The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde, page 97
This which men call your sin, what was it?
DUCHESS: Ay!
What was it? There are times it seems a dream,
An evil dream sent by an evil god,
And then I see the dead face in the coffin
And know it is no dream, but that my hand
Is red with blood, and that my desperate soul
Striving to find some haven for its love
From the wild tempest of this raging world,
Has wrecked its bark upon the rocks of sin.
What was it, said you? – murder merely? Nothing
But murder, horrible murder.
GUIDO: Nay, nay, nay,
’Twas but the passion-flower of your love
That in one moment leapt to terrible life,
And in one moment bare this gory fruit,
Which I had plucked in thought a thousand times.
My soul was murderous, but my hand refused;
Your hand wrought murder, but your soul was pure.
And so I love you, Beatrice, and let him
Who has no mercy for your stricken head,
Lack mercy up in heaven! Kiss me, sweet.
Tries to kiss her.
DUCHESS: No, no, your lips are pure, and mine are soiled,
For Guilt has been my paramour, and Sin
Lain in my bed: O Guido, if you love me
Get hence, for every moment is a worm
Which gnaws your life away: nay, sweet, get hence,
And if in after time you think of me,
Think of me as of one who loved you more
Than anything on earth; think of me, Guido,
As of a woman merely, one who tried
To make her life a sacrifice to love,
And slew love in the trial: Oh, what is that?
The bell has stopped from ringing, and I hear
The feet of armed men upon the stair.
GUIDO (aside): That is the signal for the guard to come.
DUCHESS: Why has the bell stopped ringing?
GUIDO: If you must know,
That stops my life on this side of the grave,
But on the other we shall meet again.
DUCHESS: No, no, ‘tis not too late: you must get hence;
The horse is by the bridge, there is still time.
Away, away, you must not tarry here!
Noise of SOLDIERS in the passage.
A VOICE OUTSIDE: Room for the Lord Justice of Padua!
The LORD JUSTICE is seen through the grated window passing down the corridor preceded by men bearing torches.
DUCHESS: It is too late.
A VOICE OUTSIDE: Room for the headsman.
DUCHESS (sinks down): Oh!
The HEADSMAN with his axe on his shoulder is seen passing the corridor, followed by Monks bearing candles.
GUIDO: Farewell, dear love, for I must drink this poison.
I do not fear the headsman, but I would die
Not on the lonely scaffold.
DUCHESS: Oh!
GUIDO: But here,
Here in thine arms, kissing thy mouth: farewell!
Goes to the table and takes the goblet up.
What, art thou empty?
Throws it to the ground.
O thou churlish gaoler,
Even of poisons niggard!
DUCHESS (faintly): Blame him not.
GUIDO: O God! You have not drunk it, Beatrice?
Tell me you have not?
DUCHESS: Were I to deny it,
There is a fire eating at my heart
Which would find utterance.
GUIDO: O treacherous love,
Why have you not left a drop for me?
DUCHESS: No, no, it held but death enough for one.
GUIDO: Is there no poison still upon your lips,
That I may draw it from them?
DUCHESS: Why should you die?
You have not spilt blood, and so need not die:
I have spilt blood, and therefore I must die.
Was it not said blood should be spilt for blood?
Who said that? I forget.
GUIDO: Tarry for me,
Our souls will go together.
DUCHESS: Nay, you must live.
There are many other women in the world
Who will love you, and not murder for your sake.
GUIDO: I love you only.
DUCHESS: You need not die for that.
GUIDO: Ah, if we die together, love, why then
Can we not lie together in one grave.
DUCHESS: A grave is but a narrow wedding-bed.
GUIDO: It is enough for us.
DUCHESS: And they will strew it
With a stark winding-sheet, and bitter herbs;
I think there are no roses in the grave,
Or if there are, they all are withered now
Since my Lord went there.
GUIDO: Ah! Dear Beatrice,
Your lips are roses that death cannot wither.
DUCHESS: Nay, if we lie together, will not my lips
Fall into dust, and your enamoured eyes
Shrivel to sightless sockets, and the worms,
Which are our groomsmen, eat away your heart?
GUIDO: I do not care: Death has no power on love,
And so by Love’s immortal sovereignty
I will die with you.
DUCHESS: But the grave is black,
And the pit black, so I must go before
To light the candles for your coming hither.
No, no, I will not die, I will not die.
Love, you are strong, and young, and very brave,
Stand between me and the angel of death,
And wrestle with him for me.
Thrusts GUIDO in front of her with his back to the audience.
I will kiss you,
When you have thrown him. Oh, have you no cordial,
To stay the workings of this poison in me?
Are there no rivers left in Italy
That you will not fetch me one cup of water
To quench this fire?
GUIDO: O God!
DUCHESS: You did not tell me
There was a drought in Italy, and no water,
Nothing but fire.
GUIDO: O Love!
DUCHESS: Send for a leech,
Not him who stanched my husband, but another,
We have no time: send for a leech, I say:
There is an antidote against each poison,
And he will sell it if we give him money.
Tell him that I will give him Padua,
For one short hour of life: I will not die.
Oh, I am sick to death; no, do not touch me,
This poison gnaws my heart: I did not know
It was such pain to die: I thought that life
Had taken all the agonies to itself;
It seems it is not so.
GUIDO: O damned stars,
Quench your vile cresset-lights in tears, and bid
The moon, your mistress, shine no more to-night.
DUCHESS: Guido, why are we here? I think this room
Is poorly furnished for a marriage chamber.
Let us go hence at once. Where are the horses?
We should be on our way to Venice now.
How cold the night is! We must ride faster.
That is our wedding-bell, is it not, Guido?
The Monks begin to chant outside.
Music! It should be merrier; but grief
Is of the fashion now – I know not why.
You must not weep: do we not love each other? –
That is enough. Death, what do you here?
You were not bidden to this table, sir;
Away, we have no need of you: I tell you
It was in wine I pledged you, not in poison.
They lied who told you that I drank your poison.
It was spilt upon the ground, like my Lord’s blood;
You came too late.
GUIDO: Sweet, there is nothing there:
These things are only unreal shadows.
DUCHESS: Death,
Why do you tarry, get to the upper chamber;
The cold meats of my husband’s funeral feast
Are set for you; this is a wedding feast.
You are out of place, sir; and, besides, ‘tis summer.
We do not need these heavy fires now,
You scorch us. Guido, bid that grave-digger
Stop digging in the earth that empty grave.
I will not lie there. Oh, I am burned up,
Burned up and blasted by these fires within me.
Can you do nothing? Water, give me water,
Or else more poison. No: I feel no pain –
Is it not curious I should feel no pain? –
And Death has gone away, I am glad of that.
I thought he meant to part us. Tell me, Guido,
Are you not sorry that you ever saw me?
GUIDO: I swear I would not have lived otherwise.
Why, in this dull and common world of ours
Men have died looking for such moments as this
And have not found them.
DUCHESS: Then you are not sorry?
How strange that seems.
GUIDO: What, Beatrice, have I not
Stood face to face with beauty; that is enough
For one man’s life. Why, love, I could be merry;
I have been often sadder at a feast,
But who were sad at such a feast as this
When Love and Death are both our cup-bearers;
We love and die together.
DUCHESS: Oh, I have been
Guilty beyond all women, and indeed
Beyond all women punished. Do you think –
No, that could not be – oh, do you think that love
Can wipe the bloody stain from off my hands,
Pour balm into my wounds, heal up my hurts,
And wash my scarlet sins as white as snow? –
For I have sinned.
GUIDO: They do not sin at all
Who sin for love.
DUCHESS: No, I have sinned, and yet
Percnance my sin will be forgiven me.
I have loved much.
They kiss each other now for the first time in this Act, when suddenly the DUCHESS leaps up in the dreadful spasm of death, tears in agony at her dress, and finally, with face twisted and distorted with pain, falls back dead in a chair. GUIDO seizing her dagger from her belt, kills himself; and, as he falls across her knees, clutches at the cloak which is on the back of the chair. There is a little pause. Then down the passage comes the tramp of Soldiers; the door is opened, and the LORD JUSTICE, the Headsman, and the Guard enter and see this figure shrouded in black, and GUIDO lying dead across her. The LORD JUSTICE rushes forward and drags the cloak off the DUCHESS, whose face is now the marble image of peace, the sign of God’s forgiveness.
TABLEAU
CURTAIN
VERA, OR THE NIHILISTS
A Drama in a Prologue, and Four Acts
Persons in the Prologue
PETER SABOUROFF (an Innkeeper)
NICOLAS
COLONEL KOTEMKIN
DMITRI SABOUROFF
VERA SABOUROFF (his Daughter)
MICHAEL (a Peasant)
Persons in the Play
IVAN THE CZAR
PRINCE PAUL MARALOFFSKI (Prime Minister of Russia)
PRINCE PETROVITCH
COUNT ROUVALOFF
MARQUIS DE POIVRARD
BARON RAFF
GENERAL KOTEMKIN
A PAGE
COLONEL OF THE GUARD
Nihilists
PETER TCHERNAVITCH, President of the Nihilists
MICHAEL
ALEXIS IVANACIEVITCH, known as a Student of Medicine
PROFESSOR MARFA
VERA SABOUROFF
SOLDIERS, CONSPIRATORS Etc.
PROLOGUE
SCENE: A Russian inn. Large door opening on snowy landscape at back of stage. PETER SABOUROFF and MICHAEL.
PETER (warming his hands at a stove): Has Vera not come back yet, Michael?
MICHAEL: No, Father Peter, not yet; ‘tis a good three miles to the post office, and she has to milk the cows besides, and that dun one is a rare plaguey creature for a wench to handle.
PETER: Why didn’t you go with her, you young fool? She’ll never love you unless you are always at her heels; women like to be bothered.
MICHAEL: She says I bother her too much already, Father Peter, and I fear she’ll never love me after all.
PETER: Tut, tut, boy, why shouldn’t she? You’re young, and wouldn’t be ill-favoured either, had God or thy mother given thee another face. Aren’t you one of Prince Maraloffski’s gamekeepers; and haven’t you got a good grass farm, and the best cow in the village? What more does a girl want?
MICHAEL: But Vera, Father Peter –
PETER: Vera, my lad, has got too many ideas; I don’t think much of ideas myself; I’ve got on well enough in life without ‘em; why shouldn’t my children? There’s Dmitri! Could have stayed here and kept the inn; many a young lad would have jumped at the offer in these hard times; but he, scatter-brained featherhead of a boy, must needs go off to Moscow to study the law! What does he want knowing about the law? Let a man do his duty, say I, and no one will trouble him.
MICHAEL: Ay! But, Father Peter, they say a good lawyer can break the law as often as he likes, and no one can say him nay. If a man knows the law he knows his duty.
PETER: True, Michael, if a man knows the law there is nothing illegal he cannot do when he likes: that is why folk become lawyers. That is about all they are good for; and there he stays, and has not written a line to us for four months now – a good son that, eh?
MICHAEL: Come, come, Father Peter, Dmitri’s letters must have gone astray – perhaps the new postman can’t read; he looks stupid enough, and Dmitri, why, he was the best fellow in the village. Do you remember how he shot the bear at the barn in the great winter?
PETER: Ay, it was a good shot; I never did a better myself.
MICHAEL: And as for dancing, he tired out three fiddlers Christmas come two years.
PETER: Ay, ay, he was a merry lad. It is the girl that has the seriousness – she goes about as solemn as a priest for days at a time.
MICHAEL: Vera is always thinking of others.
PETER: There is her mistake, boy. Let God and our little Father the Czar look to the world. It is none of my work to mend my neighbour’s thatch. Why, last winter old Michael was frozen to death in his sleigh in the snowstorm, and his wife and children starved afterwards when the hard times came; but what business was it of mine? I didn’t make the world. Let God and the Czar look to it. And then the blight came, and the black plague with it, and the priests couldn’t bury the people fast enough, and they lay dead on the roads – men and women both. But what business was it of mine? I didn’t make the world. Let God and the Czar look to it. Or two autumns ago, when the river overflowed on a sudden, and the children’s school was carried away and drowned every girl and boy in it. I didn’t make the world – let God or the Czar look to it.
MICHAEL: But, Father Peter –
PETER: No, no, boy; no man could live if he took his neighbour’s pack on his shoulder. (Enter VERA in peasant’s dress.) Well, my girl, you’ve been long enough away – where is the letter?
VERA: There is none to-day, Father.
PETER: I knew it.
VERA: But there will be one to-morrow, Father.
PETER: Curse him, for an ungrateful son.
VERA: O Father, don’t say that; he must be sick.
PETER: Ay! Sick of Profligacy, perhaps.
VERA: How dare you say that of him, Father? You know that is not true.
PETER: Where does the money go, then? Michael, listen. I gave Dmitri half his mother’s fortune to bring with him to pay the lawyer folk at Moscow. He has only written three times, and every time for more money. He got it, not at my wish, but at hers (pointing to VERA), and now for five months, close on six almost, we have heard nothing from him.
VERA: Father, he will come back.
PETER: Ay! The prodigals always return; but let him never darken my doors again.
VERA (sitting down pensive): Some evil has come on him; he must be dead! Oh! Michael, I am so wretched about Dmitri.
MICHAEL: Will you never love any one but him, Vera?
VERA (smiling): I don’t know; there is so much else to do in the world but love.
MICHAEL: Nothing else worth doing, Vera.
PETER: What noise is that, Vera? (A metallic clink is heard.)
VERA (rising and going to the door): I don’t know, Father; it is not like the cattle bells, or I would think Nicholas had come from the fair. Oh, Father! It is soldiers coming down the hill – there is one of them on horseback. How pretty they look! But there are some men with them, with chains on! They must be robbers. Oh! Don’t let them in, Father; I couldn’t look at them.
PETER: Men in chains! Why, we are in luck, my child! I heard this was to be the new road to Siberia, to bring the prisoners to the mines; but I didn’t believe it. My fortune is made! Bustle, Vera, bustle! I’ll die a rich man after all. There will be no lack of good customers now. An honest man should have the chance of making his living out of rascals now and then.
VERA: Are these men rascals, Father? What have they done?
PETER: I reckon they’re some of those Nihilists the priest warns us against. Don’t stand there idle, my girl.
VERA: I suppose, then, they are all wicked men.
Sound of soldiers outside; cry of ‘Halt!’ Enter Russian officer with a body of soldiers and eight men in chains, raggedly dressed; one of them on entering, hurriedly puts his coat above his ears and hides his face; some soldiers guard the door, others sit down; the prisoners stand.
COLONEL: Innkeeper!
PETER: Yes, Colonel.
COLONEL (pointing to Nihilists): Give these men some bread and water.
PETER (to himself): I shan’t make much out of that order.
COLONEL: As for myself, what have you got fit to eat?
PETER: Some good dried venison, your Excellency – and some rye whisky.
COLONEL: Nothing else?
PETER: Why, more whisky, your Excellency.
COLONEL: What clods these peasants are! You have a better room than this?
