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diff --git a/1308-h/1308-h.htm b/1308-h/1308-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2b49fae --- /dev/null +++ b/1308-h/1308-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2184 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous, by Oscar Wilde</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +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: 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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