herod the Great +(Matt. ii. 1) and Herod Agrippa <span class="GutSmall">I.</span> +(Acts xii. 23) is intentional, and follows a mediæval +convention. There is no attempt at historical accuracy or +archæological exactness. Those who saw the marvellous +<i>décor</i> of Mr. Charles Ricketts at the second English +production can form a complete idea of what Wilde intended in +that respect; although the stage management was clumsy and +amateurish. The great opera of Richard Strauss does not +fall within my province; but the fag ends of its popularity on +the Continent have been imported here oddly enough through the +agency of the Palace Theatre, where <i>Salomé</i> was +originally to have been performed. Of a young lady’s +dancing, or of that of her rivals, I am not qualified to +speak. I note merely that the critics who objected to the +horror of one incident in the drama lost all self-control on +seeing that incident repeated in dumb show and accompanied by +fescennine corybantics. Except in ‘name and borrowed +notoriety’ the music-hall sensation has no relation +whatever to the drama which so profoundly moved the whole of +Europe and the greatest living musician. The adjectives of +contumely are easily transmuted into epithets of adulation, when +a prominent ecclesiastic succumbs, like King Herod, to the +fascination of a dancer.</p> +<p>It is not usually known in England that a young French naval +officer, unaware that Dr. Strauss was composing an opera on the +theme of <i>Salomé</i>, wrote another music drama to +accompany Wilde’s text. The exclusive musical rights +having been already secured by Dr. Strauss, Lieutenant +Marriotte’s work cannot be performed regularly. One +presentation, however, was permitted at Lyons, the +composer’s native town, where I am told it made an +extraordinary impression. In order to give English readers +some faint idea of the world-wide effect of Wilde’s drama, +my friend Mr. Walter Ledger has prepared a short bibliography of +certain English and Continental translations.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>At the time of Wilde’s trial the nearly completed MS. of +<i>La Sainte Courtisane</i> was entrusted to Mrs. Leverson, the +well-known novelist, who in 1897 went to Paris on purpose to +restore it to the author. Wilde immediately left the only +copy in a cab. A few days later he laughingly informed me +of the loss, and added that a cab was a very proper place for +it. I have explained elsewhere that he looked on his works +with disdain in his last years, though he was always full of +schemes for writing others. All my attempts to recover the +lost work failed. The passages here reprinted are from some +odd leaves of a first draft. The play is, of course, not +unlike <i>Salomé</i>, though it was written in +English. It expanded Wilde’s favourite theory that +when you convert some one to an idea, you lose your faith in it; +the same motive runs through <i>Mr. W. H.</i> Honorius the +hermit, so far as I recollect the story, falls in love with the +courtesan who has come to tempt him, and he reveals to her the +secret of the love of God. She immediately becomes a +Christian, and is murdered by robbers. Honorius the hermit +goes back to Alexandria to pursue a life of pleasure. Two +other similar plays Wilde invented in prison, <i>Ahab and +Isabel</i> and <i>Pharaoh</i>; he would never write them down, +though often importuned to do so. <i>Pharaoh</i> was +intensely dramatic and perhaps more original than any of the +group. None of these works must be confused with the +manuscripts stolen from 16 Tite Street in 1895—namely, the +enlarged version of <i>Mr. W. H.</i>, the second draft of <i>A +Florentine Tragedy</i>, and <i>The Duchess of Padua</i> (which, +existing in a prompt copy, was of less importance than the +others); nor with <i>The Cardinal of Arragon</i>, the manuscript +of which I never saw. I scarcely think it ever existed, +though Wilde used to recite proposed passages for it.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>Some years after Wilde’s death I was looking over the +papers and letters rescued from Tite Street when I came across +loose sheets of manuscript and typewriting, which I imagined were +fragments of <i>The Duchess of Padua</i>; on putting them +together in a coherent form I recognised that they belonged to +the lost <i>Florentine Tragedy</i>. I assumed that the +opening scene, though once extant, had disappeared. One +day, however, Mr. Willard wrote that he possessed a typewritten +fragment of a play which Wilde had submitted to him, and this he +kindly forwarded for my inspection. It agreed in nearly +every particular with what I had taken so much trouble to put +together. This suggests that the opening scene had never +been written, as Mr. Willard’s version began where mine +did. It was characteristic of the author to finish what he +never began.</p> +<p>When the Literary Theatre Society produced +<i>Salomé</i> in 1906 they asked me for some other short +drama by Wilde to present at the same time, as +<i>Salomé</i> does not take very long to play. I +offered them the fragment of <i>A Florentine Tragedy</i>. +By a fortunate coincidence the poet and dramatist, Mr. Thomas +Sturge Moore, happened to be on the committee of this Society, +and to him was entrusted the task of writing an opening scene to +make the play complete. It is not for me to criticise his +work, but there is justification for saying that Wilde himself +would have envied, with an artist’s envy, such lines +as—</p> +<blockquote><p>We will sup with the moon,<br /> +Like Persian princes that in Babylon<br /> +Sup in the hanging gardens of the King.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In a stylistic sense Mr. Sturge Moore has accomplished a feat +in reconstruction, whatever opinions may be held of <i>A +Florentine Tragedy</i> by Wilde’s admirers or +detractors. The achievement is particularly remarkable +because Mr. Sturge Moore has nothing in common with Wilde other +than what is shared by all real poets and dramatists: He is a +landed proprietor on Parnassus, not a trespasser. In +England we are more familiar with the poachers. Time and +Death are of course necessary before there can come any adequate +recognition of one of our most original and gifted singers. +Among his works are <i>The Vinedresser and other Poems</i> +(1899), <i>Absalom</i>, <i>A Chronicle Play</i> (1903), and +<i>The Centaur’s Booty</i> (1903). Mr. Sturge Moore +is also an art critic of distinction, and his learned works on +Dürer (1905) and Correggio (1906) are more widely known (I +am sorry to say) than his powerful and enthralling poems.</p> +<p>Once again I must express my obligations to Mr. Stuart Mason +for revising and correcting the proofs of this new edition.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">ROBERT ROSS</p> +<h2><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>LA +SAINTE COURTISANE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">A FRAGMENT</span></h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><i>First Published in Book Form by Methuen and Co. in</i> +‘<i>Miscellanies</i>’ (<i>Limited Editions on +handmade paper and Japanese Vellum</i>)</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>October</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1908</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>First F’cap. 8vo Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>November</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1909</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Second F’cap. 8vo Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>October</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1910</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Third F’cap. 8vo Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>December</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1911</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fourth F’cap. 8vo Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>May</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1915</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fifth F’cap. 8vo Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><i>1917</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h3>LA SAINTE COURTISANE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OR, THE WOMAN COVERED WITH +JEWELS</span></h3> +<p><i>The scene represents the corner of a valley in the +Thebaid</i>. <i>On the right hand of the stage is a +cavern. In front of the cavern stands a great +crucifix</i>.</p> +<p><i>On the left</i> [<i>sand dunes</i>].</p> +<p><i>The sky is blue like the inside of a cup of lapis +lazuli</i>. <i>The hills are of red sand</i>. <i>Here +and there on the hills there are clumps of thorns</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. Who is she? +She makes me afraid. She has a purple cloak and her hair is +like threads of gold. I think she must be the daughter of +the Emperor. I have heard the boatmen say that the Emperor +has a daughter who wears a cloak of purple.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Second Man</span>. She has +birds’ wings upon her sandals, and her tunic is of the +colour of green corn. It is like corn in spring when she +stands still. It is like young corn troubled by the shadows +of hawks when she moves. The pearls on her tunic are like +many moons.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. They are like the +moons one sees in the water when the wind blows from the +hills.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Second Man</span>. I think she is +one of the gods. I think she comes from Nubia.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. I am sure she is +the daughter of the Emperor. Her nails are stained with +henna. They are like the petals of a rose. She has +come here to weep for Adonis.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Second Man</span>. She is one of the +gods. I do not know why she has left her temple. The +gods should not leave their temples. If she speaks to us +let us not answer, and she will pass by.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. She will not speak +to us. She is the daughter of the Emperor.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Dwells he not here, +the beautiful young hermit, he who will not look on the face of +woman?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. Of a truth it is +here the hermit dwells.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Why will he not +look on the face of woman?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Second Man</span>. We do not +know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Why do ye +yourselves not look at me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. You are covered +with bright stones, and you dazzle our eyes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Second Man</span>. He who looks at +the sun becomes blind. You are too bright to look at. +It is not wise to look at things that are very bright. Many +of the priests in the temples are blind, and have slaves to lead +them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Where does he +dwell, the beautiful young hermit who will not look on the face +of woman? Has he a house of reeds or a house of burnt clay +or does he lie on the hillside? Or does he make his bed in +the rushes?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. He dwells in that +cavern yonder.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. What a curious +place to dwell in!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. Of old a centaur +lived there. When the hermit came the centaur gave a shrill +cry, wept and lamented, and galloped away.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Second Man</span>. No. It was +a white unicorn who lived in the cave. When it saw the +hermit coming the unicorn knelt down and worshipped him. +Many people saw it worshipping him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. I have talked with +people who saw it.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">. . . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Second Man</span>. Some say he was a +hewer of wood and worked for hire. But that may not be +true.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">. . . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. What gods then do +ye worship? Or do ye worship any gods? There are +those who have no gods to worship. The philosophers who +wear long beards and brown cloaks have no gods to worship. +They wrangle with each other in the porticoes. The [ ] +laugh at them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. We worship seven +gods. We may not tell their names. It is a very +dangerous thing to tell the names of the gods. No one +should ever tell the name of his god. Even the priests who +praise the gods all day long, and eat of their food with them, do +not call them by their right names.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Where are these +gods ye worship?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. We hide them in +the folds of our tunics. We do not show them to any +one. If we showed them to any one they might leave us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Where did ye meet +with them?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. They were given to +us by an embalmer of the dead who had found them in a tomb. +We served him for seven years.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. The dead are +terrible. I am afraid of Death.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. Death is not a +god. He is only the servant of the gods.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. He is the only god +I am afraid of. Ye have seen many of the gods?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. We have seen many +of them. One sees them chiefly at night time. They +pass one by very swiftly. Once we saw some of the gods at +daybreak. They were walking across a plain.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Once as I was +passing through the market place I heard a sophist from Cilicia +say that there is only one God. He said it before many +people.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. That cannot be +true. We have ourselves seen many, though we are but common +men and of no account. When I saw them I hid myself in a +bush. They did me no harm.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">. . . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Tell me more about +the beautiful young hermit. Talk to me about the beautiful +young hermit who will not look on the face of woman. What +is the story of his days? What mode of life has he?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. We do not +understand you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. What does he do, +the beautiful young hermit? Does he sow or reap? Does +he plant a garden or catch fish in a net? Does he weave +linen on a loom? Does he set his hand to the wooden plough +and walk behind the oxen?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Second Man</span>. He being a very +holy man does nothing. We are common men and of no +account. We toll all day long in the sun. Sometimes +the ground is very hard.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Do the birds of the +air feed him? Do the jackals share their booty with +him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. Every evening we +bring him food. We do not think that the birds of the air +feed him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Why do ye feed +him? What profit have ye in so doing?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Second Man</span>. He is a very holy +man. One of the gods whom he has offended has made him +mad. We think he has offended the moon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Go and tell him +that one who has come from Alexandria desires to speak with +him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. We dare not tell +him. This hour he is praying to his God. We pray thee +to pardon us for not doing thy bidding.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Are ye afraid, of +him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. We are afraid of +him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Why are ye afraid +of him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. We do not +know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. What is his +name?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. The voice that +speaks to him at night time in the cavern calls to him by the +name of Honorius. It was also by the name of Honorius that +the three lepers who passed by once called to him. We think +that his name is Honorius.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Why did the three +lepers call to him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. That he might heal +them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Did he heal +them?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Second Man</span>. No. They +had committed some sin: it was for that reason they were +lepers. Their hands and faces were like salt. One of +them wore a mask of linen. He was a king’s son.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. What is the voice +that speaks to him at night time in his cave?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">First Man</span>. We do not know +whose voice it is. We think it is the voice of his +God. For we have seen no man enter his cavern nor any come +forth from it.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">. . . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Honorius.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Honorius</span> (<i>from +within</i>). Who calls Honorius?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Come forth, +Honorius.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">. . . . .</p> +<p>My chamber is ceiled with cedar and odorous with myrrh. +The pillars of my bed are of cedar and the hangings are of +purple. My bed is strewn with purple and the steps are of +silver. The hangings are sewn with silver pomegranates and +the steps that are of silver are strewn with saffron and with +myrrh. My lovers hang garlands round the pillars of my +house. At night time they come with the flute players and +the players of the harp. They woo me with apples and on the +pavement of my courtyard they write my name in wine.</p> +<p>From the uttermost parts of the world my lovers come to +me. The kings of the earth come to me and bring me +presents.</p> +<p>When the Emperor of Byzantium heard of me he left his porphyry +chamber and set sail in his galleys. His slaves bare no +torches that none might know of his coming. When the King +of Cyprus heard of me he sent me ambassadors. The two Kings +of Libya who are brothers brought me gifts of amber.</p> +<p>I took the minion of Cæsar from Cæsar and made him +my playfellow. He came to me at night in a litter. He +was pale as a narcissus, and his body was like honey.</p> +<p>The son of the Præfect slew himself in my honour, and +the Tetrarch of Cilicia scourged himself for my pleasure before +my slaves.</p> +<p>The King of Hierapolis who is a priest and a robber set +carpets for me to walk on.</p> +<p>Sometimes I sit in the circus and the gladiators fight beneath +me. Once a Thracian who was my lover was caught in the +net. I gave the signal for him to die and the whole theatre +applauded. Sometimes I pass through the gymnasium and watch +the young men wrestling or in the race. Their bodies are +bright with oil and their brows are wreathed with willow sprays +and with myrtle. They stamp their feet on the sand when +they wrestle and when they run the sand follows them like a +little cloud. He at whom I smile leaves his companions and +follows me to my home. At other times I go down to the +harbour and watch the merchants unloading their vessels. +Those that come from Tyre have cloaks of silk and earrings of +emerald. Those that come from Massilia have cloaks of fine +wool and earrings of brass. When they see me coming they +stand on the prows of their ships and call to me, but I do not +answer them. I go to the little taverns where the sailors +lie all day long drinking black wine and playing with dice and I +sit down with them.</p> +<p>I made the Prince my slave, and his slave who was a Tyrian I +made my lord for the space of a moon.</p> +<p>I put a figured ring on his finger and brought him to my +house. I have wonderful things in my house.</p> +<p>The dust of the desert lies on your hair and your feet are +scratched with thorns and your body is scorched by the sun. +Come with me, Honorius, and I will clothe you in a tunic of +silk. I will smear your body with myrrh and pour spikenard +on your hair. I will clothe you in hyacinth and put honey +in your mouth. Love—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Honorius</span>. There is no love +but the love of God.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Who is He whose +love is greater than that of mortal men?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Honorius</span>. It is He whom thou +seest on the cross, Myrrhina. He is the Son of God and was +born of a virgin. Three wise men who were kings brought Him +offerings, and the shepherds who were lying on the hills were +wakened by a great light.</p> +<p>The Sibyls knew of His coming. The groves and the +oracles spake of Him. David and the prophets announced +Him. There is no love like the love of God nor any love +that can be compared to it.</p> +<p>The body is vile, Myrrhina. God will raise thee up with +a new body which will not know corruption, and thou shalt dwell +in the Courts of the Lord and see Him whose hair is like fine +wool and whose feet are of brass.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. The beauty . . +.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Honorius</span>. The beauty of the +soul increases until it can see God. Therefore, Myrrhina, +repent of thy sins. The robber who was crucified beside Him +He brought into Paradise.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. How strangely he +spake to me. And with what scorn did he regard me. I +wonder why he spake to me so strangely.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">. . . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Honorius</span>. Myrrhina, the +scales have fallen from my eyes and I see now clearly what I did +not see before. Take me to Alexandria and let me taste of +the seven sins.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Do not mock me, +Honorius, nor speak to me with such bitter words. For I +have repented of my sins and I am seeking a cavern in this desert +where I too may dwell so that my soul may become worthy to see +God.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Honorius</span>. The sun is setting, +Myrrhina. Come with me to Alexandria.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. I will not go to +Alexandria.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Honorius</span>. Farewell, +Myrrhina.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. Honorius, +farewell. No, no, do not go.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">. . . . .</p> +<p>I have cursed my beauty for what it has done, and cursed the +wonder of my body for the evil that it has brought upon you.</p> +<p>Lord, this man brought me to Thy feet. He told me of Thy +coming upon earth, and of the wonder of Thy birth, and the great +wonder of Thy death also. By him, O Lord, Thou wast +revealed to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Honorius</span>. You talk as a +child, Myrrhina, and without knowledge. Loosen your +hands. Why didst thou come to this valley in thy +beauty?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. The God whom thou +worshippest led me here that I might repent of my iniquities and +know Him as the Lord.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Honorius</span>. Why didst thou +tempt me with words?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Myrrhina</span>. That thou shouldst +see Sin in its painted mask and look on Death in its robe of +Shame.</p> +<h2><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>A +FLORENTINE TRAGEDY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WITH OPENING SCENE BY T. STURGE +MOORE</span></h2> +<p><i>This play is only a fragment and was never +completed</i>. <i>For the purposes of presentation</i>, +<i>the well-known poet</i>, <i>Mr. T. Sturge Moore</i>, <i>has +written an opening scene which is here included</i>. +<i>Wilde’s work begins with the entrance of Simone</i>.</p> +<p><i>A private performance was given by the Literary Theatre +Club in</i> 1906. <i>The first public presentation was +given by the New English Players at the Cripplegate +Institute</i>, <i>Golden Lane</i>, <i>E.C.</i>, <i>in</i> +1907. <i>German</i>, <i>French and Hungarian translations +have been presented on the Continental stage</i>.</p> +<p><i>Dramatic and literary rights are the property of Robert +Ross</i>. <i>The American literary and dramatic rights are +vested in John Luce and Co.</i>, <i>Boston</i>, <i>U.S.A.</i></p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><i>First Published by Methuen and Co.</i> (<i>Limited +Editions on handmade paper and Japanese vellum</i>)</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>February</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1908</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>First F’cap. 8vo Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>November</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1909</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Second F’cap. 8vo Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>October</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1910</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Third F’cap. 8vo Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>December</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1911</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fourth F’cap. 8vo Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>May</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1915</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fifth F’cap. 8vo Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><i>1917</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h3>CHARACTERS</h3> +<p>GUIDO BARDI, A Florentine prince.</p> +<p>SIMONE, a merchant.</p> +<p>BIANNA, his wife.</p> +<p>MARIA, a tire-woman.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The action takes place at +Florence in the early sixteenth century</i>.</p> +<h3>A FLORENTINE TRAGEDY</h3> +<p>[<i>The scene represents a tapestried upper room giving on to +a balcony or loggia in an old house at Florence</i>. <i>A +table laid for a frugal meal</i>, <i>a spinning-wheel</i>, +<i>distaff</i>, <i>etc.</i>, <i>chests</i>, <i>chairs and +stools</i>.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>As the Curtain rises enter</i> +<span class="smcap">Bianca</span>, <i>with her Servant</i>, <span +class="smcap">Maria</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. Certain +and sure, the sprig is Guido Bardi,<br /> +A lovely lord, a lord whose blood is blue!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. But +where did he receive you?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. Where, +but there<br /> +In yonder palace, in a painted hall!—<br /> +Painted with naked women on the walls,—<br /> +Would make a common man or blush or smile<br /> +But he seemed not to heed them, being a lord.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. But +how know you ’tis not a chamberlayne,<br /> +A lackey merely?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. Why, +how know I there is a God in heaven?<br /> +Because the angels have a master surely.<br /> +So to this lord they bowed, all others bowed,<br /> +And swept the marble flags, doffing their caps,<br /> +With the gay plumes. Because he stiffly said,<br /> +And seemed to see me as those folk are seen<br /> +That will be never seen again by you,<br /> +‘Woman, your mistress then returns this purse<br /> +Of forty thousand crowns, is it fifty thousand?<br /> +Come name the sum will buy me grace of her.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. What, +were there forty thousand crowns therein?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. I know +it was all gold; heavy with gold.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. It +must be he, none else could give so much.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. +’Tis he, ’tis my lord Guido, Guido Bardi.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. What +said you?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. I, I +said my mistress never<br /> +Looked at the gold, never opened the purse,<br /> +Never counted a coin. But asked again<br /> +What she had asked before, ‘How young you looked?<br /> +How handsome your lordship looked? What doublet<br /> +Your majesty had on? What chains, what hose<br /> +Upon your revered legs?’ And curtseyed<br /> +I, . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. What +said he?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. +Curtseyed I, and he replied,<br /> +‘Has she a lover then beside that old<br /> +Soured husband or is it him she loves, my God!<br /> +Is it him?’</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. +Well?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. +Curtseyed I low and said<br /> +‘Not him, my lord, nor you, nor no man else.<br /> +Thou art rich, my lord, and honoured, my lord, and she<br /> +Though not so rich is honoured . . .’</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Fool, +you fool,<br /> +I never bid you say a word of that.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. Nor did +I say a word of that you said;<br /> +I said, ‘She loves him not, my lord, nor loves<br /> +Any man else. Yet she might like to love,<br /> +If she were loved by one who pleased her well;<br /> +For she is weary of spinning long alone.<br /> +She is not rich and yet she is not poor; but young<br /> +She is, my lord, and you are young.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Pauses smiling</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Quick, +quick!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. There, +there! ’Twas but to show you how I smiled<br /> +Saying the lord was young. It took him too;<br /> +For he said, ‘This will do! If I should call<br /> +To-night to pay respect unto your lovely—<br /> +Our lovely mistress, tell her that I said,<br /> +Our lovely mistress, shall I be received?’<br /> +And I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘Then say I come and +if<br /> +All else is well let her throw down some favour<br /> +When as I pass below.’ He should be there!<br /> +Look from the balcony; he should be there!—<br /> +And there he is, dost see?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Some +favour. Yes.<br /> +This ribbon weighted by this brooch will do.<br /> +Maria, be you busy near within, but, till<br /> +I call take care you enter not. Go down<br /> +And let the young lord in, for hark, he knocks.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Exit</i> <span +class="smcap">Maria</span>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Great ladies might he choose from and yet he<br +/> +Is drawn . . . ah, there my fear is! Was he drawn<br /> +By love to me—by love’s young strength alone?<br /> +That’s where it is, if I were sure he loved,<br /> +I then might do what greater dames have done<br /> +And venge me on a husband blind to beauty.<br /> +But if! Ah if! he is a wandering bee,<br /> +Mere gallant taster, who befools poor flowers . . .</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">[<span +class="smcap">Maria</span> <i>opens the door for</i> <span +class="smcap">Guido Bardi</span>, <i>and then withdraws</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">My lord, I learn that we have something +here,<br /> +In this poor house, which thou dost wish to buy.<br /> +My husband is from home, but my poor fate<br /> +Has made me perfect in the price of velvets,<br /> +Of silks and gay brocades. I think you offered<br /> +Some forty thousand crowns, or fifty thousand,<br /> +For something we have here? And it must be<br /> +That wonder of the loom, which my Simone<br /> +Has lately home; it is a Lucca damask,<br /> +The web is silver over-wrought with roses.<br /> +Since you did offer fifty thousand crowns<br /> +It must be that. Pray wait, for I will fetch it.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Nay, +nay, thou gracious wonder of a loom<br /> +More cunning far than those of Lucca, I<br /> +Had in my thought no damask silver cloth<br /> +By hunch-back weavers woven toilsomely,<br /> +If such are priced at fifty thousand crowns<br /> +It shames me, for I hoped to buy a fabric<br /> +For which a hundred thousand then were little.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. A +hundred thousand was it that you said?<br /> +Nay, poor Simone for so great a sum<br /> +Would sell you everything the house contains.<br /> +The thought of such a sum doth daze the brains<br /> +Of merchant folk who live such lives as ours.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Would +he sell everything this house contains?<br /> +And every one, would he sell every one?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Oh, +everything and every one, my lord,<br /> +Unless it were himself; he values not<br /> +A woman as a velvet, or a wife<br /> +At half the price of silver-threaded woof.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Then I +would strike a bargain with him straight,</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. He is +from home; may be will sleep from home;<br /> +But I, my lord, can show you all we have;<br /> +Can measure ells and sum their price, my lord.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. It is +thyself, Bianca, I would buy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. O, +then, my lord, it must be with Simone<br /> +You strike your bargain; for to sell myself<br /> +Would be to do what I most truly loathe.<br /> +Good-night, my lord; it is with deep regret<br /> +I find myself unable to oblige<br /> +Your lordship.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Nay, I +pray thee let me stay<br /> +And pardon me the sorry part I played,<br /> +As though I were a chapman and intent<br /> +To lower prices, cheapen honest wares.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. My +lord, there is no reason you should stay.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Thou +art my reason, peerless, perfect, thou,<br /> +The reason I am here and my life’s goal,<br /> +For I was born to love the fairest things . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. To buy +the fairest things that can be bought.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Cruel +Bianca! Cover me with scorn,<br /> +I answer born to love thy priceless self,<br /> +That never to a market could be brought,<br /> +No more than winged souls that sail and soar<br /> +Among the planets or about the moon.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. It is +so much thy habit to buy love,<br /> +Or that which is for sale and labelled love,<br /> +Hardly couldst thou conceive a priceless love.<br /> +But though my love has never been for sale<br /> +I have been in a market bought and sold.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. This is +some riddle which thy sweet wit reads<br /> +To baffle mine and mock me yet again.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. My +marriage, sir, I speak of marriage now,<br /> +That common market where my husband went<br /> +And prides himself he made a bargain then.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. The +wretched chapman, how I hate his soul.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. He was +a better bidder than thyself,<br /> +And knew with whom to deal . . . he did not speak<br /> +Of gold to me, but in my father’s ear<br /> +He made it clink: to me he spoke of love,<br /> +Honest and free and open without price.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. O white +Bianca, lovely as the moon,<br /> +The light of thy pure soul and shining wit<br /> +Shows me my shame, and makes the thing I was<br /> +Slink like a shadow from the thing I am.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Let +that which casts the shadow act, my lord,<br /> +And waste no thought on what its shadow does<br /> +Or has done. Are youth, and strength, and love<br /> +Balked by mere shadows, so that they forget<br /> +Themselves so far they cannot be recalled?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. +Nobility is here, not in the court.<br /> +There are the tinsel stars, here is the moon,<br /> +Whose tranquil splendour makes a day of night.<br /> +I have been starved by ladies, specks of light,<br /> +And glory drowns me now I see the moon.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. I have +refused round sums of solid gold<br /> +And shall not be by tinsel phrases bought.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Dispute +no more, witty, divine Bianca;<br /> +Dispute no more. See I have brought my lute!<br /> +Close lock the door. We will sup with the moon<br /> +Like Persian princes, that, in Babylon<br /> +Sup in the hanging gardens of the king.<br /> +I know an air that can suspend the soul<br /> +As high in heaven as those towered-gardens hang.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. My +husband may return, we are not safe.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Didst +thou not say that he would sleep from home?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. He was +not sure, he said it might be so.<br /> +He was not sure—and he would send my aunt<br /> +To sleep with me, if he did so decide,<br /> +And she has not yet come.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span> +[<i>starting</i>] Hark, what’s that?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>They listen</i>, <i>the sound +of</i> <span class="smcap">Maria’s</span> <i>voice in anger +with some one is faintly heard</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. It is +Maria scolds some gossip crone.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. I +thought the other voice had been a man’s.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. All +still again, old crones are often gruff.<br /> +You should be gone, my lord.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. O, +sweet Bianca!<br /> +How can I leave thee now! Thy beauty made<br /> +Two captives of my eyes, and they were mad<br /> +To feast them on thy form, but now thy wit,<br /> +The liberated perfume of a bud,<br /> +Which while a bud seemed perfect, but now is<br /> +That which can make its former self forgot:<br /> +How can I leave the flower who loved the leaf?<br /> +Till now I was the richest prince in Florence,<br /> +I am a lover now would shun its throngs,<br /> +And put away all state and seek retreat<br /> +At Bellosguardo or Fiesole,<br /> +Where roses in their fin’st profusion hide<br /> +Some marble villa whose cool walls have rung<br /> +A laughing echo to Decameron,<br /> +And where thy laughter shall as gaily sound.<br /> +Say thou canst love or with a silent kiss<br /> +Instil that balmy knowledge on my soul.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Canst +tell me what love is?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. It is +consent,<br /> +The union of two minds, two souls, two hearts,<br /> +In all they think and hope and feel.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Such +lovers might as well be dumb, for those<br /> +Who think and hope and feel alike can never<br /> +Have anything for one another’s ear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Love +is? Love is the meeting of two worlds<br /> +In never-ending change and counter-change.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Thus +will my husband praise the mercer’s mart,<br /> +Where the two worlds of East and West exchange.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. +Come. Love is love, a kiss, a close embrace.<br /> +It is . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. My +husband calls that love<br /> +When he hath slammed his weekly ledger to.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. I find +my wit no better match for thine<br /> +Than thou art match for an old crabbed man;<br /> +But I am sure my youth and strength and blood<br /> +Keep better tune with beauty gay and bright<br /> +As thine is, than lean age and miser toil.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Well +said, well said, I think he would not dare<br /> +To face thee, more than owls dare face the sun;<br /> +He’s the bent shadow such a form as thine<br /> +Might cast upon a dung heap by the road,<br /> +Though should it fall upon a proper floor<br /> +Twould be at once a better man than he.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Your +merchant living in the dread of loss<br /> +Becomes perforce a coward, eats his heart.<br /> +Dull souls they are, who, like caged prisoners watch<br /> +And envy others’ joy; they taste no food<br /> +But what its cost is present to their thought.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. I am +my father’s daughter, in his eyes<br /> +A home-bred girl who has been taught to spin.<br /> +He never seems to think I have a face<br /> +Which makes you gallants turn where’er I pass.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Thy +night is darker than I dreamed, bright Star.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. He +waits, stands by, and mutters to himself,<br /> +And never enters with a frank address<br /> +To any company. His eyes meet mine<br /> +And with a shudder I am sure he counts<br /> +The cost of what I wear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Forget +him quite.<br /> +Come, come, escape from out this dismal life,<br /> +As a bright butterfly breaks spider’s web,<br /> +And nest with me among those rosy bowers,<br /> +Where we will love, as though the lives we led<br /> +Till yesterday were ghoulish dreams dispersed<br /> +By the great dawn of limpid joyous life.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Will I +not come?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. O, make +no question, come.<br /> +They waste their time who ponder o’er bad dreams.<br /> +We will away to hills, red roses clothe,<br /> +And though the persons who did haunt that dream<br /> +Live on, they shall by distance dwindled, seem<br /> +No bigger than the smallest ear of corn<br /> +That cowers at the passing of a bird,<br /> +And silent shall they seem, out of ear-shot,<br /> +Those voices that could jar, while we gaze back<br /> +From rosy caves upon the hill-brow open,<br /> +And ask ourselves if what we see is not<br /> +A picture merely,—if dusty, dingy lives<br /> +Continue there to choke themselves with malice.<br /> +Wilt thou not come, Bianca? Wilt thou not?</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>A sound on the stair</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">guido</span>. +What’s that?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>The door opens</i>, <i>they +separate guiltily</i>, <i>and the husband enters</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. My +good wife, you come slowly; were it not better<br /> +To run to meet your lord? Here, take my cloak.<br /> +Take this pack first. ’Tis heavy. I have sold +nothing:<br /> +Save a furred robe unto the Cardinal’s son,<br /> +Who hopes to wear it when his father dies,<br /> +And hopes that will be soon.</p> +<p class="poetry">But who is this?<br /> +Why you have here some friend. Some kinsman doubtless,<br +/> +Newly returned from foreign lands and fallen<br /> +Upon a house without a host to greet him?<br /> +I crave your pardon, kinsman. For a house<br /> +Lacking a host is but an empty thing<br /> +And void of honour; a cup without its wine,<br /> +A scabbard without steel to keep it straight,<br /> +A flowerless garden widowed of the sun.<br /> +Again I crave your pardon, my sweet cousin.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. This +is no kinsman and no cousin neither.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. No +kinsman, and no cousin! You amaze me.<br /> +Who is it then who with such courtly grace<br /> +Deigns to accept our hospitalities?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. My name +is Guido Bardi.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. +What! The son<br /> +Of that great Lord of Florence whose dim towers<br /> +Like shadows silvered by the wandering moon<br /> +I see from out my casement every night!<br /> +Sir Guido Bardi, you are welcome here,<br /> +Twice welcome. For I trust my honest wife,<br /> +Most honest if uncomely to the eye,<br /> +Hath not with foolish chatterings wearied you,<br /> +As is the wont of women.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Your +gracious lady,<br /> +Whose beauty is a lamp that pales the stars<br /> +And robs Diana’s quiver of her beams<br /> +Has welcomed me with such sweet courtesies<br /> +That if it be her pleasure, and your own,<br /> +I will come often to your simple house.<br /> +And when your business bids you walk abroad<br /> +I will sit here and charm her loneliness<br /> +Lest she might sorrow for you overmuch.<br /> +What say you, good Simone?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. My +noble Lord,<br /> +You bring me such high honour that my tongue<br /> +Like a slave’s tongue is tied, and cannot say<br /> +The word it would. Yet not to give you thanks<br /> +Were to be too unmannerly. So, I thank you,<br /> +From my heart’s core.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is such things as these<br /> +That knit a state together, when a Prince<br /> +So nobly born and of such fair address,<br /> +Forgetting unjust Fortune’s differences,<br /> +Comes to an honest burgher’s honest home<br /> +As a most honest friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet, my Lord,<br /> +I fear I am too bold. Some other night<br /> +We trust that you will come here as a friend;<br /> +To-night you come to buy my merchandise.<br /> +Is it not so? Silks, velvets, what you will,<br /> +I doubt not but I have some dainty wares<br /> +Will woo your fancy. True, the hour is late,<br /> +But we poor merchants toil both night and day<br /> +To make our scanty gains. The tolls are high,<br /> +And every city levies its own toll,<br /> +And prentices are unskilful, and wives even<br /> +Lack sense and cunning, though Bianca here<br /> +Has brought me a rich customer to-night.<br /> +Is it not so, Bianca? But I waste time.<br /> +Where is my pack? Where is my pack, I say?<br /> +Open it, my good wife. Unloose the cords.<br /> +Kneel down upon the floor. You are better so.<br /> +Nay not that one, the other. Despatch, despatch!<br /> +Buyers will grow impatient oftentimes.<br /> +We dare not keep them waiting. Ay! ’tis that,<br /> +Give it to me; with care. It is most costly.<br /> +Touch it with care. And now, my noble Lord—<br /> +Nay, pardon, I have here a Lucca damask,<br /> +The very web of silver and the roses<br /> +So cunningly wrought that they lack perfume merely<br /> +To cheat the wanton sense. Touch it, my Lord.<br /> +Is it not soft as water, strong as steel?<br /> +And then the roses! Are they not finely woven?<br /> +I think the hillsides that best love the rose,<br /> +At Bellosguardo or at Fiesole,<br /> +Throw no such blossoms on the lap of spring,<br /> +Or if they do their blossoms droop and die.<br /> +Such is the fate of all the dainty things<br /> +That dance in wind and water. Nature herself<br /> +Makes war on her own loveliness and slays<br /> +Her children like Medea. Nay but, my Lord,<br /> +Look closer still. Why in this damask here<br /> +It is summer always, and no winter’s tooth<br /> +Will ever blight these blossoms. For every ell<br /> +I paid a piece of gold. Red gold, and good,<br /> +The fruit of careful thrift.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Honest +Simone,<br /> +Enough, I pray you. I am well content;<br /> +To-morrow I will send my servant to you,<br /> +Who will pay twice your price.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. My +generous Prince!<br /> +I kiss your hands. And now I do remember<br /> +Another treasure hidden in my house<br /> +Which you must see. It is a robe of state:<br /> +Woven by a Venetian: the stuff, cut-velvet:<br /> +The pattern, pomegranates: each separate seed<br /> +Wrought of a pearl: the collar all of pearls,<br /> +As thick as moths in summer streets at night,<br /> +And whiter than the moons that madmen see<br /> +Through prison bars at morning. A male ruby<br /> +Burns like a lighted coal within the clasp<br /> +The Holy Father has not such a stone,<br /> +Nor could the Indies show a brother to it.<br /> +The brooch itself is of most curious art,<br /> +Cellini never made a fairer thing<br /> +To please the great Lorenzo. You must wear it.<br /> +There is none worthier in our city here,<br /> +And it will suit you well. Upon one side<br /> +A slim and horned satyr leaps in gold<br /> +To catch some nymph of silver. Upon the other<br /> +Stands Silence with a crystal in her hand,<br /> +No bigger than the smallest ear of corn,<br /> +That wavers at the passing of a bird,<br /> +And yet so cunningly wrought that one would say,<br /> +It breathed, or held its breath.</p> +<p class="poetry">Worthy Bianca,<br /> +Would not this noble and most costly robe<br /> +Suit young Lord Guido well?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, but entreat him;<br /> +He will refuse you nothing, though the price<br /> +Be as a prince’s ransom. And your profit<br /> +Shall not be less than mine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Am I +your prentice?<br /> +Why should I chaffer for your velvet robe?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Nay, +fair Bianca, I will buy the robe,<br /> +And all things that the honest merchant has<br /> +I will buy also. Princes must be ransomed,<br /> +And fortunate are all high lords who fall<br /> +Into the white hands of so fair a foe.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. I +stand rebuked. But you will buy my wares?<br /> +Will you not buy them? Fifty thousand crowns<br /> +Would scarce repay me. But you, my Lord, shall have them<br +/> +For forty thousand. Is that price too high?<br /> +Name your own price. I have a curious fancy<br /> +To see you in this wonder of the loom<br /> +Amidst the noble ladies of the court,<br /> +A flower among flowers.</p> +<p class="poetry">They say, my lord,<br /> +These highborn dames do so affect your Grace<br /> +That where you go they throng like flies around you,<br /> +Each seeking for your favour.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have heard also<br /> +Of husbands that wear horns, and wear them bravely,<br /> +A fashion most fantastical.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. +Simone,<br /> +Your reckless tongue needs curbing; and besides,<br /> +You do forget this gracious lady here<br /> +Whose delicate ears are surely not attuned<br /> +To such coarse music.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. True: +I had forgotten,<br /> +Nor will offend again. Yet, my sweet Lord,<br /> +You’ll buy the robe of state. Will you not buy it?<br +/> +But forty thousand crowns—’tis but a trifle,<br /> +To one who is Giovanni Bardi’s heir.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Settle +this thing to-morrow with my steward,<br /> +Antonio Costa. He will come to you.<br /> +And you shall have a hundred thousand crowns<br /> +If that will serve your purpose.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. A +hundred thousand!<br /> +Said you a hundred thousand? Oh! be sure<br /> +That will for all time and in everything<br /> +Make me your debtor. Ay! from this time forth<br /> +My house, with everything my house contains<br /> +Is yours, and only yours.</p> +<p class="poetry">A hundred thousand!<br /> +My brain is dazed. I shall be richer far<br /> +Than all the other merchants. I will buy<br /> +Vineyards and lands and gardens. Every loom<br /> +From Milan down to Sicily shall be mine,<br /> +And mine the pearls that the Arabian seas<br /> +Store in their silent caverns.</p> +<p class="poetry">Generous Prince,<br /> +This night shall prove the herald of my love,<br /> +Which is so great that whatsoe’er you ask<br /> +It will not be denied you.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. What if +I asked<br /> +For white Bianca here?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. You +jest, my Lord;<br /> +She is not worthy of so great a Prince.<br /> +She is but made to keep the house and spin.<br /> +Is it not so, good wife? It is so. Look!<br /> +Your distaff waits for you. Sit down and spin.<br /> +Women should not be idle in their homes,<br /> +For idle fingers make a thoughtless heart.<br /> +Sit down, I say.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. What +shall I spin?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Oh! +spin<br /> +Some robe which, dyed in purple, sorrow might wear<br /> +For her own comforting: or some long-fringed cloth<br /> +In which a new-born and unwelcome babe<br /> +Might wail unheeded; or a dainty sheet<br /> +Which, delicately perfumed with sweet herbs,<br /> +Might serve to wrap a dead man. Spin what you will;<br /> +I care not, I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. The +brittle thread is broken,<br /> +The dull wheel wearies of its ceaseless round,<br /> +The duller distaff sickens of its load;<br /> +I will not spin to-night.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. It +matters not.<br /> +To-morrow you shall spin, and every day<br /> +Shall find you at your distaff. So Lucretia<br /> +Was found by Tarquin. So, perchance, Lucretia<br /> +Waited for Tarquin. Who knows? I have heard<br /> +Strange things about men’s wives. And now, my +lord,<br /> +What news abroad? I heard to-day at Pisa<br /> +That certain of the English merchants there<br /> +Would sell their woollens at a lower rate<br /> +Than the just laws allow, and have entreated<br /> +The Signory to hear them.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is this well?<br /> +Should merchant be to merchant as a wolf?<br /> +And should the stranger living in our land<br /> +Seek by enforced privilege or craft<br /> +To rob us of our profits?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. What +should I do<br /> +With merchants or their profits? Shall I go<br /> +And wrangle with the Signory on your count?<br /> +And wear the gown in which you buy from fools,<br /> +Or sell to sillier bidders? Honest Simone,<br /> +Wool-selling or wool-gathering is for you.<br /> +My wits have other quarries.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Noble +Lord,<br /> +I pray you pardon my good husband here,<br /> +His soul stands ever in the market-place,<br /> +And his heart beats but at the price of wool.<br /> +Yet he is honest in his common way.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Simone</span>]</p> +<p class="poetry">And you, have you no shame? A gracious +Prince<br /> +Comes to our house, and you must weary him<br /> +With most misplaced assurance. Ask his pardon.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. I ask +it humbly. We will talk to-night<br /> +Of other things. I hear the Holy Father<br /> +Has sent a letter to the King of France<br /> +Bidding him cross that shield of snow, the Alps,<br /> +And make a peace in Italy, which will be<br /> +Worse than a war of brothers, and more bloody<br /> +Than civil rapine or intestine feuds.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Oh! we +are weary of that King of France,<br /> +Who never comes, but ever talks of coming.<br /> +What are these things to me? There are other things<br /> +Closer, and of more import, good Simone.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span> [<i>To +Simone</i>]. I think you tire our most gracious guest.<br +/> +What is the King of France to us? As much<br /> +As are your English merchants with their wool.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Is it +so then? Is all this mighty world<br /> +Narrowed into the confines of this room<br /> +With but three souls for poor inhabitants?<br /> +Ay! there are times when the great universe,<br /> +Like cloth in some unskilful dyer’s vat,<br /> +Shrivels into a handbreadth, and perchance<br /> +That time is now! Well! let that time be now.<br /> +Let this mean room be as that mighty stage<br /> +Whereon kings die, and our ignoble lives<br /> +Become the stakes God plays for.</p> +<p class="poetry">I do not know<br /> +Why I speak thus. My ride has wearied me.<br /> +And my horse stumbled thrice, which is an omen<br /> +That bodes not good to any.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas! my lord,<br /> +How poor a bargain is this life of man,<br /> +And in how mean a market are we sold!<br /> +When we are born our mothers weep, but when<br /> +We die there is none weeps for us. No, not one.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>Passes to back of +stage</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. How +like a common chapman does he speak!<br /> +I hate him, soul and body. Cowardice<br /> +Has set her pale seal on his brow. His hands<br /> +Whiter than poplar leaves in windy springs,<br /> +Shake with some palsy; and his stammering mouth<br /> +Blurts out a foolish froth of empty words<br /> +Like water from a conduit.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Sweet +Bianca,<br /> +He is not worthy of your thought or mine.<br /> +The man is but a very honest knave<br /> +Full of fine phrases for life’s merchandise,<br /> +Selling most dear what he must hold most cheap,<br /> +A windy brawler in a world of words.<br /> +I never met so eloquent a fool.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Oh, +would that Death might take him where he stands!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span> [<i>turning +round</i>]. Who spake of Death? Let no one speak of +Death.<br /> +What should Death do in such a merry house,<br /> +With but a wife, a husband, and a friend<br /> +To give it greeting? Let Death go to houses<br /> +Where there are vile, adulterous things, chaste wives<br /> +Who growing weary of their noble lords<br /> +Draw back the curtains of their marriage beds,<br /> +And in polluted and dishonoured sheets<br /> +Feed some unlawful lust. Ay! ’tis so<br /> +Strange, and yet so. <i>You</i> do not know the world.<br +/> +<i>You</i> are too single and too honourable.<br /> +I know it well. And would it were not so,<br /> +But wisdom comes with winters. My hair grows grey,<br /> +And youth has left my body. Enough of that.<br /> +To-night is ripe for pleasure, and indeed,<br /> +I would be merry as beseems a host<br /> +Who finds a gracious and unlooked-for guest<br /> +Waiting to greet him. [<i>Takes up a lute</i>.]<br /> +But what is this, my lord?<br /> +Why, you have brought a lute to play to us.<br /> +Oh! play, sweet Prince. And, if I am too bold,<br /> +Pardon, but play.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. I will +not play to-night.<br /> +Some other night, Simone.</p> +<p class="poetry">[<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Bianca</span>] You and I<br /> +Together, with no listeners but the stars,<br /> +Or the more jealous moon.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Nay, +but my lord!<br /> +Nay, but I do beseech you. For I have heard<br /> +That by the simple fingering of a string,<br /> +Or delicate breath breathed along hollowed reeds,<br /> +Or blown into cold mouths of cunning bronze,<br /> +Those who are curious in this art can draw<br /> +Poor souls from prison-houses. I have heard also<br /> +How such strange magic lurks within these shells<br /> +That at their bidding casements open wide<br /> +And Innocence puts vine-leaves in her hair,<br /> +And wantons like a mænad. Let that pass.<br /> +Your lute I know is chaste. And therefore play:<br /> +Ravish my ears with some sweet melody;<br /> +My soul is in a prison-house, and needs<br /> +Music to cure its madness. Good Bianca,<br /> +Entreat our guest to play.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Be not +afraid,<br /> +Our well-loved guest will choose his place and moment:<br /> +That moment is not now. You weary him<br /> +With your uncouth insistence.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Honest +Simone,<br /> +Some other night. To-night I am content<br /> +With the low music of Bianca’s voice,<br /> +Who, when she speaks, charms the too amorous air,<br /> +And makes the reeling earth stand still, or fix<br /> +His cycle round her beauty.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. You +flatter her.<br /> +She has her virtues as most women have,<br /> +But beauty in a gem she may not wear.<br /> +It is better so, perchance.</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, my dear lord,<br /> +If you will not draw melodies from your lute<br /> +To charm my moody and o’er-troubled soul<br /> +You’ll drink with me at least?</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Motioning</i> <span +class="smcap">Guido</span> <i>to his own place</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Your place is laid.<br /> +Fetch me a stool, Bianca. Close the shutters.<br /> +Set the great bar across. I would not have<br /> +The curious world with its small prying eyes<br /> +To peer upon our pleasure.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, my lord,<br /> +Give us a toast from a full brimming cup.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Starts back</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">What is this stain upon the cloth? It +looks<br /> +As purple as a wound upon Christ’s side.<br /> +Wine merely is it? I have heard it said<br /> +When wine is spilt blood is spilt also,<br /> +But that’s a foolish tale.</p> +<p class="poetry">My lord, I trust<br /> +My grape is to your liking? The wine of Naples<br /> +Is fiery like its mountains. Our Tuscan vineyards<br /> +Yield a more wholesome juice.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. I like +it well,<br /> +Honest Simone; and, with your good leave,<br /> +Will toast the fair Bianca when her lips<br /> +Have like red rose-leaves floated on this cup<br /> +And left its vintage sweeter. Taste, Bianca.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<span class="smcap">Bianca</span> +<i>drinks</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, all the honey of Hyblean bees,<br /> +Matched with this draught were bitter!<br /> +Good Simone,<br /> +You do not share the feast.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. It is +strange, my lord,<br /> +I cannot eat or drink with you, to-night.<br /> +Some humour, or some fever in my blood,<br /> +At other seasons temperate, or some thought<br /> +That like an adder creeps from point to point,<br /> +That like a madman crawls from cell to cell,<br /> +Poisons my palate and makes appetite<br /> +A loathing, not a longing.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Goes aside</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Sweet +Bianca,<br /> +This common chapman wearies me with words.<br /> +I must go hence. To-morrow I will come.<br /> +Tell me the hour.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Come +with the youngest dawn!<br /> +Until I see you all my life is vain.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Ah! +loose the falling midnight of your hair,<br /> +And in those stars, your eyes, let me behold<br /> +Mine image, as in mirrors. Dear Bianca,<br /> +Though it be but a shadow, keep me there,<br /> +Nor gaze at anything that does not show<br /> +Some symbol of my semblance. I am jealous<br /> +Of what your vision feasts on.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Oh! be +sure<br /> +Your image will be with me always. Dear<br /> +Love can translate the very meanest thing<br /> +Into a sign of sweet remembrances.<br /> +But come before the lark with its shrill song<br /> +Has waked a world of dreamers. I will stand<br /> +Upon the balcony.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. And by +a ladder<br /> +Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls<br /> +Will come to meet me. White foot after foot,<br /> +Like snow upon a rose-tree.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. As you +will.<br /> +You know that I am yours for love or Death.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Simone, +I must go to mine own house.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. So +soon? Why should you? The great Duomo’s bell<br +/> +Has not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen<br /> +Who with their hollow horns mock the pale moon,<br /> +Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile.<br /> +I fear we may not see you here again,<br /> +And that fear saddens my too simple heart.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Be not +afraid, Simone. I will stand<br /> +Most constant in my friendship, But to-night<br /> +I go to mine own home, and that at once.<br /> +To-morrow, sweet Bianca.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Well, +well, so be it.<br /> +I would have wished for fuller converse with you,<br /> +My new friend, my honourable guest,<br /> +But that it seems may not be.</p> +<p class="poetry">And besides<br /> +I do not doubt your father waits for you,<br /> +Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think,<br /> +Are his one child? He has no other child.<br /> +You are the gracious pillar of his house,<br /> +The flower of a garden full of weeds.<br /> +Your father’s nephews do not love him well<br /> +So run folks’ tongues in Florence. I meant but +that.<br /> +Men say they envy your inheritance<br /> +And look upon your vineyards with fierce eyes<br /> +As Ahab looked on Naboth’s goodly field.<br /> +But that is but the chatter of a town<br /> +Where women talk too much.</p> +<p class="poetry">Good-night, my lord.<br /> +Fetch a pine torch, Bianca. The old staircase<br /> +Is full of pitfalls, and the churlish moon<br /> +Grows, like a miser, niggard of her beams,<br /> +And hides her face behind a muslin mask<br /> +As harlots do when they go forth to snare<br /> +Some wretched soul in sin. Now, I will get<br /> +Your cloak and sword. Nay, pardon, my good Lord,<br /> +It is but meet that I should wait on you<br /> +Who have so honoured my poor burgher’s house,<br /> +Drunk of my wine, and broken bread, and made<br /> +Yourself a sweet familiar. Oftentimes<br /> +My wife and I will talk of this fair night<br /> +And its great issues.</p> +<p class="poetry">Why, what a sword is this.<br /> +Ferrara’s temper, pliant as a snake,<br /> +And deadlier, I doubt not. With such steel,<br /> +One need fear nothing in the moil of life.<br /> +I never touched so delicate a blade.<br /> +I have a sword too, somewhat rusted now.<br /> +We men of peace are taught humility,<br /> +And to bear many burdens on our backs,<br /> +And not to murmur at an unjust world,<br /> +And to endure unjust indignities.<br /> +We are taught that, and like the patient Jew<br /> +Find profit in our pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet I remember<br /> +How once upon the road to Padua<br /> +A robber sought to take my pack-horse from me,<br /> +I slit his throat and left him. I can bear<br /> +Dishonour, public insult, many shames,<br /> +Shrill scorn, and open contumely, but he<br /> +Who filches from me something that is mine,<br /> +Ay! though it be the meanest trencher-plate<br /> +From which I feed mine appetite—oh! he<br /> +Perils his soul and body in the theft<br /> +And dies for his small sin. From what strange clay<br /> +We men are moulded!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Why do +you speak like this?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. I +wonder, my Lord Guido, if my sword<br /> +Is better tempered than this steel of yours?<br /> +Shall we make trial? Or is my state too low<br /> +For you to cross your rapier against mine,<br /> +In jest, or earnest?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Naught +would please me better<br /> +Than to stand fronting you with naked blade<br /> +In jest, or earnest. Give me mine own sword.<br /> +Fetch yours. To-night will settle the great issue<br /> +Whether the Prince’s or the merchant’s steel<br /> +Is better tempered. Was not that your word?<br /> +Fetch your own sword. Why do you tarry, sir?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. My +lord, of all the gracious courtesies<br /> +That you have showered on my barren house<br /> +This is the highest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bianca, fetch my sword.<br /> +Thrust back that stool and table. We must have<br /> +An open circle for our match at arms,<br /> +And good Bianca here shall hold the torch<br /> +Lest what is but a jest grow serious.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span> [<i>To +Guido</i>]. Oh! kill him, kill him!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Hold +the torch, Bianca.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>They begin to fight</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Have +at you! Ah! Ha! would you?</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>He is wounded by</i> <span +class="smcap">Guido</span>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">A scratch, no more. The torch was in mine +eyes.<br /> +Do not look sad, Bianca. It is nothing.<br /> +Your husband bleeds, ’tis nothing. Take a cloth,<br +/> +Bind it about mine arm. Nay, not so tight.<br /> +More softly, my good wife. And be not sad,<br /> +I pray you be not sad. No; take it off.<br /> +What matter if I bleed?</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Tears bandage off</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Again! again!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<span class="smcap">Simone</span> +<i>disarms</i> <span class="smcap">Guido</span>]</p> +<p class="poetry">My gentle Lord, you see that I was right<br /> +My sword is better tempered, finer steel,<br /> +But let us match our daggers.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span> [<i>to</i> +<span class="smcap">Guido</span>]<br /> +Kill him! kill him!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Put +out the torch, Bianca.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<span class="smcap">Bianca</span> +<i>puts out torch</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, my good Lord,<br /> +Now to the death of one, or both of us,<br /> +Or all three it may be. [<i>They fight</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">There and there.<br /> +Ah, devil! do I hold thee in my grip?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<span class="smcap">Simone</span> +<i>overpowers Guido and throws him down over table</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Fool! +take your strangling fingers from my throat.<br /> +I am my father’s only son; the State<br /> +Has but one heir, and that false enemy France<br /> +Waits for the ending of my father’s line<br /> +To fall upon our city.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Hush! +your father<br /> +When he is childless will be happier.<br /> +As for the State, I think our state of Florence<br /> +Needs no adulterous pilot at its helm.<br /> +Your life would soil its lilies.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Take +off your hands<br /> +Take off your damned hands. Loose me, I say!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Nay, +you are caught in such a cunning vice<br /> +That nothing will avail you, and your life<br /> +Narrowed into a single point of shame<br /> +Ends with that shame and ends most shamefully.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Oh! let +me have a priest before I die!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. What +wouldst thou have a priest for? Tell thy sins<br /> +To God, whom thou shalt see this very night<br /> +And then no more for ever. Tell thy sins<br /> +To Him who is most just, being pitiless,<br /> +Most pitiful being just. As for myself. . .</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Oh! +help me, sweet Bianca! help me, Bianca,<br /> +Thou knowest I am innocent of harm.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. What, +is there life yet in those lying lips?<br /> +Die like a dog with lolling tongue! Die! Die!<br /> +And the dumb river shall receive your corse<br /> +And wash it all unheeded to the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Guido</span>. Lord +Christ receive my wretched soul to-night!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Amen +to that. Now for the other.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>He dies</i>. <span +class="smcap">Simone</span> <i>rises and looks at</i> <span +class="smcap">Bianca</span>. <i>She comes towards him as +one dazed with wonder and with outstretched arms</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bianca</span>. Why<br +/> +Did you not tell me you were so strong?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Simone</span>. Why<br +/> +Did you not tell me you were beautiful?</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>He kisses her on the +mouth</i>.]</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Curtain</span></p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OSCAR WILDE MISCELLANEOUS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1308-h.htm or 1308-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/3/0/1308 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + +Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous + + + + +Contents: + +Preface by Robert Ross +A Florentine Tragedy--A Fragment +La Sainte Courtisane--A Fragment + + + + +PREFACE BY ROBERT ROSS + + + + +'As to my personal attitude towards criticism, I confess in brief +the following:- "If my works are good and of any importance whatever +for the further development of art, they will maintain their place +in spite of all adverse criticism and in spite of all hateful +suspicions attached to my artistic intentions. If my works are of +no account, the most gratifying success of the moment and the most +enthusiastic approval of as augurs cannot make them endure. The +waste-paper press can devour them as it has devoured many others, +and I will not shed a tear . . . and the world will move on just the +same."'--RICHARD STRAUSS. + +The contents of this volume require some explanation of an +historical nature. It is scarcely realised by the present +generation that Wilde's works on their first appearance, with the +exception of De Profundis, were met with almost general condemnation +and ridicule. The plays on their first production were grudgingly +praised because their obvious success could not be ignored; but on +their subsequent publication in book form they were violently +assailed. That nearly all of them have held the stage is still a +source of irritation among certain journalists. Salome however +enjoys a singular career. As every one knows, it was prohibited by +the Censor when in rehearsal by Madame Bernhardt at the Palace +Theatre in 1892. On its publication in 1893 it was greeted with +greater abuse than any other of Wilde's works, and was consigned to +the usual irrevocable oblivion. The accuracy of the French was +freely canvassed, and of course it is obvious that the French is not +that of a Frenchman. The play was passed for press, however, by no +less a writer than Marcel Schwob whose letter to the Paris +publisher, returning the proofs and mentioning two or three slight +alterations, is still in my possession. Marcel Schwob told me some +years afterwards that he thought it would have spoiled the +spontaneity and character of Wilde's style if he had tried to +harmonise it with the diction demanded by the French Academy. It +was never composed with any idea of presentation. Madame Bernhardt +happened to say she wished Wilde would write a play for her; he +replied in jest that he had done so. She insisted on seeing the +manuscript, and decided on its immediate production, ignorant or +forgetful of the English law which prohibits the introduction of +Scriptural characters on the stage. With his keen sense of the +theatre Wilde would never have contrived the long speech of Salome +at the end in a drama intended for the stage, even in the days of +long speeches. His threat to change his nationality shortly after +the Censor's interference called forth a most delightful and good- +natured caricature of him by Mr. Bernard Partridge in Punch. + +Wilde was still in prison in 1896 when Salome was produced by Lugne +Poe at the Theatre de L'OEuvre in Paris, but except for an account +in the Daily Telegraph the incident was hardly mentioned in England. +I gather that the performance was only a qualified success, though +Lugne Poe's triumph as Herod was generally acknowledged. In 1901, +within a year of the author's death, it was produced in Berlin; from +that moment it has held the European stage. It has run for a longer +consecutive period in Germany than any play by any Englishman, not +excepting Shakespeare. Its popularity has extended to all countries +where it is not prohibited. It is performed throughout Europe, Asia +and America. It is played even in Yiddish. This is remarkable in +view of the many dramas by French and German writers who treat of +the same theme. To none of them, however, is Wilde indebted. +Flaubert, Maeterlinck (some would add Ollendorff) and Scripture, are +the obvious sources on which he has freely drawn for what I do not +hesitate to call the most powerful and perfect of all his dramas. +But on such a point a trustee and executor may be prejudiced because +it is the most valuable asset in Wilde's literary estate. Aubrey +Beardsley's illustrations are too well known to need more than a +passing reference. In the world of art criticism they excited +almost as much attention as Wilde's drama has excited in the world +of intellect. + +During May 1905 the play was produced in England for the first time +at a private performance by the New Stage Club. No one present will +have forgotten the extraordinary tension of the audience on that +occasion, those who disliked the play and its author being +hypnotised by the extraordinary power of Mr. Robert Farquharson's +Herod, one of the finest pieces of acting ever seen in this country. +My friends the dramatic critics (and many of them are personal +friends) fell on Salome with all the vigour of their predecessors +twelve years before. Unaware of what was taking place in Germany, +they spoke of the play as having been 'dragged from obscurity.' The +Official Receiver in Bankruptcy and myself were, however, better +informed. And much pleasure has been derived from reading those +criticisms, all carefully preserved along with the list of receipts +which were simultaneously pouring in from the German performances. +To do the critics justice they never withdrew any of their printed +opinions, which were all trotted out again when the play was +produced privately for the second time in England by the Literary +Theatre Society in 1906. In the Speaker of July 14th, 1906, +however, some of the iterated misrepresentations of fact were +corrected. No attempt was made to controvert the opinion of an +ignorant critic: his veracity only was impugned. The powers of +vaticination possessed by such judges of drama can be fairly tested +in the career of Salome on the European stage, apart from the opera. +In an introduction to the English translation published by Mr. John +Lane it is pointed out that Wilde's confusion of Herod Antipas +(Matt. xiv. 1) with Herod the Great (Matt. ii. 1) and Herod Agrippa +I. (Acts xii. 23) is intentional, and follows a mediaeval +convention. There is no attempt at historical accuracy or +archaeological exactness. Those who saw the marvellous decor of Mr. +Charles Ricketts at the second English production can form a +complete idea of what Wilde intended in that respect; although the +stage management was clumsy and amateurish. The great opera of +Richard Strauss does not fall within my province; but the fag ends +of its popularity on the Continent have been imported here oddly +enough through the agency of the Palace Theatre, where Salome was +originally to have been performed. Of a young lady's dancing, or of +that of her rivals, I am not qualified to speak. I note merely that +the critics who objected to the horror of one incident in the drama +lost all self-control on seeing that incident repeated in dumb show +and accompanied by fescennine corybantics. Except in 'name and +borrowed notoriety' the music-hall sensation has no relation +whatever to the drama which so profoundly moved the whole of Europe +and the greatest living musician. The adjectives of contumely are +easily transmuted into epithets of adulation, when a prominent +ecclesiastic succumbs, like King Herod, to the fascination of a +dancer. + +It is not usually known in England that a young French naval +officer, unaware that Dr. Strauss was composing an opera on the +theme of Salome, wrote another music drama to accompany Wilde's +text. The exclusive musical rights having been already secured by +Dr. Strauss, Lieutenant Marriotte's work cannot be performed +regularly. One presentation, however, was permitted at Lyons, the +composer's native town, where I am told it made an extraordinary +impression. In order to give English readers some faint idea of the +world-wide effect of Wilde's drama, my friend Mr. Walter Ledger has +prepared a short bibliography of certain English and Continental +translations. + + +At the time of Wilde's trial the nearly completed MS. of La Sainte +Courtisane was entrusted to Mrs. Leverson, the well-known novelist, +who in 1897 went to Paris on purpose to restore it to the author. +Wilde immediately left the only copy in a cab. A few days later he +laughingly informed me of the loss, and added that a cab was a very +proper place for it. I have explained elsewhere that he looked on +his works with disdain in his last years, though he was always full +of schemes for writing others. All my attempts to recover the lost +work failed. The passages here reprinted are from some odd leaves +of a first draft. The play is, of course, not unlike Salome, though +it was written in English. It expanded Wilde's favourite theory +that when you convert some one to an idea, you lose your faith in +it; the same motive runs through Mr. W. H. Honorius the hermit, so +far as I recollect the story, falls in love with the courtesan who +has come to tempt him, and he reveals to her the secret of the love +of God. She immediately becomes a Christian, and is murdered by +robbers. Honorius the hermit goes back to Alexandria to pursue a +life of pleasure. Two other similar plays Wilde invented in prison, +AHAB AND ISABEL and PHARAOH; he would never write them down, though +often importuned to do so. Pharaoh was intensely dramatic and +perhaps more original than any of the group. None of these works +must be confused with the manuscripts stolen from 16 Tite Street in +1895--namely, the enlarged version of Mr. W. H., the second draft of +A Florentine Tragedy, and The Duchess of Padua (which, existing in a +prompt copy, was of less importance than the others); nor with The +Cardinal of Arragon, the manuscript of which I never saw. I +scarcely think it ever existed, though Wilde used to recite proposed +passages for it. + + +Some years after Wilde's death I was looking over the papers and +letters rescued from Tite Street when I came across loose sheets of +manuscript and typewriting, which I imagined were fragments of The +Duchess of Padua; on putting them together in a coherent form I +recognised that they belonged to the lost Florentine Tragedy. I +assumed that the opening scene, though once extant, had disappeared. +One day, however, Mr. Willard wrote that he possessed a typewritten +fragment of a play which Wilde had submitted to him, and this he +kindly forwarded for my inspection. It agreed in nearly every +particular with what I had taken so much trouble to put together. +This suggests that the opening scene had never been written, as Mr. +Willard's version began where mine did. It was characteristic of +the author to finish what he never began. + +When the Literary Theatre Society produced Salome in 1906 they asked +me for some other short drama by Wilde to present at the same time, +as Salome does not take very long to play. I offered them the +fragment of A Florentine Tragedy. By a fortunate coincidence the +poet and dramatist, Mr. Thomas Sturge Moore, happened to be on the +committee of this Society, and to him was entrusted the task of +writing an opening scene to make the play complete. {1} It is not +for me to criticise his work, but there is justification for saying +that Wilde himself would have envied, with an artist's envy, such +lines as - + + +We will sup with the moon, +Like Persian princes that in Babylon +Sup in the hanging gardens of the King. + + +In a stylistic sense Mr. Sturge Moore has accomplished a feat in +reconstruction, whatever opinions may be held of A Florentine +Tragedy by Wilde's admirers or detractors. The achievement is +particularly remarkable because Mr. Sturge Moore has nothing in +common with Wilde other than what is shared by all real poets and +dramatists: He is a landed proprietor on Parnassus, not a +trespasser. In England we are more familiar with the poachers. +Time and Death are of course necessary before there can come any +adequate recognition of one of our most original and gifted singers. +Among his works are The Vinedresser and other Poems (1899), Absalom, +A Chronicle Play (1903), and The Centaur's Booty (1903). Mr. Sturge +Moore is also an art critic of distinction, and his learned works on +Durer (1905) and Correggio (1906) are more widely known (I am sorry +to say) than his powerful and enthralling poems. + +Once again I must express my obligations to Mr. Stuart Mason for +revising and correcting the proofs of this new edition. + +ROBERT ROSS + + + + +A FLORENTINE TRAGEDY--A FRAGMENT + + + + +CHARACTERS: + +GUIDO BARDI, A Florentine prince +SIMONE, a merchant +BIANNA, his wife + +The action takes place at Florence in the early sixteenth century. + +[The door opens, they separate guiltily, and the husband enters.] + +SIMONE. My good wife, you come slowly; were it not better +To run to meet your lord? Here, take my cloak. +Take this pack first. 'Tis heavy. I have sold nothing: +Save a furred robe unto the Cardinal's son, +Who hopes to wear it when his father dies, +And hopes that will be soon. + +But who is this? +Why you have here some friend. Some kinsman doubtless, +Newly returned from foreign lands and fallen +Upon a house without a host to greet him? +I crave your pardon, kinsman. For a house +Lacking a host is but an empty thing +And void of honour; a cup without its wine, +A scabbard without steel to keep it straight, +A flowerless garden widowed of the sun. +Again I crave your pardon, my sweet cousin. + +BIANCA. This is no kinsman and no cousin neither. + +SIMONE. No kinsman, and no cousin! You amaze me. +Who is it then who with such courtly grace +Deigns to accept our hospitalities? + +GUIDO. My name is Guido Bardi. + +SIMONE. What! The son +Of that great Lord of Florence whose dim towers +Like shadows silvered by the wandering moon +I see from out my casement every night! +Sir Guido Bardi, you are welcome here, +Twice welcome. For I trust my honest wife, +Most honest if uncomely to the eye, +Hath not with foolish chatterings wearied you, +As is the wont of women. + +GUIDO. Your gracious lady, +Whose beauty is a lamp that pales the stars +And robs Diana's quiver of her beams +Has welcomed me with such sweet courtesies +That if it be her pleasure, and your own, +I will come often to your simple house. +And when your business bids you walk abroad +I will sit here and charm her loneliness +Lest she might sorrow for you overmuch. +What say you, good Simone? + +SIMONE. My noble Lord, +You bring me such high honour that my tongue +Like a slave's tongue is tied, and cannot say +The word it would. Yet not to give you thanks +Were to be too unmannerly. So, I thank you, +From my heart's core. + +It is such things as these +That knit a state together, when a Prince +So nobly born and of such fair address, +Forgetting unjust Fortune's differences, +Comes to an honest burgher's honest home +As a most honest friend. + +And yet, my Lord, +I fear I am too bold. Some other night +We trust that you will come here as a friend; +To-night you come to buy my merchandise. +Is it not so? Silks, velvets, what you will, +I doubt not but I have some dainty wares +Will woo your fancy. True, the hour is late, +But we poor merchants toil both night and day +To make our scanty gains. The tolls are high, +And every city levies its own toll, +And prentices are unskilful, and wives even +Lack sense and cunning, though Bianca here +Has brought me a rich customer to-night. +Is it not so, Bianca? But I waste time. +Where is my pack? Where is my pack, I say? +Open it, my good wife. Unloose the cords. +Kneel down upon the floor. You are better so. +Nay not that one, the other. Despatch, despatch! +Buyers will grow impatient oftentimes. +We dare not keep them waiting. Ay! 'tis that, +Give it to me; with care. It is most costly. +Touch it with care. And now, my noble Lord - +Nay, pardon, I have here a Lucca damask, +The very web of silver and the roses +So cunningly wrought that they lack perfume merely +To cheat the wanton sense. Touch it, my Lord. +Is it not soft as water, strong as steel? +And then the roses! Are they not finely woven? +I think the hillsides that best love the rose, +At Bellosguardo or at Fiesole, +Throw no such blossoms on the lap of spring, +Or if they do their blossoms droop and die. +Such is the fate of all the dainty things +That dance in wind and water. Nature herself +Makes war on her own loveliness and slays +Her children like Medea. Nay but, my Lord, +Look closer still. Why in this damask here +It is summer always, and no winter's tooth +Will ever blight these blossoms. For every ell +I paid a piece of gold. Red gold, and good, +The fruit of careful thrift. + +GUIDO. Honest Simone, +Enough, I pray you. I am well content; +To-morrow I will send my servant to you, +Who will pay twice your price. + +SIMONE. My generous Prince! +I kiss your hands. And now I do remember +Another treasure hidden in my house +Which you must see. It is a robe of state: +Woven by a Venetian: the stuff, cut-velvet: +The pattern, pomegranates: each separate seed +Wrought of a pearl: the collar all of pearls, +As thick as moths in summer streets at night, +And whiter than the moons that madmen see +Through prison bars at morning. A male ruby +Burns like a lighted coal within the clasp +The Holy Father has not such a stone, +Nor could the Indies show a brother to it. +The brooch itself is of most curious art, +Cellini never made a fairer thing +To please the great Lorenzo. You must wear it. +There is none worthier in our city here, +And it will suit you well. Upon one side +A slim and horned satyr leaps in gold +To catch some nymph of silver. Upon the other +Stands Silence with a crystal in her hand, +No bigger than the smallest ear of corn, +That wavers at the passing of a bird, +And yet so cunningly wrought that one would say, +It breathed, or held its breath. + +Worthy Bianca, +Would not this noble and most costly robe +Suit young Lord Guido well? + +Nay, but entreat him; +He will refuse you nothing, though the price +Be as a prince's ransom. And your profit +Shall not be less than mine. + +BIANCA. Am I your prentice? +Why should I chaffer for your velvet robe? + +GUIDO. Nay, fair Bianca, I will buy the robe, +And all things that the honest merchant has +I will buy also. Princes must be ransomed, +And fortunate are all high lords who fall +Into the white hands of so fair a foe. + +SIMONE. I stand rebuked. But you will buy my wares? +Will you not buy them? Fifty thousand crowns +Would scarce repay me. But you, my Lord, shall have them +For forty thousand. Is that price too high? +Name your own price. I have a curious fancy +To see you in this wonder of the loom +Amidst the noble ladies of the court, +A flower among flowers. + +They say, my lord, +These highborn dames do so affect your Grace +That where you go they throng like flies around you, +Each seeking for your favour. + +I have heard also +Of husbands that wear horns, and wear them bravely, +A fashion most fantastical. + +GUIDO. Simone, +Your reckless tongue needs curbing; and besides, +You do forget this gracious lady here +Whose delicate ears are surely not attuned +To such coarse music. + +SIMONE. True: I had forgotten, +Nor will offend again. Yet, my sweet Lord, +You'll buy the robe of state. Will you not buy it? +But forty thousand crowns--'tis but a trifle, +To one who is Giovanni Bardi's heir. + +GUIDO. Settle this thing to-morrow with my steward, +Antonio Costa. He will come to you. +And you shall have a hundred thousand crowns +If that will serve your purpose. + +SIMONE. A hundred thousand! +Said you a hundred thousand? Oh! be sure +That will for all time and in everything +Make me your debtor. Ay! from this time forth +My house, with everything my house contains +Is yours, and only yours. + +A hundred thousand! +My brain is dazed. I shall be richer far +Than all the other merchants. I will buy +Vineyards and lands and gardens. Every loom +From Milan down to Sicily shall be mine, +And mine the pearls that the Arabian seas +Store in their silent caverns. + +Generous Prince, +This night shall prove the herald of my love, +Which is so great that whatsoe'er you ask +It will not be denied you. + +GUIDO. What if I asked +For white Bianca here? + +SIMONE. You jest, my Lord; +She is not worthy of so great a Prince. +She is but made to keep the house and spin. +Is it not so, good wife? It is so. Look! +Your distaff waits for you. Sit down and spin. +Women should not be idle in their homes, +For idle fingers make a thoughtless heart. +Sit down, I say. + +BIANCA. What shall I spin? + +SIMONE. Oh! spin +Some robe which, dyed in purple, sorrow might wear +For her own comforting: or some long-fringed cloth +In which a new-born and unwelcome babe +Might wail unheeded; or a dainty sheet +Which, delicately perfumed with sweet herbs, +Might serve to wrap a dead man. Spin what you will; +I care not, I. + +BIANCA. The brittle thread is broken, +The dull wheel wearies of its ceaseless round, +The duller distaff sickens of its load; +I will not spin to-night. + +SIMONE. It matters not. +To-morrow you shall spin, and every day +Shall find you at your distaff. So Lucretia +Was found by Tarquin. So, perchance, Lucretia +Waited for Tarquin. Who knows? I have heard +Strange things about men's wives. And now, my lord, +What news abroad? I heard to-day at Pisa +That certain of the English merchants there +Would sell their woollens at a lower rate +Than the just laws allow, and have entreated +The Signory to hear them. + +Is this well? +Should merchant be to merchant as a wolf? +And should the stranger living in our land +Seek by enforced privilege or craft +To rob us of our profits? + +GUIDO. What should I do +With merchants or their profits? Shall I go +And wrangle with the Signory on your count? +And wear the gown in which you buy from fools, +Or sell to sillier bidders? Honest Simone, +Wool-selling or wool-gathering is for you. +My wits have other quarries. + +BIANCA. Noble Lord, +I pray you pardon my good husband here, +His soul stands ever in the market-place, +And his heart beats but at the price of wool. +Yet he is honest in his common way. +[To Simone] +And you, have you no shame? A gracious Prince +Comes to our house, and you must weary him +With most misplaced assurance. Ask his pardon. + +SIMONE. I ask it humbly. We will talk to-night +Of other things. I hear the Holy Father +Has sent a letter to the King of France +Bidding him cross that shield of snow, the Alps, +And make a peace in Italy, which will be +Worse than a war of brothers, and more bloody +Than civil rapine or intestine feuds. + +GUIDO. Oh! we are weary of that King of France, +Who never comes, but ever talks of coming. +What are these things to me? There are other things +Closer, and of more import, good Simone. + +BIANCA [To Simone]. I think you tire our most gracious guest. +What is the King of France to us? As much +As are your English merchants with their wool. + +* * * * * + +SIMONE. Is it so then? Is all this mighty world +Narrowed into the confines of this room +With but three souls for poor inhabitants? +Ay! there are times when the great universe, +Like cloth in some unskilful dyer's vat, +Shrivels into a handbreadth, and perchance +That time is now! Well! let that time be now. +Let this mean room be as that mighty stage +Whereon kings die, and our ignoble lives +Become the stakes God plays for. + +I do not know +Why I speak thus. My ride has wearied me. +And my horse stumbled thrice, which is an omen +That bodes not good to any. + +Alas! my lord, +How poor a bargain is this life of man, +And in how mean a market are we sold! +When we are born our mothers weep, but when +We die there is none weeps for us. No, not one. +[Passes to back of stage.] + +BIANCA. How like a common chapman does he speak! +I hate him, soul and body. Cowardice +Has set her pale seal on his brow. His hands +Whiter than poplar leaves in windy springs, +Shake with some palsy; and his stammering mouth +Blurts out a foolish froth of empty words +Like water from a conduit. + +GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, +He is not worthy of your thought or mine. +The man is but a very honest knave +Full of fine phrases for life's merchandise, +Selling most dear what he must hold most cheap, +A windy brawler in a world of words. +I never met so eloquent a fool. + +BIANCA. Oh, would that Death might take him where he stands! + +SIMONE [turning round]. Who spake of Death? Let no one speak of +Death. +What should Death do in such a merry house, +With but a wife, a husband, and a friend +To give it greeting? Let Death go to houses +Where there are vile, adulterous things, chaste wives +Who growing weary of their noble lords +Draw back the curtains of their marriage beds, +And in polluted and dishonoured sheets +Feed some unlawful lust. Ay! 'tis so +Strange, and yet so. YOU do not know the world. +YOU are too single and too honourable. +I know it well. And would it were not so, +But wisdom comes with winters. My hair grows grey, +And youth has left my body. Enough of that. +To-night is ripe for pleasure, and indeed, +I would be merry as beseems a host +Who finds a gracious and unlooked-for guest +Waiting to greet him. [Takes up a lute.] +But what is this, my lord? +Why, you have brought a lute to play to us. +Oh! play, sweet Prince. And, if I am too bold, +Pardon, but play. + +GUIDO. I will not play to-night. +Some other night, Simone. + +[To Bianca] You and I +Together, with no listeners but the stars, +Or the more jealous moon. + +SIMONE. Nay, but my lord! +Nay, but I do beseech you. For I have heard +That by the simple fingering of a string, +Or delicate breath breathed along hollowed reeds, +Or blown into cold mouths of cunning bronze, +Those who are curious in this art can draw +Poor souls from prison-houses. I have heard also +How such strange magic lurks within these shells +That at their bidding casements open wide +And Innocence puts vine-leaves in her hair, +And wantons like a maenad. Let that pass. +Your lute I know is chaste. And therefore play: +Ravish my ears with some sweet melody; +My soul is in a prison-house, and needs +Music to cure its madness. Good Bianca, +Entreat our guest to play. + +BIANCA. Be not afraid, +Our well-loved guest will choose his place and moment: +That moment is not now. You weary him +With your uncouth insistence. + +GUIDO. Honest Simone, +Some other night. To-night I am content +With the low music of Bianca's voice, +Who, when she speaks, charms the too amorous air, +And makes the reeling earth stand still, or fix +His cycle round her beauty. + +SIMONE. You flatter her. +She has her virtues as most women have, +But beauty in a gem she may not wear. +It is better so, perchance. + +Well, my dear lord, +If you will not draw melodies from your lute +To charm my moody and o'er-troubled soul +You'll drink with me at least? + +[Motioning Guido to his own place.] + +Your place is laid. +Fetch me a stool, Bianca. Close the shutters. +Set the great bar across. I would not have +The curious world with its small prying eyes +To peer upon our pleasure. + +Now, my lord, +Give us a toast from a full brimming cup. +[Starts back.] +What is this stain upon the cloth? It looks +As purple as a wound upon Christ's side. +Wine merely is it? I have heard it said +When wine is spilt blood is spilt also, +But that's a foolish tale. + +My lord, I trust +My grape is to your liking? The wine of Naples +Is fiery like its mountains. Our Tuscan vineyards +Yield a more wholesome juice. + +GUIDO. I like it well, +Honest Simone; and, with your good leave, +Will toast the fair Bianca when her lips +Have like red rose-leaves floated on this cup +And left its vintage sweeter. Taste, Bianca. + +[BIANCA drinks.] + +Oh, all the honey of Hyblean bees, +Matched with this draught were bitter! +Good Simone, +You do not share the feast. + +SIMONE. It is strange, my lord, +I cannot eat or drink with you, to-night. +Some humour, or some fever in my blood, +At other seasons temperate, or some thought +That like an adder creeps from point to point, +That like a madman crawls from cell to cell, +Poisons my palate and makes appetite +A loathing, not a longing. +[Goes aside.] + +GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, +This common chapman wearies me with words. +I must go hence. To-morrow I will come. +Tell me the hour. + +BIANCA. Come with the youngest dawn! +Until I see you all my life is vain. + +GUIDO. Ah! loose the falling midnight of your hair, +And in those stars, your eyes, let me behold +Mine image, as in mirrors. Dear Bianca, +Though it be but a shadow, keep me there, +Nor gaze at anything that does not show +Some symbol of my semblance. I am jealous +Of what your vision feasts on. + +BIANCA. Oh! be sure +Your image will be with me always. Dear +Love can translate the very meanest thing +Into a sign of sweet remembrances. +But come before the lark with its shrill song +Has waked a world of dreamers. I will stand +Upon the balcony. + +GUIDO. And by a ladder +Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls +Will come to meet me. White foot after foot, +Like snow upon a rose-tree. + +BIANCA. As you will. +You know that I am yours for love or Death. + +GUIDO. Simone, I must go to mine own house. + +SIMONE. So soon? Why should you? The great Duomo's bell +Has not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen +Who with their hollow horns mock the pale moon, +Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile. +I fear we may not see you here again, +And that fear saddens my too simple heart. + +GUIDO. Be not afraid, Simone. I will stand +Most constant in my friendship, But to-night +I go to mine own home, and that at once. +To-morrow, sweet Bianca. + +SIMONE. Well, well, so be it. +I would have wished for fuller converse with you, +My new friend, my honourable guest, +But that it seems may not be. + +And besides +I do not doubt your father waits for you, +Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think, +Are his one child? He has no other child. +You are the gracious pillar of his house, +The flower of a garden full of weeds. +Your father's nephews do not love him well +So run folks' tongues in Florence. I meant but that. +Men say they envy your inheritance +And look upon your vineyards with fierce eyes +As Ahab looked on Naboth's goodly field. +But that is but the chatter of a town +Where women talk too much. + +Good-night, my lord. +Fetch a pine torch, Bianca. The old staircase +Is full of pitfalls, and the churlish moon +Grows, like a miser, niggard of her beams, +And hides her face behind a muslin mask +As harlots do when they go forth to snare +Some wretched soul in sin. Now, I will get +Your cloak and sword. Nay, pardon, my good Lord, +It is but meet that I should wait on you +Who have so honoured my poor burgher's house, +Drunk of my wine, and broken bread, and made +Yourself a sweet familiar. Oftentimes +My wife and I will talk of this fair night +And its great issues. + +Why, what a sword is this. +Ferrara's temper, pliant as a snake, +And deadlier, I doubt not. With such steel, +One need fear nothing in the moil of life. +I never touched so delicate a blade. +I have a sword too, somewhat rusted now. +We men of peace are taught humility, +And to bear many burdens on our backs, +And not to murmur at an unjust world, +And to endure unjust indignities. +We are taught that, and like the patient Jew +Find profit in our pain. + +Yet I remember +How once upon the road to Padua +A robber sought to take my pack-horse from me, +I slit his throat and left him. I can bear +Dishonour, public insult, many shames, +Shrill scorn, and open contumely, but he +Who filches from me something that is mine, +Ay! though it be the meanest trencher-plate +From which I feed mine appetite--oh! he +Perils his soul and body in the theft +And dies for his small sin. From what strange clay +We men are moulded! + +GUIDO. Why do you speak like this? + +SIMONE. I wonder, my Lord Guido, if my sword +Is better tempered than this steel of yours? +Shall we make trial? Or is my state too low +For you to cross your rapier against mine, +In jest, or earnest? + +GUIDO. Naught would please me better +Than to stand fronting you with naked blade +In jest, or earnest. Give me mine own sword. +Fetch yours. To-night will settle the great issue +Whether the Prince's or the merchant's steel +Is better tempered. Was not that your word? +Fetch your own sword. Why do you tarry, sir? + +SIMONE. My lord, of all the gracious courtesies +That you have showered on my barren house +This is the highest. + +Bianca, fetch my sword. +Thrust back that stool and table. We must have +An open circle for our match at arms, +And good Bianca here shall hold the torch +Lest what is but a jest grow serious. + +BIANCA [To Guido]. Oh! kill him, kill him! + +SIMONE. Hold the torch, Bianca. +[They begin to fight.] + +SIMONE. Have at you! Ah! Ha! would you? + +[He is wounded by GUIDO.] + +A scratch, no more. The torch was in mine eyes. +Do not look sad, Bianca. It is nothing. +Your husband bleeds, 'tis nothing. Take a cloth, +Bind it about mine arm. Nay, not so tight. +More softly, my good wife. And be not sad, +I pray you be not sad. No; take it off. +What matter if I bleed? [Tears bandage off.] + +Again! again! +[Simone disarms Guido] +My gentle Lord, you see that I was right +My sword is better tempered, finer steel, +But let us match our daggers. + +BIANCA [to Guido] +Kill him! kill him! + +SIMONE. Put out the torch, Bianca. + +[Bianca puts out torch.] + +Now, my good Lord, +Now to the death of one, or both of us, +Or all three it may be. [They fight.] + +There and there. +Ah, devil! do I hold thee in my grip? +[Simone overpowers Guido and throws him down over table.] + +GUIDO. Fool! take your strangling fingers from my throat. +I am my father's only son; the State +Has but one heir, and that false enemy France +Waits for the ending of my father's line +To fall upon our city. + +SIMONE. Hush! your father +When he is childless will be happier. +As for the State, I think our state of Florence +Needs no adulterous pilot at its helm. +Your life would soil its lilies. + +GUIDO. Take off your hands +Take off your damned hands. Loose me, I say! + +SIMONE. Nay, you are caught in such a cunning vice +That nothing will avail you, and your life +Narrowed into a single point of shame +Ends with that shame and ends most shamefully. + +GUIDO. Oh! let me have a priest before I die! + +SIMONE. What wouldst thou have a priest for? Tell thy sins +To God, whom thou shalt see this very night +And then no more for ever. Tell thy sins +To Him who is most just, being pitiless, +Most pitiful being just. As for myself. . . + +GUIDO. Oh! help me, sweet Bianca! help me, Bianca, +Thou knowest I am innocent of harm. + +SIMONE. What, is there life yet in those lying lips? +Die like a dog with lolling tongue! Die! Die! +And the dumb river shall receive your corse +And wash it all unheeded to the sea. + +GUIDO. Lord Christ receive my wretched soul to-night! + +SIMONE. Amen to that. Now for the other. + +[He dies. Simone rises and looks at Bianca. She comes towards him +as one dazed with wonder and with outstretched arms.] + +BIANCA. Why +Did you not tell me you were so strong? + +SIMONE. Why +Did you not tell me you were beautiful? + +[He kisses her on the mouth.] + +CURTAIN + + + + +LA SAINTE COURTISANE +OR, THE WOMAN COVERED WITH JEWELS + + + + +The scene represents the corner of a valley in the Thebaid. On the +right hand of the stage is a cavern. In front of the cavern stands +a great crucifix. + +On the left [sand dunes]. + +The sky is blue like the inside of a cup of lapis lazuli. The hills +are of red sand. Here and there on the hills there are clumps of +thorns. + +FIRST MAN. Who is she? She makes me afraid. She has a purple +cloak and her hair is like threads of gold. I think she must be the +daughter of the Emperor. I have heard the boatmen say that the +Emperor has a daughter who wears a cloak of purple. + +SECOND MAN. She has birds' wings upon her sandals, and her tunic is +of the colour of green corn. It is like corn in spring when she +stands still. It is like young corn troubled by the shadows of +hawks when she moves. The pearls on her tunic are like many moons. + +FIRST MAN. They are like the moons one sees in the water when the +wind blows from the hills. + +SECOND MAN. I think she is one of the gods. I think she comes from +Nubia. + +FIRST MAN. I am sure she is the daughter of the Emperor. Her nails +are stained with henna. They are like the petals of a rose. She +has come here to weep for Adonis. + +SECOND MAN. She is one of the gods. I do not know why she has left +her temple. The gods should not leave their temples. If she speaks +to us let us not answer, and she will pass by. + +FIRST MAN. She will not speak to us. She is the daughter of the +Emperor. + +MYRRHINA. Dwells he not here, the beautiful young hermit, he who +will not look on the face of woman? + +FIRST MAN. Of a truth it is here the hermit dwells. + +MYRRHINA. Why will he not look on the face of woman? + +SECOND MAN. We do not know. + +MYRRHINA. Why do ye yourselves not look at me? + +FIRST MAN. You are covered with bright stones, and you dazzle our +eyes. + +SECOND MAN. He who looks at the sun becomes blind. You are too +bright to look at. It is not wise to look at things that are very +bright. Many of the priests in the temples are blind, and have +slaves to lead them. + +MYRRHINA. Where does he dwell, the beautiful young hermit who will +not look on the face of woman? Has he a house of reeds or a house +of burnt clay or does he lie on the hillside? Or does he make his +bed in the rushes? + +FIRST MAN. He dwells in that cavern yonder. + +MYRRHINA. What a curious place to dwell in! + +FIRST MAN. Of old a centaur lived there. When the hermit came the +centaur gave a shrill cry, wept and lamented, and galloped away. + +SECOND MAN. No. It was a white unicorn who lived in the cave. +When it saw the hermit coming the unicorn knelt down and worshipped +him. Many people saw it worshipping him. + +FIRST MAN. I have talked with people who saw it. + +* * * * * + +SECOND MAN. Some say he was a hewer of wood and worked for hire. +But that may not be true. + +* * * * * + +MYRRHINA. What gods then do ye worship? Or do ye worship any gods? +There are those who have no gods to worship. The philosophers who +wear long beards and brown cloaks have no gods to worship. They +wrangle with each other in the porticoes. The [ ] laugh at them. + +FIRST MAN. We worship seven gods. We may not tell their names. It +is a very dangerous thing to tell the names of the gods. No one +should ever tell the name of his god. Even the priests who praise +the gods all day long, and eat of their food with them, do not call +them by their right names. + +MYRRHINA. Where are these gods ye worship? + +FIRST MAN. We hide them in the folds of our tunics. We do not show +them to any one. If we showed them to any one they might leave us. + +MYRRHINA. Where did ye meet with them? + +FIRST MAN. They were given to us by an embalmer of the dead who had +found them in a tomb. We served him for seven years. + +MYRRHINA. The dead are terrible. I am afraid of Death. + +FIRST MAN. Death is not a god. He is only the servant of the gods. + +MYRRHINA. He is the only god I am afraid of. Ye have seen many of +the gods? + +FIRST MAN. We have seen many of them. One sees them chiefly at +night time. They pass one by very swiftly. Once we saw some of the +gods at daybreak. They were walking across a plain. + +MYRRHINA. Once as I was passing through the market place I heard a +sophist from Cilicia say that there is only one God. He said it +before many people. + +FIRST MAN. That cannot be true. We have ourselves seen many, +though we are but common men and of no account. When I saw them I +hid myself in a bush. They did me no harm. + +* * * * * + +MYRRHINA. Tell me more about the beautiful young hermit. Talk to +me about the beautiful young hermit who will not look on the face of +woman. What is the story of his days? What mode of life has he? + +FIRST MAN. We do not understand you. + +MYRRHINA. What does he do, the beautiful young hermit? Does he sow +or reap? Does he plant a garden or catch fish in a net? Does he +weave linen on a loom? Does he set his hand to the wooden plough +and walk behind the oxen? + +SECOND MAN. He being a very holy man does nothing. We are common +men and of no account. We toll all day long in the sun. Sometimes +the ground is very hard. + +MYRRHINA. Do the birds of the air feed him? Do the jackals share +their booty with him? + +FIRST MAN. Every evening we bring him food. We do not think that +the birds of the air feed him. + +MYRRHINA. Why do ye feed him? What profit have ye in so doing? + +SECOND MAN. He is a very holy man. One of the gods whom he has +offended has made him mad. We think he has offended the moon. + +MYRRHINA. Go and tell him that one who has come from Alexandria +desires to speak with him. + +FIRST MAN. We dare not tell him. This hour he is praying to his +God. We pray thee to pardon us for not doing thy bidding. + +MYRRHINA. Are ye afraid, of him? + +FIRST MAN. We are afraid of him. + +MYRRHINA. Why are ye afraid of him? + +FIRST MAN. We do not know. + +MYRRHINA. What is his name? + +FIRST MAN. The voice that speaks to him at night time in the cavern +calls to him by the name of Honorius. It was also by the name of +Honorius that the three lepers who passed by once called to him. We +think that his name is Honorius. + +MYRRHINA. Why did the three lepers call to him? + +FIRST MAN. That he might heal them. + +MYRRHINA. Did he heal them? + +SECOND MAN. No. They had committed some sin: it was for that +reason they were lepers. Their hands and faces were like salt. One +of them wore a mask of linen. He was a king's son. + +MYRRHINA. What is the voice that speaks to him at night time in his +cave? + +FIRST MAN. We do not know whose voice it is. We think it is the +voice of his God. For we have seen no man enter his cavern nor any +come forth from it. + +* * * * * + +MYRRHINA. Honorius. + +HONORIUS (from within). Who calls Honorius? + +MYRRHINA. Come forth, Honorius. + +* * * * * + +My chamber is ceiled with cedar and odorous with myrrh. The pillars +of my bed are of cedar and the hangings are of purple. My bed is +strewn with purple and the steps are of silver. The hangings are +sewn with silver pomegranates and the steps that are of silver are +strewn with saffron and with myrrh. My lovers hang garlands round +the pillars of my house. At night time they come with the flute +players and the players of the harp. They woo me with apples and on +the pavement of my courtyard they write my name in wine. + +From the uttermost parts of the world my lovers come to me. The +kings of the earth come to me and bring me presents. + +When the Emperor of Byzantium heard of me he left his porphyry +chamber and set sail in his galleys. His slaves bare no torches +that none might know of his coming. When the King of Cyprus heard +of me he sent me ambassadors. The two Kings of Libya who are +brothers brought me gifts of amber. + +I took the minion of Caesar from Caesar and made him my playfellow. +He came to me at night in a litter. He was pale as a narcissus, and +his body was like honey. + +The son of the Praefect slew himself in my honour, and the Tetrarch +of Cilicia scourged himself for my pleasure before my slaves. + +The King of Hierapolis who is a priest and a robber set carpets for +me to walk on. + +Sometimes I sit in the circus and the gladiators fight beneath me. +Once a Thracian who was my lover was caught in the net. I gave the +signal for him to die and the whole theatre applauded. Sometimes I +pass through the gymnasium and watch the young men wrestling or in +the race. Their bodies are bright with oil and their brows are +wreathed with willow sprays and with myrtle. They stamp their feet +on the sand when they wrestle and when they run the sand follows +them like a little cloud. He at whom I smile leaves his companions +and follows me to my home. At other times I go down to the harbour +and watch the merchants unloading their vessels. Those that come +from Tyre have cloaks of silk and earrings of emerald. Those that +come from Massilia have cloaks of fine wool and earrings of brass. +When they see me coming they stand on the prows of their ships and +call to me, but I do not answer them. I go to the little taverns +where the sailors lie all day long drinking black wine and playing +with dice and I sit down with them. + +I made the Prince my slave, and his slave who was a Tyrian I made my +lord for the space of a moon. + +I put a figured ring on his finger and brought him to my house. I +have wonderful things in my house. + +The dust of the desert lies on your hair and your feet are scratched +with thorns and your body is scorched by the sun. Come with me, +Honorius, and I will clothe you in a tunic of silk. I will smear +your body with myrrh and pour spikenard on your hair. I will clothe +you in hyacinth and put honey in your mouth. Love - + +HONORIUS. There is no love but the love of God. + +MYRRHINA. Who is He whose love is greater than that of mortal men? + +HONORIUS. It is He whom thou seest on the cross, Myrrhina. He is +the Son of God and was born of a virgin. Three wise men who were +kings brought Him offerings, and the shepherds who were lying on the +hills were wakened by a great light. + +The Sibyls knew of His coming. The groves and the oracles spake of +Him. David and the prophets announced Him. There is no love like +the love of God nor any love that can be compared to it. + +The body is vile, Myrrhina. God will raise thee up with a new body +which will not know corruption, and thou shalt dwell in the Courts +of the Lord and see Him whose hair is like fine wool and whose feet +are of brass. + +MYRRHINA. The beauty. . . + +HONORIUS. The beauty of the soul increases until it can see God. +Therefore, Myrrhina, repent of thy sins. The robber who was +crucified beside Him He brought into Paradise. [Exit.] + +MYRRHINA. How strangely he spake to me. And with what scorn did he +regard me. I wonder why he spake to me so strangely. + +* * * * * + +HONORIUS. Myrrhina, the scales have fallen from my eyes and I see +now clearly what I did not see before. Take me to Alexandria and +let me taste of the seven sins. + +MYRRHINA. Do not mock me, Honorius, nor speak to me with such +bitter words. For I have repented of my sins and I am seeking a +cavern in this desert where I too may dwell so that my soul may +become worthy to see God. + +HONORIUS. The sun is setting, Myrrhina. Come with me to +Alexandria. + +MYRRHINA. I will not go to Alexandria. + +HONORIUS. Farewell, Myrrhina. + +MYRRHINA. Honorius, farewell. No, no, do not go. + +* * * * * + +I have cursed my beauty for what it has done, and cursed the wonder +of my body for the evil that it has brought upon you. + +Lord, this man brought me to Thy feet. He told me of Thy coming +upon earth, and of the wonder of Thy birth, and the great wonder of +Thy death also. By him, O Lord, Thou wast revealed to me. + +HONORIUS. You talk as a child, Myrrhina, and without knowledge. +Loosen your hands. Why didst thou come to this valley in thy +beauty? + +MYRRHINA. The God whom thou worshippest led me here that I might +repent of my iniquities and know Him as the Lord. + +HONORIUS. Why didst thou tempt me with words? + +MYRRHINA. That thou shouldst see Sin in its painted mask and look +on Death in its robe of Shame. + + + +Footnotes: + +{1} Thomas Sturge Moore's opening is not included in this Project +Gutenberg eText for copyright reasons. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg eText Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous +A Florentine Tragedy--A Fragment +La Sainte Courtisane--A Fragment + diff --git a/old/wldms10.zip b/old/wldms10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bd3ce2e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/wldms10.zip |