Chapter 2

HONORIUS. Myrrhina, the scales have fallen from my eyes and I see now clearly what I did not see before. Take me to Alexandria and let me taste of the seven sins.

MYRRHINA. Do not mock me, Honorius, nor speak to me with such bitter words. For I have repented of my sins and I am seeking a cavern in this desert where I too may dwell so that my soul may become worthy to see God.

HONORIUS. The sun is setting, Myrrhina. Come with me to Alexandria.

MYRRHINA. I will not go to Alexandria.

HONORIUS. Farewell, Myrrhina.

MYRRHINA. Honorius, farewell. No, no, do not go.

. . . . .

I have cursed my beauty for what it has done, and cursed the wonder of my body for the evil that it has brought upon you.

Lord, this man brought me to Thy feet. He told me of Thy coming upon earth, and of the wonder of Thy birth, and the great wonder of Thy death also. By him, O Lord, Thou wast revealed to me.

HONORIUS. You talk as a child, Myrrhina, and without knowledge. Loosen your hands. Why didst thou come to this valley in thy beauty?

MYRRHINA. The God whom thou worshippest led me here that I might repent of my iniquities and know Him as the Lord.

HONORIUS. Why didst thou tempt me with words?

MYRRHINA. That thou shouldst see Sin in its painted mask and look on Death in its robe of Shame.

A FLORENTINE TRAGEDY WITH OPENING SCENE BY T. STURGE MOORE

_This play is only a fragment and was never completed_. _For the purposes of presentation_, _the well-known poet_, _Mr. T. Sturge Moore_, _has written an opening scene which is here included_. _Wilde’s work begins with the entrance of Simone_.

_A private performance was given by the Literary Theatre Club in_ 1906. _The first public presentation was given by the New English Players at the Cripplegate Institute_, _Golden Lane_, _E.C._, _in_ 1907. _German_, _French and Hungarian translations have been presented on the Continental stage_.

_Dramatic and literary rights are the property of Robert Ross_. _The American literary and dramatic rights are vested in John Luce and Co._, _Boston_, _U.S.A._

_First Published by Methuen and Co._ _February_ _1908_ (_Limited Editions on handmade paper and Japanese vellum_) _First F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _November_ _1909_ _Second F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _October_ _1910_ _Third F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _December_ _1911_ _Fourth F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _May_ _1915_ _Fifth F’cap. 8vo Edition_ _1917_

CHARACTERS

GUIDO BARDI, A Florentine prince.

SIMONE, a merchant.

BIANNA, his wife.

MARIA, a tire-woman.

_The action takes place at Florence in the early sixteenth century_.

A FLORENTINE TRAGEDY

[_The scene represents a tapestried upper room giving on to a balcony or loggia in an old house at Florence_. _A table laid for a frugal meal_, _a spinning-wheel_, _distaff_, _etc._, _chests_, _chairs and stools_.]

_As the Curtain rises enter_ BIANCA, _with her Servant_, MARIA.

MARIA. Certain and sure, the sprig is Guido Bardi, A lovely lord, a lord whose blood is blue!

BIANCA. But where did he receive you?

MARIA. Where, but there In yonder palace, in a painted hall!— Painted with naked women on the walls,— Would make a common man or blush or smile But he seemed not to heed them, being a lord.

BIANCA. But how know you ’tis not a chamberlayne, A lackey merely?

MARIA. Why, how know I there is a God in heaven? Because the angels have a master surely. So to this lord they bowed, all others bowed, And swept the marble flags, doffing their caps, With the gay plumes. Because he stiffly said, And seemed to see me as those folk are seen That will be never seen again by you, ‘Woman, your mistress then returns this purse Of forty thousand crowns, is it fifty thousand? Come name the sum will buy me grace of her.’

BIANCA. What, were there forty thousand crowns therein?

MARIA. I know it was all gold; heavy with gold.

BIANCA. It must be he, none else could give so much.

MARIA. ’Tis he, ’tis my lord Guido, Guido Bardi.

BIANCA. What said you?

MARIA. I, I said my mistress never Looked at the gold, never opened the purse, Never counted a coin. But asked again What she had asked before, ‘How young you looked? How handsome your lordship looked? What doublet Your majesty had on? What chains, what hose Upon your revered legs?’ And curtseyed I, . . .

BIANCA. What said he?

MARIA. Curtseyed I, and he replied, ‘Has she a lover then beside that old Soured husband or is it him she loves, my God! Is it him?’

BIANCA. Well?

MARIA. Curtseyed I low and said ‘Not him, my lord, nor you, nor no man else. Thou art rich, my lord, and honoured, my lord, and she Though not so rich is honoured . . .’

BIANCA. Fool, you fool, I never bid you say a word of that.

MARIA. Nor did I say a word of that you said; I said, ‘She loves him not, my lord, nor loves Any man else. Yet she might like to love, If she were loved by one who pleased her well; For she is weary of spinning long alone. She is not rich and yet she is not poor; but young She is, my lord, and you are young.

[_Pauses smiling_.]

BIANCA. Quick, quick!

MARIA. There, there! ’Twas but to show you how I smiled Saying the lord was young. It took him too; For he said, ‘This will do! If I should call To-night to pay respect unto your lovely— Our lovely mistress, tell her that I said, Our lovely mistress, shall I be received?’ And I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘Then say I come and if All else is well let her throw down some favour When as I pass below.’ He should be there! Look from the balcony; he should be there!— And there he is, dost see?

BIANCA. Some favour. Yes. This ribbon weighted by this brooch will do. Maria, be you busy near within, but, till I call take care you enter not. Go down And let the young lord in, for hark, he knocks.

[_Exit_ MARIA.]

Great ladies might he choose from and yet he Is drawn . . . ah, there my fear is! Was he drawn By love to me—by love’s young strength alone? That’s where it is, if I were sure he loved, I then might do what greater dames have done And venge me on a husband blind to beauty. But if! Ah if! he is a wandering bee, Mere gallant taster, who befools poor flowers . . .

[MARIA _opens the door for_ GUIDO BARDI, _and then withdraws_.]

My lord, I learn that we have something here, In this poor house, which thou dost wish to buy. My husband is from home, but my poor fate Has made me perfect in the price of velvets, Of silks and gay brocades. I think you offered Some forty thousand crowns, or fifty thousand, For something we have here? And it must be That wonder of the loom, which my Simone Has lately home; it is a Lucca damask, The web is silver over-wrought with roses. Since you did offer fifty thousand crowns It must be that. Pray wait, for I will fetch it.

GUIDO. Nay, nay, thou gracious wonder of a loom More cunning far than those of Lucca, I Had in my thought no damask silver cloth By hunch-back weavers woven toilsomely, If such are priced at fifty thousand crowns It shames me, for I hoped to buy a fabric For which a hundred thousand then were little.

BIANCA. A hundred thousand was it that you said? Nay, poor Simone for so great a sum Would sell you everything the house contains. The thought of such a sum doth daze the brains Of merchant folk who live such lives as ours.

GUIDO. Would he sell everything this house contains? And every one, would he sell every one?

BIANCA. Oh, everything and every one, my lord, Unless it were himself; he values not A woman as a velvet, or a wife At half the price of silver-threaded woof.

GUIDO. Then I would strike a bargain with him straight,

BIANCA. He is from home; may be will sleep from home; But I, my lord, can show you all we have; Can measure ells and sum their price, my lord.

GUIDO. It is thyself, Bianca, I would buy.

BIANCA. O, then, my lord, it must be with Simone You strike your bargain; for to sell myself Would be to do what I most truly loathe. Good-night, my lord; it is with deep regret I find myself unable to oblige Your lordship.

GUIDO. Nay, I pray thee let me stay And pardon me the sorry part I played, As though I were a chapman and intent To lower prices, cheapen honest wares.

BIANCA. My lord, there is no reason you should stay.

GUIDO. Thou art my reason, peerless, perfect, thou, The reason I am here and my life’s goal, For I was born to love the fairest things . . .

BIANCA. To buy the fairest things that can be bought.

GUIDO. Cruel Bianca! Cover me with scorn, I answer born to love thy priceless self, That never to a market could be brought, No more than winged souls that sail and soar Among the planets or about the moon.

BIANCA. It is so much thy habit to buy love, Or that which is for sale and labelled love, Hardly couldst thou conceive a priceless love. But though my love has never been for sale I have been in a market bought and sold.

GUIDO. This is some riddle which thy sweet wit reads To baffle mine and mock me yet again.

BIANCA. My marriage, sir, I speak of marriage now, That common market where my husband went And prides himself he made a bargain then.

GUIDO. The wretched chapman, how I hate his soul.

BIANCA. He was a better bidder than thyself, And knew with whom to deal . . . he did not speak Of gold to me, but in my father’s ear He made it clink: to me he spoke of love, Honest and free and open without price.

GUIDO. O white Bianca, lovely as the moon, The light of thy pure soul and shining wit Shows me my shame, and makes the thing I was Slink like a shadow from the thing I am.

BIANCA. Let that which casts the shadow act, my lord, And waste no thought on what its shadow does Or has done. Are youth, and strength, and love Balked by mere shadows, so that they forget Themselves so far they cannot be recalled?

GUIDO. Nobility is here, not in the court. There are the tinsel stars, here is the moon, Whose tranquil splendour makes a day of night. I have been starved by ladies, specks of light, And glory drowns me now I see the moon.

BIANCA. I have refused round sums of solid gold And shall not be by tinsel phrases bought.

GUIDO. Dispute no more, witty, divine Bianca; Dispute no more. See I have brought my lute! Close lock the door. We will sup with the moon Like Persian princes, that, in Babylon Sup in the hanging gardens of the king. I know an air that can suspend the soul As high in heaven as those towered-gardens hang.

BIANCA. My husband may return, we are not safe.

GUIDO. Didst thou not say that he would sleep from home?

BIANCA. He was not sure, he said it might be so. He was not sure—and he would send my aunt To sleep with me, if he did so decide, And she has not yet come.

GUIDO [_starting_] Hark, what’s that?

[_They listen_, _the sound of_ MARIA’S _voice in anger with some one is faintly heard_.]

BIANCA. It is Maria scolds some gossip crone.

GUIDO. I thought the other voice had been a man’s.

BIANCA. All still again, old crones are often gruff. You should be gone, my lord.

GUIDO. O, sweet Bianca! How can I leave thee now! Thy beauty made Two captives of my eyes, and they were mad To feast them on thy form, but now thy wit, The liberated perfume of a bud, Which while a bud seemed perfect, but now is That which can make its former self forgot: How can I leave the flower who loved the leaf? Till now I was the richest prince in Florence, I am a lover now would shun its throngs, And put away all state and seek retreat At Bellosguardo or Fiesole, Where roses in their fin’st profusion hide Some marble villa whose cool walls have rung A laughing echo to Decameron, And where thy laughter shall as gaily sound. Say thou canst love or with a silent kiss Instil that balmy knowledge on my soul.

BIANCA. Canst tell me what love is?

GUIDO. It is consent, The union of two minds, two souls, two hearts, In all they think and hope and feel.

BIANCA. Such lovers might as well be dumb, for those Who think and hope and feel alike can never Have anything for one another’s ear.

GUIDO. Love is? Love is the meeting of two worlds In never-ending change and counter-change.

BIANCA. Thus will my husband praise the mercer’s mart, Where the two worlds of East and West exchange.

GUIDO. Come. Love is love, a kiss, a close embrace. It is . . .

BIANCA. My husband calls that love When he hath slammed his weekly ledger to.

GUIDO. I find my wit no better match for thine Than thou art match for an old crabbed man; But I am sure my youth and strength and blood Keep better tune with beauty gay and bright As thine is, than lean age and miser toil.

BIANCA. Well said, well said, I think he would not dare To face thee, more than owls dare face the sun; He’s the bent shadow such a form as thine Might cast upon a dung heap by the road, Though should it fall upon a proper floor Twould be at once a better man than he.

GUIDO. Your merchant living in the dread of loss Becomes perforce a coward, eats his heart. Dull souls they are, who, like caged prisoners watch And envy others’ joy; they taste no food But what its cost is present to their thought.

BIANCA. I am my father’s daughter, in his eyes A home-bred girl who has been taught to spin. He never seems to think I have a face Which makes you gallants turn where’er I pass.

GUIDO. Thy night is darker than I dreamed, bright Star.

BIANCA. He waits, stands by, and mutters to himself, And never enters with a frank address To any company. His eyes meet mine And with a shudder I am sure he counts The cost of what I wear.

GUIDO. Forget him quite. Come, come, escape from out this dismal life, As a bright butterfly breaks spider’s web, And nest with me among those rosy bowers, Where we will love, as though the lives we led Till yesterday were ghoulish dreams dispersed By the great dawn of limpid joyous life.

BIANCA. Will I not come?

GUIDO. O, make no question, come. They waste their time who ponder o’er bad dreams. We will away to hills, red roses clothe, And though the persons who did haunt that dream Live on, they shall by distance dwindled, seem No bigger than the smallest ear of corn That cowers at the passing of a bird, And silent shall they seem, out of ear-shot, Those voices that could jar, while we gaze back From rosy caves upon the hill-brow open, And ask ourselves if what we see is not A picture merely,—if dusty, dingy lives Continue there to choke themselves with malice. Wilt thou not come, Bianca? Wilt thou not?

[_A sound on the stair_.]

GUIDO. What’s that?

[_The door opens_, _they separate guiltily_, _and the husband enters_.]

SIMONE. My good wife, you come slowly; were it not better To run to meet your lord? Here, take my cloak. Take this pack first. ’Tis heavy. I have sold nothing: Save a furred robe unto the Cardinal’s son, Who hopes to wear it when his father dies, And hopes that will be soon.

But who is this? Why you have here some friend. Some kinsman doubtless, Newly returned from foreign lands and fallen Upon a house without a host to greet him? I crave your pardon, kinsman. For a house Lacking a host is but an empty thing And void of honour; a cup without its wine, A scabbard without steel to keep it straight, A flowerless garden widowed of the sun. Again I crave your pardon, my sweet cousin.

BIANCA. This is no kinsman and no cousin neither.

SIMONE. No kinsman, and no cousin! You amaze me. Who is it then who with such courtly grace Deigns to accept our hospitalities?

GUIDO. My name is Guido Bardi.

SIMONE. What! The son Of that great Lord of Florence whose dim towers Like shadows silvered by the wandering moon I see from out my casement every night! Sir Guido Bardi, you are welcome here, Twice welcome. For I trust my honest wife, Most honest if uncomely to the eye, Hath not with foolish chatterings wearied you, As is the wont of women.

GUIDO. Your gracious lady, Whose beauty is a lamp that pales the stars And robs Diana’s quiver of her beams Has welcomed me with such sweet courtesies That if it be her pleasure, and your own, I will come often to your simple house. And when your business bids you walk abroad I will sit here and charm her loneliness Lest she might sorrow for you overmuch. What say you, good Simone?

SIMONE. My noble Lord, You bring me such high honour that my tongue Like a slave’s tongue is tied, and cannot say The word it would. Yet not to give you thanks Were to be too unmannerly. So, I thank you, From my heart’s core.

It is such things as these That knit a state together, when a Prince So nobly born and of such fair address, Forgetting unjust Fortune’s differences, Comes to an honest burgher’s honest home As a most honest friend.

And yet, my Lord, I fear I am too bold. Some other night We trust that you will come here as a friend; To-night you come to buy my merchandise. Is it not so? Silks, velvets, what you will, I doubt not but I have some dainty wares Will woo your fancy. True, the hour is late, But we poor merchants toil both night and day To make our scanty gains. The tolls are high, And every city levies its own toll, And prentices are unskilful, and wives even Lack sense and cunning, though Bianca here Has brought me a rich customer to-night. Is it not so, Bianca? But I waste time. Where is my pack? Where is my pack, I say? Open it, my good wife. Unloose the cords. Kneel down upon the floor. You are better so. Nay not that one, the other. Despatch, despatch! Buyers will grow impatient oftentimes. We dare not keep them waiting. Ay! ’tis that, Give it to me; with care. It is most costly. Touch it with care. And now, my noble Lord— Nay, pardon, I have here a Lucca damask, The very web of silver and the roses So cunningly wrought that they lack perfume merely To cheat the wanton sense. Touch it, my Lord. Is it not soft as water, strong as steel? And then the roses! Are they not finely woven? I think the hillsides that best love the rose, At Bellosguardo or at Fiesole, Throw no such blossoms on the lap of spring, Or if they do their blossoms droop and die. Such is the fate of all the dainty things That dance in wind and water. Nature herself Makes war on her own loveliness and slays Her children like Medea. Nay but, my Lord, Look closer still. Why in this damask here It is summer always, and no winter’s tooth Will ever blight these blossoms. For every ell I paid a piece of gold. Red gold, and good, The fruit of careful thrift.

GUIDO. Honest Simone, Enough, I pray you. I am well content; To-morrow I will send my servant to you, Who will pay twice your price.

SIMONE. My generous Prince! I kiss your hands. And now I do remember Another treasure hidden in my house Which you must see. It is a robe of state: Woven by a Venetian: the stuff, cut-velvet: The pattern, pomegranates: each separate seed Wrought of a pearl: the collar all of pearls, As thick as moths in summer streets at night, And whiter than the moons that madmen see Through prison bars at morning. A male ruby Burns like a lighted coal within the clasp The Holy Father has not such a stone, Nor could the Indies show a brother to it. The brooch itself is of most curious art, Cellini never made a fairer thing To please the great Lorenzo. You must wear it. There is none worthier in our city here, And it will suit you well. Upon one side A slim and horned satyr leaps in gold To catch some nymph of silver. Upon the other Stands Silence with a crystal in her hand, No bigger than the smallest ear of corn, That wavers at the passing of a bird, And yet so cunningly wrought that one would say, It breathed, or held its breath.

Worthy Bianca, Would not this noble and most costly robe Suit young Lord Guido well?

Nay, but entreat him; He will refuse you nothing, though the price Be as a prince’s ransom. And your profit Shall not be less than mine.

BIANCA. Am I your prentice? Why should I chaffer for your velvet robe?

GUIDO. Nay, fair Bianca, I will buy the robe, And all things that the honest merchant has I will buy also. Princes must be ransomed, And fortunate are all high lords who fall Into the white hands of so fair a foe.

SIMONE. I stand rebuked. But you will buy my wares? Will you not buy them? Fifty thousand crowns Would scarce repay me. But you, my Lord, shall have them For forty thousand. Is that price too high? Name your own price. I have a curious fancy To see you in this wonder of the loom Amidst the noble ladies of the court, A flower among flowers.

They say, my lord, These highborn dames do so affect your Grace That where you go they throng like flies around you, Each seeking for your favour.

I have heard also Of husbands that wear horns, and wear them bravely, A fashion most fantastical.

GUIDO. Simone, Your reckless tongue needs curbing; and besides, You do forget this gracious lady here Whose delicate ears are surely not attuned To such coarse music.

SIMONE. True: I had forgotten, Nor will offend again. Yet, my sweet Lord, You’ll buy the robe of state. Will you not buy it? But forty thousand crowns—’tis but a trifle, To one who is Giovanni Bardi’s heir.

GUIDO. Settle this thing to-morrow with my steward, Antonio Costa. He will come to you. And you shall have a hundred thousand crowns If that will serve your purpose.

SIMONE. A hundred thousand! Said you a hundred thousand? Oh! be sure That will for all time and in everything Make me your debtor. Ay! from this time forth My house, with everything my house contains Is yours, and only yours.

A hundred thousand! My brain is dazed. I shall be richer far Than all the other merchants. I will buy Vineyards and lands and gardens. Every loom From Milan down to Sicily shall be mine, And mine the pearls that the Arabian seas Store in their silent caverns.

Generous Prince, This night shall prove the herald of my love, Which is so great that whatsoe’er you ask It will not be denied you.

GUIDO. What if I asked For white Bianca here?

SIMONE. You jest, my Lord; She is not worthy of so great a Prince. She is but made to keep the house and spin. Is it not so, good wife? It is so. Look! Your distaff waits for you. Sit down and spin. Women should not be idle in their homes, For idle fingers make a thoughtless heart. Sit down, I say.

BIANCA. What shall I spin?

SIMONE. Oh! spin Some robe which, dyed in purple, sorrow might wear For her own comforting: or some long-fringed cloth In which a new-born and unwelcome babe Might wail unheeded; or a dainty sheet Which, delicately perfumed with sweet herbs, Might serve to wrap a dead man. Spin what you will; I care not, I.

BIANCA. The brittle thread is broken, The dull wheel wearies of its ceaseless round, The duller distaff sickens of its load; I will not spin to-night.