The Complete Plays

by Oscar Wilde

  DUKE. What are these grievances?

  DUCHESS. Alas, my Lord,

  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.

  FIRST CITIZEN. Ay! so it is,

  Nothing but chaff.

  DUKE. And very good food too,

  I give it to my horses.

  DUCHESS (restraining herself). They say the water,

  Set in the public cisterns for their use,

  Has, through the breaking of the aqueduct,

  To stagnant pools and muddy puddles turned.

  DUKE. They should drink wine; water is quite unwholesome.

  SECOND CITIZEN. Alack, your Grace, the taxes which

  the customs

  Take at the city gate are grown so high

  We cannot buy wine.

  DUKE. Then you should bless the taxes

  Which make you temperate.

  DUCHESS. Think, while we sit

  In gorgeous pomp and state and nothing lack

  Of all that wealth and luxury can give

  And many servants have to wait upon us

  And tend our meanest need, gaunt poverty

  Creeps through their sunless lanes, and with sharp knives

  Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily

  And no word said.

  THIRD CITIZEN. Ay! marry, that is true,

  My little son died yesternight from hunger,

  He was but six years old; I am so poor,

  I cannot bury him.

  DUKE. If you are poor,

  Are you not blessed in that? Why, poverty

  Is one of the Christian virtues,

  Turns to the CARDINAL.

  Is it not?

  I know, Lord Cardinal, you have great revenues,

  Rich abbey-lands, and tithes, and large estates

  For preaching voluntary poverty.

  DUCHESS. Nay but, my lord the Duke, be generous;

  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 –

  DUKE. And so they go to Abraham’s bosom, Madame.

  They should thank me for sending them to Heaven,

  If they are wretched here.

  To the CARDINAL.

  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.

  FIRST CITIZEN. He hath a hard heart.

  SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, be silent, neighbour;

  I think the Cardinal will speak for us.

  CARDINAL. True, it is Christian to bear misery,

  For out of misery God bringeth good,

  Yet it is Christian also to be kind,

  To feed the hungry, and to heal the sick,

  And there seem many evils in this town,

  Which in your wisdom might your Grace reform.

  FIRST CITIZEN. What is that word reform? What does

  it mean?

  SECOND CITIZEN. Marry, it means leaving things as they

  are; I like it not.

  DUKE. Reform, Lord Cardinal, did you say 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?

  CARDINAL (rising from his seat). He would have led the

  sheep out of the fold,

  But do we ask of you to feed the sheep.

  DUKE. When I have shorn their fleeces I may feed them.

  As for these rebels –

  DUCHESS entreats him.

  FIRST CITIZEN. That is a kind word,

  He means to give us something.

  SECOND CITIZEN. Is that so?

  DUKE. These ragged knaves who come before us here,

  With mouths chock-full of treason.

  THIRD CITIZEN. Good my Lord,

  Fill up our mouths with bread; we’ll hold our tongues.

  DUKE. Ye shall hold your tongues, whether you starve or not.

  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,

  As for this rabble here, I am their scourge,

  And sent by God to lash them for their sins.

  DUCHESS. Hast thou the right? art thou so free from sin?

  DUKE. When sin is lashed by virtue it is nothing,

  But when sin lashes sin then is God glad.

  DUCHESS. Oh, you are not afraid?

  DUKE. What have I to fear?

  Being man’s enemy am I not God’s friend?

  To the CITIZENS.

  Well, my good loyal citizens of Padua,

  Still as our gentle Duchess has so prayed us,

  And we refuse so beautiful a beggar

  Were to lack both courtesy and love,

  Touching your grievances, I promise this –

  FIRST CITIZEN. Marry, he will lighten the taxes!

  SECOND CITIZEN. Or a dole of bread, think you, for

  each man?

  DUKE. That, on next Sunday, the Lord Cardinal

  Shall, after Holy Mass, preach you a sermon

  Upon the Beauty of Obedience.

  CITIZENS murmur.

  FIRST CITIZEN. I’ faith, that will not fill our stomachs!

  SECOND CITIZEN. A sermon is but a sorry sauce, when You have nothing to eat with it.

  DUCHESS. Poor people,

  You see I have no power with the Duke,

  But if you go into the court without,

  My almoner shall from my private purse,

  Which is not ever too well stuffed with gold,

  Divide a hundred ducats ’mongst you all.

  ALMONER. Your grace has but a hundred ducats left.

  DUCHESS. Give what I have.

  FIRST CITIZEN. God save the Duchess, say I.

  SECOND CITIZEN. God save her.

  DUCHESS. And every Monday morn shall bread be set For those who lack it.

  CITIZENS applaud and go out.

  FIRST CITIZEN (going out). 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 called Dominick?

  FIRST CITIZEN (scratching his head). Marry, because I was born on Saint George’s day.

  DUKE. A good reason! here is a ducat for you!

  Will you not cry for me. God save the Duke?

  FIRST CITIZEN (feebly). God save the Duke.

  DUKE. Nay! louder, fellow, louder.

  FIRST CITIZEN (a little louder). God save the Duke!

  DUKE. More lustily, fellow, put more heart in it!

  Here is another ducat for you.

  FIRST CITIZEN (enthusiastically). God save the Duke!

  DUKE (mockingly). Why, gentlemen, this simple fellow’s love 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!

  To the DUCHESS.

  So. Well, Madam,

  You spread rebellion ’midst our citizens,

  And by your doles and daily charities,

  Have made the common people love you. Well,

  I will not have you loved.

  DUCHESS (looking at GUIDO). Indeed, my lord,

  I am not.

  DUKE. And I will not have you give

  Bread to the poor merely because they are hungry.

  DUCHESS. My Lord, the poor have rights you cannot touch,

  The right to pity, and the right to mercy.

  DUKE. So, so, you argue with me? This is she,

  The gentle Duchess for whose hand I yielded

  Three of the fairest towns in Italy,

  Pisa, and Genoa, and Orvieto.

  DUCHESS. Promised, my Lord, not yielded: in that matter Brake you your word as ever.

  DUKE. You wrong us, Madam,

  There were state reasons.

  DUCHESS. What state reasons are there

  For breaking holy promises to a state?

  DUKE. There are wild boars at Pisa in a forest

  Close to the city: when I promised Pisa

  Unto your noble and most trusting father,

  I had forgotten there was hunting there.

  DUCHESS. Those who forget what honour is, forget

  All things, my Lord.

  DUKE. 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.

  Turning to one of the Court.

  You, my lord,

  Whose gluttonous appetite is your only god,

  Could satisfy our Duchess on that point.

  DUCHESS. And Orvieto?

  DUKE (yawning). I cannot now recall

  Why I did not surrender Orvieto

  According to the word of my contract.

  Maybe it was because I did not choose.

  Goes over to the DUCHESS.

  Why look you, Madam, you are here alone;

  ’Tis many a dusty league to your grey France,

  And even there your father barely keeps

  A hundred ragged squires for his Court.

  And hope have you, I say? Which of these lords

  And noble gentlemen of Padua

  Stands by thy side.

  DUCHESS. There is not one.

  GUIDO starts, but restrains himself.

  DUKE. Nor shall be.

  While I am Duke in Padua: listen, Madam,

  I am grown weary of your airs and graces,

  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.

  DUCHESS. Sir, by what right – ?

  DUKE. Madam, my second Duchess

  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 your falcons for the mid-day chase.

  Bethink you, Madam, you are here alone.

  Exit the DUKE leaning on GUIDO, with his Court.

  DUCHESS (looking after them). Is it not strange that one who

  seems so fair

  Should thus affect the Duke, hang on each word

  Which falls like poison from those cruel lips,

  And never leave his side, as though he loved him?

  Well, well, it makes no matter unto me,

  I am alone, and out of reach of love.

  The Duke said rightly that I was 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.

  Enter GUIDO behind unobserved; the DUCHESS flings herself down before a picture of the Madonna.

  O, Mary mother with your sweet pale face

  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?

  GUIDO. I can endure no longer.

  This is my love, and I will speak to her.

  Lady, am I a stranger to your prayers?

  DUCHESS (rising). None but the wretched need my

  prayers, my lord.

  GUIDO. Then must I need them, lady.

  DUCHESS. How is that?

  Does not the Duke show thee sufficient honour,

  Or dost thou lack advancement at the Court?

  Ah, sir, that lies not in my power to give you,

  Being my own self held of no account.

  GUIDO. Your Grace, I lack no favours from the Duke,

  Whom my soul loathes as I loathe wickedness,

  But come to proffer on my bended knees,

  My loyal service to thee unto death.

  DUCHESS. Alas! I am so fallen in estate

  I can but give thee a poor meed of thanks.

  GUIDO (seizing her hand). Hast thou no love to give me?

  The DUCHESS starts, and GUIDO falls at her feet.

  O dear saint,

  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.

  DUCHESS. I did not think

  I would be ever loved; do you indeed

  Love me so much as now you say you do?

  GUIDO. Ask of the sea-bird if it loves the sea,

  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?

  DUCHESS. I hardly know what I should say to you.

  GUIDO. Will you not say you love me?

  DUCHESS. Is that my lesson?

  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?

  GUIDO. If you do not love me,

  Say, none the less, you do, for on your tongue

  Falsehood for very shame would turn to truth.

  DUCHESS. What if I do not speak at all? They say

  Lovers are happiest when they are in doubt.

  GUIDO. Nay, doubt would kill me, and if I must die,

  Why, let me die for joy and not for doubt.

  O tell me may I stay, or must I go?

  DUCHESS. I would not have you either stay or 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 measures of my love.

  I love you, Guido.

  GUIDO (stretching out his hands). Oh, do not cease at all;

  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.

  DUCHESS. To touch my lips is not to touch my heart.

  GUIDO. Do you close that against me?

  DUCHESS. Alas! my lord,

  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

  Didst 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!

  GUIDO (clasping her in his arms). O love, love, love! Nay, sweet,

  lift up your head,

  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 Griffin guards

  In rude Armenia.

  DUCHESS. You are my lord,

  And what I have is yours, and what I have not

  Your fancy lends me, with a prodigal

  Spending its wealth on what is nothing worth. (Kisses him.)

  GUIDO. Methinks I am bold to look upon you thus:

  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.

  DUCHESS. Dear love, I would

  You could look upon me for ever, for your eyes