Complete Works of Oscar Wilde

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Complete Works of Oscar Wilde Page 107

by Oscar Wilde

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 your 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 will 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 will 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 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 handsbreadth, 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 weep 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 grow 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 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

  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 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? (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.

 

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