The Duchess of Padua, by Oscar Wilde
Transcribed from the 1916 Methuen and gift ideas with kids percussion sets for boysCo. edition by DavidPrice, email [email protected] A PLAY BY METHUEN & CO. LTD. Fifth Edition Simone Gesso, Duke of Padua Beatrice, his Wife Andreas Pollajuolo, Cardinal of Padua Maffio Petrucci, Jeppo Vitellozzo, Taddeo Bardi } Gentlemen ofthe Duke’s Household Guido Ferranti, a Young Man Ascanio Cristofano, his Friend Count Moranzone, an Old Man Bernardo Cavalcanti, Lord Justice of Padua Hugo, the Headsman Lucy, a Tire woman Servants, Citizens, Soldiers, Monks, Falconers with theirhawks and dogs, etc. Place: Padua Time: The latter half of theSixteenth Century Act I. The Market Place of Padua(25 minutes). Act II. Room in the Duke’s Palace(36minutes). Act III. Corridor in the Duke’s Palace(29minutes). Act IV. The Hall of Justice(31 minutes). Act V. The Dungeon(25 minutes). Style of Architecture:Italian, Gothic and Romanesque. SCENE The Market Place of Padua at noon; in the backgroundis the great Cathedral of Padua; the architecture isRomanesque, and wrought in black and white marbles;a flight of marble steps leads up to the Cathedral door;at the foot of the steps are two large stone lions; thehouses on each aide of the stage have coloured awnings from theirwindows, and are flanked by stone arcades; on theright of the stage is the public fountain, with a tritonin green bronze blowing from a conch; around the fountainis a stone seat; the bell of the Cathedral is ringing,and the citizens, men, women and children,are passing into the Cathedral. [EnterGuido FerrantiandAscanio Cristofano.] Now by my life, Guido, I will go no farther;for if I walk another step I will have no life left to swear by;this wild-goose errand of yours! [Sits down on the step of thefountain.] Guido I think it must be here. [Goes up topasser-by and doffs his cap.] Pray, sir, is this themarket place, and that the church of Santa Croce? [Citizen bows.] I thank you, sir. Ascanio Well? Guido Ay! it is here. Ascanio I would it were somewhere else, for I see nowine-shop. Guido [Taking a letter from his pocket and readingit.] ‘The hour noon; the city, Padua; the place,the market; and the day, Saint Philip’s Day.’ Ascanio And what of the man, how shall we know him? Guido [reading still] ‘I will wear a violet cloak with a silverfalcon broidered on the shoulder.’ A brave attire,Ascanio. Ascanio I’d sooner have my leathern jerkin. And you think he will tell you of your father? Guido Why, yes! It is a month ago now, youremember; I was in the vineyard, just at the corner nearest theroad, where the goats used to get in, a man rode up and asked mewas my name Guido, and gave me this letter, signed ‘YourFather’s Friend,’ bidding me be here to-day if Iwould know the secret of my birth, and telling me how torecognise the writer! I had always thought old Pedro was myuncle, but he told me that he was not, but that I had been left achild in his charge by some one he had never since seen. Ascanio And you don’t know who your fatheris? Guido No. Ascanio No recollection of him even? Guido None, Ascanio, none. Ascanio [laughing] Then he could never have boxed your ears sooften as my father did mine. Guido [smiling] I am sure you never deserved it. Ascanio Never; and that made it worse. Ihadn’t the consciousness of guilt to buoy me up. Whathour did you say he fixed? Guido Noon. [Clock in the Cathedralstrikes.] Ascanio It is that now, and your man has notcome. I don’t believe in him, Guido. I think itis some wench who has set her eye at you; and, as I have followedyou from Perugia to Padua, I swear you shall follow me to thenearest tavern. [Rises.] By the great gods ofeating, Guido, I am as hungry as a widow is for a husband, astired as a young maid is of good advice, and as dry as amonk’s sermon. Come, Guido, you stand there lookingat nothing, like the fool who tried to look into his own mind;your man will not come. Guido Well, I suppose you are right. Ah! [Just as he is leaving the stage withAscanio, enterLord Moranzone in a violet cloak,with a silver falcon broidered on the shoulder; hepasses across to the Cathedral, and just as he is goinginGuido runs up and toucheshim.] Moranzone Guido Ferranti, thou hast come in time. Guido What! Does my father live? Moranzone Ay! lives in thee. Guido Oh, tell me of my father; I have lived Moranzone We must be alone. Guido This is my dearest friend, who out of love Moranzone There is one secret which ye shall notshare; Guido [toAscanio] Come back within the hour. Ascanio Speak not to him, Guido [laughing] Nay, nay, I doubt not that he has come totell [ExitAscanio.] Now tell me of my father? [Sits downon a stone seat.] Moranzone Ay, of all men he was the kingliest. Guido [proudly] Then when you saw my noble father last Moranzone Ay, he was high above the heads of men, [Walks over toGuido andputs his hand upon his shoulder.] On a red scaffold, with a butcher’sblock Guido [leaping up] What dreadful man art thou, Moranzone I am known here as the Count Moranzone, Guido [clasping hishand] Tell me of him. Moranzone You are the son of that great Duke Lorenzo, Guido Come to his death. Moranzone You will hear that soon enough. Being atwar— Guido [clutching hisdagger] Doth Malatesta live? Moranzone No, he is dead. Guido Did you say dead? O too swift runner,Death, Moranzone [clutching hiswrist] Thou canst do it! Guido Sold! was my father sold? Moranzone Ay! trafficked for, Guido And he lives Moranzone I will bring you to him. Guido So, Judas, thou art living! well, I willmake Moranzone Judas said you, boy? Guido What got he for my father’s blood? Moranzone What got he? Guido Of which he shall but keep Moranzone [coldly] Fool, what revenge is there? [Goes up close toGuido.] Your father was betrayed, there is your cue; Guido O bitter bread! Moranzone Thy palate is too nice, [Guidoclutches his sword.] Nay, nay, I trust thee not; your hot youngblood, Guido Thou knowest me not. Moranzone Well, when the time is ripe, Guido How shall I kill him, tell me? Moranzone That night thou shalt creep into his privatechamber; Guido Now by my father’s sword— Moranzone The common hangman Guido Then by my father’s grave— Moranzone What grave? what grave? Guido Was it so indeed? Moranzone This dagger, boy; Guido Oh, let me look at it! Moranzone Poor boy, you never saw that noble father, Guido Speak to me of my mother. Moranzone When thy mother Guido A mother dead, a father sold and bartered! Moranzone When thy mother died, Guido Saw you my father afterwards? Moranzone Ay! once; Guido [taking his hand] O generous heart! Moranzone One can buy everything in Rimini, Guido Thou hast done well; I for my father thankthee. Moranzone How you remind me of him, Guido The traitor’s name? Moranzone Thou wilt hear that anon; Guido What of that? his name? Moranzone Do they not seem a valiant company Guido His name, milord? [Enter theDuke of PaduawithCount Bardi, Maffio, Petrucci,and other gentlemen of his Court.] Moranzone [quickly] The man to whom I kneel Guido [clutches hitdagger] The Duke! Moranzone Leave off that fingering of thy knife. Duke Welcome, Count Moranzone; ’tis sometime [Catches sight ofGuido and starts back.] Who is that? Moranzone My sister’s son, your Grace, Duke [still looking atGuido] What is his name? Moranzone Guido Ferranti, sir. Duke His city? Moranzone He is Mantuan by birth. Duke [advancing towardsGuido] You have the eyes of one I used to know, Count Bardi [aside] Here is some bitter arrow for us, sure. Duke Why, every man among them has his price, Count Bardi [aside] There it comes indeed. Duke So be not honest; eccentricity Maffio [aside] He has enough of hate, if he needs that. Duke Have prudence; in your dealings with theworld Guido [aside] Surely a toad sits on his lips, and spills itsvenom there. Duke See thou hast enemies, Guido [aside] O wise philosopher! Moranzone [to him] Dost thou mark his words? Guido Oh, be thou sure I do. Duke And be not over-scrupulous; clean hands Guido Your Grace, I shall remember. Duke That is well, boy, well. Guido I do, your Grace, Maffio I never heard your Grace Duke The Cardinal! [He holds out his hand forGuido to kiss. Guido starts back in horror, butat a gesture fromCount Moranzone,kneels and kisses it.] We will see Guido I thank your Grace most heartily. Duke Tell me again Guido Guido Ferranti, sir. Duke And you are Mantuan? Look to your wives,my lords, Maffio May it please your Grace, Duke What, are they so ill-favoured! Let usgo, Moranzone [bowing] My liege, there are some matters— Duke [interrupting] Thou need’st make no excuse for missingmass. [Exit with his suite intoCathedral.] Guido [after a pause] So the Duke sold my father; Moranzone Thou shalt do that many times. Guido Must it be so? Moranzone Ay! thou hast sworn an oath. Guido That oath shall make me marble. Moranzone Farewell, boy, Guido I pray thou comest quickly. Moranzone I will come Guido Fear me not. Moranzone Here is your friend; see that you banish him Guido From Padua, Moranzone Nay, from thy heart as well, Guido Can I have no friend? Moranzone Revenge shall be thy friend; Guido Well, then be it so. [EnterAscanio Cristofano.] Ascanio Come, Guido, I have been beforehand with you ineverything, for I have drunk a flagon of wine, eaten a pasty, andkissed the maid who served it. Why, you look as melancholyas a schoolboy who cannot buy apples, or a politician who cannotsell his vote. What news, Guido, what news? Guido Why, that we two must part, Ascanio. Ascanio That would be news indeed, but it is nottrue. Guido Too true it is, you must get hence, Ascanio, Ascanio No, no; indeed you do not know me, Guido; Guido [clasping hishand] Ascanio! [SeesMoranzone looking at him and dropsAscanio’s hand.] It cannot be. Ascanio What, is it so with you? Guido Share it? Ascanio Ay! Guido No, no. Ascanio Have you then come to some inheritance Guido [bitterly] Ay! I have come to my inheritance. Ascanio What, shall we never more Guido Never more. Ascanio Must I go hence without a word of love? Guido You must go hence, and may love go withyou. Ascanio You are unknightly, and ungenerous. Guido Unknightly and ungenerous if you will. Ascanio Have you no message, Guido? Guido None; my whole past was but a schoolboy’sdream; Ascanio Farewell [exit slowly.] Guido Now are you satisfied? Have you notseen Moranzone Ay! I am satisfied. Now I go hence, Guido Be sure I shall. [ExitLord Moranzone.] Guido O thou eternal heaven! [The organ peals in the Cathedral, and under acanopy of cloth of silver tissue, borne by four pages inscarlet, theDuchess ofPadua comes down the steps; as she passes acrosstheir eyes meet for a moment, and as she leaves the stageshe looks back atGuido, andthe dagger falls from his hand.] Oh! who is that? A Citizen The Duchess of Padua! END OF ACTI. SCENE A state room in the Ducal Palace, hung withtapestries representing the Masque of Venus; a large doorin the centre opens into a corridor of red marble, throughwhich one can see a view of Padua; a large canopy isset(R.C.) with three thrones, one a littlelower than the others; the ceiling is made of long gildedbeams; furniture of the period, chairs covered withgilt leather, and buffets set with gold and silverplate, and chests painted with mythologicalscenes. A number of the courtiers is out on thecorridor looking from it down into the street below; fromthe street comes the roar of a mob and cries of‘Death to the Duke’: after a littleinterval enter the Duke very calmly; he is leaning on thearm of Guido Ferranti; with him enters also the LordCardinal; the mob still shouting. Duke No, my Lord Cardinal, I weary of her! Maffio [excitedly] Your Grace, there are two thousand peoplethere Duke Tut, man, they waste their strength upon theirlungs! [A yell from the people.] You see, Lord Cardinal, how my people loveme. [Another yell.] Go, Petrucci, [ExitPetrucci.] Cardinal I beseech your Grace Duke [sitting on histhrone] Ay! the peaches [A cheer from thepeople.] What is that? Guido [rushes to thewindow] The Duchess has gone forth into the square, Duke The devil take her! Guido [still at thewindow] And followed by a dozen of the citizens Duke [starting up] By Saint James, Bardi Here comes the Duchess. Duke Shut that door there; this morning air iscold. [They close the door on thecorridor.] [Enter the Duchess followed by a crowd of meanly dressedCitizens.] Duchess [flinging herself uponher knees] I do beseech your Grace to give usaudience. Duke What are these grievances? Duchess Alas, my Lord, First Citizen Ay! so it is, Duke And very good food too, Duchess [restrainingherself] They say the water, Duke They should drink wine; water is quiteunwholesome. Second Citizen Alack, your Grace, the taxes which thecustoms Duke Then you should bless the taxes Which make you temperate. Duchess Think, while we sit Third Citizen Ay! marry, that is true, Duke If you are poor, [Turns to theCardinal.] Is it not? Duchess Nay but, my lord the Duke, be generous; Duke And so they go to Abraham’s bosom,Madam. First Citizen He hath a hard heart. Second Citizen Nay, be silent, neighbour; Cardinal True, it is Christian to bear misery, First Citizen What is that word reform? What does itmean? Second Citizen Marry, it means leaving things as they are; Ilike it not. Duke Reform Lord Cardinal, did yousayreform? Cardinal [rising from hisseat] He would have led the sheep out of the fold, Duke When I have shorn their fleeces I may feedthem. First Citizen That is a kind word, Second Citizen Is that so? Duke These ragged knaves who come before us here, Third Citizen Good my Lord, Duke Ye shall hold your tongues, whether you starveor not. [To the Citizens.] Still as our gentle Duchess has so prayedus, First Citizen Marry, he will lighten the taxes! Second Citizen Or a dole of bread, think you, for eachman? Duke That, on next Sunday, the Lord Cardinal [Citizens murmur.] First Citizen I’ faith, that will not fill ourstomachs! Second Citizen A sermon is but a sorry sauce, when Duchess Poor people, First Citizen God save the Duchess, say I. Second Citizen God save her. Duchess And every Monday morn shall bread be set [Citizens applaud and goout.] First Citizen [goingout] Why, God save the Duchess again! Duke [calling him back] Come hither, fellow! what is your name? First Citizen Dominick, sir. Duke A good name! Why were you calledDominick? First Citizen [scratching hishead] Marry, because I was born on St. George’sday. Duke A good reason! here is a ducat for you! First Citizen [feebly] God save the Duke. Duke Nay! louder, fellow, louder. First Citizen [a littlelouder] God save the Duke! Duke More lustily, fellow, put more heart in it! First Citizen[enthusiastically] God save the Duke! Duke [mockingly] Why, gentlemen, this simple fellow’slove [To theDuchess.] Well, Madam, Duchess My Lord, the poor have rights you cannottouch, Duke So, so, you argue with me? This isshe, Duchess Promised, my Lord, not yielded: in thatmatter Duke You wrong us, Madam, Duchess What state reasons are there Duke There are wild boars at Pisa in a forest [Turning to one of theCourt.] You, my lord, Duchess And Orvieto? Duke [yawning] I cannot now recall [Goes over to theDuchess.] Why look you, Madam, you are here alone; Duchess There is not one. [Guidostarts, but restrains himself.] Duke Nor shall be, Duchess Sir, by what right—? Duke Madam, my second Duchess [Exit theDuke leaning onGuido, with his Court.] Duchess [looking afterthem] The Duke said rightly that I was alone; [EnterGuido behindunobserved; theDuchessflings herself down before a picture of the Madonna.] O Mary mother, with your sweet pale face Guido I can endure no longer. Duchess [rising] None but the wretched needs my prayers, mylord. Guido Then must I need them, lady. Duchess How is that? Guido Your Grace, I lack no favours from the Duke, Duchess Alas! I am so fallen in estate Guido [seizing her hand] Hast thou no love to give me? [TheDuchess starts, andGuido falls at her feet.] O dear saint, Duchess I did not think Guido Ask of the sea-bird if it loves the sea, Duchess I hardly know what I should say to you. Guido Will you not say you love me? Duchess Is that my lesson? Guido If you do not love me, Duchess What if I do not speak at all? Theysay Guido Nay, doubt would kill me, and if I must die, Duchess I would not have you either stay or go; Guido [stretching out hishands] Oh, do not cease at all; Duchess To touch my lips is not to touch my heart. Guido Do you close that against me? Duchess Alas! my lord, Guido [clasping her in hisarms] O love, love, love! Nay, sweet, lift upyour head, Duchess You are my lord, [Kisses him.] Guido Methinks I am bold to look upon you thus: Duchess Dear love, I would Guido [taking her in hisarms] Stand still, thou hurrying orb in the highheavens, Duchess Sit down here, Guido Ay! without love Duchess Yet out of these Guido Sweet, women make it true. Duchess Ah, dear, Guido Tell me again you love me, Beatrice. Duchess [fingering hiscollar] How well this collar lies about yourthroat. [LordMoranzone looks through the door from the corridoroutside.] Guido Nay, tell me that you love me. Duchess I remember, Guido Will you not say you love me? Duchess [smiling] He was a very royal man, King Francis, [Takes his head in her hands andturns his face up to her.] Do you not know that I am yours for ever, [Kisses him, and thensuddenly catches sight ofMoranzone and leaps up.] Oh, what is that? [Moranzone disappears.] Guido What, love? Duchess Methought I saw a face with eyes of flame Guido Nay, ’twas nothing: [TheDuchess still stands looking at thewindow.] ’Twas nothing, sweet. Duchess Ay! what can harm us now, Guido Dear, shall we play or sing? Duchess Do not speak, Guido Oh, with mine own lips let me break thatseal! Duchess Ay! is it not strange Guido Who is he? Duchess Why, you: that with your shaft did pierce myheart! Guido Ah, dear love, Duchess I would not have you cured; for I am sick Guido Oh, how I love you! Duchess Tell no other tale! Guido Kiss me, Beatrice! [She takes his face in her hands and bends down and kisseshim; a loud knocking then comes at the door,andGuido leaps up;enter a Servant.] Servant A package for you, sir. Guido [carelessly] Ah! give it to me. [Servant hands package wrapped in vermilionsilk, and exit; asGuido is about to open it theDuchess comes up behind, and insport takes it from him.] Duchess [laughing] Now I will wager it is from some girl Guido It is nothing. Duchess Nay, it is from some girl. Guido You know ’tis not. Duchess [turns her back andopens it] Now, traitor, tell me what does this signmean, Guido [taking it fromher] O God! Duchess I’ll from the window look, and try [Runs laughing into thecorridor.] Guido Oh, horrible! Duchess Guido! Guido Beatrice, Duchess [going towardshim] O dear love! Guido [stepping back] There lies a barrier between us two Duchess I dare do anything Guido Ah! There it is, Duchess What! Guido I take them back. Duchess Alas, you cannot, Guido, Guido There lies a barrier between us now, Duchess There is no barrier, Guido; why, I will go Guido [wildly] The world’s not wide enough Duchess [calm, andcontrolling her passion] Why did you come into my life at all, then, Guido O Beatrice! Duchess Which now you would dig up, uproot, tearout, Guido O God! Duchess [clenching herhand] And let Guido I pray you speak no more, for I must go Duchess I have heard Guido O God, God! Duchess But you will stay: listen, I love you,Guido. [She waits a little.] Is echo dead, that when I say I love you Guido Everything is dead, Duchess If you are going, touch me not, but go. [ExitGuido.] Barrier! Barrier! [EnterDuke equipped for the chase, withfalconers and hounds.] Duke Madam, you keep us waiting; Duchess I will not ride to-day. Duke How now, what’s this? Duchess My Lord, I cannot go. Duke What, pale face, do you dare to stand againstme? Duchess Have you no word of kindness ever for me? Duke I hold you in the hollow of my hand Duchess Well, I will go. Duke [slapping his boot with hiswhip] No, I have changed my mind, Maffio My liege, I have not seen him Duke It matters not, [ExitDuke with his Court.] Duchess The stars have fought against me, that isall, [EnterLord Moranzone all in black; hepasses across the back of the stage looking anxiouslyabout.] Moranzone Where is Guido? Duchess [catches sight ofhim] O God! Moranzone [with a look ofjoy] What, has he left you? Duchess Nay, you know he has. [With more pathos.] Nay, give him back, you know not how I lovehim. Moranzone He does not love you, Madam. Duchess May the plague Moranzone Madam, I tell you you will never see him, Duchess What is your name? Moranzone My name? Revenge! [Exit.] Duchess Revenge! END OF ACT II. SCENE A large corridor in the Ducal Palace: a window(L.C.) looks out on a view of Padua by moonlight:a staircase(R.C.) leads up to a door with aportière of crimson velvet, with the Duke’sarms embroidered in gold on it: on the lowest step of thestaircase a figure draped in black is sitting: the hall islit by an iron cresset filled with burning tow: thunderand lightning outside: the time is night. [EnterGuido through the window.] Guido The wind is rising: how my ladder shook! [Looks out at the city.] Christ! What a night: [Passes across the stage to footof staircase.] Ah! who art thou [The figure rises and takes offhis mask.] Moranzone Guido Ferranti, Guido [confusedly] What, art thou here? Moranzone Ay, waiting for your coming. Guido [looking away fromhim] I did not think to see you, but am glad, Moranzone First, I would have you know my well-laidplans; Guido It cannot be. Moranzone Nay, but it shall. Guido Listen, Lord Moranzone, Moranzone Surely my ears are traitors, speak again: Guido No, my lord, I said Moranzone You said not that; it is my senses mock me; Guido Nay, you heard rightly; I’ll not killthis man. Moranzone What of thine oath, thou traitor, what of thineoath? Guido I am resolved not to keep that oath. Moranzone What of thy murdered father? Guido Dost thou think Moranzone Ay! he would laugh for joy. Guido I do not think so, Moranzone Thou art God’s minister of vengeance. Guido No! Moranzone Why are you here, Guido Lord Moranzone, Moranzone You will not slay him? Guido No. Moranzone Ignoble son of a noble father, Guido ’Twas thou that hindered me; Moranzone It was not yet time; Guido No! revenge: Moranzone You are a coward, Guido Upon thine honour, Moranzone [after some hesitation] You have sworn an oath, see that you keep thatoath. Guido Silence, liar! Moranzone And yet, you love her; Guido You do well to talk: Moranzone Oh, in my time, boy, have I walked i’ themoon, Guido Now then I know you have not loved at all. [A groan comes from theDuke’s chamber.] Ah! What is that? Moranzone [sneeringly] That was in Palestine, not Padua; Guido It was for all time said. Moranzone And your white Duchess, Guido Alas, I will not see her face again. Moranzone What will you do? Guido After that I have laid the dagger there, Moranzone And then? Guido I will take service with the Doge at Venice, [A groan from theDuke’s chamber again.] Did you not hear a voice? Moranzone I always hear, Guido I am resolved. Moranzone O wretched father, lying unavenged. Guido More wretched, were thy son a murderer. Moranzone Why, what is life? Guido I do not know, my lord, Moranzone I do not thank God often; but I think Guido Better perhaps Moranzone Farewell! Guido Farewell! Some day, Lord Moranzone, Moranzone Never, boy. [Gets out of window and exit byrope ladder.] Guido Father, I think thou knowest my resolve, [Pulls out a letter from hisdoublet and reads it.] When he wakes, [Ascends staircase stealthily, and just as hereaches out his hand to draw back the curtain the Duchess appearsall in white. Guidostarts back.] Duchess Guido! what do you here so late? Guido O white and spotless angel of my life, Duchess There is no barrier between us now. Guido None, love, nor shall be. Duchess I have seen to that. Guido Tarry here for me. Duchess No, you are not going? Guido I will return within a moment’s space, Duchess When who wakes? Guido Why, the Duke. Duchess He will not wake again. Guido What, is he dead? Duchess Ay! he is dead. Guido O God! how wonderful Duchess I have just killed him. Guido [in horror] Oh! Duchess He was asleep; Guido Oh, horrible! Duchess And then he groaned, Guido Enough, enough. Duchess Will you not kiss me now? Guido O God! Duchess Will you not speak? Guido I cannot speak at all. Duchess Let as not talk of this! Let us gohence: [Puts her hand onGuido’s.] Guido [breaking fromher] O damned saint! O angel fresh fromHell! Duchess [in amazedwonder] I did it all for you. Guido No, do not touch me, Duchess [wringing herhands] For you! For you! Guido No, you mistook: Duchess I did it all for you; Guido Nay, I know you now; Duchess [pacing up anddown] O God, Guido You never loved me. Duchess [throws herself on herknees] Then slay me now! I have spilt bloodto-night, Guido [wresting knife fromher] Give it to me, I say. Duchess Better for me I had not seen your face. [Guidorecoils: she seizes his hands as she kneels.] Nay, Guido, listen for a while: [Stands up.] You came: ah! Guido, the first kindlywords [Kneels.] Whose music seems to linger in my ears, [Stands up.] But you had loved me very faithfully. [After a pause approaches himtimidly.] I do not think you understand me, Guido: Guido I dare not look at you: Duchess Ay, there it is! Guido There is no love where there is any guilt. Duchess No love where there is any guilt! OGod, [A pause: Guido says nothing.] I think you will not drive me from yourside. Guido Get thee gone: Duchess I see when men love women Guido Away, away, Duchess I would to God that I could wake the dead, Guido [holding up knife] I will not kiss you Duchess [going up thestairs] Why, then I will be gone! and may you find Guido Let me find mercy when I go at night Duchess [coming down a fewsteps.] Murder did you say? [A flash of lightning followedby a peal of thunder.] Guido Away! away! [Exit theDuchess, who asshe lifts the crimson curtain looks back for a moment atGuido, but he makes nosign. More thunder.] Now is life fallen in ashes at my feet [Begins to ascend staircase,when the noise of Soldiers is heard.] Ah! what is that? [Noise grows louder.] Beatrice! [The voice of theDuchess outside.] This way went he, the man who slew my lord. [Down the staircase comes hurrying a confused body ofSoldiers; Guido is not seen atfirst, till theDuchesssurrounded by Servants carrying torches appears at the top ofthe staircase, and points toGuido, who is seized at once, oneof the Soldiers dragging the knife from his hand and showing itto the Captain of the Guard in sight of the audience. Tableau.] END OF ACT III. SCENE The Court of Justice: the walls are hung withstamped grey velvet: above the hangings the wall isred, and gilt symbolical figures bear up the roof,which is made of red beams with grey soffits and moulding:a canopy of white satin flowered with gold is set for theDuchess: below it a long bench with red cloth for theJudges: below that a table for the clerks of thecourt. Two soldiers stand on each side of the canopy,and two soldiers guard the door; the citizens have someof them collected in the Court; others are coming ingreeting one another; two tipstaffs in violet keep orderwith long white wands. First Citizen Good morrow, neighbour Anthony. Second Citizen Good morrow, neighbour Dominick. First Citizen This is a strange day for Padua, is itnot?—the Duke being dead. Second Citizen I tell you, neighbour Dominick, I have notknown such a day since the last Duke died. First Citizen They will try him first, and sentence himafterwards, will they not, neighbour Anthony? Second Citizen Nay, for he might ’scape his punishmentthen; but they will condemn him first so that he gets hisdeserts, and give him trial afterwards so that no injustice isdone. First Citizen Well, well, it will go hard with him I doubtnot. Second Citizen Surely it is a grievous thing to shed aDuke’s blood. Third Citizen They say a Duke has blue blood. Second Citizen I think our Duke’s blood was black likehis soul. First Citizen Have a watch, neighbour Anthony, the officer islooking at thee. Second Citizen I care not if he does but look at me; he cannotwhip me with the lashes of his eye. Third Citizen What think you of this young man who stuck theknife into the Duke? Second Citizen Why, that he is a well-behaved, and awell-meaning, and a well-favoured lad, and yet wicked in that hekilled the Duke. Third Citizen ’Twas the first time he did it: may bethe law will not be hard on him, as he did not do it before. Second Citizen True. Tipstaff Silence, knave. Second Citizen Am I thy looking-glass, Master Tipstaff, thatthou callest me knave? First Citizen Here be one of the household coming. Well, Dame Lucy, thou art of the Court, how does thy poormistress the Duchess, with her sweet face? Mistress Lucy O well-a-day! O miserable day! Oday! O misery! Why it is just nineteen years lastJune, at Michaelmas, since I was married to my husband, and it isAugust now, and here is the Duke murdered; there is a coincidencefor you! Second Citizen Why, if it is a coincidence, they may not killthe young man: there is no law against coincidences. First Citizen But how does the Duchess? Mistress Lucy Well well, I knew some harm would happen to thehouse: six weeks ago the cakes were all burned on one side, andlast Saint Martin even as ever was, there flew into the candle abig moth that had wings, and a’most scared me. First Citizen But come to the Duchess, good gossip: what ofher? Mistress Lucy Marry, it is time you should ask after her,poor lady; she is distraught almost. Why, she has notslept, but paced the chamber all night long. I prayed herto have a posset, or some aqua-vitæ, and to get to bed andsleep a little for her health’s sake, but she answered meshe was afraid she might dream. That was a strange answer,was it not? Second Citizen These great folk have not much sense, soProvidence makes it up to them in fine clothes. Mistress Lucy Well, well, God keep murder from us, I say, aslong as we are alive. [EnterLord Moranzone hurriedly.] Moranzone Is the Duke dead? Second Citizen He has a knife in his heart, which they say isnot healthy for any man. Moranzone Who is accused of having killed him? Second Citizen Why, the prisoner, sir. Moranzone But who is the prisoner? Second Citizen Why, he that is accused of the Duke’smurder. Moranzone I mean, what is his name? Second Citizen Faith, the same which his godfathers gave him:what else should it be? Tipstaff Guido Ferranti is his name, my lord. Moranzone I almost knew thine answer ere you gave it. [Aside.] Yet it is strange he should have killed theDuke, [Turning again to thecrowd.] How was he taken? Tell me. Third Citizen Marry, sir, he was taken by the heels. Moranzone But who seized him? Third Citizen Why, those that did lay hold of him. Moranzone How was the alarm given? Third Citizen That I cannot tell you, sir. Mistress Lucy It was the Duchess herself who pointed himout. Moranzone [aside] The Duchess! There is something strangein this. Mistress Lucy Ay! And the dagger was in his hand—theDuchess’s own dagger. Moranzone What did you say? Mistress Lucy Why, marry, that it was with theDuchess’s dagger that the Duke was killed. Moranzone [aside] There is some mystery about this: I cannotunderstand it. Second Citizen They be very long a-coming, First Citizen I warrant they will come soon enough for theprisoner. Tipstaff Silence in the Court! First Citizen Thou dost break silence in bidding us keep it,Master Tipstaff. [Enter theLord Justice and the otherJudges.] Second Citizen Who is he in scarlet? Is he theheadsman? Third Citizen Nay, he is the Lord Justice. [EnterGuido guarded.] Second Citizen There be the prisoner surely. Third Citizen He looks honest. First Citizen That be his villany: knaves nowadays do look sohonest that honest folk are forced to look like knaves so as tobe different. [Enter the Headman, whotakes his stand behindGuido.] Second Citizen Yon be the headsman then! O Lord! Is the axe sharp, think you? First Citizen Ay! sharper than thy wits are; but the edge isnot towards him, mark you. Second Citizen [scratching hisneck] I’ faith, I like it not so near. First Citizen Tut, thou need’st not be afraid; theynever cut the heads of common folk: they do but hang us. [Trumpets outside.] Third Citizen What are the trumpets for? Is the trialover? First Citizen Nay, ’tis for the Duchess. [Enter theDuchess inblack velvet; her train of flowered black velvet iscarried by two pages in violet; with her is theCardinal in scarlet, and thegentlemen of the Court in black; she takes her seat on thethrone above the Judges, who rise and take their caps offas she enters; theCardinalsits next to her a little lower; the Courtiers groupthemselves about the throne.] Second Citizen O poor lady, how pale she is! Will shesit there? First Citizen Ay! she is in the Duke’s place now. Second Citizen That is a good thing for Padua; the Duchess isa very kind and merciful Duchess; why, she cured my child of theague once. Third Citizen Ay, and has given us bread: do not forget thebread. A Soldier Stand back, good people. Second Citizen If we be good, why should we stand back? Tipstaff Silence in the Court! Lord Justice May it please your Grace, Guido It matters not, my lord. Lord Justice Guido Ferranti is thy name in Padua. Guido A man may die as well under that name as anyother. Lord Justice Thou art not ignorant Guido I say nothing. Lord Justice [rising] Guido Ferranti— Moranzone [stepping from thecrowd] Tarry, my Lord Justice. Lord Justice Who art thou that bid’st justice tarry,sir? Moranzone So be it justice it can go its way; Lord Justice Who is this? Count Bardi A very noble gentleman, and well known Lord Justice Sir, thou art come in time Moranzone My lord, Lord Justice [holding up thedagger] This dagger, Moranzone [takes the danger andapproaches theDuchess] Saw I not such a dagger [TheDuchess shudders and makes noanswer.] Ah! my Lord Justice, may I speak a moment Lord Justice Ay, willingly, my lord, and may you turn him [Lord Moranzone goes over toGuido, who stands R. and clutcheshim by the hand.] Moranzone [in a lowvoice] She did it! Nay, I saw it in her eyes. Guido Lord Moranzone, Lord Justice Doth he confess? Guido My lord, I do confess First Citizen Why, look at that: he has a pitiful heart, anddoes not like murder; they will let him go for that. Lord Justice Say you no more? Guido My lord, I say this also, Second Citizen Marry, he should tell that to the headsman:’tis a good sentiment. Guido Lastly, my lord, I do entreat the Court Lord Justice Thou hast leave to speak. Duchess [rising] I say he shall not speak: Lord Justice [showing her thestatute] Your Grace Duchess [waiving bookaside] Bethink you, my Lord Justice, Lord Justice My liege, the law. Duchess He shall not speak, but, with gags in hismouth, Lord Justice The law, my liege. Duchess We are not bound by law, Moranzone My Lord Justice, Lord Justice The Court needs not thy voice, LordMoranzone. Count Bardi I do not think your Grace can stay the law. Duchess Ay, it is well to preach and prate of law: Count Bardi Madam, I think you wrong our nobles here. Duchess I think I wrong them not. Which of youall Guido O God! Duchess Speak, my Lord Justice. Lord Justice Your Grace, it cannot be: Duchess This is no common murderer, Lord Justice, Maffio Now by Saint Paul Jeppo Vitellozzo There is much in this, listen. Duchess Wherefore now, Guido Unhand me, knaves! I tell thee, my LordJustice, Lord Justice Sir, this violence [TheDuchess smiles andGuido falls back with a gesture ofdespair.] Madam, myself, and these wise Justices, Duchess Go, my Lord Justice, search the statuteswell, Moranzone Go, my Lord Justice, search thy consciencewell, [Exit theLord Justice and the Judges.] Duchess Silence, thou evil genius of my life! Guido I shall not die till I have uttered voice. Duchess Thou shalt die silent, and thy secret withthee. Guido Art thou that Beatrice, Duchess of Padua? Duchess I am what thou hast made me; look at mewell, Maffio See, is she not Jeppo Hush! she may hear thy chatter. Headsman My young fellow, Guido This man, whose trade is death, hathcourtesies Headsman Why, God love you, sir, Guido My good Lord Cardinal, in a Christian land, Duchess Thou dost but waste thy time. Cardinal Alack, my son, Duchess Thou mayest speak to the confessional Guido My reverend father, Cardinal Nay, my son, Duchess And when in purgatory thou seest my Lord Guido O dear God! Moranzone This is the woman, is it, whom you loved? Cardinal Your Grace is very cruel to this man. Duchess No more than he was cruel to her Grace. Cardinal Yet mercy is the sovereign right ofprinces. Duchess I got no mercy, and I give it not. [TheDuchess weeps.] Jeppo Is it not strange Maffio It is most strange when women love theirlords, Jeppo What a philosopher thou art, Petrucci! Maffio Ay! I can bear the ills of other men, Duchess They tarry long, Cardinal It is most natural Duchess I would, old Cardinal, I could burn thathand; Cardinal Nay, the Church Duchess Forgiveness? what is that? I never gotit. [Enter theLord Justice.] Lord Justice Most gracious Lady, and our sovereign Liege, Duchess Proceed, sir, without compliment. Lord Justice We find, Duchess I thank thee, my Lord Justice, heartily; Lord Justice Ay, there is more, your Grace. Duchess Being of my Lord’s household, is hestranger here? Lord Justice Ay, until seven years of service spent Guido I thank thee, my Lord Justice, heartily; Second Citizen I like no law at all: First Citizen So they would; Tipstaff Ay! to the gallows, knave. Duchess Is this the law? Lord Justice It is the law most certainly, my liege. Duchess Show me the book: ’tis written inblood-red. Jeppo Look at the Duchess. Duchess Thou accursed law, [Tears out the page.] Come here, Count Bardi: are you honourable? Bardi To Venice, Madam? Duchess Not a word of this, Lord Justice Madam, you cannot stay a trial for blood. Duchess I will not tarry then to hear this man Lord Justice My liege, Duchess Cannot, Lord Justice? By what right doyou Lord Justice For that reason, Madam, Duchess What, wilt thou keep me here against mywill? Lord Justice We pray thy will be not against the law. Duchess What if I force my way out of the court? Lord Justice Thou canst not force the Court to give theeway. Duchess I will not tarry. [Rises from herseat.] Lord Justice Is the usher here? [The Usher closes the doors of the court, which areL., and when theDuchessand her retinue approach, kneels down.] Usher In all humility I beseech your Grace Duchess Is there no gentleman amongst you all Maffio [drawing hissword] Ay! that will I. Lord Justice Count Maffio, have a care, Duchess Sirs, put up your swords: [Goes back to throne.] Moranzone Now hast thou got thy enemy in thy hand. Lord Justice [taking thetime-glass up] Guido Ferranti, while the crumbling sand Guido It is enough, my lord. Lord Justice Thou standest on the extreme verge of death; Guido If I speak it not, Lord Justice [turns thetime-glass] Let there be silence while the prisonerspeaks. Tipstaff Silence in the Court there. Guido My Lords Justices, Lord Justice Have a care, Maffio By Saint James, Jeppo I always thought him noble. Guido I confess [To the Headsman.] Thou man of blood! Lord Justice The sand within the time-glass flows apace. Guido I will be brief: Last night at twelve o’the clock, Duchess [rising from herseat] Oh! Guido [hurriedly] I killed the Duke. Lord Justice Thy boon is granted, thou shalt dieto-night. [Guido is led off; as hegoes theDuchess stretches outher arms and rushes down the stage.] Duchess Guido! Guido! [Faints.] Tableau END OF ACT IV. SCENE A dungeon in the public prison of Padua; Guido liesasleep on a pallet(L.C.); a table with a goblet onit is set(L.C.); five soldiers are drinking andplaying dice in the corner on a stone table; one of themhas a lantern hung to his halbert; a torch is set in thewall over Guido’s head. Two grated windowsbehind, one on each side of the door which is(C.), look out into the passage; the stage israther dark. First Soldier [throwsdice] Sixes again! good Pietro. Second Soldier I’ faith, lieutenant, I will play withthee no more. I will lose everything. Third Soldier Except thy wits; thou art safe there! Second Soldier Ay, ay, he cannot take them from me. Third Soldier No; for thou hast no wits to give him. The Soldiers [loudly] Ha! ha! ha! First Soldier Silence! You will wake the prisoner; heis asleep. Second Soldier What matter? He will get sleep enoughwhen he is buried. I warrant he’d be glad if we couldwake him when he’s in the grave. Third Soldier Nay! for when he wakes there it will bejudgment day. Second Soldier Ay, and he has done a grievous thing; for, lookyou, to murder one of us who are but flesh and blood is a sin,and to kill a Duke goes being near against the law. First Soldier Well, well, he was a wicked Duke. Second Soldier And so he should not have touched him; if onemeddles with wicked people, one is like to be tainted with theirwickedness. Third Soldier Ay, that is true. How old is theprisoner? Second Soldier Old enough to do wrong, and not old enough tobe wise. First Soldier Why, then, he might be any age. Second Soldier They say the Duchess wanted to pardon him. First Soldier Is that so? Second Soldier Ay, and did much entreat the Lord Justice, buthe would not. First Soldier I had thought, Pietro, that the Duchess wasomnipotent. Second Soldier True, she is well-favoured; I know none socomely. The Soldiers Ha! ha! ha! First Soldier I meant I had thought our Duchess could doanything. Second Soldier Nay, for he is now given over to the Justices,and they will see that justice be done; they and stout Hugh theheadsman; but when his head is off, why then the Duchess canpardon him if she likes; there is no law against that. First Soldier I do not think that stout Hugh, as you callhim, will do the business for him after all. This Guido isof gentle birth, and so by the law can drink poison first, if itso be his pleasure. Third Soldier And if he does not drink it? First Soldier Why, then, they will kill him. [Knocking comes at thedoor.] First Soldier See who that is. [Third Soldier goes over andlooks through the wicket.] Third Soldier It is a woman, sir. First Soldier Is she pretty? Third Soldier I can’t tell. She is masked,lieutenant. First Soldier It is only very ugly or very beautiful womenwho ever hide their faces. Let her in. [Soldier opens the door,and theDuchess masked andcloaked enters.] Duchess [to ThirdSoldier] Are you the officer on guard? First Soldier [comingforward] I am, madam. Duchess I must see the prisoner alone. First Soldier I am afraid that is impossible. [TheDuchess hands him aring, he looks at and returns it to her with a bow andmakes a sign to the Soldiers.] Stand without there. [Exeunt the Soldiers.] Duchess Officer, your men are somewhat rough. First Soldier They mean no harm. Duchess I shall be going back in a few minutes. As I pass through the corridor do not let them try and lift mymask. First Soldier You need not be afraid, madam. Duchess I have a particular reason for wishing my facenot to be seen. First Soldier Madam, with this ring you can go in and out asyou please; it is the Duchess’s own ring. Duchess Leave us. [The Soldier turns to goout.] A moment, sir. For what hour is . . . First Soldier At twelve o’clock, madam, we have ordersto lead him out; but I dare say he won’t wait for us;he’s more like to take a drink out of that poisonyonder. Men are afraid of the headsman. Duchess Is that poison? First Soldier Ay, madam, and very sure poison too. Duchess You may go, sir. First Soldier By Saint James, a pretty hand! I wonderwho she is. Some woman who loved him, perhaps. [Exit.] Duchess [taking her markoff] At last! [Goes over to the table.] So this is poison. [Takes the cup up.] It smells of poppies. I remember well [Takes the torch from thewall, and goes over to the bed.] How peacefully here he sleeps, [Comes back to thetable.] What if I drank these juices, and so ceased? [Bell begins to toll.] Thou vile bell, [Drinks poison, and sets the cup down on the tablebehind her: the noise wakensGuido, who starts up, and does notsee what she has done. There is silence for aminute, each looking at the other.] I do not come to ask your pardon now, Guido [takes ring and kissesit] Ay! gladly, Madam. Duchess And leave Padua. Guido Leave Padua. Duchess But it must be to-night. Guido To-night it shall be. Duchess Oh, thank God for that! Guido So I can live; life never seemed so sweet Duchess Do not tarry, Guido, Guido Ay! he will come soon enough. Duchess Who? Guido [calmly] Why, the headsman. Duchess No, no. Guido Only he Duchess You dare not! Guido Madam, I wait. Duchess No, no, you cannot: you do not understand, Guido Madam, I tarry here. Duchess Guido, you shall not: it would be a thing Guido Be sure I shall not stir. Duchess [wringing herhands] Is one sin not enough, but must it breed Guido [seizing her hand] What! am I fallen so low Duchess [tearing her handaway] Die for me?—no, my life is a vilething, Guido Guilty?—let those Duchess Alas! Guido [falling at herfeet] You are my lady, and you are my love! [Duchessputs her hands over her face: Guido draws them down.] Sweet, lift up Duchess Alas! I have no right Guido Sweet, it was not yourself, Duchess [risingsuddenly] No, no, Guido Then let high Paradise Duchess Ay! Guido Nay, nay, nay, [Tries to kiss her.] Duchess No, no, your lips are pure, and mine aresoiled, Guido [aside] That is the signal for the guard to come. Duchess Why has the bell stopped ringing? Guido If you must know, Duchess No, no, ’tis not too late: you must gethence; [Noise of Soldiers in thepassage.] A Voice Outside Room for the Lord Justice of Padua! [TheLord Justice is seenthrough the grated window passing down the corridor preceded bymen bearing torches.] Duchess It is too late. A Voice Outside Room for the headsman. Duchess [sinks down] Oh! [The Headsman with his axe on his shoulder is seen passingthe corridor, followed by Monks bearing candles.] Guido Farewell, dear love, for I must drink thispoison. [Goes to the table and takes thegoblet up.] What, art thou empty? [Throws it to theground.] O thou churlish gaoler, Duchess [faintly] Blame him not. Guido O God! you have not drunk it, Beatrice? Duchess Were I to deny it, Guido O treacherous love, Duchess No, no, it held but death enough for one. Guido Is there no poison still upon your lips, Duchess Why should you die? Guido Tarry for me, Duchess Nay, you must live. Guido I love you only. Duchess You need not die for that. Guido Ah, if we die together, love, why then Duchess A grave is but a narrow wedding-bed. Guido It is enough for us Duchess And they will strew it Guido Ah! dear Beatrice, Duchess Nay, if we lie together, will not my lips Guido I do not care: Death has no power on love. Duchess But the grave is black, [ThrustsGuido in front of her with his back tothe audience.] I will kiss you, Guido O God! Duchess You did not tell me Guido O Love! Duchess Send for a leech, Guido O damnéd stars Duchess Guido, why are we here? I think thisroom [The Monks begin to chantoutside.] Music! It should be merrier; but grief Guido Sweet, there is nothing there: Duchess Death, Guido I swear I would not have lived otherwise. Duchess Then you are not sorry? Guido What, Beatrice, have I not Duchess Oh, I have been Guido They do not sin at all Duchess No, I have sinned, and yet [They kiss each other now for the first time in thisAct, when suddenly theDuchess leaps up in the dreadful spasm ofdeath, tears in agony at her dress, andfinally, with face twisted and distorted with pain,falls back dead in a chair. Guido seizing her dagger from herbelt, kills himself; and, as he falls acrossher knees, clutches at the cloak which is on the back ofthe chair, and throws it entirely over her. There is a little pause. Then down the passagecomes the tramp of Soldiers; the door is opened,and theLord Justice, theHeadsman, and the Guard enter and see this figure shroudedin black, andGuidolying dead across her. TheLord Justice rushes forward and drags thecloak off theDuchess, whoseface is now the marble image of peace, the sign ofGod’s forgiveness.] Tableau Curtain Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His MajestyTHE
DUCHESS OF PADUA
OSCAR WILDE
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDONTHE PERSONS OF THE PLAY
THE SCENES OF THE PLAY
ACT I
Thou art the same in mould and lineament,
Carriage and form, and outward semblances;
I trust thou art in noble mind the same.
But for this moment.
Has followed me to Padua; as two brothers,
There is no secret which we do not share.
Bid him go hence.
He does not know that nothing in this world
Can dim the perfect mirror of our love.
Within the hour come.
There is a dreadful terror in his look.
That I am some great Lord of Italy,
And we will have long days of joy together.
Within the hour, dear Ascanio.
Stood he tall?
I warrant he looked tall upon his horse.
His hair was black? or perhaps a reddish gold,
Like a red fire of gold? Was his voice low?
The very bravest men have voices sometimes
Full of low music; or a clarion was it
That brake with terror all his enemies?
Did he ride singly? or with many squires
And valiant gentlemen to serve his state?
For oftentimes methinks I feel my veins
Beat with the blood of kings. Was he a king?
He was set high above the heads of men?
Set for his neck.
That like a raven, or the midnight owl,
Com’st with this awful message from the grave?
Lord of a barren castle on a rock,
With a few acres of unkindly land
And six not thrifty servants. But I was one
Of Parma’s noblest princes; more than that,
I was your father’s friend.
He was the Prince of Parma, and the Duke
Of all the fair domains of Lombardy
Down to the gates of Florence; nay, Florence even
Was wont to pay him tribute—
O noble lion of war, that would not suffer
Injustice done in Italy!—he led
The very flower of chivalry against
That foul adulterous Lord of Rimini,
Giovanni Malatesta—whom God curse!
And was by him in treacherous ambush taken,
And like a villain, or a low-born knave,
Was by him on the public scaffold murdered.
Couldst thou not wait for me a little space,
And I had done thy bidding!
The man who sold thy father is alive.
Like a vile chattel, for a price betrayed,
Bartered and bargained for in privy market
By one whom he had held his perfect friend,
One he had trusted, one he had well loved,
One whom by ties of kindness he had bound—
Who sold my father?
This world thy field of blood, so buy it straight-way,
For thou must hang there.
Yes, Judas in his treachery, but still
He was more wise than Judas was, and held
Those thirty silver pieces not enough.
Why cities, fiefs, and principalities,
Vineyards, and lands.
Six feet of ground to rot in. Where is he,
This damned villain, this foul devil? where?
Show me the man, and come he cased in steel,
In complete panoply and pride of war,
Ay, guarded by a thousand men-at-arms,
Yet I shall reach him through their spears, and feel
The last black drop of blood from his black heart
Crawl down my blade. Show me the man, I say,
And I will kill him.
Death is the common heritage of all,
And death comes best when it comes suddenly.
For you shall sell the seller in his turn.
I will make you of his household, you shall sit
At the same board with him, eat of his bread—
Revenge will make it sweet. Thou shalt o’ nights
Pledge him in wine, drink from his cup, and be
His intimate, so he will fawn on thee,
Love thee, and trust thee in all secret things.
If he bid thee be merry thou must laugh,
And if it be his humour to be sad
Thou shalt don sables. Then when the time isripe—
Undisciplined nature, and too violent rage
Will never tarry for this great revenge,
But wreck itself on passion.
Tell me the man, and I in everything
Will do thy bidding.
The victim trusting and the occasion sure,
I will by sudden secret messenger
Send thee a sign.
But if he sleep see that thou wake him first,
And hold thy hand upon his throat, ay! that way,
Then having told him of what blood thou art,
Sprung from what father, and for what revenge,
Bid him to pray for mercy; when he prays,
Bid him to set a price upon his life,
And when he strips himself of all his gold
Tell him thou needest not gold, and hast not mercy,
And do thy business straight away. Swear to me
Thou wilt not kill him till I bid thee do it,
Or else I go to mine own house, and leave
Thee ignorant, and thy father unavenged.
Brake that in sunder in the public square.
Your noble father lieth in no grave,
I saw his dust strewn on the air, his ashes
Whirled through the windy streets like common straws
To plague a beggar’s eyesight, and his head,
That gentle head, set on the prison spike,
For the vile rabble in their insolence
To shoot their tongues at.
Then by my father’s spotless memory,
And by the shameful manner of his death,
And by the base betrayal by his friend,
For these at least remain, by these I swear
I will not lay my hand upon his life
Until you bid me, then—God help his soul,
For he shall die as never dog died yet.
And now, the sign, what is it?
It was your father’s.
I do remember now my reputed uncle,
That good old husbandman I left at home,
Told me a cloak wrapped round me when a babe
Bare too such yellow leopards wrought in gold;
I like them best in steel, as they are here,
They suit my purpose better. Tell me, sir,
Have you no message from my father to me?
For when by his false friend he had been sold,
Alone of all his gentlemen I escaped
To bear the news to Parma to the Duchess.
Heard my black news, she fell into a swoon,
And, being with untimely travail seized—
Bare thee into the world before thy time,
And then her soul went heavenward, to wait
Thy father, at the gates of Paradise.
I seem to stand on some beleaguered wall,
And messenger comes after messenger
With a new tale of terror; give me breath,
Mine ears are tired.
Fearing our enemies, I gave it out
Thou wert dead also, and then privily
Conveyed thee to an ancient servitor,
Who by Perugia lived; the rest thou knowest.
In mean attire, like a vineyard dresser,
I stole to Rimini.
And so I bought the gaolers! when your father
Heard that a man child had been born to him,
His noble face lit up beneath his helm
Like a great fire seen far out at sea,
And taking my two hands, he bade me, Guido,
To rear you worthy of him; so I have reared you
To revenge his death upon the friend who sold him.
And now his name?
You have each gesture that your father had.
The Duke and other nobles at the Court
Are coming hither.
Of honourable, honest gentlemen?
Is he who sold your father! mark me well.
Hast thou so soon forgotten? [Kneels to theDuke.]
My noble Lord.
Since we have seen you here in Padua.
We hunted near your castle yesterday—
Call you it castle? that bleak house of yours
Wherein you sit a-mumbling o’er your beads,
Telling your vices like a good old man.
Who being now of age to carry arms,
Would for a season tarry at your Court
But he died childless. Are you honest, boy?
Then be not spendthrift of your honesty,
But keep it to yourself; in Padua
Men think that honesty is ostentatious, so
It is not of the fashion. Look at these lords.
Although, to do them justice, some of them
Are quite expensive.
Is not a thing should ever be encouraged,
Although, in this dull stupid age of ours,
The most eccentric thing a man can do
Is to have brains, then the mob mocks at him;
And for the mob, despise it as I do,
I hold its bubble praise and windy favours
In such account, that popularity
Is the one insult I have never suffered.
Be not too hasty; act on the second thought,
First impulses are generally good.
Else will the world think very little of thee;
It is its test of power; yet see thou show’st
A smiling mask of friendship to all men,
Until thou hast them safely in thy grip,
Then thou canst crush them.
That for thyself dost dig so deep a grave.
With nothing in them make a sorry show.
If you would have the lion’s share of life
You must wear the fox’s skin. Oh, it will fit you;
It is a coat which fitteth every man.
I would not have about me shallow fools,
Who with mean scruples weigh the gold of life,
And faltering, paltering, end by failure; failure,
The only crime which I have not committed:
I would have menabout me. As for conscience,
Conscience is but the name which cowardice
Fleeing from battle scrawls upon its shield.
You understand me, boy?
And will in all things carry out the creed
Which you have taught me.
So much in the vein for preaching; let the Cardinal
Look to his laurels, sir.
Men follow my creed, and they gabble his.
I do not think much of the Cardinal;
Although he is a holy churchman, and
I quite admit his dulness. Well, sir, from now
We count you of our household
That you are furnished with such equipage
As doth befit your honour and our state.
What is your name?
When such a gallant comes to Padua.
Thou dost well to laugh, Count Bardi; I have noted
How merry is that husband by whose hearth
Sits an uncomely wife.
The wives of Padua are above suspicion.
This Cardinal detains our pious Duchess;
His sermon and his beard want cutting both:
Will you come with us, sir, and hear a text
From holy Jerome?
Come, gentlemen.
I kissed his hand.
Thou wilt not see me till the time is ripe.
When it is time; be ready.
Both from your heart and Padua.
Not from my heart.
I will not leave thee till I see thee do it.
Thou need’st no other.
And never look upon my face again.
’Tis true I am a common yeoman’s son,
Nor versed in fashions of much courtesy;
But, if you are nobly born, cannot I be
Your serving man? I will tend you with more love
Than any hired servant.
I thought the friendship of the antique world
Was not yet dead, but that the Roman type
Might even in this poor and common age
Find counterparts of love; then by this love
Which beats between us like a summer sea,
Whatever lot has fallen to your hand
May I not share it?
Of lordly castle, or of stored-up gold?
O bloody legacy! and O murderous dole!
Which, like the thrifty miser, must I hoard,
And to my own self keep; and so, I pray you,
Let us part here.
Sit hand in hand, as we were wont to sit,
Over some book of ancient chivalry
Stealing a truant holiday from school,
Follow the huntsmen through the autumn woods,
And watch the falcons burst their tasselled jesses,
When the hare breaks from covert.
Why should we waste more words about the matter
Let us part now.
To-day my life begins. Farewell.
My dearest friend, and my most loved companion,
Thrust from me like a common kitchen knave!
Oh, that I did it! Are you not satisfied?
Do not forget the sign, your father’s dagger,
And do the business when I send it to you.
If there is aught of nature in my soul,
Of gentle pity, or fond kindliness,
Wither it up, blast it, bring it to nothing,
Or if thou wilt not, then will I myself
Cut pity with a sharp knife from my heart
And strangle mercy in her sleep at night
Lest she speak to me. Vengeance there I have it.
Be thou my comrade and my bedfellow,
Sit by my side, ride to the chase with me,
When I am weary sing me pretty songs,
When I am light o’ heart, make jest with me,
And when I dream, whisper into my ear
The dreadful secret of a father’s murder—
Did I say murder? [Draws his dagger.]
Listen, thou terrible God!
Thou God that punishest all broken oaths,
And bid some angel write this oath in fire,
That from this hour, till my dear father’s murder
In blood I have revenged, I do forswear
The noble ties of honourable friendship,
The noble joys of dear companionship,
Affection’s bonds, and loyal gratitude,
Ay, more, from this same hour I do forswear
All love of women, and the barren thing
Which men call beauty—ACT II
Why, she is worse than ugly, she is good.
Who every moment grow more clamorous.
People who shout so loud, my lords, do nothing;
The only men I fear are silent men.
And tell the captain of the guard below
To clear the square. Do you not hear me, sir?
Do what I bid you.
To listen to their grievances.
Are not so big this year as they were last.
I crave your pardon, my lord Cardinal,
I thought you spake of peaches.
And stands between the people and the guard,
And will not let them shoot.
Has come into the Palace.
Our Duchess waxes bold!
Such common things as neither you nor I,
Nor any of these noble gentlemen,
Have ever need at all to think about;
They say the bread, the very bread they eat,
Is made of sorry chaff.
Nothing but chaff.
I give it to my horses.
Set in the public cisterns for their use,
[Has, through the breaking of the aqueduct,]
To stagnant pools and muddy puddles turned.
Take at the city gate are grown so high
We cannot buy wine.
In gorgeous pomp and state, gaunt poverty
Creeps through their sunless lanes, and with sharp knives
Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily
And no word said.
My little son died yesternight from hunger;
He was but six years old; I am so poor,
I cannot bury him.
Are you not blessed in that? Why, poverty
Is one of the Christian virtues,
I know, Lord Cardinal, you have great revenues,
Rich abbey-lands, and tithes, and large estates
For preaching voluntary poverty.
While we sit here within a noble house
[With shaded porticoes against the sun,
And walls and roofs to keep the winter out],
There are many citizens of Padua
Who in vile tenements live so full of holes,
That the chill rain, the snow, and the rude blast,
Are tenants also with them; others sleep
Under the arches of the public bridges
All through the autumn nights, till the wet mist
Stiffens their limbs, and fevers come, and so—
They should thank me for sending them to Heaven,
If they are wretched here. [To theCardinal.]
Is it not said
Somewhere in Holy Writ, that every man
Should be contented with that state of life
God calls him to? Why should I change their state,
Or meddle with an all-wise providence,
Which has apportioned that some men should starve,
And others surfeit? I did not make the world.
I think the Cardinal will speak for us.
Yet it is Christian also to be kind,
And there seem many evils in this town,
Which in your wisdom might your Grace reform.
There is a man in Germany called Luther,
Who would reform the Holy Catholic Church.
Have you not made him heretic, and uttered
Anathema, maranatha, against him?
We do but ask of you to feed the sheep.
As for these rebels— [Duchess entreats him.]
He means to give us something.
With mouths chock-full of treason.
Fill up our mouths with bread; we’ll hold our tongues.
My lords, this age is so familiar grown,
That the low peasant hardly doffs his hat,
Unless you beat him; and the raw mechanic
Elbows the noble in the public streets.
And to refuse so beautiful a beggar
Were to lack both courtesy and love,
Touching your grievances, I promise this—
Shall, after Holy Mass, preach you a sermon
Upon the Beauty of Obedience.
You have nothing to eat with it.
You see I have no power with the Duke,
But if you go into the court without,
My almoner shall from my private purse,
Divide a hundred ducats ’mongst you all.
For those who lack it.
Will you not cry for me God save the Duke?
Here is another ducat for you.
Touches me much. [To the Citizen,harshly.]
Go! [Exit Citizen, bowing.]
This is the way, my lords,
You can buy popularity nowadays.
Oh, we are nothing if not democratic!
You spread rebellion ’midst our citizens.
The right to pity, and the right to mercy.
The gentle Duchess for whose hand I yielded
Three of the fairest towns in Italy,
Pisa, and Genoa, and Orvieto.
Brake you your word as ever.
There were state reasons.
For breaking holy promises to a state?
Close to the city: when I promised Pisa
Unto your noble and most trusting father,
I had forgotten there was hunting there.
At Genoa they say,
Indeed I doubt them not, that the red mullet
Runs larger in the harbour of that town
Than anywhere in Italy.
Whose gluttonous appetite is your only god,
Could satisfy our Duchess on that point.
Why I did not surrender Orvieto
According to the word of my contract.
Maybe it was because I did not choose.
’Tis many a dusty league to your grey France,
And even there your father barely keeps
A hundred ragged squires for his Court.
What hope have you, I say? Which of these lords
And noble gentlemen of Padua
Stands by your side.
While I am Duke in Padua: listen, Madam,
Being mine own, you shall do as I will,
And if it be my will you keep the house,
Why then, this palace shall your prison be;
And if it be my will you walk abroad,
Why, you shall take the air from morn to night.
Asked the same question once: her monument
Lies in the chapel of Bartholomew,
Wrought in red marble; very beautiful.
Guido, your arm. Come, gentlemen, let us go
And spur our falcons for the mid-day chase.
Bethink you, Madam, you are here alone.
Deserted, and dishonoured, and defamed,
Stood ever woman so alone indeed?
Men when they woo us call us pretty children,
Tell us we have not wit to make our lives,
And so they mar them for us. Did I say woo?
We are their chattels, and their common slaves,
Less dear than the poor hound that licks their hand,
Less fondled than the hawk upon their wrist.
Woo, did I say? bought rather, sold and bartered,
Our very bodies being merchandise.
I know it is the general lot of women,
Each miserably mated to some man
Wrecks her own life upon his selfishness:
That it is general makes it not less bitter.
I think I never heard a woman laugh,
Laugh for pure merriment, except one woman,
That was at night time, in the public streets.
Poor soul, she walked with painted lips, and wore
The mask of pleasure: I would not laugh like her;
No, death were better.
Bending between the little angel heads
That hover round you, have you no help for me?
Mother of God, have you no help for me?
This is my love, and I will speak to her.
Lady, am I a stranger to your prayers?
Does not the Duke show thee sufficient honour?
Whom my soul loathes as I loathe wickedness,
But come to proffer on my bended knees,
My loyal service to thee unto death.
I can but give thee a poor meed of thanks.
If I have been too daring, pardon me!
Thy beauty sets my boyish blood aflame,
And, when my reverent lips touch thy white hand,
Each little nerve with such wild passion thrills
That there is nothing which I would not do
To gain thy love. [Leaps up.]
Bid me reach forth and pluck
Perilous honour from the lion’s jaws,
And I will wrestle with the Nemean beast
On the bare desert! Fling to the cave of War
A gaud, a ribbon, a dead flower, something
That once has touched thee, and I’ll bring it back
Though all the hosts of Christendom were there,
Inviolate again! ay, more than this,
Set me to scale the pallid white-faced cliffs
Of mighty England, and from that arrogant shield
Will I raze out the lilies of your France
Which England, that sea-lion of the sea,
Hath taken from her!
O dear Beatrice,
Drive me not from thy presence! without thee
The heavy minutes crawl with feet of lead,
But, while I look upon thy loveliness,
The hours fly like winged Mercuries
And leave existence golden.
I should be ever loved: do you indeed
Love me so much as now you say you do?
Ask of the roses if they love the rain,
Ask of the little lark, that will not sing
Till day break, if it loves to see the day:—
And yet, these are but empty images,
Mere shadows of my love, which is a fire
So great that all the waters of the main
Can not avail to quench it. Will you not speak?
Must I say all at once? ’Twere a good lesson
If I did love you, sir; but, if I do not,
What shall I say then?
Say, none the less, you do, for on your tongue
Falsehood for very shame would turn to truth.
Lovers are happiest when they are in doubt
Why, let me die for joy and not for doubt.
Oh, tell me may I stay, or must I go?
For if you stay you steal my love from me,
And if you go you take my love away.
Guido, though all the morning stars could sing
They could not tell the measure of my love.
I love you, Guido.
I thought the nightingale sang but at night;
Or if thou needst must cease, then let my lips
Touch the sweet lips that can such music make.
I have it not: the first day that I saw you
I let you take my heart away from me;
Unwilling thief, that without meaning it
Did break into my fenced treasury
And filch my jewel from it! O strange theft,
Which made you richer though you knew it not,
And left me poorer, and yet glad of it!
Let me unlock those little scarlet doors
That shut in music, let me dive for coral
In your red lips, and I’ll bear back a prize
Richer than all the gold the Gryphon guards
In rude Armenia.
And what I have is yours, and what I have not
Your fancy lends me, like a prodigal
Spending its wealth on what is nothing worth.
The gentle violet hides beneath its leaf
And is afraid to look at the great sun
For fear of too much splendour, but my eyes,
O daring eyes! are grown so venturous
That like fixed stars they stand, gazing at you,
And surfeit sense with beauty.
You could look upon me ever, for your eyes
Are polished mirrors, and when I peer
Into those mirrors I can see myself,
And so I know my image lives in you.
And make this hour immortal! [A pause.]
A little lower than me: yes, just so, sweet,
That I may run my fingers through your hair,
And see your face turn upwards like a flower
To meet my kiss.
Have you not sometimes noted,
When we unlock some long-disuséd room
With heavy dust and soiling mildew filled,
Where never foot of man has come for years,
And from the windows take the rusty bar,
And fling the broken shutters to the air,
And let the bright sun in, how the good sun
Turns every grimy particle of dust
Into a little thing of dancing gold?
Guido, my heart is that long-empty room,
But you have let love in, and with its gold
Gilded all life. Do you not think that love
Fills up the sum of life?
Life is no better than the unhewn stone
Which in the quarry lies, before the sculptor
Has set the God within it. Without love
Life is as silent as the common reeds
That through the marshes or by rivers grow,
And have no music in them.
The singer, who is Love, will make a pipe
And from them he draws music; so I think
Love will bring music out of any life.
Is that not true?
There are men who paint pictures, and carve statues,
Paul of Verona and the dyer’s son,
Or their great rival, who, by the sea at Venice,
Has set God’s little maid upon the stair,
White as her own white lily, and as tall,
Or Raphael, whose Madonnas are divine
Because they are mothers merely; yet I think
Women are the best artists of the world,
For they can take the common lives of men
Soiled with the money-getting of our age,
And with love make them beautiful.
I wish that you and I were very poor;
The poor, who love each other, are so rich.
That when I was a child in my dear France,
Being at Court at Fontainebleau, the King
Wore such a collar.
Yet he was not royal as you are.
Why need I tell you, Guido, that I love you?
Body and soul?
Look at us through the doorway.
The passing shadow of the man on guard.
Who are in Love’s hand? I do not think I’dcare
Though the vile world should with its lackey Slander
Trample and tread upon my life; why should I?
They say the common field-flowers of the field
Have sweeter scent when they are trodden on
Than when they bloom alone, and that some herbs
Which have no perfume, on being bruiséd die
With all Arabia round them; so it is
With the young lives this dull world seeks to crush,
It does but bring the sweetness out of them,
And makes them lovelier often. And besides,
While we have love we have the best of life:
Is it not so?
I think that I could sing now.
For there are times when all existences
Seem narrowed to one single ecstasy,
And Passion sets a seal upon the lips.
You love me, Beatrice?
I should so love mine enemy?
Poor heart, that lived its little lonely life
Until it met your arrow.
I am so wounded by that bolt myself
That with untended wounds I lie a-dying,
Unless you cure me, dear Physician.
With the same malady.
See, I must steal the cuckoo’s voice, and tell
The one tale over.
For, if that is the little cuckoo’s song,
The nightingale is hoarse, and the loud lark
Has lost its music.
Who would have you wear her favour; I am so jealous
I will not give up the least part in you,
But like a miser keep you to myself,
And spoil you perhaps in keeping.
A dagger with two leopards wrought in steel?
If I can’t see the porter’s livery
Who left it at the gate! I will not rest
Till I have learned your secret.
Had I so soon forgot my father’s death,
Did I so soon let love into my heart,
And must I banish love, and let in murder
That beats and clamours at the outer gate?
Ay, that I must! Have I not sworn an oath?
Yet not to-night; nay, it must be to-night.
Farewell then all the joy and light of life,
All dear recorded memories, farewell,
Farewell all love! Could I with bloody hands
Fondle and paddle with her innocent hands?
Could I with lips fresh from this butchery
Play with her lips? Could I with murderous eyes
Look in those violet eyes, whose purity
Would strike men blind, and make each eyeball reel
In night perpetual? No, murder has set
A barrier between us far too high
For us to kiss across it.
You must forget that name, and banish me
Out of your life for ever.
We dare not pass.
So that you are beside me.
I cannot be beside you, cannot breathe
The air you breathe; I cannot any more
Stand face to face with beauty, which unnerves
My shaking heart, and makes my desperate hand
Fail of its purpose. Let me go hence, I pray;
Forget you ever looked upon me.
With your hot kisses fresh upon my lips
Forget the vows of love you made to me?
For they are part of nature now; the air
Is tremulous with their music, and outside
The little birds sing sweeter for those vows.
Which then I knew not, or I had forgot.
In poor attire, and will follow you
Over the world.
To hold us two! Farewell, farewell for ever.
Or in the desolate garden of my heart
Sow that white flower of love—?
Though each small fibre doth so hold my heart
That if you break one, my heart breaks with it?
Why did you come into my life? Why open
The secret wells of love I had sealed up?
Why did you open them—?
The floodgates of my passion swell and burst
Till, like the wave when rivers overflow
That sweeps the forest and the farm away,
Love in the splendid avalanche of its might
Swept my life with it? Must I drop by drop
Gather these waters back and seal them up?
Alas! Each drop will be a tear, and so
Will with its saltness make life very bitter.
Forth from your life and love, and make a way
On which you cannot follow.
That sailors dying of thirst upon a raft,
Poor castaways upon a lonely sea,
Dream of green fields and pleasant water-courses,
And then wake up with red thirst in their throats,
And die more miserably because sleep
Has cheated them: so they die cursing sleep
For having sent them dreams: I will not curse you
Though I am cast away upon the sea
Which men call Desolation.
There is no answer?
Save one thing only, which shall die to-night!
Why did he say there was a barrier?
There is no barrier between us two.
He lied to me, and shall I for that reason
Loathe what I love, and what I worshipped, hate?
I think we women do not love like that.
For if I cut his image from my heart,
My heart would, like a bleeding pilgrim, follow
That image through the world, and call it back
With little cries of love.
You keep my dogs waiting.
Why, I could set you on a sorry jade
And lead you through the town, till the low rabble
You feed toss up their hats and mock at you.
And have no need on you to waste kind words.
You will stay here, and like a faithful wife
Watch from the window for our coming back.
Were it not dreadful if some accident
By chance should happen to your loving Lord?
Come, gentlemen, my hounds begin to chafe,
And I chafe too, having a patient wife.
Where is young Guido?
For a full hour past.
I dare say I shall see him soon enough.
Well, Madam, you will sit at home and spin.
I do protest, sirs, the domestic virtues
Are often very beautiful in others.
And thus to-night when my Lord lieth asleep,
Will I fall upon my dagger, and so cease.
My heart is such a stone nothing can reach it
Except the dagger’s edge: let it go there,
To find what name it carries: ay! to-night
Death will divorce the Duke; and yet to-night
He may die also, he is very old.
Why should he not die? Yesterday his hand
Shook with a palsy: men have died from palsy,
And why not he? Are there not fevers also,
Agues and chills, and other maladies
Most incident to old age?
No, no, he will not die, he is too sinful;
Honest men die before their proper time.
Good men will die: men by whose side the Duke
In all the sick pollution of his life
Seems like a leper: women and children die,
But the Duke will not die, he is too sinful.
Oh, can it be
There is some immortality in sin,
Which virtue has not? And does the wicked man
Draw life from what to other men were death,
Like poisonous plants that on corruption live?
No, no, I think God would not suffer that:
Yet the Duke will not die: he is too sinful.
But I will die alone, and on this night
Grim Death shall be my bridegroom, and the tomb
My secret house of pleasure: well, what of that?
The world’s a graveyard, and we each, like coffins,
Within us bear a skeleton.
I cannot find him anywhere.
’Twas thou who took my love away from me.
Oh, give him back to me, give him back, I say,
Or I will tear your body limb from limb,
And to the common gibbet nail your head
Until the carrion crows have stripped it bare.
Better you had crossed a hungry lioness
Before you came between me and my love.
Here by this chair he knelt a half hour since;
’Twas there he stood, and there he looked at me;
This is the hand he kissed, and these the ears
Into whose open portals he did pour
A tale of love so musical that all
The birds stopped singing! Oh, give him back to me.
Wither the tongue that says so! Give him back.
Neither to-night, nor any other night.
I think I never harmed a little child.
What should Revenge do coming to my door?
It matters not, for Death is there already,
Waiting with his dim torch to light my way.
’Tis true men hate thee, Death, and yet I think
Thou wilt be kinder to me than my lover,
And so dispatch the messengers at once,
Harry the lazy steeds of lingering day,
And let the night, thy sister, come instead,
And drape the world in mourning; let the owl,
Who is thy minister, scream from his tower
And wake the toad with hooting, and the bat,
That is the slave of dim Persephone,
Wheel through the sombre air on wandering wing!
Tear up the shrieking mandrakes from the earth
And bid them make us music, and tell the mole
To dig deep down thy cold and narrow bed,
For I shall lie within thine arms to-night.ACT III
I thought that every gust would break the cords!
Great thunder in the heavens, and wild lightnings
Striking from pinnacle to pinnacle
Across the city, till the dim houses seem
To shudder and to shake as each new glare
Dashes adown the street.
That sittest on the stair, like unto Death
Waiting a guilty soul? [A pause.]
Canst thou not speak?
Or has this storm laid palsy on thy tongue,
And chilled thy utterance?
Thy murdered father laughs for joy to-night.
That you may know the thing I mean to do.
Listen: I have set horses at the gate
Which leads to Parma: when you have done your business
We will ride hence, and by to-morrow night—
I am resolved not to kill this man.
It cannot be but age has dulled my powers,
I am an old man now: what did you say?
You said that with that dagger in your belt
You would avenge your father’s bloody murder;
Did you not say that?
I was resolved not to kill the Duke.
Or else this midnight air o’ercharged with storm
Alters your message in the giving it.
My father would be glad to see me coming,
This old man’s blood still hot upon mine hands?
There is better knowledge in the other world;
Vengeance is God’s, let God himself revenge.
God hath no minister but his own hand.
I will not kill this man.
If not to kill him, then?
I purpose to ascend to the Duke’s chamber,
And as he lies asleep lay on his breast
The dagger and this writing; when he awakes
Then he will know who held him in his power
And slew him not: this is the noblest vengeance
Which I can take.
Who sufferest this man who sold that father
To live an hour.
I would have killed him in the open square,
The day I saw him first.
Now it is time, and, like some green-faced girl,
Thou pratest of forgiveness.
The right revenge my father’s son should take.
Take out the knife, get to the Duke’s chamber,
And bring me back his heart upon the blade.
When he is dead, then you can talk to me
Of noble vengeances.
And by the love thou bearest my father’s name,
Dost thou think my father, that great gentleman,
That generous soldier, that most chivalrous lord,
Would have crept at night-time, like a common thief,
And stabbed an old man sleeping in his bed,
However he had wronged him: tell me that.
Boy, do you think I do not know your secret,
Your traffic with the Duchess?
The very moon in heaven is not more chaste.
Nor the white stars so pure.
Weak fool, to let love in upon your life,
Save as a plaything.
Within your veins, old man, the pulse of youth
Throbs with no ardour. Your eyes full of rheum
Have against Beauty closed their filmy doors,
And your clogged ears, losing their natural sense,
Have shut you from the music of the world.
You talk of love! You know not what it is.
Swore I would live on kisses and on blisses,
Swore I would die for love, and did not die,
Wrote love bad verses; ay, and sung them badly,
Like all true lovers: Oh, I have done the tricks!
I know the partings and the chamberings;
We are all animals at best, and love
Is merely passion with a holy name.
Love is the sacrament of life; it sets
Virtue where virtue was not; cleanses men
Of all the vile pollutions of this world;
It is the fire which purges gold from dross,
It is the fan which winnows wheat from chaff,
It is the spring which in some wintry soil
Makes innocence to blossom like a rose.
The days are over when God walked with men,
But Love, which is his image, holds his place.
When a man loves a woman, then he knows
God’s secret, and the secret of the world.
There is no house so lowly or so mean,
Which, if their hearts be pure who live in it,
Love will not enter; but if bloody murder
Knock at the Palace gate and is let in,
Love like a wounded thing creeps out and dies.
This is the punishment God sets on sin.
The wicked cannot love.
Do you not hear? ’Twas nothing.
So I think
That it is woman’s mission by their love
To save the souls of men: and loving her,
My Lady, my white Beatrice, I begin
To see a nobler and a holier vengeance
In letting this man live, than doth reside
In bloody deeds o’ night, stabs in the dark,
And young hands clutching at a palsied throat.
It was, I think, for love’s sake that Lord Christ,
Who was indeed himself incarnate Love,
Bade every man forgive his enemy.
And said for saints: I have to do with men.
What will she do to thank you?
’Tis but twelve hours since I parted from her,
So suddenly, and with such violent passion,
That she has shut her heart against me now:
No, I will never see her.
Get hence to-night from Padua.
And bid him pack me straightway to the wars,
And there I will, being now sick of life,
Throw that poor life against some desperate spear.
From the dim confines of some sepulchre,
A voice that cries for vengeance. We waste time,
It will be morning soon; are you resolved
You will not kill the Duke?
I did not give it, and I dare not take it.
I thank him now that I have got no son!
And you, what bastard blood flows in your veins
That when you have your enemy in your grasp
You let him go! I would that I had left you
With the dull hinds that reared you.
That you had done so! May be better still
I’d not been born to this distressful world.
You will understand my vengeance.
And with this nobler vengeance art content.
Father, I think in letting this man live
That I am doing what thou wouldst have done.
Father, I know not if a human voice
Can pierce the iron gateway of the dead,
Or if the dead are set in ignorance
Of what we do, or do not, for their sakes.
And yet I feel a presence in the air,
There is a shadow standing at my side,
And ghostly kisses seem to touch my lips,
And leave them holier. [Kneels down.]
O father, if ’tis thou,
Canst thou not burst through the decrees of death,
And if corporeal semblance show thyself,
That I may touch thy hand!
No, there is nothing. [Rises.]
’Tis the night that cheats us with its phantoms,
And, like a puppet-master, makes us think
That things are real which are not. It grows late.
Now must I to my business.
And sees this letter, and the dagger with it,
Will he not have some loathing for his life,
Repent, perchance, and lead a better life,
Or will he mock because a young man spared
His natural enemy? I do not care.
Father, it is thy bidding that I do,
Thy bidding, and the bidding of my love
Which teaches me to know thee as thou art.
Sure thou hast come from Heaven with a message
That mercy is more noble than revenge?
You will not leave me as you did before?
But first I must repair to the Duke’s chamber,
And leave this letter and this dagger there,
That when he wakes—
Are all thy secret ways! Who would have said
That on this very night, when I had yielded
Into thy hands the vengeance that is thine,
Thou with thy finger wouldst have touched the man,
And bade him come before thy judgment seat.
Come closer, love, and I will tell you all.
I had resolved to kill myself to-night.
About an hour ago I waked from sleep,
And took my dagger from beneath my pillow,
Where I had hidden it to serve my need,
And drew it from the sheath, and felt the edge,
And thought of you, and how I loved you, Guido,
And turned to fall upon it, when I marked
The old man sleeping, full of years and sin;
There lay he muttering curses in his sleep,
And as I looked upon his evil face
Suddenly like a flame there flashed across me,
There is the barrier which Guido spoke of:
You said there lay a barrier between us,
What barrier but he?—
I hardly know
What happened, but a steaming mist of blood
Rose up between us two.
And then he groaned no more! I only heard
The dripping of the blood upon the floor.
Do you remember saying that women’s love
Turns men to angels? well, the love of man
Turns women into martyrs; for its sake
We do or suffer anything.
Is not the barrier broken down between us?
What would you more? Come, it is almost morning.
What bloody devil tempted thee to this!
That thou hast killed thy husband, that is nothing—
Hell was already gaping for his soul—
But thou hast murdered Love, and in its place
Hast set a horrible and bloodstained thing,
Whose very breath breeds pestilence and plague,
And strangles Love.
I would not have you do it, had you willed it,
For I would keep you without blot or stain,
A thing unblemished, unassailed, untarnished.
Men do not know what women do for love.
Have I not wrecked my soul for your dear sake,
Here and hereafter?
Between us lies a thin red stream of blood;
I dare not look across it: when you stabbed him
You stabbed Love with a sharp knife to the heart.
We cannot meet again.
I did it all for you: have you forgotten?
You said there was a barrier between us;
That barrier lies now i’ the upper chamber
Upset, overthrown, beaten, and battered down,
And will not part us ever.
Sin was the barrier, you have raised it up;
Crime was the barrier, you have set it there.
The barrier was murder, and your hand
Has builded it so high it shuts out heaven,
It shuts out God.
You dare not leave me now: nay, Guido, listen.
Get horses ready, we will fly to-night.
The past is a bad dream, we will forget it:
Before us lies the future: shall we not have
Sweet days of love beneath our vines and laugh?—
No, no, we will not laugh, but, when we weep,
Well, we will weep together; I will serve you;
I will be very meek and very gentle:
You do not know me.
Get hence, I say, out of my sight.
How I have loved this man!
Had it been so, Love would have stayed your hand.
How could we sit together at Love’s table?
You have poured poison in the sacred wine,
And Murder dips his fingers in the sop.
You shall spill more, so we go hand in hand
To heaven or to hell. Draw your sword, Guido.
Quick, let your soul go chambering in my heart,
It will but find its master’s image there.
Nay, if you will not slay me with your sword,
Bid me to fall upon this reeking knife,
And I will do it.
O God, your very hands are wet with blood!
This place is Hell, I cannot tarry here.
I pray you let me see your face no more.
Until you came to Padua I lived
Wretched indeed, but with no murderous thought,
Very submissive to a cruel Lord,
Very obedient to unjust commands,
As pure I think as any gentle girl
Who now would turn in horror from my hands—
I ever heard since I had come from France
Were from your lips: well, well, that is no matter.
You came, and in the passion of your eyes
I read love’s meaning; everything you said
Touched my dumb soul to music, so I loved you.
And yet I did not tell you of my love.
’Twas you who sought me out, knelt at my feet
As I kneel now at yours, and with sweet vows,
Swore that you loved me, and I trusted you.
I think there are many women in the world
Who would have tempted you to kill the man.
I did not.
Yet I know that had I done so,
I had not been thus humbled in the dust,
It was for your sake that I wrought this deed
Whose horror now chills my young blood to ice,
For your sake only. [Stretching out her arm.]
Will you not speak to me?
Love me a little: in my girlish life
I have been starved for love, and kindliness
Has passed me by.
You come to me with too pronounced a favour;
Get to your tirewomen.
There speaks the man! yet had you come to me
With any heavy sin upon your soul,
Some murder done for hire, not for love,
Why, I had sat and watched at your bedside
All through the night-time, lest Remorse might come
And pour his poisons in your ear, and so
Keep you from sleeping! Sure it is the guilty,
Who, being very wretched, need love most.
How differently do we love from men!
There is many a woman here in Padua,
Some workman’s wife, or ruder artisan’s,
Whose husband spends the wages of the week
In a coarse revel, or a tavern brawl,
And reeling home late on the Saturday night,
Finds his wife sitting by a fireless hearth,
Trying to hush the child who cries for hunger,
And then sets to and beats his wife because
The child is hungry, and the fire black.
Yet the wife loves him! and will rise next day
With some red bruise across a careworn face,
And sweep the house, and do the common service,
And try and smile, and only be too glad
If he does not beat her a second time
Before her child!—that is how women love.
Where have I got to go if you reject me?—
You for whose sake this hand has murdered life,
You for whose sake my soul has wrecked itself
Beyond all hope of pardon.
The dead man is a ghost, and our love too,
Flits like a ghost about its desolate tomb,
And wanders through this charnel house, and weeps
That when you slew your lord you slew it also.
Do you not see?
They give them but a little of their lives,
But women when they love give everything;
I see that, Guido, now.
And come not back till you have waked your dead.
Put vision in the glazéd eves, and give
The tongue its natural utterance, and bid
The heart to beat again: that cannot be:
For what is done, is done: and what is dead
Is dead for ever: the fire cannot warm him:
The winter cannot hurt him with its snows;
Something has gone from him; if you call him now,
He will not answer; if you mock him now,
He will not laugh; and if you stab him now
He will not bleed.
I would that I could wake him!
O God, put back the sun a little space,
And from the roll of time blot out to-night,
And bid it not have been! Put back the sun,
And make me what I was an hour ago!
No, no, time will not stop for anything,
Nor the sun stay its courses, though Repentance
Calling it back grow hoarse; but you, my love,
Have you no word of pity even for me?
O Guido, Guido, will you not kiss me once?
Drive me not to some desperate resolve:
Women grow mad when they are treated thus:
Will you not kiss me once?
Until the blood grows dry upon this knife,
[Wildly] Back to your dead!
More mercy than you showed to me to-night!
And do foul murder.
Murder is hungry, and still cries for more,
And Death, his brother, is not satisfied,
But walks the house, and will not go away,
Unless he has a comrade! Tarry, Death,
For I will give thee a most faithful lackey
To travel with thee! Murder, call no more,
For thou shalt eat thy fill.
There is a storm
Will break upon this house before the morning,
So horrible, that the white moon already
Turns grey and sick with terror, the low wind
Goes moaning round the house, and the high stars
Run madly through the vaulted firmament,
As though the night wept tears of liquid fire
For what the day shall look upon. Oh, weep,
Thou lamentable heaven! Weep thy fill!
Though sorrow like a cataract drench the fields,
And make the earth one bitter lake of tears,
It would not be enough. [A peal of thunder.]
Do you not hear,
There is artillery in the Heaven to-night.
Vengeance is wakened up, and has unloosed
His dogs upon the world, and in this matter
Which lies between us two, let him who draws
The thunder on his head beware the ruin
Which the forked flame brings after.
And noble love self-slain; and in its place
Crept murder with its silent bloody feet.
And she who wrought it—Oh! and yet she loved me,
And for my sake did do this dreadful thing.
I have been cruel to her: Beatrice!
Beatrice, I say, come back.
Torches ablaze, and noise of hurrying feet.
Pray God they have not seized her.
There is yet time to escape. Come down, come out!ACT IV
Seeing he left me in such different mood.
It is most likely when he saw the man,
This devil who had sold his father’s life,
That passion from their seat within his heart
Thrust all his boyish theories of love,
And in their place set vengeance; yet I marvel
That he escaped not.
Is it your pleasure we proceed to trial
Of the Duke’s murder? [Duchess bows.]
Set the prisoner forth.
What is thy name?
What dreadful charge men lay against thee here,
Namely, the treacherous murder of thy Lord,
Simone Gesso, Duke of Padua;
What dost thou say in answer?
But if it be not justice—
To the late Duke.
To see the murder of the Duke avenged.
There stands the man who did this heinous thing.
I ask again what proof have ye?
Which from his blood-stained hands, itself all blood,
Last night the soldiers seized: what further proof
Need we indeed?
Hang from your Grace’s girdle yesterday?
With this young man, who in such peril stands?
To make a full avowal of his guilt.
Boy, dost thou think I’ll let thy father’s son
Be by this woman butchered to his death?
Her husband sold your father, and the wife
Would sell the son in turn.
I alone did this thing: be satisfied,
My father is avenged.
That foul unnatural murder has been done.
That to spill human blood is deadly sin.
To give me leave to utter openly
The dreadful secret of this mystery,
And to point out the very guilty one
Who with this dagger last night slew the Duke.
What need have we of further evidence?
Was he not taken in the house at night
In Guilt’s own bloody livery?
Can read the law.
Is it not very like that such a one
May, in the presence of the people here,
Utter some slanderous word against my Lord,
Against the city, or the city’s honour,
Perchance against myself.
Shall climb the ladder to the bloody block.
But with it we bind others.
Thou wilt not suffer this injustice here.
Madam, it were a precedent most evil
To wrest the law from its appointed course,
For, though the cause be just, yet anarchy
Might on this licence touch these golden scales
And unjust causes unjust victories gain.
Methinks, my haughty lords of Padua,
If ye are hurt in pocket or estate,
So much as makes your monstrous revenues
Less by the value of one ferry toll,
Ye do not wait the tedious law’s delay
With such sweet patience as ye counsel me.
Finding a thief within his house at night,
With some poor chattel thrust into his rags,
Will stop and parley with him? do ye not
Give him unto the officer and his hook
To be dragged gaolwards straightway?
And so now,
Had ye been men, finding this fellow here,
With my Lord’s life still hot upon his hands,
Ye would have haled him out into the court,
And struck his head off with an axe.
The laws of Padua are most certain here:
And by those laws the common murderer even
May with his own lips plead, and make defence.
But a great outlaw, and a most vile traitor,
Taken in open arms against the state.
For he who slays the man who rules a state
Slays the state also, widows every wife,
And makes each child an orphan, and no less
Is to be held a public enemy,
Than if he came with mighty ordonnance,
And all the spears of Venice at his back,
To beat and batter at our city gates—
Nay, is more dangerous to our commonwealth,
For walls and gates, bastions and forts, and things
Whose common elements are wood and stone
May be raised up, but who can raise again
The ruined body of my murdered lord,
And bid it live and laugh?
I do not think that they will let him speak.
Throw ashes on the head of Padua,
With sable banners hang each silent street,
Let every man be clad in solemn black;
But ere we turn to these sad rites of mourning
Let us bethink us of the desperate hand
Which wrought and brought this ruin on our state,
And straightway pack him to that narrow house,
Where no voice is, but with a little dust
Death fills right up the lying mouths of men.
Thou mightst as well bid the untrammelled ocean,
The winter whirlwind, or the Alpine storm,
Not roar their will, as bid me hold my peace!
Ay! though ye put your knives into my throat,
Each grim and gaping wound shall find a tongue,
And cry against you.
Avails you nothing; for save the tribunal
Give thee a lawful right to open speech,
Naught that thou sayest can be credited.
Will with your Grace’s sanction now retire
Into another chamber, to decide
Upon this difficult matter of the law,
And search the statutes and the precedents.
Nor let this brawling traitor have his way.
Nor let a man be sent to death unheard.
Thou com’st between us two a second time;
This time, my lord, I think the turn is mine.
I am thy handiwork.
Like that white tigress which we saw at Venice,
Sent by some Indian soldan to the Doge?
I do not know why thou shouldst care to speak,
Seeing my axe is close upon thy neck,
And words of thine will never blunt its edge.
But if thou art so bent upon it, why
Thou mightest plead unto the Churchman yonder:
The common people call him kindly here,
Indeed I know he has a kindly soul.
More than the others.
I’ll do you your last service on this earth.
With Lord Christ’s face of mercy looking down
From the high seat of Judgment, shall a man
Die unabsolved, unshrived? And if not so,
May I not tell this dreadful tale of sin,
If any sin there be upon my soul?
I have no power with the secular arm.
My task begins when justice has been done,
To urge the wavering sinner to repent
And to confess to Holy Church’s ear
The dreadful secrets of a sinful mind.
Until thy lips grow weary of their tale,
But here thou shalt not speak.
You bring me but cold comfort.
For the great power of our mother Church,
Ends not with this poor bubble of a world,
Of which we are but dust, as Jerome saith,
For if the sinner doth repentant die,
Our prayers and holy masses much avail
To bring the guilty soul from purgatory.
With that red star of blood upon his heart,
Tell him I sent thee hither.
He hath changed my heart into a heart of stone,
He hath sown rank nettles in a goodly field,
He hath poisoned the wells of pity in my breast,
He hath withered up all kindness at the root;
My life is as some famine murdered land,
Whence all good things have perished utterly:
I am what he hath made me.
That she should so have loved the wicked Duke?
And when they love them not it is most strange.
Which is philosophy.
These greybeards and their council; bid them come;
Bid them come quickly, else I think my heart
Will beat itself to bursting: not indeed,
That I here care to live; God knows my life
Is not so full of joy, yet, for all that,
I would not die companionless, or go
Lonely to Hell.
Look, my Lord Cardinal,
Canst thou not see across my forehead here,
In scarlet letters writ, the word Revenge?
Fetch me some water, I will wash it off:
’Twas branded there last night, but in the day-time
I need not wear it, need I, my Lord Cardinal?
Oh, how it sears and burns into my brain:
Give me a knife; not that one, but another,
And I will cut it out.
To be incensed against the murderous hand
That treacherously stabbed your sleeping lord.
But it will burn hereafter.
Ordains us to forgive our enemies.
They come at last: well, my Lord Justice, well.
We have long pondered on the point at issue,
And much considered of your Grace’s wisdom,
And never wisdom spake from fairer lips—
As your own Grace did rightly signify,
That any citizen, who by force or craft
Conspires against the person of the Liege,
Is ipso factooutlaw, void of rights
Such as pertain to other citizens,
Is traitor, and a public enemy,
Who may by any casual sword be slain
Without the slayer’s danger; nay, if brought
Into the presence of the tribunal,
Must with dumb lips and silence reverent
Listen unto his well-deserved doom,
Nor has the privilege of open speech.
I like your law: and now I pray dispatch
This public outlaw to his righteous doom;
What is there more?
This man being alien born, not Paduan,
Nor by allegiance bound unto the Duke,
Save such as common nature doth lay down,
Hath, though accused of treasons manifold,
Whose slightest penalty is certain death,
Yet still the right of public utterance
Before the people and the open court;
Nay, shall be much entreated by the Court,
To make some formal pleading for his life,
Lest his own city, righteously incensed,
Should with an unjust trial tax our state,
And wars spring up against the commonwealth:
So merciful are the laws of Padua
Unto the stranger living in her gates.
He cannot be a Paduan citizen.
I like your law.
Were there no law there’d be no law-breakers,
So all men would be virtuous.
’Tis a wise saying that, and brings you far.
I would that I could tear thee from the state
As easy as I tear thee from this book.
Get a horse ready for me at my house,
For I must ride to Venice instantly.
Go, go at once. [ExitCountBardi.]
A moment, my Lord Justice.
If, as thou sayest it, this is the law—
Nay, nay, I doubt not that thou sayest right,
Though right be wrong in such a case as this—
May I not by the virtue of mine office
Adjourn this court until another day?
Rail with rude tongue against our sacred person.
Come, gentlemen.
You cannot leave this court until the prisoner
Be purged or guilty of this dread offence.
Set barriers in my path where I should go?
Am I not Duchess here in Padua,
And the state’s regent?
Being the fountain-head of life and death
Whence, like a mighty river, justice flows,
Without thy presence justice is dried up
And fails of purpose: thou must tarry here.
Let him stand forth. [Usher comes forward.]
Thou knowest thy business, sir.
Turn not my duty to discourtesy,
Nor make my unwelcome office an offence.
To prick this prating fellow from our way?
And you, sir. [ToJeppo.]
The first man who draws his sword
Upon the meanest officer of this Court,
Dies before nightfall.
It is most meet that I should hear this man.
Falls through this time-glass, thou hast leave to speak.
This and no more.
See that thou speakest nothing but the truth,
Naught else will serve thee.
Then give my body to the headsman there.
And reverent judges of this worthy court,
I hardly know where to begin my tale,
So strangely dreadful is this history.
First, let me tell you of what birth I am.
I am the son of that good Duke Lorenzo
Who was with damned treachery done to death
By a most wicked villain, lately Duke
Of this good town of Padua.
It will avail thee nought to mock this prince
Who now lies in his coffin.
This is the Duke of Parma’s rightful heir.
That with the purport of a just revenge,
A most just vengeance on a man of blood,
I entered the Duke’s household, served his will,
Sat at his board, drank of his wine, and was
His intimate: so much I will confess,
And this too, that I waited till he grew
To give the fondest secrets of his life
Into my keeping, till he fawned on me,
And trusted me in every private matter
Even as my noble father trusted him;
That for this thing I waited.
Turn not thine axe on me before the time:
Who knows if it be time for me to die?
Is there no other neck in court but mine?
Come quickly to the murder of the Duke.
By a strong rope I scaled the palace wall,
With purport to revenge my father’s murder—
Ay! with that purport I confess, my lord.
This much I will acknowledge, and this also,
That as with stealthy feet I climbed the stair
Which led unto the chamber of the Duke,
And reached my hand out for the scarlet cloth
Which shook and shivered in the gusty door,
Lo! the white moon that sailed in the great heaven
Flooded with silver light the darkened room,
Night lit her candles for me, and I saw
The man I hated, cursing in his sleep;
And thinking of a most dear father murdered,
Sold to the scaffold, bartered to the block,
I smote the treacherous villain to the heart
With this same dagger, which by chance I found
Within the chamber.
Now, my Lord Justice, if I may crave a boon,
Suffer me not to see another sun
Light up the misery of this loathsome world.
Lead him away. Come, MadamACT V
He can escape now in this cloak and vizard,
We are of a height almost: they will not know him;
As for myself what matter?
So that he does not curse me as he goes,
I care but little: I wonder will he curse me.
He has the right. It is eleven now;
They will not come till twelve.
Is it not strange that in this liquor here
There lies the key to all philosophies?
That, when I was a child in Sicily,
I took the scarlet poppies from the corn,
And made a little wreath, and my grave uncle,
Don John of Naples, laughed: I did not know
That they had power to stay the springs of life,
To make the pulse cease beating, and to chill
The blood in its own vessels, till men come
And with a hook hale the poor body out,
And throw it in a ditch: the body, ay,—
What of the soul? that goes to heaven or hell.
Where will mine go?
Like a young schoolboy tired out with play:
I would that I could sleep so peacefully,
But I have dreams. [Bending over him.]
Poor boy: what if I kissed him?
No, no, my lips would burn him like a fire.
He has had enough of Love. Still that white neck
Will ’scape the headsman: I have seen to that:
He will get hence from Padua to-night,
And that is well. You are very wise, Lord Justices,
And yet you are not half so wise as I am,
And that is well.
O God! how I have loved you,
And what a bloody flower did Love bear!
Were it not better than to wait till Death
Come to my bed with all his serving men,
Remorse, disease, old age, and misery?
I wonder does one suffer much: I think
That I am very young to die like this,
But so it must be. Why, why should I die?
He will escape to-night, and so his blood
Will not be on my head. No, I must die;
I have been guilty, therefore I must die;
He loves me not, and therefore I must die:
I would die happier if he would kiss me,
But he will not do that. I did not know him.
I thought he meant to sell me to the Judge;
That is not strange; we women never know
Our lovers till they leave us.
That like a bloodhound from thy brazen throat
Call’st for this man’s life, cease! thou shalt notget it.
He stirs—I must be quick: [Takes up cup.]
O Love, Love, Love,
I did not think that I would pledge thee thus!
Seeing I know I stand beyond all pardon;
Enough of that: I have already, sir,
Confessed my sin to the Lords Justices;
They would not listen to me: and some said
I did invent a tale to save your life;
You have trafficked with me; others said
That women played with pity as with men;
Others that grief for my slain Lord and husband
Had robbed me of my wits: they would not hear me,
And, when I sware it on the holy book,
They bade the doctor cure me. They are ten,
Ten against one, and they possess your life.
They call me Duchess here in Padua.
I do not know, sir; if I be the Duchess,
I wrote your pardon, and they would not take it;
They call it treason, say I taught them that;
Maybe I did. Within an hour, Guido,
They will be here, and drag you from the cell,
And bind your hands behind your back, and bid you
Kneel at the block: I am before them there;
Here is the signet ring of Padua,
’Twill bring you safely through the men on guard;
There is my cloak and vizard; they have orders
Not to be curious: when you pass the gate
Turn to the left, and at the second bridge
You will find horses waiting: by to-morrow
You will be at Venice, safe. [A pause.]
Do you not speak?
Will you not even curse me ere you go?—
You have the right. [A pause.]
You do not understand
There lies between you and the headsman’s axe
Hardly so much sand in the hour-glass
As a child’s palm could carry: here is the ring:
I have washed my hand: there is no blood upon it:
You need not fear. Will you not take the ring?
As at this moment.
There is my cloak: the horse is at the bridge,
The second bridge below the ferry house:
Why do you tarry? Can your ears not hear
This dreadful bell, whose every ringing stroke
Robs one brief minute from your boyish life.
Go quickly.
Can bring me out of Padua.
You dare not burden my o’erburdened soul
With two dead men! I think one is enough.
For when I stand before God, face to face,
I would not have you, with a scarlet thread
Around your white throat, coming up behind
To say I did it.
I have less power in Padua to-night
Than any common woman; they will kill you.
I saw the scaffold as I crossed the square,
Already the low rabble throng about it
With fearful jests, and horrid merriment,
As though it were a morris-dancer’s platform,
And not Death’s sable throne. O Guido, Guido,
You must escape!
So terrible that the amazed stars
Would fall from heaven, and the palsied moon
Be in her sphere eclipsed, and the great sun
Refuse to shine upon the unjust earth
Which saw thee die.
A second sin more horrible again
Than was the one that bare it? O God, God,
Seal up sin’s teeming womb, and make it barren,
I will not have more blood upon my hand
Than I have now.
That I may not have leave to die for you?
Thrown to the miry highways of this world;
You shall not die for me, you shall not, Guido;
I am a guilty woman.
Who know what a thing temptation is,
Let those who have not walked as we have done,
In the red fire of passion, those whose lives
Are dull and colourless, in a word let those,
If any such there be, who have not loved,
Cast stones against you. As for me—
O hair of gold, O crimson lips, O face
Made for the luring and the love of man!
Incarnate image of pure loveliness!
Worshipping thee I do forget the past,
Worshipping thee my soul comes close to thine,
Worshipping thee I seem to be a god,
And though they give my body to the block,
Yet is my love eternal!
The trailing curtains that overhang your eyes
That I may look into those eyes, and tell you
I love you, never more than now when Death
Thrusts his cold lips between us: Beatrice,
I love you: have you no word left to say?
Oh, I can bear the executioner,
But not this silence: will you not say you love me?
Speak but that word and Death shall lose his sting,
But speak it not, and fifty thousand deaths
Are, in comparison, mercy. Oh, you are cruel,
And do not love me.
For I have stained the innocent hands of love
With spilt-out blood: there is blood on the ground;
I set it there.
It was some devil tempted you.
We are each our own devil, and we make
This world our hell.
Fall into Tartarus! for I shall make
This world my heaven for a little space.
The sin was mine, if any sin there was.
’Twas I who nurtured murder in my heart,
Sweetened my meats, seasoned my wine with it,
And in my fancy slew the accursed Duke
A hundred times a day. Why, had this man
Died half so often as I wished him to,
Death had been stalking ever through the house,
And murder had not slept.
But you, fond heart,
Whose little eyes grew tender over a whipt hound,
You whom the little children laughed to see
Because you brought the sunlight where you passed,
You the white angel of God’s purity,
This which men call your sin, what was it?
What was it? There are times it seems a dream,
An evil dream sent by an evil god,
And then I see the dead face in the coffin
And know it is no dream, but that my hand
Is red with blood, and that my desperate soul
Striving to find some haven for its love
From the wild tempest of this raging world,
Has wrecked its bark upon the rocks of sin.
What was it, said you?—murder merely? Nothing
But murder, horrible murder.
’Twas but the passion-flower of your love
That in one moment leapt to terrible life,
And in one moment bare this gory fruit,
Which I had plucked in thought a thousand times.
My soul was murderous, but my hand refused;
Your hand wrought murder, but your soul was pure.
And so I love you, Beatrice, and let him
Who has no mercy for your stricken head,
Lack mercy up in heaven! Kiss me, sweet.
For Guilt has been my paramour, and Sin
Lain in my bed: O Guido, if you love me
Get hence, for every moment is a worm
Which gnaws your life away: nay, sweet, get hence,
And if in after time you think of me,
Think of me as of one who loved you more
Than anything on earth; think of me, Guido,
As of a woman merely, one who tried
To make her life a sacrifice to love,
And slew love in the trial: Oh, what is that?
The bell has stopped from ringing, and I hear
The feet of armed men upon the stair.
That stops my life on this side of the grave,
But on the other we shall meet again.
The horse is by the bridge, there is still time.
Away, away, you must not tarry here!
I do not fear the headsman, but I would die
Not on the lonely scaffold.
But here,
Here in thine arms, kissing thy mouth: farewell!
Even of poisons niggard!
Tell me you have not?
There is a fire eating at my heart
Which would find utterance.
Why have you not left a drop for me?
That I may draw it from them?
You have not spilt blood, and so need not die:
I have spilt blood, and therefore I must die.
Was it not said blood should be spilt for blood?
Who said that? I forget.
Our souls will go together.
There are many other women in the world
Who will love you, and not murder for your sake.
Can we not lie together in one grave?
With a stark winding-sheet, and bitter herbs:
I think there are no roses in the grave,
Or if there are, they all are withered now
Since my Lord went there.
Your lips are roses that death cannot wither.
Fall into dust, and your enamoured eyes
Shrivel to sightless sockets, and the worms,
Which are our groomsmen, eat away your heart?
And so by Love’s immortal sovereignty
I will die with you.
And the pit black, so I must go before
To light the candles for your coming hither.
No, no, I will not die, I will not die.
Love, you are strong, and young, and very brave;
Stand between me and the angel of death,
And wrestle with him for me.
When you have thrown him. Oh, have you no cordial,
To stay the workings of this poison in me?
Are there no rivers left in Italy
That you will not fetch me one cup of water
To quench this fire?
There was a drought in Italy, and no water:
Nothing but fire.
Not him who stanched my husband, but another
We have no time: send for a leech, I say:
There is an antidote against each poison,
And he will sell it if we give him money.
Tell him that I will give him Padua,
For one short hour of life: I will not die.
Oh, I am sick to death; no, do not touch me,
This poison gnaws my heart: I did not know
It was such pain to die: I thought that life
Had taken all the agonies to itself;
It seems it is not so.
Quench your vile cresset-lights in tears, and bid
The moon, your mistress, shine no more to-night.
Is poorly furnished for a marriage chamber.
Let us get hence at once. Where are the horses?
We should be on our way to Venice now.
How cold the night is! We must ride faster.
Is of the fashion now—I know not why.
You must not weep: do we not love each other?—
That is enough. Death, what do you here?
You were not bidden to this table, sir;
Away, we have no need of you: I tell you
It was in wine I pledged you, not in poison.
They lied who told you that I drank your poison.
It was spilt upon the ground, like my Lord’s blood;
You came too late.
These things are only unreal shadows.
Why do you tarry, get to the upper chamber;
The cold meats of my husband’s funeral feast
Are set for you; this is a wedding feast.
You are out of place, sir; and, besides, ’tis summer.
We do not need these heavy fires now,
You scorch us.
Oh, I am burned up,
Can you do nothing? Water, give me water,
Or else more poison. No: I feel no pain—
Is it not curious I should feel no pain?—
And Death has gone away, I am glad of that.
I thought he meant to part us. Tell me, Guido,
Are you not sorry that you ever saw me?
Why, in this dull and common world of ours
Men have died looking for such moments as this
And have not found them.
How strange that seems.
Stood face to face with beauty? That is enough
For one man’s life. Why, love, I could be merry;
I have been often sadder at a feast,
But who were sad at such a feast as this
When Love and Death are both our cup-bearers?
We love and die together.
Guilty beyond all women, and indeed
Beyond all women punished. Do you think—
No, that could not be—Oh, do you think that love
Can wipe the bloody stain from off my hands,
Pour balm into my wounds, heal up my hurts,
And wash my scarlet sins as white as snow?—
For I have sinned.
Who sin for love.
Perchance my sin will be forgiven me.
I have loved much
at the Edinburgh University Press
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