Chapter 3

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 mænad. 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