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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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