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قراءة كتاب A Florentine Tragedy; La Sainte Courtisane

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A Florentine Tragedy; La Sainte Courtisane

A Florentine Tragedy; La Sainte Courtisane

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 8

state.  Will you not buy it?
But forty thousand crowns—’tis but a trifle,
To one who is Giovanni Bardi’s heir.

Guido.  Settle this thing to-morrow with my steward,
Antonio Costa.  He will come to you.
And you shall have a hundred thousand crowns
If that will serve your purpose.

Simone.  A hundred thousand!
Said you a hundred thousand?  Oh! be sure
That will for all time and in everything
Make me your debtor.  Ay! from this time forth
My house, with everything my house contains
Is yours, and only yours.

A hundred thousand!
My brain is dazed.  I shall be richer far
Than all the other merchants.  I will buy
Vineyards and lands and gardens.  Every loom
From Milan down to Sicily shall be mine,
And mine the pearls that the Arabian seas
Store in their silent caverns.

Generous Prince,
This night shall prove the herald of my love,
Which is so great that whatsoe’er you ask
It will not be denied you.

Guido.  What if I asked
For white Bianca here?

Simone.  You jest, my Lord;
She is not worthy of so great a Prince.
She is but made to keep the house and spin.
Is it not so, good wife?  It is so.  Look!
Your distaff waits for you.  Sit down and spin.
Women should not be idle in their homes,
For idle fingers make a thoughtless heart.
Sit down, I say.

Bianca.  What shall I spin?

Simone.  Oh! spin
Some robe which, dyed in purple, sorrow might wear
For her own comforting: or some long-fringed cloth
In which a new-born and unwelcome babe
Might wail unheeded; or a dainty sheet
Which, delicately perfumed with sweet herbs,
Might serve to wrap a dead man.  Spin what you will;
I care not, I.

Bianca.  The brittle thread is broken,
The dull wheel wearies of its ceaseless round,
The duller distaff sickens of its load;
I will not spin to-night.

Simone.  It matters not.
To-morrow you shall spin, and every day
Shall find you at your distaff.  So Lucretia
Was found by Tarquin.  So, perchance, Lucretia
Waited for Tarquin.  Who knows?  I have heard
Strange things about men’s wives.  And now, my lord,
What news abroad?  I heard to-day at Pisa
That certain of the English merchants there
Would sell their woollens at a lower rate
Than the just laws allow, and have entreated
The Signory to hear them.

Is this well?
Should merchant be to merchant as a wolf?
And should the stranger living in our land
Seek by enforced privilege or craft
To rob us of our profits?

Guido.  What should I do
With merchants or their profits?  Shall I go
And wrangle with the Signory on your count?
And wear the gown in which you buy from fools,
Or sell to sillier bidders?  Honest Simone,
Wool-selling or wool-gathering is for you.
My wits have other quarries.

Bianca.  Noble Lord,
I pray you pardon my good husband here,
His soul stands ever in the market-place,
And his heart beats but at the price of wool.
Yet he is honest in his common way.

[To Simone]

And you, have you no shame?  A gracious Prince
Comes to our house, and you must weary him
With most misplaced assurance.  Ask his pardon.

Simone.  I ask it humbly.  We will talk to-night
Of other things.  I hear the Holy Father
Has sent a letter to the King of France
Bidding him cross that shield of snow, the Alps,
And make a peace in Italy, which will be
Worse than a war of brothers, and more bloody
Than civil rapine or intestine feuds.

Guido.  Oh! we are weary of that King of France,
Who never comes, but ever talks of coming.
What are these things to me?  There are other things
Closer, and of more import, good Simone.

Bianca [To Simone].  I think you tire our most gracious guest.
What is the King of France to us?  As much
As are your English merchants with their wool.

* * * * *

Simone.  Is it so then?  Is all this mighty world
Narrowed into the confines of this room
With but three souls for poor inhabitants?
Ay! there are times when the great universe,
Like cloth in some unskilful dyer’s vat,
Shrivels into a handbreadth, and perchance
That time is now!  Well! let that time be now.
Let this mean room be as that mighty stage
Whereon kings die, and our ignoble lives
Become the stakes God plays for.

I do not know
Why I speak thus.  My ride has wearied me.
And my horse stumbled thrice, which is an omen
That bodes not good to any.

Alas! my lord,
How poor a bargain is this life of man,
And in how mean a market are we sold!
When we are born our mothers weep, but when
We die there is none weeps for us.  No, not one.

[Passes to back of stage.]

Bianca.  How like a common chapman does he speak!
I hate him, soul and body.  Cowardice
Has set her pale seal on his brow.  His hands
Whiter than poplar leaves in windy springs,
Shake with some palsy; and his stammering mouth
Blurts out a foolish froth of empty words
Like water from a conduit.

Guido.  Sweet Bianca,
He is not worthy of your thought or mine.
The man is but a very honest knave
Full of fine phrases for life’s merchandise,
Selling most dear what he must hold most cheap,
A windy brawler in a world of words.
I never met so eloquent a fool.

Bianca.  Oh, would that Death might take him where he stands!

Simone [turning round].  Who spake of Death?  Let no one speak of Death.
What should Death do in such a merry house,
With but a wife, a husband, and a friend
To give it greeting?  Let Death go to houses
Where there are vile, adulterous things, chaste wives
Who growing weary of their noble lords
Draw back the curtains of their marriage beds,
And in polluted and dishonoured sheets
Feed some unlawful lust.  Ay! ’tis so
Strange, and yet so.  You do not know the world.
You are too single and too honourable.
I know it well.  And would it were not so,
But wisdom comes with winters.  My hair grows grey,
And youth has left my body.  Enough of that.
To-night is ripe for pleasure, and indeed,
I would be merry as beseems a host
Who finds a gracious and unlooked-for guest
Waiting to greet him.  [Takes up a lute.]
But what is this, my lord?
Why, you have brought a lute to play to us.
Oh! play, sweet Prince.  And, if I am too bold,
Pardon, but play.

Guido.  I will not play to-night.
Some other night, Simone.

[To Bianca]  You and I
Together, with no listeners but the stars,
Or the more jealous moon.

Simone.  Nay, but my lord!
Nay, but I do beseech you.  For I have

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