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diff --git a/old/wldms10.txt b/old/wldms10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ec24c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/wldms10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1529 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Etext of Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous by Oscar Wilde +#18 and #19 in our series by Oscar Wilde + +A Florentine Tragedy--A Fragment +La Sainte Courtisane--A Fragment + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + +Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous + + + + +Contents: + +Preface by Robert Ross +A Florentine Tragedy--A Fragment +La Sainte Courtisane--A Fragment + + + + +PREFACE BY ROBERT ROSS + + + + +'As to my personal attitude towards criticism, I confess in brief +the following:- "If my works are good and of any importance whatever +for the further development of art, they will maintain their place +in spite of all adverse criticism and in spite of all hateful +suspicions attached to my artistic intentions. If my works are of +no account, the most gratifying success of the moment and the most +enthusiastic approval of as augurs cannot make them endure. The +waste-paper press can devour them as it has devoured many others, +and I will not shed a tear . . . and the world will move on just the +same."'--RICHARD STRAUSS. + +The contents of this volume require some explanation of an +historical nature. It is scarcely realised by the present +generation that Wilde's works on their first appearance, with the +exception of De Profundis, were met with almost general condemnation +and ridicule. The plays on their first production were grudgingly +praised because their obvious success could not be ignored; but on +their subsequent publication in book form they were violently +assailed. That nearly all of them have held the stage is still a +source of irritation among certain journalists. Salome however +enjoys a singular career. As every one knows, it was prohibited by +the Censor when in rehearsal by Madame Bernhardt at the Palace +Theatre in 1892. On its publication in 1893 it was greeted with +greater abuse than any other of Wilde's works, and was consigned to +the usual irrevocable oblivion. The accuracy of the French was +freely canvassed, and of course it is obvious that the French is not +that of a Frenchman. The play was passed for press, however, by no +less a writer than Marcel Schwob whose letter to the Paris +publisher, returning the proofs and mentioning two or three slight +alterations, is still in my possession. Marcel Schwob told me some +years afterwards that he thought it would have spoiled the +spontaneity and character of Wilde's style if he had tried to +harmonise it with the diction demanded by the French Academy. It +was never composed with any idea of presentation. Madame Bernhardt +happened to say she wished Wilde would write a play for her; he +replied in jest that he had done so. She insisted on seeing the +manuscript, and decided on its immediate production, ignorant or +forgetful of the English law which prohibits the introduction of +Scriptural characters on the stage. With his keen sense of the +theatre Wilde would never have contrived the long speech of Salome +at the end in a drama intended for the stage, even in the days of +long speeches. His threat to change his nationality shortly after +the Censor's interference called forth a most delightful and good- +natured caricature of him by Mr. Bernard Partridge in Punch. + +Wilde was still in prison in 1896 when Salome was produced by Lugne +Poe at the Theatre de L'OEuvre in Paris, but except for an account +in the Daily Telegraph the incident was hardly mentioned in England. +I gather that the performance was only a qualified success, though +Lugne Poe's triumph as Herod was generally acknowledged. In 1901, +within a year of the author's death, it was produced in Berlin; from +that moment it has held the European stage. It has run for a longer +consecutive period in Germany than any play by any Englishman, not +excepting Shakespeare. Its popularity has extended to all countries +where it is not prohibited. It is performed throughout Europe, Asia +and America. It is played even in Yiddish. This is remarkable in +view of the many dramas by French and German writers who treat of +the same theme. To none of them, however, is Wilde indebted. +Flaubert, Maeterlinck (some would add Ollendorff) and Scripture, are +the obvious sources on which he has freely drawn for what I do not +hesitate to call the most powerful and perfect of all his dramas. +But on such a point a trustee and executor may be prejudiced because +it is the most valuable asset in Wilde's literary estate. Aubrey +Beardsley's illustrations are too well known to need more than a +passing reference. In the world of art criticism they excited +almost as much attention as Wilde's drama has excited in the world +of intellect. + +During May 1905 the play was produced in England for the first time +at a private performance by the New Stage Club. No one present will +have forgotten the extraordinary tension of the audience on that +occasion, those who disliked the play and its author being +hypnotised by the extraordinary power of Mr. Robert Farquharson's +Herod, one of the finest pieces of acting ever seen in this country. +My friends the dramatic critics (and many of them are personal +friends) fell on Salome with all the vigour of their predecessors +twelve years before. Unaware of what was taking place in Germany, +they spoke of the play as having been 'dragged from obscurity.' The +Official Receiver in Bankruptcy and myself were, however, better +informed. And much pleasure has been derived from reading those +criticisms, all carefully preserved along with the list of receipts +which were simultaneously pouring in from the German performances. +To do the critics justice they never withdrew any of their printed +opinions, which were all trotted out again when the play was +produced privately for the second time in England by the Literary +Theatre Society in 1906. In the Speaker of July 14th, 1906, +however, some of the iterated misrepresentations of fact were +corrected. No attempt was made to controvert the opinion of an +ignorant critic: his veracity only was impugned. The powers of +vaticination possessed by such judges of drama can be fairly tested +in the career of Salome on the European stage, apart from the opera. +In an introduction to the English translation published by Mr. John +Lane it is pointed out that Wilde's confusion of Herod Antipas +(Matt. xiv. 1) with Herod the Great (Matt. ii. 1) and Herod Agrippa +I. (Acts xii. 23) is intentional, and follows a mediaeval +convention. There is no attempt at historical accuracy or +archaeological exactness. Those who saw the marvellous decor of Mr. +Charles Ricketts at the second English production can form a +complete idea of what Wilde intended in that respect; although the +stage management was clumsy and amateurish. The great opera of +Richard Strauss does not fall within my province; but the fag ends +of its popularity on the Continent have been imported here oddly +enough through the agency of the Palace Theatre, where Salome was +originally to have been performed. Of a young lady's dancing, or of +that of her rivals, I am not qualified to speak. I note merely that +the critics who objected to the horror of one incident in the drama +lost all self-control on seeing that incident repeated in dumb show +and accompanied by fescennine corybantics. Except in 'name and +borrowed notoriety' the music-hall sensation has no relation +whatever to the drama which so profoundly moved the whole of Europe +and the greatest living musician. The adjectives of contumely are +easily transmuted into epithets of adulation, when a prominent +ecclesiastic succumbs, like King Herod, to the fascination of a +dancer. + +It is not usually known in England that a young French naval +officer, unaware that Dr. Strauss was composing an opera on the +theme of Salome, wrote another music drama to accompany Wilde's +text. The exclusive musical rights having been already secured by +Dr. Strauss, Lieutenant Marriotte's work cannot be performed +regularly. One presentation, however, was permitted at Lyons, the +composer's native town, where I am told it made an extraordinary +impression. In order to give English readers some faint idea of the +world-wide effect of Wilde's drama, my friend Mr. Walter Ledger has +prepared a short bibliography of certain English and Continental +translations. + + +At the time of Wilde's trial the nearly completed MS. of La Sainte +Courtisane was entrusted to Mrs. Leverson, the well-known novelist, +who in 1897 went to Paris on purpose to restore it to the author. +Wilde immediately left the only copy in a cab. A few days later he +laughingly informed me of the loss, and added that a cab was a very +proper place for it. I have explained elsewhere that he looked on +his works with disdain in his last years, though he was always full +of schemes for writing others. All my attempts to recover the lost +work failed. The passages here reprinted are from some odd leaves +of a first draft. The play is, of course, not unlike Salome, though +it was written in English. It expanded Wilde's favourite theory +that when you convert some one to an idea, you lose your faith in +it; the same motive runs through Mr. W. H. Honorius the hermit, so +far as I recollect the story, falls in love with the courtesan who +has come to tempt him, and he reveals to her the secret of the love +of God. She immediately becomes a Christian, and is murdered by +robbers. Honorius the hermit goes back to Alexandria to pursue a +life of pleasure. Two other similar plays Wilde invented in prison, +AHAB AND ISABEL and PHARAOH; he would never write them down, though +often importuned to do so. Pharaoh was intensely dramatic and +perhaps more original than any of the group. None of these works +must be confused with the manuscripts stolen from 16 Tite Street in +1895--namely, the enlarged version of Mr. W. H., the second draft of +A Florentine Tragedy, and The Duchess of Padua (which, existing in a +prompt copy, was of less importance than the others); nor with The +Cardinal of Arragon, the manuscript of which I never saw. I +scarcely think it ever existed, though Wilde used to recite proposed +passages for it. + + +Some years after Wilde's death I was looking over the papers and +letters rescued from Tite Street when I came across loose sheets of +manuscript and typewriting, which I imagined were fragments of The +Duchess of Padua; on putting them together in a coherent form I +recognised that they belonged to the lost Florentine Tragedy. I +assumed that the opening scene, though once extant, had disappeared. +One day, however, Mr. Willard wrote that he possessed a typewritten +fragment of a play which Wilde had submitted to him, and this he +kindly forwarded for my inspection. It agreed in nearly every +particular with what I had taken so much trouble to put together. +This suggests that the opening scene had never been written, as Mr. +Willard's version began where mine did. It was characteristic of +the author to finish what he never began. + +When the Literary Theatre Society produced Salome in 1906 they asked +me for some other short drama by Wilde to present at the same time, +as Salome does not take very long to play. I offered them the +fragment of A Florentine Tragedy. By a fortunate coincidence the +poet and dramatist, Mr. Thomas Sturge Moore, happened to be on the +committee of this Society, and to him was entrusted the task of +writing an opening scene to make the play complete. {1} It is not +for me to criticise his work, but there is justification for saying +that Wilde himself would have envied, with an artist's envy, such +lines as - + + +We will sup with the moon, +Like Persian princes that in Babylon +Sup in the hanging gardens of the King. + + +In a stylistic sense Mr. Sturge Moore has accomplished a feat in +reconstruction, whatever opinions may be held of A Florentine +Tragedy by Wilde's admirers or detractors. The achievement is +particularly remarkable because Mr. Sturge Moore has nothing in +common with Wilde other than what is shared by all real poets and +dramatists: He is a landed proprietor on Parnassus, not a +trespasser. In England we are more familiar with the poachers. +Time and Death are of course necessary before there can come any +adequate recognition of one of our most original and gifted singers. +Among his works are The Vinedresser and other Poems (1899), Absalom, +A Chronicle Play (1903), and The Centaur's Booty (1903). Mr. Sturge +Moore is also an art critic of distinction, and his learned works on +Durer (1905) and Correggio (1906) are more widely known (I am sorry +to say) than his powerful and enthralling poems. + +Once again I must express my obligations to Mr. Stuart Mason for +revising and correcting the proofs of this new edition. + +ROBERT ROSS + + + + +A FLORENTINE TRAGEDY--A FRAGMENT + + + + +CHARACTERS: + +GUIDO BARDI, A Florentine prince +SIMONE, a merchant +BIANNA, his wife + +The action takes place at Florence in the early sixteenth century. + +[The door opens, they separate guiltily, and the husband enters.] + +SIMONE. My good wife, you come slowly; were it not better +To run to meet your lord? Here, take my cloak. +Take this pack first. 'Tis heavy. I have sold nothing: +Save a furred robe unto the Cardinal's son, +Who hopes to wear it when his father dies, +And hopes that will be soon. + +But who is this? +Why you have here some friend. Some kinsman doubtless, +Newly returned from foreign lands and fallen +Upon a house without a host to greet him? +I crave your pardon, kinsman. For a house +Lacking a host is but an empty thing +And void of honour; a cup without its wine, +A scabbard without steel to keep it straight, +A flowerless garden widowed of the sun. +Again I crave your pardon, my sweet cousin. + +BIANCA. This is no kinsman and no cousin neither. + +SIMONE. No kinsman, and no cousin! You amaze me. +Who is it then who with such courtly grace +Deigns to accept our hospitalities? + +GUIDO. My name is Guido Bardi. + +SIMONE. What! The son +Of that great Lord of Florence whose dim towers +Like shadows silvered by the wandering moon +I see from out my casement every night! +Sir Guido Bardi, you are welcome here, +Twice welcome. For I trust my honest wife, +Most honest if uncomely to the eye, +Hath not with foolish chatterings wearied you, +As is the wont of women. + +GUIDO. Your gracious lady, +Whose beauty is a lamp that pales the stars +And robs Diana's quiver of her beams +Has welcomed me with such sweet courtesies +That if it be her pleasure, and your own, +I will come often to your simple house. +And when your business bids you walk abroad +I will sit here and charm her loneliness +Lest she might sorrow for you overmuch. +What say you, good Simone? + +SIMONE. My noble Lord, +You bring me such high honour that my tongue +Like a slave's tongue is tied, and cannot say +The word it would. Yet not to give you thanks +Were to be too unmannerly. So, I thank you, +From my heart's core. + +It is such things as these +That knit a state together, when a Prince +So nobly born and of such fair address, +Forgetting unjust Fortune's differences, +Comes to an honest burgher's honest home +As a most honest friend. + +And yet, my Lord, +I fear I am too bold. Some other night +We trust that you will come here as a friend; +To-night you come to buy my merchandise. +Is it not so? Silks, velvets, what you will, +I doubt not but I have some dainty wares +Will woo your fancy. True, the hour is late, +But we poor merchants toil both night and day +To make our scanty gains. The tolls are high, +And every city levies its own toll, +And prentices are unskilful, and wives even +Lack sense and cunning, though Bianca here +Has brought me a rich customer to-night. +Is it not so, Bianca? But I waste time. +Where is my pack? Where is my pack, I say? +Open it, my good wife. Unloose the cords. +Kneel down upon the floor. You are better so. +Nay not that one, the other. Despatch, despatch! +Buyers will grow impatient oftentimes. +We dare not keep them waiting. Ay! 'tis that, +Give it to me; with care. It is most costly. +Touch it with care. And now, my noble Lord - +Nay, pardon, I have here a Lucca damask, +The very web of silver and the roses +So cunningly wrought that they lack perfume merely +To cheat the wanton sense. Touch it, my Lord. +Is it not soft as water, strong as steel? +And then the roses! Are they not finely woven? +I think the hillsides that best love the rose, +At Bellosguardo or at Fiesole, +Throw no such blossoms on the lap of spring, +Or if they do their blossoms droop and die. +Such is the fate of all the dainty things +That dance in wind and water. Nature herself +Makes war on her own loveliness and slays +Her children like Medea. Nay but, my Lord, +Look closer still. Why in this damask here +It is summer always, and no winter's tooth +Will ever blight these blossoms. For every ell +I paid a piece of gold. Red gold, and good, +The fruit of careful thrift. + +GUIDO. Honest Simone, +Enough, I pray you. I am well content; +To-morrow I will send my servant to you, +Who will pay twice your price. + +SIMONE. My generous Prince! +I kiss your hands. And now I do remember +Another treasure hidden in my house +Which you must see. It is a robe of state: +Woven by a Venetian: the stuff, cut-velvet: +The pattern, pomegranates: each separate seed +Wrought of a pearl: the collar all of pearls, +As thick as moths in summer streets at night, +And whiter than the moons that madmen see +Through prison bars at morning. A male ruby +Burns like a lighted coal within the clasp +The Holy Father has not such a stone, +Nor could the Indies show a brother to it. +The brooch itself is of most curious art, +Cellini never made a fairer thing +To please the great Lorenzo. You must wear it. +There is none worthier in our city here, +And it will suit you well. Upon one side +A slim and horned satyr leaps in gold +To catch some nymph of silver. Upon the other +Stands Silence with a crystal in her hand, +No bigger than the smallest ear of corn, +That wavers at the passing of a bird, +And yet so cunningly wrought that one would say, +It breathed, or held its breath. + +Worthy Bianca, +Would not this noble and most costly robe +Suit young Lord Guido well? + +Nay, but entreat him; +He will refuse you nothing, though the price +Be as a prince's ransom. And your profit +Shall not be less than mine. + +BIANCA. Am I your prentice? +Why should I chaffer for your velvet robe? + +GUIDO. Nay, fair Bianca, I will buy the robe, +And all things that the honest merchant has +I will buy also. Princes must be ransomed, +And fortunate are all high lords who fall +Into the white hands of so fair a foe. + +SIMONE. I stand rebuked. But you will buy my wares? +Will you not buy them? Fifty thousand crowns +Would scarce repay me. But you, my Lord, shall have them +For forty thousand. Is that price too high? +Name your own price. I have a curious fancy +To see you in this wonder of the loom +Amidst the noble ladies of the court, +A flower among flowers. + +They say, my lord, +These highborn dames do so affect your Grace +That where you go they throng like flies around you, +Each seeking for your favour. + +I have heard also +Of husbands that wear horns, and wear them bravely, +A fashion most fantastical. + +GUIDO. Simone, +Your reckless tongue needs curbing; and besides, +You do forget this gracious lady here +Whose delicate ears are surely not attuned +To such coarse music. + +SIMONE. True: I had forgotten, +Nor will offend again. Yet, my sweet Lord, +You'll buy the robe of state. Will you not buy it? +But forty thousand crowns--'tis but a trifle, +To one who is Giovanni Bardi's heir. + +GUIDO. Settle this thing to-morrow with my steward, +Antonio Costa. He will come to you. +And you shall have a hundred thousand crowns +If that will serve your purpose. + +SIMONE. A hundred thousand! +Said you a hundred thousand? Oh! be sure +That will for all time and in everything +Make me your debtor. Ay! from this time forth +My house, with everything my house contains +Is yours, and only yours. + +A hundred thousand! +My brain is dazed. I shall be richer far +Than all the other merchants. I will buy +Vineyards and lands and gardens. Every loom +From Milan down to Sicily shall be mine, +And mine the pearls that the Arabian seas +Store in their silent caverns. + +Generous Prince, +This night shall prove the herald of my love, +Which is so great that whatsoe'er you ask +It will not be denied you. + +GUIDO. What if I asked +For white Bianca here? + +SIMONE. You jest, my Lord; +She is not worthy of so great a Prince. +She is but made to keep the house and spin. +Is it not so, good wife? It is so. Look! +Your distaff waits for you. Sit down and spin. +Women should not be idle in their homes, +For idle fingers make a thoughtless heart. +Sit down, I say. + +BIANCA. What shall I spin? + +SIMONE. Oh! spin +Some robe which, dyed in purple, sorrow might wear +For her own comforting: or some long-fringed cloth +In which a new-born and unwelcome babe +Might wail unheeded; or a dainty sheet +Which, delicately perfumed with sweet herbs, +Might serve to wrap a dead man. Spin what you will; +I care not, I. + +BIANCA. The brittle thread is broken, +The dull wheel wearies of its ceaseless round, +The duller distaff sickens of its load; +I will not spin to-night. + +SIMONE. It matters not. +To-morrow you shall spin, and every day +Shall find you at your distaff. So Lucretia +Was found by Tarquin. So, perchance, Lucretia +Waited for Tarquin. Who knows? I have heard +Strange things about men's wives. And now, my lord, +What news abroad? I heard to-day at Pisa +That certain of the English merchants there +Would sell their woollens at a lower rate +Than the just laws allow, and have entreated +The Signory to hear them. + +Is this well? +Should merchant be to merchant as a wolf? +And should the stranger living in our land +Seek by enforced privilege or craft +To rob us of our profits? + +GUIDO. What should I do +With merchants or their profits? Shall I go +And wrangle with the Signory on your count? +And wear the gown in which you buy from fools, +Or sell to sillier bidders? Honest Simone, +Wool-selling or wool-gathering is for you. +My wits have other quarries. + +BIANCA. Noble Lord, +I pray you pardon my good husband here, +His soul stands ever in the market-place, +And his heart beats but at the price of wool. +Yet he is honest in his common way. +[To Simone] +And you, have you no shame? A gracious Prince +Comes to our house, and you must weary him +With most misplaced assurance. Ask his pardon. + +SIMONE. I ask it humbly. We will talk to-night +Of other things. I hear the Holy Father +Has sent a letter to the King of France +Bidding him cross that shield of snow, the Alps, +And make a peace in Italy, which will be +Worse than a war of brothers, and more bloody +Than civil rapine or intestine feuds. + +GUIDO. Oh! we are weary of that King of France, +Who never comes, but ever talks of coming. +What are these things to me? There are other things +Closer, and of more import, good Simone. + +BIANCA [To Simone]. I think you tire our most gracious guest. +What is the King of France to us? As much +As are your English merchants with their wool. + +* * * * * + +SIMONE. Is it so then? Is all this mighty world +Narrowed into the confines of this room +With but three souls for poor inhabitants? +Ay! there are times when the great universe, +Like cloth in some unskilful dyer's vat, +Shrivels into a handbreadth, and perchance +That time is now! Well! let that time be now. +Let this mean room be as that mighty stage +Whereon kings die, and our ignoble lives +Become the stakes God plays for. + +I do not know +Why I speak thus. My ride has wearied me. +And my horse stumbled thrice, which is an omen +That bodes not good to any. + +Alas! my lord, +How poor a bargain is this life of man, +And in how mean a market are we sold! +When we are born our mothers weep, but when +We die there is none weeps for us. No, not one. +[Passes to back of stage.] + +BIANCA. How like a common chapman does he speak! +I hate him, soul and body. Cowardice +Has set her pale seal on his brow. His hands +Whiter than poplar leaves in windy springs, +Shake with some palsy; and his stammering mouth +Blurts out a foolish froth of empty words +Like water from a conduit. + +GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, +He is not worthy of your thought or mine. +The man is but a very honest knave +Full of fine phrases for life's merchandise, +Selling most dear what he must hold most cheap, +A windy brawler in a world of words. +I never met so eloquent a fool. + +BIANCA. Oh, would that Death might take him where he stands! + +SIMONE [turning round]. Who spake of Death? Let no one speak of +Death. +What should Death do in such a merry house, +With but a wife, a husband, and a friend +To give it greeting? Let Death go to houses +Where there are vile, adulterous things, chaste wives +Who growing weary of their noble lords +Draw back the curtains of their marriage beds, +And in polluted and dishonoured sheets +Feed some unlawful lust. Ay! 'tis so +Strange, and yet so. YOU do not know the world. +YOU are too single and too honourable. +I know it well. And would it were not so, +But wisdom comes with winters. My hair grows grey, +And youth has left my body. Enough of that. +To-night is ripe for pleasure, and indeed, +I would be merry as beseems a host +Who finds a gracious and unlooked-for guest +Waiting to greet him. [Takes up a lute.] +But what is this, my lord? +Why, you have brought a lute to play to us. +Oh! play, sweet Prince. And, if I am too bold, +Pardon, but play. + +GUIDO. I will not play to-night. +Some other night, Simone. + +[To Bianca] You and I +Together, with no listeners but the stars, +Or the more jealous moon. + +SIMONE. Nay, but my lord! +Nay, but I do beseech you. For I have heard +That by the simple fingering of a string, +Or delicate breath breathed along hollowed reeds, +Or blown into cold mouths of cunning bronze, +Those who are curious in this art can draw +Poor souls from prison-houses. I have heard also +How such strange magic lurks within these shells +That at their bidding casements open wide +And Innocence puts vine-leaves in her hair, +And wantons like a maenad. Let that pass. +Your lute I know is chaste. And therefore play: +Ravish my ears with some sweet melody; +My soul is in a prison-house, and needs +Music to cure its madness. Good Bianca, +Entreat our guest to play. + +BIANCA. Be not afraid, +Our well-loved guest will choose his place and moment: +That moment is not now. You weary him +With your uncouth insistence. + +GUIDO. Honest Simone, +Some other night. To-night I am content +With the low music of Bianca's voice, +Who, when she speaks, charms the too amorous air, +And makes the reeling earth stand still, or fix +His cycle round her beauty. + +SIMONE. You flatter her. +She has her virtues as most women have, +But beauty in a gem she may not wear. +It is better so, perchance. + +Well, my dear lord, +If you will not draw melodies from your lute +To charm my moody and o'er-troubled soul +You'll drink with me at least? + +[Motioning Guido to his own place.] + +Your place is laid. +Fetch me a stool, Bianca. Close the shutters. +Set the great bar across. I would not have +The curious world with its small prying eyes +To peer upon our pleasure. + +Now, my lord, +Give us a toast from a full brimming cup. +[Starts back.] +What is this stain upon the cloth? It looks +As purple as a wound upon Christ's side. +Wine merely is it? I have heard it said +When wine is spilt blood is spilt also, +But that's a foolish tale. + +My lord, I trust +My grape is to your liking? The wine of Naples +Is fiery like its mountains. Our Tuscan vineyards +Yield a more wholesome juice. + +GUIDO. I like it well, +Honest Simone; and, with your good leave, +Will toast the fair Bianca when her lips +Have like red rose-leaves floated on this cup +And left its vintage sweeter. Taste, Bianca. + +[BIANCA drinks.] + +Oh, all the honey of Hyblean bees, +Matched with this draught were bitter! +Good Simone, +You do not share the feast. + +SIMONE. It is strange, my lord, +I cannot eat or drink with you, to-night. +Some humour, or some fever in my blood, +At other seasons temperate, or some thought +That like an adder creeps from point to point, +That like a madman crawls from cell to cell, +Poisons my palate and makes appetite +A loathing, not a longing. +[Goes aside.] + +GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, +This common chapman wearies me with words. +I must go hence. To-morrow I will come. +Tell me the hour. + +BIANCA. Come with the youngest dawn! +Until I see you all my life is vain. + +GUIDO. Ah! loose the falling midnight of your hair, +And in those stars, your eyes, let me behold +Mine image, as in mirrors. Dear Bianca, +Though it be but a shadow, keep me there, +Nor gaze at anything that does not show +Some symbol of my semblance. I am jealous +Of what your vision feasts on. + +BIANCA. Oh! be sure +Your image will be with me always. Dear +Love can translate the very meanest thing +Into a sign of sweet remembrances. +But come before the lark with its shrill song +Has waked a world of dreamers. I will stand +Upon the balcony. + +GUIDO. And by a ladder +Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls +Will come to meet me. White foot after foot, +Like snow upon a rose-tree. + +BIANCA. As you will. +You know that I am yours for love or Death. + +GUIDO. Simone, I must go to mine own house. + +SIMONE. So soon? Why should you? The great Duomo's bell +Has not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen +Who with their hollow horns mock the pale moon, +Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile. +I fear we may not see you here again, +And that fear saddens my too simple heart. + +GUIDO. Be not afraid, Simone. I will stand +Most constant in my friendship, But to-night +I go to mine own home, and that at once. +To-morrow, sweet Bianca. + +SIMONE. Well, well, so be it. +I would have wished for fuller converse with you, +My new friend, my honourable guest, +But that it seems may not be. + +And besides +I do not doubt your father waits for you, +Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think, +Are his one child? He has no other child. +You are the gracious pillar of his house, +The flower of a garden full of weeds. +Your father's nephews do not love him well +So run folks' tongues in Florence. I meant but that. +Men say they envy your inheritance +And look upon your vineyards with fierce eyes +As Ahab looked on Naboth's goodly field. +But that is but the chatter of a town +Where women talk too much. + +Good-night, my lord. +Fetch a pine torch, Bianca. The old staircase +Is full of pitfalls, and the churlish moon +Grows, like a miser, niggard of her beams, +And hides her face behind a muslin mask +As harlots do when they go forth to snare +Some wretched soul in sin. Now, I will get +Your cloak and sword. Nay, pardon, my good Lord, +It is but meet that I should wait on you +Who have so honoured my poor burgher's house, +Drunk of my wine, and broken bread, and made +Yourself a sweet familiar. Oftentimes +My wife and I will talk of this fair night +And its great issues. + +Why, what a sword is this. +Ferrara's temper, pliant as a snake, +And deadlier, I doubt not. With such steel, +One need fear nothing in the moil of life. +I never touched so delicate a blade. +I have a sword too, somewhat rusted now. +We men of peace are taught humility, +And to bear many burdens on our backs, +And not to murmur at an unjust world, +And to endure unjust indignities. +We are taught that, and like the patient Jew +Find profit in our pain. + +Yet I remember +How once upon the road to Padua +A robber sought to take my pack-horse from me, +I slit his throat and left him. I can bear +Dishonour, public insult, many shames, +Shrill scorn, and open contumely, but he +Who filches from me something that is mine, +Ay! though it be the meanest trencher-plate +From which I feed mine appetite--oh! he +Perils his soul and body in the theft +And dies for his small sin. From what strange clay +We men are moulded! + +GUIDO. Why do you speak like this? + +SIMONE. I wonder, my Lord Guido, if my sword +Is better tempered than this steel of yours? +Shall we make trial? Or is my state too low +For you to cross your rapier against mine, +In jest, or earnest? + +GUIDO. Naught would please me better +Than to stand fronting you with naked blade +In jest, or earnest. Give me mine own sword. +Fetch yours. To-night will settle the great issue +Whether the Prince's or the merchant's steel +Is better tempered. Was not that your word? +Fetch your own sword. Why do you tarry, sir? + +SIMONE. My lord, of all the gracious courtesies +That you have showered on my barren house +This is the highest. + +Bianca, fetch my sword. +Thrust back that stool and table. We must have +An open circle for our match at arms, +And good Bianca here shall hold the torch +Lest what is but a jest grow serious. + +BIANCA [To Guido]. Oh! kill him, kill him! + +SIMONE. Hold the torch, Bianca. +[They begin to fight.] + +SIMONE. Have at you! Ah! Ha! would you? + +[He is wounded by GUIDO.] + +A scratch, no more. The torch was in mine eyes. +Do not look sad, Bianca. It is nothing. +Your husband bleeds, 'tis nothing. Take a cloth, +Bind it about mine arm. Nay, not so tight. +More softly, my good wife. And be not sad, +I pray you be not sad. No; take it off. +What matter if I bleed? [Tears bandage off.] + +Again! again! +[Simone disarms Guido] +My gentle Lord, you see that I was right +My sword is better tempered, finer steel, +But let us match our daggers. + +BIANCA [to Guido] +Kill him! kill him! + +SIMONE. Put out the torch, Bianca. + +[Bianca puts out torch.] + +Now, my good Lord, +Now to the death of one, or both of us, +Or all three it may be. [They fight.] + +There and there. +Ah, devil! do I hold thee in my grip? +[Simone overpowers Guido and throws him down over table.] + +GUIDO. Fool! take your strangling fingers from my throat. +I am my father's only son; the State +Has but one heir, and that false enemy France +Waits for the ending of my father's line +To fall upon our city. + +SIMONE. Hush! your father +When he is childless will be happier. +As for the State, I think our state of Florence +Needs no adulterous pilot at its helm. +Your life would soil its lilies. + +GUIDO. Take off your hands +Take off your damned hands. Loose me, I say! + +SIMONE. Nay, you are caught in such a cunning vice +That nothing will avail you, and your life +Narrowed into a single point of shame +Ends with that shame and ends most shamefully. + +GUIDO. Oh! let me have a priest before I die! + +SIMONE. What wouldst thou have a priest for? Tell thy sins +To God, whom thou shalt see this very night +And then no more for ever. Tell thy sins +To Him who is most just, being pitiless, +Most pitiful being just. As for myself. . . + +GUIDO. Oh! help me, sweet Bianca! help me, Bianca, +Thou knowest I am innocent of harm. + +SIMONE. What, is there life yet in those lying lips? +Die like a dog with lolling tongue! Die! Die! +And the dumb river shall receive your corse +And wash it all unheeded to the sea. + +GUIDO. Lord Christ receive my wretched soul to-night! + +SIMONE. Amen to that. Now for the other. + +[He dies. Simone rises and looks at Bianca. She comes towards him +as one dazed with wonder and with outstretched arms.] + +BIANCA. Why +Did you not tell me you were so strong? + +SIMONE. Why +Did you not tell me you were beautiful? + +[He kisses her on the mouth.] + +CURTAIN + + + + +LA SAINTE COURTISANE +OR, THE WOMAN COVERED WITH JEWELS + + + + +The scene represents the corner of a valley in the Thebaid. On the +right hand of the stage is a cavern. In front of the cavern stands +a great crucifix. + +On the left [sand dunes]. + +The sky is blue like the inside of a cup of lapis lazuli. The hills +are of red sand. Here and there on the hills there are clumps of +thorns. + +FIRST MAN. Who is she? She makes me afraid. She has a purple +cloak and her hair is like threads of gold. I think she must be the +daughter of the Emperor. I have heard the boatmen say that the +Emperor has a daughter who wears a cloak of purple. + +SECOND MAN. She has birds' wings upon her sandals, and her tunic is +of the colour of green corn. It is like corn in spring when she +stands still. It is like young corn troubled by the shadows of +hawks when she moves. The pearls on her tunic are like many moons. + +FIRST MAN. They are like the moons one sees in the water when the +wind blows from the hills. + +SECOND MAN. I think she is one of the gods. I think she comes from +Nubia. + +FIRST MAN. I am sure she is the daughter of the Emperor. Her nails +are stained with henna. They are like the petals of a rose. She +has come here to weep for Adonis. + +SECOND MAN. She is one of the gods. I do not know why she has left +her temple. The gods should not leave their temples. If she speaks +to us let us not answer, and she will pass by. + +FIRST MAN. She will not speak to us. She is the daughter of the +Emperor. + +MYRRHINA. Dwells he not here, the beautiful young hermit, he who +will not look on the face of woman? + +FIRST MAN. Of a truth it is here the hermit dwells. + +MYRRHINA. Why will he not look on the face of woman? + +SECOND MAN. We do not know. + +MYRRHINA. Why do ye yourselves not look at me? + +FIRST MAN. You are covered with bright stones, and you dazzle our +eyes. + +SECOND MAN. He who looks at the sun becomes blind. You are too +bright to look at. It is not wise to look at things that are very +bright. Many of the priests in the temples are blind, and have +slaves to lead them. + +MYRRHINA. Where does he dwell, the beautiful young hermit who will +not look on the face of woman? Has he a house of reeds or a house +of burnt clay or does he lie on the hillside? Or does he make his +bed in the rushes? + +FIRST MAN. He dwells in that cavern yonder. + +MYRRHINA. What a curious place to dwell in! + +FIRST MAN. Of old a centaur lived there. When the hermit came the +centaur gave a shrill cry, wept and lamented, and galloped away. + +SECOND MAN. No. It was a white unicorn who lived in the cave. +When it saw the hermit coming the unicorn knelt down and worshipped +him. Many people saw it worshipping him. + +FIRST MAN. I have talked with people who saw it. + +* * * * * + +SECOND MAN. Some say he was a hewer of wood and worked for hire. +But that may not be true. + +* * * * * + +MYRRHINA. What gods then do ye worship? Or do ye worship any gods? +There are those who have no gods to worship. The philosophers who +wear long beards and brown cloaks have no gods to worship. They +wrangle with each other in the porticoes. The [ ] laugh at them. + +FIRST MAN. We worship seven gods. We may not tell their names. It +is a very dangerous thing to tell the names of the gods. No one +should ever tell the name of his god. Even the priests who praise +the gods all day long, and eat of their food with them, do not call +them by their right names. + +MYRRHINA. Where are these gods ye worship? + +FIRST MAN. We hide them in the folds of our tunics. We do not show +them to any one. If we showed them to any one they might leave us. + +MYRRHINA. Where did ye meet with them? + +FIRST MAN. They were given to us by an embalmer of the dead who had +found them in a tomb. We served him for seven years. + +MYRRHINA. The dead are terrible. I am afraid of Death. + +FIRST MAN. Death is not a god. He is only the servant of the gods. + +MYRRHINA. He is the only god I am afraid of. Ye have seen many of +the gods? + +FIRST MAN. We have seen many of them. One sees them chiefly at +night time. They pass one by very swiftly. Once we saw some of the +gods at daybreak. They were walking across a plain. + +MYRRHINA. Once as I was passing through the market place I heard a +sophist from Cilicia say that there is only one God. He said it +before many people. + +FIRST MAN. That cannot be true. We have ourselves seen many, +though we are but common men and of no account. When I saw them I +hid myself in a bush. They did me no harm. + +* * * * * + +MYRRHINA. Tell me more about the beautiful young hermit. Talk to +me about the beautiful young hermit who will not look on the face of +woman. What is the story of his days? What mode of life has he? + +FIRST MAN. We do not understand you. + +MYRRHINA. What does he do, the beautiful young hermit? Does he sow +or reap? Does he plant a garden or catch fish in a net? Does he +weave linen on a loom? Does he set his hand to the wooden plough +and walk behind the oxen? + +SECOND MAN. He being a very holy man does nothing. We are common +men and of no account. We toll all day long in the sun. Sometimes +the ground is very hard. + +MYRRHINA. Do the birds of the air feed him? Do the jackals share +their booty with him? + +FIRST MAN. Every evening we bring him food. We do not think that +the birds of the air feed him. + +MYRRHINA. Why do ye feed him? What profit have ye in so doing? + +SECOND MAN. He is a very holy man. One of the gods whom he has +offended has made him mad. We think he has offended the moon. + +MYRRHINA. Go and tell him that one who has come from Alexandria +desires to speak with him. + +FIRST MAN. We dare not tell him. This hour he is praying to his +God. We pray thee to pardon us for not doing thy bidding. + +MYRRHINA. Are ye afraid, of him? + +FIRST MAN. We are afraid of him. + +MYRRHINA. Why are ye afraid of him? + +FIRST MAN. We do not know. + +MYRRHINA. What is his name? + +FIRST MAN. The voice that speaks to him at night time in the cavern +calls to him by the name of Honorius. It was also by the name of +Honorius that the three lepers who passed by once called to him. We +think that his name is Honorius. + +MYRRHINA. Why did the three lepers call to him? + +FIRST MAN. That he might heal them. + +MYRRHINA. Did he heal them? + +SECOND MAN. No. They had committed some sin: it was for that +reason they were lepers. Their hands and faces were like salt. One +of them wore a mask of linen. He was a king's son. + +MYRRHINA. What is the voice that speaks to him at night time in his +cave? + +FIRST MAN. We do not know whose voice it is. We think it is the +voice of his God. For we have seen no man enter his cavern nor any +come forth from it. + +* * * * * + +MYRRHINA. Honorius. + +HONORIUS (from within). Who calls Honorius? + +MYRRHINA. Come forth, Honorius. + +* * * * * + +My chamber is ceiled with cedar and odorous with myrrh. The pillars +of my bed are of cedar and the hangings are of purple. My bed is +strewn with purple and the steps are of silver. The hangings are +sewn with silver pomegranates and the steps that are of silver are +strewn with saffron and with myrrh. My lovers hang garlands round +the pillars of my house. At night time they come with the flute +players and the players of the harp. They woo me with apples and on +the pavement of my courtyard they write my name in wine. + +From the uttermost parts of the world my lovers come to me. The +kings of the earth come to me and bring me presents. + +When the Emperor of Byzantium heard of me he left his porphyry +chamber and set sail in his galleys. His slaves bare no torches +that none might know of his coming. When the King of Cyprus heard +of me he sent me ambassadors. The two Kings of Libya who are +brothers brought me gifts of amber. + +I took the minion of Caesar from Caesar and made him my playfellow. +He came to me at night in a litter. He was pale as a narcissus, and +his body was like honey. + +The son of the Praefect slew himself in my honour, and the Tetrarch +of Cilicia scourged himself for my pleasure before my slaves. + +The King of Hierapolis who is a priest and a robber set carpets for +me to walk on. + +Sometimes I sit in the circus and the gladiators fight beneath me. +Once a Thracian who was my lover was caught in the net. I gave the +signal for him to die and the whole theatre applauded. Sometimes I +pass through the gymnasium and watch the young men wrestling or in +the race. Their bodies are bright with oil and their brows are +wreathed with willow sprays and with myrtle. They stamp their feet +on the sand when they wrestle and when they run the sand follows +them like a little cloud. He at whom I smile leaves his companions +and follows me to my home. At other times I go down to the harbour +and watch the merchants unloading their vessels. Those that come +from Tyre have cloaks of silk and earrings of emerald. Those that +come from Massilia have cloaks of fine wool and earrings of brass. +When they see me coming they stand on the prows of their ships and +call to me, but I do not answer them. I go to the little taverns +where the sailors lie all day long drinking black wine and playing +with dice and I sit down with them. + +I made the Prince my slave, and his slave who was a Tyrian I made my +lord for the space of a moon. + +I put a figured ring on his finger and brought him to my house. I +have wonderful things in my house. + +The dust of the desert lies on your hair and your feet are scratched +with thorns and your body is scorched by the sun. Come with me, +Honorius, and I will clothe you in a tunic of silk. I will smear +your body with myrrh and pour spikenard on your hair. I will clothe +you in hyacinth and put honey in your mouth. Love - + +HONORIUS. There is no love but the love of God. + +MYRRHINA. Who is He whose love is greater than that of mortal men? + +HONORIUS. It is He whom thou seest on the cross, Myrrhina. He is +the Son of God and was born of a virgin. Three wise men who were +kings brought Him offerings, and the shepherds who were lying on the +hills were wakened by a great light. + +The Sibyls knew of His coming. The groves and the oracles spake of +Him. David and the prophets announced Him. There is no love like +the love of God nor any love that can be compared to it. + +The body is vile, Myrrhina. God will raise thee up with a new body +which will not know corruption, and thou shalt dwell in the Courts +of the Lord and see Him whose hair is like fine wool and whose feet +are of brass. + +MYRRHINA. The beauty. . . + +HONORIUS. The beauty of the soul increases until it can see God. +Therefore, Myrrhina, repent of thy sins. The robber who was +crucified beside Him He brought into Paradise. [Exit.] + +MYRRHINA. How strangely he spake to me. And with what scorn did he +regard me. I wonder why he spake to me so strangely. + +* * * * * + +HONORIUS. Myrrhina, the scales have fallen from my eyes and I see +now clearly what I did not see before. Take me to Alexandria and +let me taste of the seven sins. + +MYRRHINA. Do not mock me, Honorius, nor speak to me with such +bitter words. For I have repented of my sins and I am seeking a +cavern in this desert where I too may dwell so that my soul may +become worthy to see God. + +HONORIUS. The sun is setting, Myrrhina. Come with me to +Alexandria. + +MYRRHINA. I will not go to Alexandria. + +HONORIUS. Farewell, Myrrhina. + +MYRRHINA. Honorius, farewell. No, no, do not go. + +* * * * * + +I have cursed my beauty for what it has done, and cursed the wonder +of my body for the evil that it has brought upon you. + +Lord, this man brought me to Thy feet. He told me of Thy coming +upon earth, and of the wonder of Thy birth, and the great wonder of +Thy death also. By him, O Lord, Thou wast revealed to me. + +HONORIUS. You talk as a child, Myrrhina, and without knowledge. +Loosen your hands. Why didst thou come to this valley in thy +beauty? + +MYRRHINA. The God whom thou worshippest led me here that I might +repent of my iniquities and know Him as the Lord. + +HONORIUS. Why didst thou tempt me with words? + +MYRRHINA. That thou shouldst see Sin in its painted mask and look +on Death in its robe of Shame. + + + +Footnotes: + +{1} Thomas Sturge Moore's opening is not included in this Project +Gutenberg eText for copyright reasons. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg eText Oscar Wilde Miscellaneous +A Florentine Tragedy--A Fragment +La Sainte Courtisane--A Fragment + |