Men say they envy your inheritance And look upon your vineyards with fierce eyes As Ahab looked on Naboth's goodly field.
But that is but the chatter of a town Where women talk too much.
Good-night, my lord.
Fetch a pine torch, Bianca. The old staircase Is full of pitfalls, and the churlish moon Grows, like a miser, niggard of her beams, And hides her face behind a muslin mask As harlots do when they go forth to snare Some wretched soul in sin. Now, I will get Your cloak and sword. Nay, pardon, my good Lord, It is but meet that I should wait on you Who have so honoured my poor burgher's house, Drunk of my wine, and broken bread, and made Yourself a sweet familiar. Oftentimes My wife and I will talk of this fair night And its great issues.
Why, what a sword is this.
Ferrara's temper, pliant as a snake, And deadlier, I doubt not. With such steel, One need fear nothing in the moil of life.
I never touched so delicate a blade.
I have a sword too, somewhat rusted now.
We men of peace are taught humility, And to bear many burdens on our backs, And not to murmur at an unjust world, And to endure unjust indignities.
We are taught that, and like the patient Jew Find profit in our pain.
Yet I remember How once upon the road to Padua A robber sought to take my pack-horse from me, I slit his throat and left him. I can bear Dishonour, public insult, many shames, Shrill scorn, and open contumely, but he Who filches from me something that is mine, Ay! though it be the meanest trencher-plate From which I feed mine appetite--oh! he Perils his soul and body in the theft And dies for his small sin. From what strange clay We men are moulded!
GUIDO. Why do you speak like this?
SIMONE. I wonder, my Lord Guido, if my sword Is better tempered than this steel of yours?
Shall we make trial? Or is my state too low For you to cross your rapier against mine, In jest, or earnest?
GUIDO. Naught would please me better Than to stand fronting you with naked blade In jest, or earnest. Give me mine own sword.
Fetch yours. To-night will settle the great issue Whether the Prince's or the merchant's steel Is better tempered. Was not that your word?
Fetch your own sword. Why do you tarry, sir?
SIMONE. My lord, of all the gracious courtesies That you have showered on my barren house This is the highest.
Bianca, fetch my sword.
Thrust back that stool and table. We must have An open circle for our match at arms, And good Bianca here shall hold the torch Lest what is but a jest grow serious.
BIANCA [To Guido]. Oh! kill him, kill him!
SIMONE. Hold the torch, Bianca.
[They begin to fight.]
SIMONE. Have at you! Ah! Ha! would you?
[He is wounded by GUIDO.]
A scratch, no more. The torch was in mine eyes.
Do not look sad, Bianca. It is nothing.
Your husband bleeds, 'tis nothing. Take a cloth, Bind it about mine arm. Nay, not so tight.
More softly, my good wife. And be not sad, I pray you be not sad. No; take it off.
What matter if I bleed? [Tears bandage off.]
Again! again!
[Simone disarms Guido]
My gentle Lord, you see that I was right My sword is better tempered, finer steel, But let us match our daggers.
BIANCA [to Guido]
Kill him! kill him!
SIMONE. Put out the torch, Bianca.
[Bianca puts out torch.]
Now, my good Lord, Now to the death of one, or both of us, Or all three it may be. [They fight.]
There and there.
Ah, devil! do I hold thee in my grip?
[Simone overpowers Guido and throws him down over table.]
GUIDO. Fool! take your strangling fingers from my throat.
I am my father's only son; the State Has but one heir, and that false enemy France Waits for the ending of my father's line To fall upon our city.
SIMONE. Hush! your father When he is childless will be happier.
As for the State, I think our state of Florence Needs no *****erous pilot at its helm.
Your life would soil its lilies.
GUIDO. Take off your hands Take off your damned hands. Loose me, I say!
SIMONE. Nay, you are caught in such a cunning vice That nothing will avail you, and your life Narrowed into a single point of shame Ends with that shame and ends most shamefully.
GUIDO. Oh! let me have a priest before I die!
SIMONE. What wouldst thou have a priest for? Tell thy sins To God, whom thou shalt see this very night And then no more for ever. Tell thy sins To Him who is most just, being pitiless, Most pitiful being just. As for myself. . .
GUIDO. Oh! help me, sweet Bianca! help me, Bianca, Thou knowest I am innocent of harm.
SIMONE. What, is there life yet in those lying lips?
Die like a dog with lolling tongue! Die! Die!
And the dumb river shall receive your corse And wash it all unheeded to the sea.
GUIDO. Lord Christ receive my wretched soul to-night!
SIMONE. Amen to that. Now for the other.
[He dies. Simone rises and looks at Bianca. She comes towards him as one dazed with wonder and with outstretched arms.]
BIANCA. Why Did you not tell me you were so strong?
SIMONE. Why Did you not tell me you were beautiful?
[He kisses her on the mouth.]
CURTAIN