Part 10

GUIDO. Honest Simone, Some other night. To-night I am content With the low music of Bianca’s voice, Who, when she speaks, charms the too amorous air, And makes the reeling earth stand still, or fix His cycle round her beauty.

SIMONE. You flatter her. She has her virtues as most women have, But beauty in a gem she may not wear. It is better so, perchance.

Well, my dear lord, If you will not draw melodies from your lute To charm my moody and o’er-troubled soul You’ll drink with me at least?

Your place is laid. Fetch me a stool, Bianca. Close the shutters. Set the great bar across. I would not have The curious world with its small prying eyes To peer upon our pleasure.

Now, my lord, Give us a toast from a full brimming cup.

What is this stain upon the cloth? It looks As purple as a wound upon Christ’s side. Wine merely is it? I have heard it said When wine is spilt blood is spilt also, But that’s a foolish tale.

My lord, I trust My grape is to your liking? The wine of Naples Is fiery like its mountains. Our Tuscan vineyards Yield a more wholesome juice.

GUIDO. I like it well, Honest Simone; and, with your good leave, Will toast the fair Bianca when her lips Have like red rose-leaves floated on this cup And left its vintage sweeter. Taste, Bianca.

Oh, all the honey of Hyblean bees, Matched with this draught were bitter! Good Simone, You do not share the feast.

SIMONE. It is strange, my lord, I cannot eat or drink with you, to-night. Some humour, or some fever in my blood, At other seasons temperate, or some thought That like an adder creeps from point to point, That like a madman crawls from cell to cell, Poisons my palate and makes appetite A loathing, not a longing.

GUIDO. Sweet Bianca, This common chapman wearies me with words. I must go hence. To-morrow I will come. Tell me the hour.

BIANCA. Come with the youngest dawn! Until I see you all my life is vain.

GUIDO. Ah! loose the falling midnight of your hair, And in those stars, your eyes, let me behold Mine image, as in mirrors. Dear Bianca, Though it be but a shadow, keep me there, Nor gaze at anything that does not show Some symbol of my semblance. I am jealous Of what your vision feasts on.

BIANCA. Oh! be sure Your image will be with me always. Dear Love can translate the very meanest thing Into a sign of sweet remembrances. But come before the lark with its shrill song Has waked a world of dreamers. I will stand Upon the balcony.

GUIDO. And by a ladder Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls Will 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 bell Has not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen Who 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 stand Most constant in my friendship, But to-night I 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 besides I 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 well So run folks’ tongues in Florence. I meant but that. 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.