Bianca. Oh! be sureYour image will be with me always. DearLove can translate the very meanest thingInto a sign of sweet remembrances.But come before the lark with its shrill songHas waked a world of dreamers. I will standUpon the balcony.
Guido. And by a ladderWrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearlsWill come to meet me. White foot after foot,Like snow upon a rose-tree.
Bianca. As you will.You know that I am yours for love or Death.
Guido. Simone, I must go to mine own house.
Simone. So soon? Why should you? The great Duomo’s bellHas not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmenWho with their hollow horns mock the pale moon,Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile.I fear we may not see you here again,And that fear saddens my too simple heart.
Guido. Be not afraid, Simone. I will standMost constant in my friendship, But to-nightI go to mine own home, and that at once.To-morrow, sweet Bianca.
Simone. Well, well, so be it.I would have wished for fuller converse with you,My new friend, my honourable guest,But that it seems may not be.
And besidesI do not doubt your father waits for you,Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think,Are his one child? He has no other child.You are the gracious pillar of his house,The flower of a garden full of weeds.Your father’s nephews do not love him wellSo run folks’ tongues in Florence. I meant but that.Men say they envy your inheritanceAnd look upon your vineyards with fierce eyesAs Ahab looked on Naboth’s goodly field.But that is but the chatter of a townWhere women talk too much.
Good-night, my lord.Fetch a pine torch, Bianca. The old staircaseIs full of pitfalls, and the churlish moonGrows, like a miser, niggard of her beams,And hides her face behind a muslin maskAs harlots do when they go forth to snareSome wretched soul in sin. Now, I will getYour cloak and sword. Nay, pardon, my good Lord,It is but meet that I should wait on youWho have so honoured my poor burgher’s house,Drunk of my wine, and broken bread, and madeYourself a sweet familiar. OftentimesMy wife and I will talk of this fair nightAnd 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 JewFind profit in our pain.
Yet I rememberHow once upon the road to PaduaA robber sought to take my pack-horse from me,I slit his throat and left him. I can bearDishonour, public insult, many shames,Shrill scorn, and open contumely, but heWho filches from me something that is mine,Ay! though it be the meanest trencher-plateFrom which I feed mine appetite—oh! hePerils his soul and body in the theftAnd dies for his small sin. From what strange clayWe men are moulded!
Guido. Why do you speak like this?
Simone. I wonder, my Lord Guido, if my swordIs better tempered than this steel of yours?Shall we make trial? Or is my state too lowFor you to cross your rapier against mine,In jest, or earnest?
Guido. Naught would please me betterThan to stand fronting you with naked bladeIn jest, or earnest. Give me mine own sword.Fetch yours. To-night will settle the great issueWhether the Prince’s or the merchant’s steelIs better tempered. Was not that your word?Fetch your own sword. Why do you tarry, sir?
Simone. My lord, of all the gracious courtesiesThat you have showered on my barren houseThis is the highest.
Bianca, fetch my sword.Thrust back that stool and table. We must haveAn open circle for our match at arms,And good Bianca here shall hold the torchLest 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 byGuido.]
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!
[SimonedisarmsGuido]
My gentle Lord, you see that I was rightMy sword is better tempered, finer steel,But let us match our daggers.
Bianca[toGuido]Kill him! kill him!
Simone. Put out the torch, Bianca.
[Biancaputs 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?
[Simoneoverpowers Guido and throws him down over table.]
Guido. Fool! take your strangling fingers from my throat.I am my father’s only son; the StateHas but one heir, and that false enemy FranceWaits for the ending of my father’s lineTo fall upon our city.
Simone. Hush! your fatherWhen he is childless will be happier.As for the State, I think our state of FlorenceNeeds no adulterous pilot at its helm.Your life would soil its lilies.
Guido. Take off your handsTake off your damned hands. Loose me, I say!
Simone. Nay, you are caught in such a cunning viceThat nothing will avail you, and your lifeNarrowed into a single point of shameEnds 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 sinsTo God, whom thou shalt see this very nightAnd then no more for ever. Tell thy sinsTo 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 corseAnd 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.Simonerises and looks atBianca.She comes towards him as one dazed with wonder and with outstretched arms.]
Bianca. WhyDid you not tell me you were so strong?
Simone. WhyDid you not tell me you were beautiful?
[He kisses her on the mouth.]
Curtain