by Oscar Wilde
A huge black arm, the arm of the EXECUTIONER, comes forth from the cistern, bearing on a silver shield the head of JOKANAAN. SALOMÉ seizes it. HEROD hides his face with his cloak. HERODIAS smiles and fans herself. The NAZARENES fall on their knees and begin to pray.
SALOMÉ: Ah! Thou wouldst not suffer me to kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. Well! I will kiss it now. I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit. Yes, I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. I said it. Did I not say it? I said it. Ah! I will kiss it now…But wherefore dost thou not look at me, Jokanaan? Thine eyes that were so terrible, so full of rage and scorn, are shut now. Wherefore are they shut? Open thine eyes! Lift up thine eyelids, Jokanaan! Wherefore dost thou not look at me? Art thou afraid of me, Jokanaan, that thou wilt not look at me…? And thy tongue, that was like a red snake darting poison, it moves no more, it says nothing now, Jokanaan, that scarlet viper that spat its venom upon me. It is strange, is it not? How is it that the red viper stirs no longer…? Thou wouldst have none of me, Jokanaan. Thou didst reject me. Thou didst speak evil words against me. Thou didst treat me as a harlot, as a wanton, me, Salomé, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judaea! Well, Jokanaan, I still live, but thou, thou art dead, and thy head belongs to me. I can do with it what I will. I can throw it to the dogs and to the birds of the air. That which the dogs leave, the birds of the air shall devour…Ah, Jokanaan, Jokanaan, thou wert the only man that I have loved. All other men are hateful to me. But thou, thou wert beautiful! Thy body was a column of ivory set on a silver socket. It was a garden full of doves and of silver lilies. It was a tower of silver decked with shields of ivory. There was nothing in the world so white as thy body. There was nothing in the world so black as thy hair. In the whole world there was nothing so red as thy mouth. Thy voice was a censer that scattered strange perfumes, and when I looked on thee I heard a strange music. Ah! Wherefore didst thou not look at me, Jokanaan? Behind thine hands and thy curses thou didst hide thy face. Thou didst put upon thine eyes the covering of him who would see his God. Well, thou hast seen thy God, Jokanaan, but me, me, thou didst never see. If thou hadst seen me thou wouldst have loved me. I, I saw thee, Jokanaan, and I loved thee. Oh, how I loved thee! I loved thee yet, Jokanaan, I love thee only…I am athirst for thy beauty; I am hungry for thy body; and neither wine nor fruits can appease my desire. What shall I do now, Jokanaan? Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my passion. I was a princess, and thou didst scorn me. I was a virgin, and thou didst take my virginity from me. I was chaste, and thou didst fill my veins with fire…Ah! ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me, Jokanaan? If thou hadst looked at me thou hadst loved me. Well I know that thou wouldst have loved me, and the mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death. Love only should one consider.
HEROD: She is monstrous, thy daughter, she is altogether monstrous. In truth, what she has done is a great crime. I am sure that it was a crime against an unknown God.
HERODIAS: I approve of what my daughter has done. And I will stay here now.
HEROD (rising): Ah! There speaks the incestuous wife! Come! I will not stay here. Come, I tell thee. Surely some terrible thing will befall. Manasseth, Issachar, Ozias, put out the torches. I will not look at things, I will not suffer things to look at me. Put out the torches! Hide the moon! Hide the stars! Let us hide ourselves in our palace, Herodias. I begin to be afraid.
The slaves put out the torches. The stars disappear. The great black cloud crosses the moon and conceals it completely. The stage becomes very dark. The TETRARCH begins to climb the staircase.
THE VOICE OF SALOMÉ: Ah! I have kissed thy mouth, Jokanaan. I have kissed thy mouth. There was a bitter taste on thy lips. Was it the taste of blood…? But perchance it is the taste of love…They say that love hath a bitter taste…But what of that? What of that? I have kissed thy mouth, Jokanaan.
A moonbeam falls on SALOMÉ, covering her with light.
HEROD (turning round and seeing SALOMÉ): Kill that woman!
The soldiers rush forward and crush beneath their shields SALOMÉ, daughter of HERODIAS, Princess of Judaea.
CURTAIN
THE DUCHESS OF PADUA
The persons of the play
SIMONE GESSO, Duke of Padua
BEATRICE, his Wife
ANDREAS POLLAJUOLO, Cardinal of Padua
MAFFIO PETRUCCI,
JEPPO VITELLOZZO, } Gentlemen of the Duke’s Household
TADDEO BARDI,
GUIDO FERRANTI, a Young Man
ASCANIO CRISTOFANO, his Friend
COUNT MORANZONE, an Old Man
BERNARDO CALVALCANTI, Lord Justice of Padua
HUGO, the Headsman
LUCY, a Tire Woman
SERVANTS, CITIZENS, SOLDIERS, MONKS, FALCONERS with their hawks and dogs, etc.
ACT ONE
SCENE: The Market Place of Padua at noon. TIME: The latter half of sixteenth century. In the background is the great Cathedral of Padua; the architecture is Romanesque, 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; the houses on each side of the stage have coloured awnings from their windows, and are flanked by stone arcades; on the right of the stage is the public fountain, with a triton in green bronze blowing from a conch; around the fountain is a stone seat; the bell of the Cathedral is ringing, and the citizens, men, women and children, are passing into the Cathedral.
Enter GUIDO FERRANTI and ASCANIO CRISTOFANO.
ASCANIO: 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 steps of the fountain.)
GUIDO: I think it must be here. (Goes up to passer-by and doffs his cap.) Pray, sir, is this the market 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 no wine-shop.
GUIDO (taking a letter from his pocket and reading it): ‘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 silver falcon 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, you remember; I was in the vineyard, just at the corner nearest the road, where the goats used to get in, a man rode up and asked me was my name Guido, and gave me this letter, signed ‘Your Father’s Friend,’ bidding me be here to-day if I would know the secret of my birth, and telling me how to recognise the writer! I had always thought old Pedro was my uncle, but he told me that he was not, but that I had been left a child in his charge by some one he had never since seen.
ASCANIO: And you don’t know who your father is?
GUIDO: No.
ASCANIO: No recollection of him even?
GUIDO: None, Ascanio, none.
ASCANIO (laughing): Then he could never have boxed your ears so often as my father did mine.
GUIDO (smiling): I am sure you never deserved it.
ASCANIO: Never; and that made it worse. I hadn’t the consciousness of guilt to buoy me up. What hour did you say he fixed?
GUIDO: Noon. (Clock in the Cathedral strikes.)
ASCANIO: It is that now, and your man has not come. I don’t believe in him, Guido. I think it is some wench who has set her eye at you; and, as I have followed you from Perugia to Padua, I swear you shall follow me to the nearest tavern. (Rises.) By the great gods of eating, Guido, I am as hungry as a widow is for a husband, as tired as a young maid is of good advice, and as dry as a monk’s sermon. Come, Guido, you stand there looking at 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! (Jus
t as he is leaving the stage with ASCANIO, enter LORD MORANZONE in a violet cloak, with a silver falcon broidered on the shoulder; he passes across to the Cathedral, and just as he is going in GUIDO runs up and touches him.)
MORANZONE: Guido Ferranti, thou hast come in time.
GUIDO: What! Does my father live?
MORANZONE: Ay! Lives in. you.
Thou art the same in mould and lineament,
Carriage and form, and outward semblances;
I trust thou art in noble mind the same.
GUIDO: Oh, tell me of my father; I have lived But for this moment.
MORANZONE: We must be alone.
GUIDO: This is my dearest friend, who out of love
Has followed me to Padua; as two brothers,
There is no secret which we do not share.
MORANZONE: There is one secret which ye shall not share;
Bid him go hence.
GUIDO (To ASCANIO): Come back within the hour.
He does not know that nothing in this world
Can dim the perfect mirror of our love.
Within the hour come.
ASCANIO: Speak not to him,
There is a dreadful terror in his look.
GUIDO (laughing): Nay, nay, I doubt not that he has come to tell,
That I am some great Lord of Italy,
And we will have long days of joy together.
Within the hour, dear Ascanio.
Exit ASCANIO.
Now tell me of my father? (Sits down on a stone seat.) 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 taste?
For oftentimes methinks I feel my veins
Beat with the blood of kings. Was he a king?
MORANZONE: Ay, of all men he was the kingliest.
GUIDO (proudly): Then when you saw my noble father last
He was set high above the heads of men?
MORANZONE: Ay, he was high above the heads of men,
Walks over to GUIDO and puts his hand upon his shoulder.
On a red scaffold, with a butcher’s block
Set for his neck.
GUIDO (leaping up): What dreadful man art thou,
That like a raven, or the midnight owl,
Com’st with this awful message from the grave?
MORANZONE: I am known here as the Count Moranzone,
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.
GUIDO (clasping his hand): Tell me of him.
MORANZONE: You are the son of that great Duke Lorenzo,
Whose banner waved on many a well-fought field
Against the Saracen, and heretic Turk,
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 –
GUIDO: Come to his death.
MORANZONE: You will hear that soon enough. Being at war –
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 was by him in common fetters bound,
And like a villain, or a low-born knave,
Was by him on the public scaffold murdered.
GUIDO (clutching his dagger): Doth Malatesta live?
MORANZONE: No, he is dead.
GUIDO: Did you say dead? O too swift runner, Death,
Couldst thou not wait for me a little space,
And I had done thy bidding!
MORANZONE (clutching his wrist): Thou canst do it!
The man who sold thy father is alive.
GUIDO: Sold! Was my father sold?
MORANZONE: Ay! Trafficked for,
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 –
Oh! To sow seeds of kindness in this world
Is but to reap ingratitude!
GUIDO: And he lives
Who sold my father.
MORANZONE: I will bring you to him.
GUIDO: So, Judas, thou art living! Well, I will make
This world thy field of blood, so buy it straightway,
For thou must hang there.
MORANZONE: Judas said you, boy?
Yes, Judas in his treachery, but still
He was more wise than Judas was, and held
Those thirty silver pieces not enough.
GUIDO: What got he for my father’s blood?
MORANZONE: What got he?
Why cities, fiefs, and principalities,
Vineyards, and lands.
GUIDO: Of which he shall but keep
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.
MORANZONE (coldly): Fool, what revenge is there?
Death is the common heritage of all,
And death comes best when it comes suddenly.
Goes up close to GUIDO.
Thy father was betrayed, there is your cue;
For you shall sell the seller in his turn.
I will make you of his household, you will sit
At the same board with him, eat of his bread –
GUIDO: O bitter bread!
MORANZONE: Your palate is too nice,
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 bids thee be merry thou must laugh,
And if it be his humour to be sad
Thou shalt don sables. Then when the time is ripe –
GUIDO clutches his sword.
Nay, nay, I trust thee not: your hot young blood,
Undisciplined nature, and too violent rage
Will never tarry for this great revenge,
But wreck itself on passion.
GUIDO: Thou knowest me not.
Tell me the man, and I in everything
Will do thy bidding.
MORANZONE: Well, when the time is ripe,
The victim trusting and the occasion sure,
I will by sudden secret messenger
Send thee a sign.
GUIDO: How shall I kill him, tell me?
MORANZONE: That night thou shalt creep into his private chamber; That night remember.
GUIDO: I shall not forget.
MORANZONE: I do not know if guilty people sleep,
But if he sleeps see that you wake him first,
And hold your hand upon his throat, ay! That way,
Then having told him of what blood you are,
Sprung from what father, and for what reve
nge,
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
You will not kill him till I bid you do it,
Or else I go to mine own house, and leave
You ignorant, and your father unavenged.
GUIDO: Now by my father’s sword –
MORANZONE: The common hangman
Brake that in sunder in the public square.
GUIDO: Then by my father’s grave –
MORANZONE: What grave! What grave?
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,
Girt with the mockery of a paper crown
For the vile rabble in their insolence
To shoot their tongues at.
GUIDO: Was it so indeed?
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?
MORANZONE: This dagger, boy;
It was your father’s.
GUIDO: O, let me look at it!
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 much 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?
MORANZONE: Poor boy, you never saw that noble father,
For when by his false friend he had been sold,
