Limbo and Other Essays Part 8

_The_ CARDINAL _folds the letter and beckons_ Diego _to approach, then speaks in a manner suddenly altered to abruptness, but with no enquiry in his tone_.

Signor Diego, you are a woman----

DIEGO _starts, flushes and exclaims huskily_, "My Lord----." _But the_ CARDINAL _makes a deprecatory movement and continues his sentence_.

and, as my honoured Venetian correspondent a.s.sures me, a courtesan of some experience and of more than usual tact. I trust this favourable judgment may be justified. The situation is delicate; and the work for which you have been selected is dangerous as well as difficult. Have you been given any knowledge of this case?

DIEGO _has by this time recovered his composure, and answers with respectful reserve_.

DIEGO

I asked no questions, your Eminence. But the Senator Gratiano vouchsafed to tell me that my work at Mantua would be to soothe and cheer with music your n.o.ble nephew Duke Ferdinand, who, as is rumoured, has been a prey to a certain languor and moodiness ever since his return from many years' captivity among the Infidels. Moreover (such were the Senator Gratiano's words), that if the Fates proved favourable to my music, I might gain access to His Highness's confidence, and thus enable your Eminence to understand and compa.s.s his strange malady.

CARDINAL

Even so. You speak discreetly, Diego; and your manner gives hope of more good sense than is usual in your s.e.x and in your trade. But this matter is of more difficulty than such as you can realise. Your being a woman will be of use should our scheme prove practicable. In the outset it may wreck us beyond recovery. For all his gloomy apathy, my nephew is quick to suspicion, and extremely subtle. He will delight in flouting us, should the thought cross his brain that we are practising some coa.r.s.e and foolish stratagem. And it so happens, that his strange moodiness is marked by abhorrence of all womankind. For months he has refused the visits of his virtuous mother. And the mere name of his young cousin and affianced bride, Princess Hippolyta, has thrown him into paroxysms of anger. Yet Duke Ferdinand possesses all his faculties. He is aware of being the last of our house, and must know full well that, should he die without an heir, this n.o.ble dukedom will become the battlefield of rapacious alien claimants. He denies none of this, but nevertheless looks on marriage with unseemly horror.

DIEGO

Is it so?----And----is there any reason His Highness's melancholy should take this shape? I crave your Eminence's pardon if there is any indiscretion in this question; but I feel it may be well that I should know some more upon this point. Has Duke Ferdinand suffered some wrong at the hands of women? Or is it the case of some pa.s.sion, hopeless, unfitting to his rank, perhaps?

CARDINAL

Your imagination, good Madam Magdalen, runs too easily along the tracks familiar to your s.e.x; and such inquisitiveness smacks too much of the courtesan. And beware, my lad, of touching on such subjects with the Duke: women and love, and so forth. For I fear, that while endeavouring to elicit the Duke's secret, thy eyes, thy altered voice, might betray thy own.

DIEGO

Betray me? My secret? What do you mean, my Lord? I fail to grasp your meaning.

CARDINAL

Have you so soon forgotten that the Duke must not suspect your being a woman? For if a woman may gradually melt his torpor, and bring him under the control of reason and duty, this can only come about by her growing familiar and necessary to him without alarming his moody virtue.

DIEGO

I crave your Eminence's indulgence for that one question, which I repeat because, as a musician, it may affect my treatment of His Highness. Has the Duke ever loved?

CARDINAL

Too little or too much,--which of the two it will be for you to find out. My nephew was ever, since his boyhood, a pious and joyless youth; and such are apt to love once, and, as the poets say, to die for love.

Be this as it may, keep to your part of singer; and even if you suspect that he suspects you, let him not see your suspicion, and still less justify his own. Be merely a singer: a s.e.xless creature, having seen pa.s.sion but never felt it; yet capable, by the miracle of art, of rousing and soothing it in others. Go warily, and mark my words: there is, I notice, even in your speaking voice, a certain quality such as folk say melts hearts; a trifle hoa.r.s.eness, a something of a break, which mars it as mere sound, but gives it more power than that of sound.

Employ that quality when the fit moment comes; but most times restrain it. You have understood?

DIEGO

I think I have, my Lord.

CARDINAL

Then only one word more. Women, and women such as you, are often ill advised and foolishly ambitious. Let not success, should you have any in this enterprise, endanger it and you. Your safety lies in being my tool.

My spies are everywhere; but I require none; I seem to know the folly which poor mortals think and feel. And see! this palace is surrounded on three sides by lakes; a rare and beautiful circ.u.mstance, which has done good service on occasion. Even close to this pavilion these blue waters are less shallow than they seem.

DIEGO

I had noted it. Such an enterprise as mine requires courage, my Lord; and your palace, built into the lake, as life,--saving all thought of heresy,--is built out into death, your palace may give courage as well as prudence.

CARDINAL

Your words, Diego, are irrelevant, but do not displease me.

DIEGO _bows. The_ Chaplain _enters with_ Pages _carrying a harpsichord, which they place upon the table; also two_ Musicians _with theorb and viol_.

Brother Matthias, thou hast been a skilful organist, and hast often delighted me with thy fugues and canons.--Sit to the instrument, and play a prelude, while this good youth collects his memory and his voice preparatory to displaying his skill.

_The_ chaplain, _not unlike the monk in t.i.tian's "Concert" begins to play_, DIEGO _standing by him at the harpsichord. While the cunningly interlaced themes, with wide, unclosed cadences, tinkle metallically from the instrument, the_ CARDINAL _watches, very deliberately, the face of_ DIEGO, _seeking to penetrate through its sullen sedateness. But_ DIEGO _remains with his eyes fixed on the view framed by the window: the pale blue lake, of the colour of periwinkle, under a sky barely bluer than itself, and the lines on the horizon--piled up clouds or perhaps Alps. Only, as the_ Chaplain _is about to finish his prelude, the face of_ DIEGO _undergoes a change: a sudden fervour and tenderness transfigure the features; while the eyes, from very dark turn to the colour of carnelian. This illumination dies out as quickly as it came, and_ DIEGO _becomes very self-contained and very listless as before_.

DIEGO

Will it please your Eminence that I should sing the Lament of Ariadne on Naxos?

ACT II

_A few months later. Another part of the Ducal Palace of Mantua. The_ d.u.c.h.eSS'S _closet: a small irregular chamber; the vaulted ceiling painted with Giottesque patterns in blue and russet, much blackened, and among which there is visible only a coronation of the Virgin, white and vision-like. Shelves with a few books and phials and jars of medicine; a small movable organ in a corner; and, in front of the ogival window, a praying-chair and large crucifix. The crucifix is black against the landscape, against the grey and misty waters of the lake; and framed by the nearly leafless branches of a willow growing below_.

_The_ d.u.c.h.eSS DOWAGER _is tall and straight, but almost bodiless in her black nun-like dress. Her face is so white, its lips and eyebrows so colourless, and eyes so pale a blue, that one might at first think it insignificant, and only gradually notice the strength and beauty of the features. The_ d.u.c.h.eSS _has laid aside her sewing on the entrance of_ DIEGO, _in reality_ MAGDALEN; _and, forgetful of all state, been on the point of rising to meet him. But_ DIEGO _has ceremoniously let himself down on one knee, expecting to kiss her hand_.

d.u.c.h.eSS

Nay, Signor Diego, do not kneel. Such forms have long since left my life, nor are they, as it seems to me, very fitting between G.o.d's creatures. Let me grasp your hand, and look into the face of him whom Heaven has chosen to work a miracle. You have cured my son!

DIEGO

It is indeed a miracle of Heaven, most gracious Madam; and one in which, alas, my poor self has been as nothing. For sounds, subtly linked, take wondrous powers from the soul of him who frames their patterns; and we, who sing, are merely as the string or keys he presses, or as the reed through which he blows. The virtue is not ours, though coming out of us.

DIEGO _has made this speech as if learned by rote, with listless courtesy. The_ d.u.c.h.eSS _has at first been frozen by his manner, but at the end she answers very simply_.

d.u.c.h.eSS

You speak too learnedly, good Signor Diego, and your words pa.s.s my poor understanding. The virtue in any of us is but G.o.d's finger-touch or breath; but those He chooses as His instruments are, methinks, angels or saints; and whatsoever you be, I look upon you with loving awe. You smile? You are a courtier, while I, although I have not left this palace for twenty years, have long forgotten the words and ways of courts. I am but a simpleton: a foolish old woman who has unlearned all ceremony through many years of many sorts of sorrow; and now, dear youth, unlearned it more than ever from sheer joy at what it has pleased G.o.d to do through you. For, thanks to you, I have seen my son again, my dear, wise, tender son again. I would fain thank you. If I had worldly goods which you have not in plenty, or honours to give, they should be yours.

You shall have my prayers. For even you, so favoured of Heaven, will some day want them.

DIEGO

Give them me now, most gracious Madam. I have no faith in prayers; but I need them.