Acropolis: The Wawel Plays by Stanisław Wyspiański

Author:Stanisław Wyspiański [Wyspiański, Stanisław]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Glagoslav Publications

ACT IV

(Act II of Bolesław the Bold)

SCENE 1.

KING.

Bring forth my chest.

The one that rests

Beneath the royal bed.

Therein, my crown

Of gold torques wound,

Blue sapphires, rubies red.

Sceptre and apple too, it holds,

As well as shirts of cloth of gold,

Gold buttons, golden clasps.

Sandals, with pearls shining white,

My cloak with pearls embroidered bright,

Locked safe, with iron hasps.

The chamber-men dress the King in his ceremonial robes.

Ha, ha! Your tongue is hanging out!

It would be nice to be tricked out

In rags like these? The hour may come

When we’ll change stations…

Patience, patience!

You know I’ve got an only son —

Sometimes, does it pass through your head,

“What if both King and Prince were dead?”

Slit, poisoned or smothered?

What says old bishop Stanisław?

What says the Czech king Vratislav?

What say you, my dear brother?

PEASANT.

This crate is a damned heavy thing

For two poor arms to lug around!

Why put on all these baubles, king?

The weight of gold will weigh you down.

Who cares for jewels anyway?

You’re king. That’s bright enough, I’d say.

KING.

And what do you say there, who sighs,

With labour, rolling round your eyes?

Stooped and shuffling, bent and sagged?

By gold-envy are you stung?

Speak! Or has the cat got your tongue?

Take all you’ll carry. Fill your bag.

SERVANT 2

Throws himself into the chamber with a bag.

PEASANT.

Look at the fool, rejoicing, weeping!

He can’t believe his blessed fortune!

All he can carry, his for keeping,

Measuring his golden portion!

Now the bag is bursting full

And still he packs it, still he drools,

His greedy eyes are shining bright.

Now comes the time to bind it tight

And lift it up — he strains and strains

But can’t lift it, for all his pains.

He groans, he grunts, he skips around —

The golden dream has weighed him down.

SERVANT 2.

O the ill fortune, O the weight!

I’ve overreached, sad is my fate!

My back is broke; I’m done for, dead!

Sire! Tear the eyes out of my head!

I cannot look — the gold, bright, burning!

I can’t look on — I’ll die of yearning!

KING

Helps him to lift the bag, only to drop it on him,

Crushing him beneath its weight.

SERVANT 2

Dies.

KING.

Drag out this garbage. Sink them both

Deep in the water. You can’t sayI wasn’t generous. He pled

A salary, and took his pay.

He’ll sleep now in the bed he made.

Drag it out; dump it in the moat.

SCENE 2.

SIECIECH

At the King’s side.

The Bishop is at prayer.

He fills the church with plaintive moans.

It seems he’s coming here, with men.

KING.

So, let him come here with his men.

Let him come with cross pectoral,

Let him lead his monks in choral

Wailing before the black crucifix.

Let him light the death-bed tallow:

Still he’s but a wretched fellow.

Let him bless his cup and his bread:

Still I’ll see him bow his head.

SIECIECH.

He’s coming here, it seems, in song —

Crow-like, croaking doomful words.

In your chapel he means to pray.

KING.

And you — have you no more your swords?

None of you know what role to play

When this priest comes to do us wrong

With curse and interdict? Come, up!

Or are you bold but in your cups?

A priest draws close, you cover your eyes!

SIECIECH.

Your horse is ready, sire. Today’s

A good day for a hunt. Why wait

Upon the Bishop? Why remain

To

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