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- Herausgeber: Avia Artis
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
“Dark Lady of the Sonnets” is a play by George Bernard Shaw, an Irish playwright who became the leading dramatist of his generation, and in 1925 was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.
“Dark Lady of the Sonnets” is a short play by George Bernard Shaw.
“THE BEEFEATER: Stand. Who goes there? Give the word.
THE MAN: Marry! I cannot. I have clean forgotten it.
THE BEEFEATER: Then cannot you pass here. What is your business? Who are you? Are you a true man?
THE MAN: Far from it, Master Warder. I am not the same man two days together: sommetimes Adam, sometimes Benvolio, and anon the Ghost.
THE BEEFEATER: (recoiling) A ghost! Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”
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George Bernard Shaw
Avia Artis
2022
Table of contents
DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS
Credits
DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS
Fin de siecle 15-1600. Midsummer night on the terrace of the Palace at Whitehall, overlooking the Thames. The Palace clock chimes four quarters and strikes eleven. A Beefeater on guard. A Cloaked Man approaches.
THE BEEFEATER: Stand. Who goes there? Give the word.
THE MAN: Marry! I cannot. I have clean forgotten it.
THE BEEFEATER: Then cannot you pass here. What is your business? Who are you? Are you a true man?
THE MAN: Far from it, Master Warder. I am not the same man two days together: sommetimes Adam, sometimes Benvolio, and anon the Ghost.
THE BEEFEATER: (recoiling) A ghost! Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
THE MAN: Well said, Master Warder. With your leave I will set that down in writing; for I have a very poor and unhappy brain for remembrance. (He takes out his tablets and writes.) Methinks this is a good scene, with you on your lonely watch, and I approaching like a ghost in the moonlight. Stare not so amazedly at me; but mark what I say. I keep tryst here to-night with a dark lady. She promised to bribe the warder. I gave her the wherewithal: four tickets for the Globe Theatre.
THE BEEFEATER: Plague on her! She gave me two only.
THE MAN: (detaching a tablet) My friend: present this tablet, and you will be welcomed at any time when the plays of Will Shakespear are in hand. Bring your wife. Bring your friends. Bring the whole garrison. There is ever plenty of room.
THE BEEFEATER: I care not for these new-fangled plays. No man can understand a word of them. They are all talk. Will you not give me a pass for The Spanish Tragedy?
THE MAN: To see The Spanish Tragedy one pays, my friend. Here are the means. (He gives him a piece of gold.)
THE BEEFEATER: (overwhelmed) Gold! Oh, sir, you are a better paymaster than your dark lady.
THE MAN: Women are thrifty, my friend.
THE BEEFEATER: Tis so, sir. And you have to consider that the most open handed of us must een cheapen that which we buy every day. This lady has to make a present to a warder nigh every night of her life.
THE MAN: (turning pale) I'll not believe it.
THE BEEFEATER: Now you, sir, I dare be sworn, do not have an adventure like this twice in the year.
THE MAN: Villain: Wouldst tell me that my dark lady hath ever done thus before? That she maketh occasions to meet other men?
THE BEEFEATER: Now the Lord bless your innocence, sir, do you think you are the only pretty man in the world? A merry lady, sir: a warm bit of stuff. Go to: I'll not see her pass a deceit on a gentleman that hath given me the first piece of gold I ever handled.
THE MAN: Master Warder: is it not a strange thing that we, knowing that all women are false, should be amazed to find our own particular drab no better than the rest?
THE BEEFEATER: Not all, sir. Decent bodies, many of them.
THE MAN: (intolerantly) No. All false. All. If thou deny it, thou liest.
THE BEEFEATER: You judge too much by the Court, sir. There, indeed, you may say of frailty that its name is woman.
THE MAN: (pulling out his tablets again) Prithee say that again: that about frailty: The strain of music.
THE BEEFEATER: What strain of music, sir? I'm no musician, God knows.
THE MAN: There is music in your soul: many of your degree have it very notably. (Writing) "Frailty: thy name is woman!" (Repeating it affectionately) "Thy name is woman."
THE BEEFEATER: Well, sir, it is but four words. Are you a snapper-up of such unconsidered trifles?
THE MAN: (eagerly) Snapper-up of-- (he gasps) Oh! Immortal phrase! (He writes it down). This man is a greater than I.
THE BEEFEATER: You have my lord Pembroke's trick, sir.
THE MAN: Like enough: He is my near friend. But what call you his trick?
THE BEEFEATER: Making sonnets by moonlight. And to the same lady too.
THE MAN: No!
THE BEEFEATER: Last night he stood here on your errand, and in your shoes.
THE MAN: Thou, too, Brutus! And I called him friend!
THE BEEFEATER: Tis ever so, sir.
THE MAN: Tis ever so. Twas ever so. (He turns away, overcome). Two Gentlemen of Verona! Judas! Judas!!
THE BEEFEATER: Is he so bad as that, sir?
THE MAN: (recovering his charity and self-possession) Bad? Oh no. Human, Master Warder, human. We call one another names when we are offended, as children do. That is all.
THE BEEFEATER: Ay, sir: words, words, words. Mere wind, sir. We fill our bellies with the east wind, sir, as the Scripture hath it. You cannot feed capons so.
THE MAN: A good cadence. By your leave. (He makes a note of it).
THE BEEFEATER: What manner of thing is a cadence, sir? I have not heard of it.
THE MAN: A thing to rule the world with, friend.
THE BEEFEATER: You speak strangely, sir: no offence. But, an't like you, you are a very civil gentleman; and a poor man feels drawn to you, you being, as twere, willing to share your thought with him.
THE MAN: Tis my trade. But alas! the world for the most part will none of my thoughts.
(Lamplight streams from the palace door as it opens from within.)
THE BEEFEATER: Here comes your lady, sir. I'll to t'other end of my ward. You may een take your time about your business: I shall not return too suddenly unless my sergeant comes prowling round. Tis a fell sergeant, sir: Strict in his arrest. Go'd'en, sir; and good luck! (He goes).
THE MAN: "Strict in his arrest"! "Fell sergeant"! (As if tasting a ripe plum) O-o-o-h! (He makes a note of them).
(A Cloaked Lady gropes her way from the palace and wanders along the terrace, walking in her sleep.)
THE LADY: (rubbing her hands as if washing them) Out, damned spot. You will mar all with these cosmetics. God made you one face; and you make yourself another. Think of your grave, woman, not ever of being beautified. All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this Tudor hand.
THE MAN: "All the perfumes of Arabia"! "Beautified"! "Beautified"! A poem in a single word. Can this be my Mary? (To the Lady) Why do you speak in a strange voice, and utter poetry for the first time? Are you ailing? You walk like the dead. Mary! Mary!
THE LADY: (echoing him) Mary! Mary! Who would have thought that woman to have had so much blood in her! Is it my fault that my counsellors put deeds of blood on me? Fie! If you were women you would have more wit than to stain the floor so foully. Hold not up her head so: the hair is false. I tell you yet again, Mary's buried: she cannot come out of her grave. I fear her not: these cats that dare jump into thrones though they be fit only for men's laps must be put away. Whats done cannot be undone. Out, I say. Fie! a queen, and freckled!
THE MAN: (shaking her arm) Mary, I say: Art asleep?
(The Lady wakes; starts; and nearly faints. He catches her on his arm.)
THE LADY: Where am I? What art thou?
THE MAN: I cry your mercy. I have mistook your person all this while. Methought you were my Mary: my mistress.
THE LADY: (outraged) Profane fellow: How do you dare?
THE MAN: Be not wroth with me, lady. My mistress is a marvellous proper woman. But she does not speak so well as you. "All the perfumes of Arabia"! That was well said: spoken with good accent and excellent discretion.
THE LADY: Have I been in speech with you here?
THE MAN: Why, yes, fair lady. Have you forgot it?
THE LADY: I have walked in my sleep.
THE MAN: Walk ever in your sleep, fair one; for then your words drop like honey.
THE LADY: (with cold majesty) Know you to whom you speak, sir, that you dare express yourself so saucily?
THE MAN: (unabashed) Not I, not care neither. You are some lady of the Court, belike. To me there are but two sorts of women: those with excellent voices, sweet and low, and cackling hens that cannot make me dream. Your voice has all manner of loveliness in it. Grudge me not a short hour of its music.
THE LADY: Sir: You are overbold. Season your admiration for a while with--
THE MAN: (holding up his hand to stop her) "Season your admiration for a while--"
THE LADY: Fellow: Do you dare mimic me to my face?
THE MAN: Tis music. Can you not hear? When a good musician sings a song, do you not sing it and sing it again till you have caught and fixed its perfect melody? Season your admiration for a while": God! the history of man's heart is in that one word admiration. Admiration! (Taking up his tablets) What was it? "Suspend your admiration for a space--"
THE LADY: A very vile jingle of esses. I said "Season your--"
THE MAN: (hastily) Season: ay, season, season, season. Plague on my memory, my wretched memory! I must een write it down. (He begins to write, but stops, his memory failing him) . Yet tell me which was the vile jingle? You said very justly: mine own ear caught it even as my false tongue said it.
THE LADY: You said "for a space." I said "for a while."
THE MAN: "For a while" (he corrects it). Good! (Ardently) And now be mine neither for a space nor a while, but for ever.
THE LADY: Odds my life! Are you by chance making love to me, knave?
THE MAN: Nay: Tis you who have made the love: I but pour it out at your feet. I cannot but love a lass that sets such store by an apt word. Therefore vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman--No: I have said that before somewhere; and the wordy garment of my love for you must be fire-new--
THE LADY: You talk too much, sir. Let me warn you: I am more accustomed to be listened to than preached at.
THE MAN: The most are like that that do talk well. But though you spake with the tongues of angels, as indeed you do, yet know that I am the king of words--
THE LADY: A king, ha!
THE MAN: No less. We are poor things, we men and women--
THE LADY: Dare you call me woman?
THE REST OF THE TEXT IS AVAILABLE IN THE FULL VERSION.
George Bernard Shaw
DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS
Cover design: Avia Artis
Picture of George Bernard Shaw was used in the cover design.
Picture by: Underwood & Underwood
All rights for this edition reserved.
© Avia Artis
2022
