Delphi Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Illustrated) (75 page)

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?
[Sees table.]
          
    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

Wilde read classics at Trinity College, Dublin, from 1871 to 1874, sharing rooms with his older brother Willie Wilde.

A contemporary caricature of Willie Wilde, an Irish journalist and poet of the Victorian era and the older brother of Oscar Wilde.