A to Z Classics - Complete Works Of Oscar Wilde (Best Navigation) (A to Z Classics)

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,

·163· 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,

·164· 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

·165· 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.

·166· guido

I will not play to-night.

Some other night, Simone.

[ To Bianca ] You and I

Together, with no listeners but the stars,

Or the more jealous moon.

simone

Nay, but my lord!

Nay, but I do beseech you. For I have heard

That by the simple fingering of a string,

Or delicate breath breathed along hollowed reeds,

Or blown into cold mouths of cunning bronze,

Those who are curious in this art can draw

Poor souls from prison-houses. I have heard also

How such strange magic lurks within these shells

That at their bidding casements open wide

And Innocence puts vine-leaves in her hair,

And wantons like a mænad. Let that pass.

Your lute I know is chaste. And therefore play:

·167· 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,

·168· But beauty is 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

·169· 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 .]

·170· 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.

·171· 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,

·172· Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile.