by Oscar Wilde
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,
Alone of all his gentlemen I escaped
To bear the news to Parma to the Duchess.
GUIDO. Speak to me of my mother.
MORANZONE. When your mother,
Than whom no saint in heaven was more pure,
Heard my black news, she fell into a swoon,
And, being with untimely travail seized –
Indeed, she was but seven months a bride –
Bare thee into the world before thy time,
And then her soul went heavenward, to wait
Thy father, at the gates of Paradise.
GUIDO. A mother dead, a father sold and bartered!
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.
MORANZONE. When thy mother died,
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.
GUIDO. Saw you my father afterwards?
MORANZONE. Ay! once;
In mean attire, like a vineyard dresser,
I stole to Rimini.
GUIDO (taking his hand). O generous heart!
MORANZONE. One can buy everything in 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.
GUIDO. Thou hast done well; I for my father thank you.
And now his name?
How you remind me of him,
You have each gesture that your father had.
GUIDO. The traitor’s name?
MORANZONE. Thou wilt hear that anon;
The Duke and other nobles at the Court
Are coming hither.
GUIDO. What of that? his name?
MORANZONE. Do they not seem a valiant company
Of honourable, honest gentlemen?
GUIDO. His name, milord?
Enter the DUKE OF PADUA with COUNT BARDI, MAFFIO, PETRUCCI, and other gentlemen of his Court.
MORANZONE (quickly). The man to whom I kneel
Is he who sold your father! mark me well.
GUIDO (clutches his dagger). The Duke!
MORANZONE. Leave off that fingering of thy knife.
Hast thou so soon forgotten?
Kneels to the DUKE.
My noble Lord.
DUKE. Welcome, Count Moranzone; ’tis some time
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.
I trust I’ll never be a good old man.
God would grow weary if I told my sins.
Catches sight of GUIDO and starts back.
Who is that?
MORANZONE. My sister’s son, your Grace,
Who being now of age to carry arms,
Would for a season tarry at your Court.
DUKE (still looking at GUIDO). What is his name?
MORANZONE. Guido Ferranti, sir.
DUKE. His city?
MORANZONE. He is Mantuan by birth.
DUKE (advancing towards GUIDO). You have the eyes of one
I used to know.
But he died childless. So, sir, you would serve me;
Well, we lack soldiers; 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
Smelling of civet and the pomander box. …
COUNT BARDI (aside). Here is some bitter arrow for us, sure.
DUKE. Why, every man among them has his price,
Although, to do them justice, some of them
Are quite expensive.
COUNT BARDI (aside). There it comes indeed.
DUKE. So be not honest: eccentricity
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.
MAFFIO (aside). He has enough of hate, if he needs that.
DUKE. Have prudence; in your dealings with the world
Be not too hasty; act on a second thought,
First impulses are generally good.
GUIDO (aside). Surely a toad sits on his lips, and spills
its venom there.
DUKE. See thou hast enemies.
Else will the world think very little of thee,
It is its test of power; yet see you show
A smiling mask of friendship to all men,
Until you have them safely in your grip,
Then you can crush them.
GUIDO (aside). O wise philosopher!
That for thyself dost dig so deep a grave.
MORANZONE (to him). Dost thou mark his words?
GUIDO. O, be thou sure I do.
DUKE. And be not over-scrupulous; clean hands
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,
The fat, the lean, the tall man, and the short,
Whoever makes that coat, boy, is a tailor
That never lacks a customer.
GUIDO. Your Grace,
I shall remember.
DUKE. That is well, boy, well.
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 men about me. As for conscience,
Conscience is but the name which cowardice
Fleeing from battle scrawls upon its shield.
You understand me, boy?
GUIDO. I do, your Grace,
And will in all things carry out the creed
Which you have taught me.
MAFFIO. I never heard your Grace
So much in the vein for preaching; let the Cardinal
Look to his laurels, sir.
DUKE. The Cardinal!
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 dullness. Well, sir, from now
We count you of our household.
He holds out his hand for GUIDO to kiss. GUIDO starts back in horror, but at a gesture from COUNT MORANZONE, kneels and kisses it.
We will see
That you are furnished with such equipage
As doth befit your honour and our state.
GUIDO. I thank your Grace most heartily.
DUKE. Tell me again.
What is your name?
GUIDO. Guido Ferranti, sir.
DUKE. And you are Mantuan? Look to your wives, my lords,
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.
MAFFIO. May it please your Grace,
The wives of Padua are above suspicion.
DUKE. What, are they so ill-favoured! Let us go,
This Cardinal details our pious Duchess;
His sermon and his beard want cutting both:
Will you come with us, sir, and hear a text
From holy Jerome?
MORANZONE (bowing). My liege, there are some matters –
DUKE (interrupting). Thou need’st make no excuse for
missing mass.
Come, gentlemen.
Exit with his suite into Cathedral.
GUIDO (after a pause). So the Duke sold my father;
I kissed his hand.
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,
Thou wilt not see me till the time is ripe.
GUIDO. I pray thou comest quickly.
MORANZONE. I will come
When it is time; be ready.
GUIDO. Fear me not.
MORANZONE. Here is your friend; see that you banish him Both from your heart and Padua.
GUIDO. From Padua,
Not from my heart.
MORANZONE. Nay, from thy heart as well,
I will not leave thee till I see thee do it.
GUIDO. Can I have no friend?
MORANZONE. Revenge shall be thy friend,
Thou need’st no other.
GUIDO. Well, then be it so.
Enter ASCANIO CRISTOFANO.
ASCANIO. Come, Guido, I have been beforehand with you in everything, for I have drunk a flagon of wine, eaten a pasty, and kissed the maid who served it. Why, you look as melancholy as a schoolboy who cannot buy apples, or a politician who cannot sell his vote. What news, Guido, what news?
GUIDO. Why, that we two must part, Ascanio.
ASCANIO. That would be news indeed, but it is not true.
GUIDO. Too true it is, you must get hence, Ascanio, And never look upon my face again.
ASCANIO. No, no; indeed you do not know me, Guido;
’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.
GUIDO (clasping his hand). Ascanio!
Sees MORANZONE looking at him and drops ASCANIO’S hand.
It cannot be.
ASCANIO. What, is it so with you?
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?
GUIDO. Share it?
ASCANIO. Ay!
GUIDO. No, no.
ASCANIO. Have you then come to some inheritance
Of lordly castle, or of stored-up gold?
GUIDO (bitterly). Ay! I have come to my inheritance.
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.
ASCANIO. What, shall we never more
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.
GUIDO. Never more.
ASCANIO. Must I go hence without a word of love?
GUIDO. You must go hence, and may love go with you.
ASCANIO. You are unknightly, and ungenerous.
GUIDO. Unknightly and ungenerous if you will.
Why should we waste more words about the matter!
Let us part now.
ASCANIO. Have you no message, Guido?
GUIDO. None; my whole past was but a schoolboy’s dream, To-day my life begins. Farewell.
ASCANIO. Farewell (exits slowly.)
GUIDO. Now are you satisfied? Have you not seen
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?
MORANZONE. Ay! I am satisfied. Now I go hence,
Back to my lonely castle on the hill.
Do not forget the sign, your father’s dagger,
And do the business when I send it to you.
GUIDO. Be sure I shall.
Exit LORD MORANZONE.
GUIDO. O thou eternal heaven!
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 –
The organ peals in the Cathedral, and under a canopy of cloth of silver tissue, borne by four pages in scarlet, the DUCHESS OF PADUA comes down the steps; as she passes across their eyes meet for a moment, and as she leaves the stage she looks at GUIDO, and the dagger falls from his hand.
Oh! who is that?
A CITIZEN. The Duchess of Padua!
Curtain.
Second Act
SCENE
A state room in the Ducal Palace, hung with tapestries representing the Masque of Venus; a large door in the centre opens into a corridor of red marble, through which one can see
a view of Padua; a large canopy is set (R.C.) with three thrones, one a little lower than the others; the ceiling is made of long gilded beans; furniture of the period, chairs covered with gilt leather, and buffets set with gold and silver plate, and chests painted with mythological scenes. A number of the courtiers are out on the corridor looking from it down into the street below; from the street comes the roar of a mob and cries of ‘Death to the Duke’: after a little interval enter the DUKE very calmly, he is leaning on the arm of GUIDO FERRANTI; with him enters also the LORD CARDINAL; the mob still shouting.
DUKE. No, my Lord Cardinal, I weary of her!
Why, she is worse than ugly, she is good.
MAFFIO (excitedly). Your Grace, there are two thousand
people there
Who every moment grow more clamorous.
DUKE. Tut, man, they waste their strength upon their lungs!
People who shout so loud, my lords, do nothing.
The only men I fear are silent men. (A yell from the people.)
You see, Lord Cardinal, how my people love me,
This is their serenade, I like it better
Than the soft murmurs of the amorous lute;
Is it not sweet to listen to? (Another yell.)
I fear
They have become a little out of tune,
So I must tell my men to fire on them.
I cannot bear bad music! Go, Petrucci,
And tell the captain of the guard below
To clear the square. Do you not hear me, sir?
Do what I bid you.
Exit PETRUCCI.
CARDINAL. I beseech your Grace
To listen to their grievances.
DUKE (sitting on his throne). Ay! the peaches
Are not so big this year as they were last.
I crave your pardon, my Lord Cardinal,
I thought you spake of peaches.
A cheer from the people.
What is that?
GUIDO (rushes to the window). The Duchess has gone forth
into the square,
And stands between the people and the guard,
And will not let them shoot.
DUKE. The devil take her!
GUIDO (still at the window). And followed by a dozen of
the citizens
Has come into the Palace.
DUKE (starting up). By Saint James,
Our Duchess waxes bold!
BARDI Here comes the Duchess.
DUKE. Shut that door there; this morning air is cold.
They close the door on the corridor.
Enter the DUCHESS followed by a crowd of meanly dressed CITIZENS.
DUCHESS (flinging herself upon her knees). I do beseech your
Grace to give us an audience.
DUKE. Am I a tailor, Madame, that you come
With sugh a ragged retinue before us?
DUCHESS. I think that their rags speak their grievances
With better eloquence than I can speak.
