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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:07:20 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:07:20 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/37169-0.txt b/37169-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c92f6fc --- /dev/null +++ b/37169-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2338 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 37169 *** + +ARIADNE IN MANTUA + +A ROMANCE IN FIVE ACTS + +BY + +VERNON LEE + + +Portland, Maine + +THOMAS B. MOSHER + +MDCCCCXII + + + + +TO + +ETHEL SMYTH + +THANKING, AND BEGGING, HER FOR MUSIC + + + + +PREFACE + + +Ariadne _in Mantua_, _A Romance in Five Acts, by Vernon Lee. +Oxford: B.H. Blackwell 50 and 51 Broad Street. London: +Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Company. A.D. MCMIII. +Octavo. Pp. x: 11-66_. + + +Like almost everything else written by Vernon Lee there is to +be found that insistent little touch which is her sign-manual +when dealing with Italy or its makers of forgotten melodies. +In other words, the music of her rhythmic prose is summed up +in one poignant vocable--_Forlorn_. + +As for her vanished world of dear dead women and their lovers +who are dust, we may indeed for a brief hour enter that +enchanted atmosphere. Then a vapour arises as out of long lost +lagoons, and, be it Venice or Mantua, we come to feel "how +deep an abyss separates us--and how many faint and nameless +ghosts crowd round the few enduring things bequeathed to us by +the past." + +T.B.M. + + + + +PREFACE + + +_"Alles Vergängliche ist nur ein Gleichniss"_ + + +_It is in order to give others the pleasure of reading or +re-reading a small masterpiece, that I mention the likelihood +of the catastrophe of my_ Ariadne _having been suggested by +the late Mr. Shorthouse's_ Little Schoolmaster Mark; _but I +must ask forgiveness of my dear old friend, Madame Emile +Duclaux_ (Mary Robinson), _for unwarranted use of one of the +songs of her_ Italian Garden. + +_Readers of my own little volume_ Genius Loci _may meanwhile +recognise that I have been guilty of plagiarism towards myself +also_.[1] + +_For a couple of years after writing those pages, the image of +the Palace of Mantua and the lakes it steeps in, haunted my +fancy with that peculiar insistency, as of the half-lapsed +recollection of a name or date, which tells us that we know +(if we could only remember!)_ what happened in a place. _I let +the matter rest. But, looking into my mind one day, I found +that a certain song of the early seventeenth century_--(not +_Monteverde's_ Lamento d'Arianna _but an air_, Amarilli, _by +Caccini, printed alongside in Parisotti's collection_)--_had +entered that Palace of Mantua, and was, in some manner not +easy to define, the musical shape of what must have happened +there. And that, translated back into human personages, was +the story I have set forth in the following little Drama_. + +_So much for the origin of_ Ariadne in Mantua, _supposing any +friend to be curious about it. What seems more interesting is +my feeling, which grew upon me as I worked over and over the +piece and its French translation, that these personages had an +importance greater than that of their life and adventures, a +meaning, if I may say so, a little_ sub specie aeternitatis. +_For, besides the real figures, there appeared to me vague +shadows cast by them, as it were, on the vast spaces of life, +and magnified far beyond those little puppets that I twitched. +And I seem to feel here the struggle, eternal, necessary, +between mere impulse, unreasoning and violent, but absolutely +true to its aim; and all the moderating, the weighing and +restraining influences of civilisation, with their idealism, +their vacillation, but their final triumph over the mere +forces of nature. These well-born people of Mantua, +privileged beings wanting little because they have much, and +able therefore to spend themselves in quite harmonious effort, +must necessarily get the better of the poor gutter-born +creature without whom, after all, one of them would have been +dead and the others would have had no opening in life. Poor_ +Diego _acts magnanimously, being cornered; but he (or she) has +not the delicacy, the dignity to melt into thin air with a +mere lyric Metastasian "Piangendo partè", and leave them to +their untroubled conscience. He must needs assert himself, +violently wrench at their heart-strings, give them a final +stab, hand them over to endless remorse; briefly, commit that +public and theatrical deed of suicide, splashing the murderous +waters into the eyes of well-behaved wedding guests_. + +_Certainly neither the_ Duke, _nor the_ Duchess Dowager, _nor_ +Hippolyta _would have done this. But, on the other hand, they +could calmly, coldly, kindly accept the self-sacrifice +culminating in that suicide: well-bred people, faithful to +their standards and forcing others, however unwilling, into +their own conformity. Of course without them the world would +be a den of thieves, a wilderness of wolves; for they are,--if +I may call them by their less personal names,--Tradition, +Discipline, Civilisation_. + +_On the other hand, but for such as_ Diego _the world would +come to an end within twenty years: mere sense of duty and +fitness not being sufficient for the killing and cooking of +victuals, let alone the begetting and suckling of children. +The descendants of_ Ferdinand _and_ Hippolyta, _unless they +intermarried with some bastard of_ Diego's _family, would +dwindle, die out; who knows, perhaps supplement the impulses +they lacked by silly newfangled evil_. + +_These are the contending forces of history and life: Impulse +and Discipline, creating and keeping; love such as_ Diego's, +_blind, selfish, magnanimous; and detachment, noble, a little +bloodless and cruel, like that of the_ Duke of Mantua. + +_And it seems to me that the conflicts which I set forth on my +improbable little stage, are but the trifling realities +shadowing those great abstractions which we seek all through +the history of man, and everywhere in man's own heart_. + + +VERNON LEE. + + +Maiano, near Florence, + +June, 1903. + + + [1] See Appendix where the article referred to is given entire. + + + + +ARIADNE IN MANTUA + + + VIOLA. _....I'll serve this Duke: + ....for I can sing + And speak to him in many sorts of music._ + TWELFTH NIGHT, 1, 2. + + + + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + FERDINAND, Duke of Mantua. + THE CARDINAL, his Uncle. + THE DUCHESS DOWAGER. + HIPPOLYTA, Princess of Mirandola. + MAGDALEN, known as DIEGO. + THE MARCHIONESS OF GUASTALLA. + THE BISHOP OF CREMONA. + THE DOGE'S WIFE. + THE VENETIAN AMBASSADOR. + THE DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET. + THE VICEROY OF NAPLES' JESTER. + A TENOR as BACCHUS. + The CARDINAL'S CHAPLAIN. + THE DUCHESS'S GENTLEWOMAN. + THE PRINCESS'S TUTOR. + Singers as Maenads and Satyrs; Courtiers, + Pages, Wedding Guests and Musicians. + + * * * * * + +The action takes place in the Palace of Mantua through a +period of a year, during the reign of Prospero I, of Milan, +and shortly before the Venetian expedition to Cyprus under +Othello. + + + + +ARIADNE IN MANTUA + + + + +ACT I + + +_The_ CARDINAL'S _Study in the Palace at Mantua. The_ CARDINAL +_is seated at a table covered with Persian embroidery, +rose-colour picked out with blue, on which lies open a volume +of Machiavelli's works, and in it a manuscript of Catullus; +alongside thereof are a bell and a magnifying-glass. Under his +feet a red cushion with long tassels, and an oriental carpet +of pale lavender and crimson_. _The_ CARDINAL _is dressed in +scarlet, a crimson fur-lined cape upon his shoulders. He is +old, but beautiful and majestic, his face furrowed like the +marble bust of Seneca among the books opposite_. + +_Through the open Renaissance window, with candelabra and +birds carved on the copings, one sees the lake, pale blue, +faintly rippled, with a rose-coloured brick bridge and +bridge-tower at its narrowest point_. DIEGO (_in reality_ +MAGDALEN) _has just been admitted into the_ CARDINAL'S +_presence, and after kissing his ring, has remained standing, +awaiting his pleasure_. + +DIEGO _is fantastically habited as a youth in russet and +violet tunic reaching below the knees in Moorish fashion, as +we see it in the frescoes of Pinturicchio; with silver buttons +down the seams, and plaited linen at the throat and in the +unbuttoned purfles of the sleeves. His hair, dark but red +where it catches the light, is cut over the forehead and +touches his shoulders. He is not very tall in his boy's +clothes, and very sparely built. He is pale, almost sallow; +the face, dogged, sullen, rather expressive than beautiful, +save for the perfection of the brows and of the flower-like +singer's mouth. He stands ceremoniously before the_ CARDINAL, +_one hand on his dagger, nervously, while the other holds a +large travelling hat, looped up, with a long drooping plume_. + +_The_ CARDINAL _raises his eyes, slightly bows his head, +closes the manuscript and the volume, and puts both aside +deliberately. He is, meanwhile, examining the appearance of_ +DIEGO. + +CARDINAL + +We are glad to see you at Mantua, Signor Diego. And from what +our worthy Venetian friend informs us in the letter which he +gave you for our hands, we shall without a doubt be wholly +satisfied with your singing, which is said to be both sweet +and learned. Prythee, Brother Matthias (_turning to his_ +Chaplain), bid them bring hither my virginal,--that with the +Judgment of Paris painted on the lid by Giulio Romano; its +tone is admirably suited to the human voice. And, Brother +Matthias, hasten to the Duke's own theorb player, and bid him +come straightways. Nay, go thyself, good Brother Matthias, and +seek till thou hast found him. We are impatient to judge of +this good youth's skill. + +_The_ Chaplain _bows and retires_. DIEGO (_in reality_ +MAGDALEN) _remains alone in the_ CARDINAL'S _presence. The_ +CARDINAL _remains for a second turning over a letter, and then +reads through the magnifying-glass out loud_. + +CARDINAL + +Ah, here is the sentence: "Diego, a Spaniard of Moorish +descent, and a most expert singer and player on the virginal, +whom I commend to your Eminence's favour as entirely fitted +for such services as your revered letter makes mention of----" +Good, good. + +_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 assures 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 noble 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 compass his strange +malady. + +CARDINAL + +Even so. You speak discreetly, Diego; and your manner gives +hope of more good sense than is usual in your sex 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 coarse 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 noble 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 passion, hopeless, unfitting +to his rank, perhaps? + +CARDINAL + +Your imagination, good Madam Magdalen, runs too easily along +the tracks familiar to your sex; 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 sexless creature, having seen +passion 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 +hoarseness, 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 circumstance, 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 Titian'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_ DUCHESS'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_ DUCHESS 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_ +DUCHESS _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_. + +DUCHESS + +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 God'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_ DUCHESS _has at first been frozen by +his manner, but at the end she answers very simply_. + +DUCHESS + +You speak too learnedly, good Signor Diego, and your words +pass my poor understanding. The virtue in any of us is but +God'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 God 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. + +DUCHESS + +Great joy has made me heartless as well as foolish. I have +hurt you, somehow. Forgive me, Signor Diego. + +DIEGO + +As you said, I am a courtier, Madam, and I know it is enough +if we can serve our princes. We have no business with troubles +of our own; but having them, we keep them to ourselves. His +Highness awaits me at this hour for the usual song which +happily unclouds his spirit. Has your Grace any message for +him? + +DUCHESS + +Stay. My son will wait a little while. I require you, Diego, +for I have hurt you. Your words are terrible, but just. We +princes are brought up--but many of us, alas, are princes in +this matter!--to think that when we say "I thank you" we have +done our duty; though our very satisfaction, our joy, may +merely bring out by comparison the emptiness of heart, the +secret soreness, of those we thank. We are not allowed to see +the burdens of others, and merely load them with our own. + +DIEGO + +Is this not wisdom? Princes should not see those burdens which +they cannot, which they must not, try to carry. And after all, +princes or slaves, can others ever help us, save with their +purse, with advice, with a concrete favour, or, say, with a +song? Our troubles smart because they are _our_ troubles; our +burdens weigh because on _our_ shoulders; they are part of us, +and cannot be shifted. But God doubtless loves such kind +thoughts as you have, even if, with your Grace's indulgence, +they are useless. + +DUCHESS + +If it were so, God would be no better than an earthly prince. +But believe me, Diego, if He prefer what you call +kindness--bare sense of brotherhood in suffering--'tis for its +usefulness. We cannot carry each other's burden for a minute; +true, and rightly so; but we can give each other added +strength to bear it. + +DIEGO + +By what means, please your Grace? + +DUCHESS + +By love, Diego. + +DIEGO + +Love! But that was surely never a source of strength, craving +your Grace's pardon? + +DUCHESS + +The love which I am speaking of--and it may surely bear the +name, since 'tis the only sort of love that cannot turn to +hatred. Love for who requires it because it is required--say +love of any woman who has been a mother for any child left +motherless. Nay, forgive my boldness: my gratitude gives me +rights on you, Diego. You are unhappy; you are still a child; +and I imagine that you have no mother. + +DIEGO + +I am told I had one, gracious Madam. She was, saving your +Grace's presence, only a light woman, and sold for a ducat to +the Infidels. I cannot say I ever missed her. Forgive me, +Madam. Although a courtier, the stock I come from is extremely +base. I have no understanding of the words of noble women and +saints like you. My vileness thinks them hollow; and my pretty +manners are only, as your Grace has unluckily had occasion to +see, a very thin and bad veneer. I thank your Grace, and once +more crave permission to attend the Duke. + +DUCHESS + +Nay. That is not true. Your soul is nowise base-born. I owe +you everything, and, by some inadvertence, I have done nothing +save stir up pain in you. I want--the words may seem +presumptuous, yet carry a meaning which is humble--I want to +be your friend; and to help you to a greater, better Friend. I +will pray for you, Diego. + +DIEGO + +No, no. You are a pious and virtuous woman, and your pity and +prayers must keep fit company. + +DUCHESS + +The only fitting company for pity and prayers, for love, dear +lad, is the company of those who need them. Am I over bold? + +_The_ DUCHESS _has risen, and shyly laid her hand on_ DIEGO'S +_shoulder_. DIEGO _breaks loose and covers his face, +exclaiming in a dry and husky voice_. + +DIEGO + +Oh the cruelty of loneliness, Madam! Save for two years which +taught me by comparison its misery, I have lived in loneliness +always in this lonely world; though never, alas, alone. Would +it had always continued! But as the wayfarer from out of the +snow and wind feels his limbs numb and frozen in the hearth's +warmth, so, having learned that one might speak, be +understood, be comforted, that one might love and be +beloved,--the misery of loneliness was revealed to me. And +then to be driven back into it once more, shut in to it for +ever! Oh, Madam, when one can no longer claim understanding +and comfort; no longer say "I suffer: help me!"--because the +creature one would say it to is the very same who hurts and +spurns one! + +DUCHESS + +How can a child like you already know such things? We women +may, indeed. I was as young as you, years ago, when I too +learned it. And since I learned it, let my knowledge, my poor +child, help you to bear it. I know how silence galls and +wearies. If silence hurts you, speak,--not for me to answer, +but understand and sorrow for you. I am old and simple and +unlearned; but, God willing, I shall understand. + +DIEGO + +If anything could help me, 'tis the sense of kindness such as +yours. I thank you for your gift; but acceptance of it would +be theft; for it is not meant for what I really am. And though +a living lie in many things; I am still, oddly enough, honest. +Therefore, I pray you, Madam, farewell. + +DUCHESS + +Do not believe it, Diego. Where it is needed, our poor loving +kindness can never be stolen. + +DIEGO + +Do not tempt me, Madam! Oh God, I do not want your pity, your +loving kindness! What are such things to me? And as to +understanding my sorrows, no one can, save the very one who is +inflicting them. Besides, you and I call different things by +the same names. What you call _love_, to me means nothing: +nonsense taught to children, priest's metaphysics. What _I_ +mean, you do not know. (_A pause_, DIEGO _walks up and down in +agitation_.) But woe's me! You have awakened the power of +breaking through this silence,--this silence which is +starvation and deathly thirst and suffocation. And it so +happens that if I speak to you all will be wrecked. (_A +pause_.) But there remains nothing to wreck! Understand me, +Madam, I care not who you are. I know that once I have spoken, +you _must_ become my enemy. But I am grateful to you; you have +shown me the way to speaking; and, no matter now to whom, I +now _must_ speak. + +DUCHESS + +You shall speak to God, my friend, though you speak seemingly +to me. + +DIEGO + +To God! To God! These are the icy generalities we strike upon +under all pious warmth. No, gracious Madam, I will not speak +to God; for God knows it already, and, knowing, looks on +indifferent. I will speak to you. Not because you are kind and +pitiful; for you will cease to be so. Not because you will +understand; for you never will. I will speak to you because, +although you are a saint, you are _his_ mother, have kept +somewhat of his eyes and mien; because it will hurt you if I +speak, as I would it might hurt _him_. I am a woman, Madam; a +harlot; and I was the Duke your son's mistress while among the +Infidels. + +_A long silence. The_ DUCHESS _remains seated. She barely +starts, exclaiming_ "Ah!--" _and becomes suddenly absorbed in +thought_. DIEGO _stands looking listlessly through the window +at the lake and the willow_. + +DIEGO + +I await your Grace's orders. Will it please you that I call +your maid-of-honour, or summon the gentleman outside? If it +so please you, there need be no scandal. I shall give myself +up to any one your Grace prefers. + +_The_ DUCHESS _pays no attention to_ DIEGO'S _last words, and +remains reflecting_. + +DUCHESS + +Then, it is he who, as you call it, spurns you? How so? For +you are admitted to his close familiarity; nay, you have +worked the miracle of curing him. I do not understand the +situation. For, Diego,--I know not by what other name to call +you--I feel your sorrow is a deep one. You are not +the----woman who would despair and call God cruel for a mere +lover's quarrel. You love my son; you have cured him,--cured +him, do I guess rightly, through your love? But if it be so, +what can my son have done to break your heart? + +DIEGO + +(_after listening astonished at the_ DUCHESS'S _unaltered tone +of kindness_) + +Your Grace will understand the matter as much as I can; and I +cannot. He does not recognise me, Madam. + +DUCHESS + +Not recognise you? What do you mean? + +DIEGO + +What the words signify: Not recognise. + +DUCHESS + +Then----he does not know----he still believes you to be----a +stranger? + +DIEGO + +So it seems, Madam. + +DUCHESS + +And yet you have cured his melancholy by your presence. And in +the past----tell me: had you ever sung to him? + +DIEGO (_weeping silently_) + +Daily, Madam. + +DUCHESS (_slowly_) + +They say that Ferdinand is, thanks to you, once more in full +possession of his mind. It cannot be. Something still lacks; +he is not fully cured. + +DIEGO + +Alas, he is. The Duke remembers everything, save me. + +DUCHESS + +There is some mystery in this. I do not understand such +matters. But I know that Ferdinand could never be base +towards you knowingly. And you, methinks, would never be base +towards him. Diego, time will bring light into this darkness. +Let us pray God together that He may make our eyes and souls +able to bear it. + +DIEGO + +I cannot pray for light, most gracious Madam, because I fear +it. Indeed I cannot pray at all, there remains nought to pray +for. But, among the vain and worldly songs I have had to get +by heart, there is, by chance, a kind of little hymn, a +childish little verse, but a sincere one. And while you pray +for me--for you promised to pray for me, Madam--I should like +to sing it, with your Grace's leave. + +DIEGO _opens a little movable organ in a corner, and strikes a +few chords, remaining standing the while. The_ DUCHESS _kneels +down before the crucifix, turning her back upon him. While she +is silently praying_, DIEGO, _still on his feet, sings very +low to a kind of lullaby tune_. + + Mother of God, + We are thy weary children; + Teach us, thou weeping Mother, + To cry ourselves to sleep. + + + + +ACT III + + +_Three months later. Another part of the Palace of Mantua: the +hanging gardens in the_ DUKE'S _apartments. It is the first +warm night of Spring. The lemon trees have been brought out +that day, and fill the air with fragrance. Terraces and +flights of steps; in the background the dark mass of the +palace, with its cupolas and fortified towers; here and there +a lit window picking out the dark; and from above the +principal yards, the flare of torches rising into the deep +blue of the sky. In the course of the scene, the moon +gradually emerges from behind a group of poplars on the +opposite side of the lake into which the palace is built. +During the earlier part of the act, darkness. Great stillness, +with, only occasionally, the plash of a fisherman's oar, or a +very distant thrum of mandolines.--The_ DUKE _and_ DIEGO _are +walking up and down the terrace_. + +DUKE + +Thou askedst me once, dear Diego, the meaning of that +labyrinth which I have had carved, a shapeless pattern enough, +but well suited, methinks, to blue and gold, upon the ceiling +of my new music room. And wouldst have asked, I fancy, as +many have done, the hidden meaning of the device surrounding +it.--I left thee in the dark, dear lad, and treated thy +curiosity in a peevish manner. Thou hast long forgiven and +perhaps forgotten, deeming my lack of courtesy but another +ailment of thy poor sick master; another of those odd +ungracious moods with which, kindest of healing creatures, +thou hast had such wise and cheerful patience. I have often +wished to tell thee; but I could not. 'Tis only now, in some +mysterious fashion, I seem myself once more,--able to do my +judgment's bidding, and to dispose, in memory and words, of my +own past. My strange sickness, which thou hast cured, melting +its mists away with thy beneficent music even as the sun +penetrates and sucks away the fogs of dawn from our lakes--my +sickness, Diego, the sufferings of my flight from Barbary; the +horror, perhaps, of that shipwreck which cast me (so they say, +for I remember nothing) senseless on the Illyrian +coast----these things, or Heaven's judgment on but a lukewarm +Crusader,--had somehow played strange havoc with my will and +recollections. I could not think; or thinking, not speak; or +recollecting, feel that he whom I thought of in the past was +this same man, myself. + +_The_ DUKE _pauses, and leaning on the parapet, watches the +long reflections of the big stars in the water_. + +But now, and thanks to thee, Diego, I am another; I am myself. + +DIEGO'S _face, invisible in the darkness, has undergone +dreadful convulsions. His breast heaves, and he stops for +breath before answering; but when he does so, controls his +voice into its usual rather artificially cadenced tone_. + +DIEGO + +And now, dear Master, you can recollect----all? + +DUKE + +Recollect, sweet friend, and tell thee. For it is seemly that +I should break through this churlish silence with thee. Thou +didst cure the weltering distress of my poor darkened mind; I +would have thee, now, know somewhat of the past of thy +grateful patient. The maze, Diego, carved and gilded on that +ceiling is but a symbol of my former life; and the device +which, being interpreted, means "I seek straight ways," the +expression of my wish and duty. + +DIEGO + +You loathed the maze, my Lord? + +DUKE + +Not so. I loved it then. And I still love it now. But I have +issued from it--issued to recognise that the maze was good. +Though it is good I left it. When I entered it, I was a raw +youth, although in years a man; full of easy theory, and +thinking all practice simple; unconscious of passion; ready to +govern the world with a few learned notions; moreover never +having known either happiness or grief, never loved and +wondered at a creature different from myself; acquainted, not +with the straight roads which I now seek, but only with the +rectangular walls of schoolrooms. The maze, and all the maze +implied, made me a man. + +DIEGO + +(_who has listened with conflicting feelings, and now unable +to conceal his joy_) + +A man, dear Master; and the gentlest, most just of men. Then, +that maze----But idle stories, interpreting all spiritual +meaning as prosy fact, would have it, that this symbol was a +reality. The legend of your captivity, my Lord, has turned the +pattern on that ceiling into a real labyrinth, some cunningly +built fortress or prison, where the Infidels kept you, and +whose clue----you found, and with the clue, freedom, after +five weary years. + +DUKE + +Whose clue, dear Diego, was given into my hands,--the clue +meaning freedom, but also eternal parting--by the most +faithful, intrepid, magnanimous, the most loving----and the +most beloved of women! + +_The_ Duke _has raised his arms from the parapet, and drawn +himself erect, folding them on his breast, and seeking for_ +Diego's _face in the darkness. But_ Diego, _unseen by the_ +Duke, _has clutched the parapet and sunk on to a bench_. + +DUKE + +(_walking up and down, slowly and meditatively, after a +pause_) + +The poets have fabled many things concerning virtuous women. +The Roman Arria, who stabbed herself to make honourable +suicide easier for her husband; Antigone, who buried her +brother at the risk of death; and the Thracian Alkestis, who +descended into the kingdom of Death in place of Admetus. But +none, to my mind, comes up to _her_. For fancy is but thin and +simple, a web of few bright threads; whereas reality is +closely knitted out of the numberless fibres of life, of pain +and joy. For note it, Diego--those antique women whom we read +of were daughters of kings, or of Romans more than kings; bred +of a race of heroes, and trained, while still playing with +dolls, to pride themselves on austere duty, and look upon the +wounds and maimings of their soul as their brothers and +husbands looked upon the mutilations of battle. Whereas here; +here was a creature infinitely humble; a waif, a poor spurned +toy of brutal mankind's pleasure; accustomed only to bear +contumely, or to snatch, unthinking, what scanty happiness lay +along her difficult and despised path,--a wild creature, who +had never heard such words as duty or virtue; and yet whose +acts first taught me what they truly meant. + +DIEGO + +(_who has recovered himself, and is now leaning in his turn on +the parapet_) + +Ah----a light woman, bought and sold many times over, my Lord; +but who loved, at last. + +DUKE + +That is the shallow and contemptuous way in which men think, +Diego,--and boys like thee pretend to; those to whom life is +but a chess-board, a neatly painted surface alternate black +and white, most suitable for skilful games, with a soul clean +lost or gained at the end! I thought like that. But I grew to +understand life as a solid world: rock, fertile earth, veins +of pure metal, mere mud, all strangely mixed and overlaid; and +eternal fire at the core! I learned it, knowing Magdalen. + +DIEGO + +Her name was Magdalen? + +DUKE + +So she bade me call her. + +DIEGO + +And the name explained the trade? + +DUKE (_after a pause_) + +I cannot understand thee Diego,--cannot understand thy lack of +understanding----Well yes! Her trade. All in this universe is +trade, trade of prince, pope, philosopher or harlot; and once +the badge put on, the licence signed--the badge a crown or a +hot iron's brand, as the case may be,--why then we ply it +according to prescription, and that's all! Yes, Diego,--since +thou obligest me to say it in its harshness, I do so, and I +glory for her in every contemptuous word I use!--The woman I +speak of was but a poor Venetian courtesan; some drab's child, +sold to the Infidels as to the Christians; and my cruel pirate +master's--shall we say?--mistress. There! For the first time, +Diego, thou dost not understand me; or is it----that I +misjudged thee, thinking thee, dear boy----(_breaks off +hurriedly_). + +DIEGO (_very slowly_) + +Thinking me what, my Lord? + +DUKE (_lightly, but with effort_) + +Less of a little Sir Paragon of Virtue than a dear child, who +is only a child, must be. + +DIEGO + +It is better, perhaps, that your Highness should be certain of +my limitations----But I crave your Highness's pardon. I had +meant to say that being a waif myself, pure gutter-bred, I +have known, though young, more Magdalens than you, my Lord. +They are, in a way, my sisters; and had I been a woman, I +should, likely enough, have been one myself. + +DUKE + +You mean, Diego? + +DIEGO + +I mean, that knowing them well, I also know that women such as +your Highness has described, occasionally learn to love most +truly. Nay, let me finish, my Lord; I was not going to repeat +a mere sentimental commonplace. Briefly then, that such women, +being expert in love, sometimes understand, quicker than +virtuous dames brought up to heroism, when love for them is +cloyed. They can walk out of a man's house or life with due +alacrity, being trained to such flittings. Or, recognising the +first signs of weariness before 'tis known to him who feels +it, they can open the door for the other--hand him the clue of +the labyrinth with a fine theatric gesture!--But I crave your +Highness's pardon for enlarging on this theme. + +DUKE + +Thou speakest Diego, as if thou hadst a mind to wound thy +Master. Is this, my friend, the reward of my confiding in +thee, even if tardily? + +DIEGO + +I stand rebuked, my Lord. But, in my own defence----how shall +I say it?----Your Highness has a manner to-night which +disconcerts me by its novelty; a saying things and then +unsaying them; suggesting and then, somehow, treading down the +suggestion like a spark of your lightning. Lovers, I have been +told, use such a manner to revive their flagging feeling by +playing on the other one's. Even in so plain and solid a thing +as friendship, such ways--I say it subject to your Highness's +displeasure--are dangerous. But in love, I have known cases +where, carried to certain lengths, such ways of speaking +undermined a woman's faith and led her to desperate things. +Women, despite their strength, which often surprises us, are +brittle creatures. Did you never, perhaps, make trial of +this----Magdalen, with---- + +DUKE + +With what? Good God, Diego, 'tis I who ask thy pardon; and +thou sheddest a dreadful light upon the past. But it is not +possible. I am not such a cur that, after all she did, after +all she was,--my life saved by her audacity a hundred times, +made rich and lovely by her love, her wit, her power,--that I +could ever have whimpered for my freedom, or made her suspect +I wanted it more than I wanted her? Is it possible, Diego? + +DIEGO (_slowly_) + +Why more than you wanted her? She may have thought the two +compatible. + +DUKE + +Never. First, because my escape could not be compassed save by +her staying behind; and then because---she knew, in fact, what +thing I was, or must become, once set at liberty. + +DIEGO (_after a pause_) + +I see. You mean, my Lord, that you being Duke of Mantua, while +she----If she knew that; knew it not merely as a fact, but as +one knows the full savour of grief,--well, she was indeed the +paragon you think; one might indeed say, bating one point, a +virtuous woman. + +DUKE + +Thou hast understood, dear Diego, and I thank thee for it. + +DIEGO + +But I fear, my Lord, she did not know these things. Such as +she, as yourself remarked, are not trained to conceive of +duty, even in others. Passion moves them; and they believe in +passion. You loved her; good. Why then, at Mantua as in +Barbary. No, my dear Master, believe me; she had seen your +love was turning stale, and set you free, rather than taste +its staleness. Passion, like duty, has its pride; and even we +waifs, as gypsies, have our point of honour. + +DUKE + +Stale! My love grown stale! You make me laugh, boy, instead of +angering. Stale! You never knew her. She was not like a +song--even your sweetest song--which, heard too often, cloys, +its phrases dropping to senseless notes. She was like +music,--the whole art: new modes, new melodies, new rhythms, +with every day and hour, passionate or sad, or gay, or very +quiet; more wondrous notes than in thy voice; and more +strangely sweet, even when they grated, than the tone of those +newfangled fiddles, which wound the ear and pour balm in, they +make now at Cremona. + +DIEGO + +You loved her then, sincerely? + +DUKE + +Methinks it may be Diego now, tormenting his Master with +needless questions. Loved her, boy! I love her. + +_A long pause_. Diego _has covered his face, with a gesture as +if about to speak. But the moon has suddenly risen from behind +the poplars, and put scales of silver light upon the ripples +of the lake, and a pale luminous mist around the palace. As +the light invades the terrace, a sort of chill has come upon +both speakers; they walk up and down further from one +another_. + +DIEGO + +A marvellous story, dear Master. And I thank you from my heart +for having told it me. I always loved you, and I thought I +knew you. I know you better still, now. You are--a most +magnanimous prince. + +DUKE + +Alas, dear lad, I am but a poor prisoner of my duties; a +poorer prisoner, and a sadder far, than there in Barbary----O +Diego, how I have longed for her! How deeply I still long, +sometimes! But I open my eyes, force myself to stare reality +in the face, whenever her image comes behind closed lids, +driving her from me----And to end my confession. At the +beginning, Diego, there seemed in thy voice and manner +something of _her_; I saw her sometimes in thee, as children +see the elves they fear and hope for in stains on walls and +flickers on the path. And all thy wondrous power, thy +miraculous cure--nay, forgive what seems ingratitude--was due, +Diego, to my sick fancy making me see glances of her in thy +eyes and hear her voice in thine. Not music but love, love's +delusion, was what worked my cure. + +DIEGO + +Do you speak truly, Master? Was it so? And now? + +DUKE + +Now, dear lad, I am cured--completely; I know bushes from +ghosts; and I know thee, dearest friend, to be Diego. + +DIEGO + +When these imaginations still held you, my Lord, did it ever +happen that you wondered: what if the bush had been a ghost; +if Diego had turned into--what was she called?---- + +DUKE + +Magdalen. My fancy never went so far, good Diego. There was a +grain of reason left. But if it had----Well, I should have +taken Magdalen's hand, and said, "Welcome, dear sister. This +is a world of spells; let us repeat some. Become henceforth +my brother; be the Duke of Mantua's best and truest friend; +turn into Diego, Magdalen." + +_The_ DUKE _presses_ DIEGO'S _arm, and, letting it go, walks +away into the moonlight with an enigmatic air. A long pause_. + +Hark, they are singing within; the idle pages making songs to +their ladies' eyebrows. Shall we go and listen? + +(_They walk in the direction of the palace_.) + +And (_with a little hesitation_) that makes me say, Diego, +before we close this past of mine, and bury it for ever in our +silence, that there is a little Moorish song, plaintive and +quaint, she used to sing, which some day I will write down, +and thou shalt sing it to me--on my deathbed. + +DIEGO + +Why not before? Speaking of songs, that mandolin, though out +of tune, and vilely played, has got hold of a ditty I like +well enough. Hark, the words are Tuscan, well known in the +mountains. (_Sings_.) + + I'd like to die, but die a little death only, + I'd like to die, but look down from the window; + I'd like to die, but stand upon the doorstep; + I'd like to die, but follow the procession; + I'd like to die, but see who smiles and weepeth; + I'd like to die, but die a little death only. + +(_While_ DIEGO _sings very loud, the mandolin inside the +palace thrums faster and faster. As he ends, with a long +defiant leap into a high note, a burst of applause from the +palace_.) + +DIEGO (_clapping his hands_) + +Well sung, Diego! + + + + +ACT IV + + +_A few weeks later. The new music room in the Palace of +Mantua. Windows on both sides admitting a view of the lake, so +that the hall looks like a galley surrounded by water. +Outside, morning: the lake, the sky, and the lines of poplars +on the banks, are all made of various textures of luminous +blue. From the gardens below, bay trees raise their flowering +branches against the windows. In every window an antique +statue: the Mantuan Muse, the Mantuan Apollo, etc. In the +walls between the windows are framed panels representing +allegorical triumphs: those nearest the spectator are the +triumphs of Chastity and of Fortitude. At the end of the room, +steps and a balustrade, with a harpsichord and double basses +on a dais. The roof of the room is blue and gold; a deep blue +ground, constellated with a gold labyrinth in relief. Round +the cornice, blue and gold also, the inscription_: "RECTAS +PETO," _and the name_ Ferdinandus Mantuae Dux. + +_The_ PRINCESS HIPPOLYTA _of Mirandola, cousin to the_ DUKE; +_and_ DIEGO. HIPPOLYTA _is very young, but with the strength +and grace, and the candour, rather of a beautiful boy than of +a woman. She is dazzlingly fair; and her hair, arranged in +waves like an antique amazon's, is stiff and lustrous, as if +made of threads of gold. The brows are wide and straight, +like a man's; the glance fearless, but virginal and almost +childlike_. HIPPOLYTA _is dressed in black and gold, +particoloured, like Mantegna's Duchess. An old man, in +scholar's gown, the_ Princess's Greek Tutor, _has just +introduced_ DIEGO _and retired_. + +DIEGO + +The Duke your cousin's greeting and service, illustrious +damsel. His Highness bids me ask how you are rested after your +journey hither. + +PRINCESS + +Tell my cousin, good Signor Diego, that I am touched at his +concern for me. And tell him, such is the virtuous air of his +abode, that a whole night's rest sufficed to right me from the +fatigue of two hours' journey in a litter; for I am new to +that exercise, being accustomed to follow my poor father's +hounds and falcons only on horseback. You shall thank the Duke +my cousin for his civility. (PRINCESS _laughs_.) + +DIEGO + +(_bowing, and keeping his eyes on the_ PRINCESS _as he +speaks_) + +His Highness wished to make his fair cousin smile. He has told +me often how your illustrious father, the late Lord of +Mirandola, brought his only daughter up in such a wise as +scarcely to lack a son, with manly disciplines of mind and +body; and that he named you fittingly after Hippolyta, who was +Queen of the Amazons, virgins unlike their vain and weakly +sex. + +PRINCESS + +She was; and wife of Theseus. But it seems that the poets care +but little for the like of her; they tell us nothing of her, +compared with her poor predecessor, Cretan Ariadne, she who +had given Theseus the clue of the labyrinth. Methinks that +maze must have been mazier than this blue and gold one +overhead. What say you, Signor Diego? + +DIEGO (_who has started slightly_) + +Ariadne? Was she the predecessor of Hippolyta? I did not know +it. I am but a poor scholar, Madam; knowing the names and +stories of gods and heroes only from songs and masques. The +Duke should have selected some fitter messenger to hold +converse with his fair learned cousin. + +PRINCESS (_gravely_) + +Speak not like that, Signor Diego. You may not be a scholar, +as you say; but surely you are a philosopher. Nay, conceive +my meaning: the fame of your virtuous equanimity has spread +further than from this city to my small dominions. Your +precocious wisdom--for you seem younger than I, and youths do +not delight in being very wise--your moderation in the use of +sudden greatness, your magnanimous treatment of enemies and +detractors; and the manner in which, disdainful of all +personal advantage, you have surrounded the Duke my cousin +with wisest counsellors and men expert in office--such are the +results men seek from the study of philosophy. + +DIEGO + +(_at first astonished, then amused, a little sadly_) + +You are mistaken, noble maiden. 'Tis not philosophy to refrain +from things that do not tempt one. Riches or power are useless +to me. As for the rest, you are mistaken also. The Duke is +wise and valiant, and chooses therefore wise and valiant +counsellors. + +PRINCESS (_impetuously_) + +You are eloquent, Signor Diego, even as you are wise! But your +words do not deceive me. Ambition lurks in every one; and +power intoxicates all save those who have schooled themselves +to use it as a means to virtue. + +DIEGO + +The thought had never struck me; but men have told me what you +tell me now. + +PRINCESS + +Even Antiquity, which surpasses us so vastly in all manner of +wisdom and heroism, can boast of very few like you. The +noblest souls have grown tyrannical and rapacious and +foolhardy in sudden elevation. Remember Alcibiades, the +beloved pupil of the wisest of all mortals. Signor Diego, you +may have read but little; but you have meditated to much +profit, and must have wrestled like some great athlete with +all that baser self which the divine Plato has told us how to +master. + +DIEGO (_shaking his head_) + +Alas, Madam, your words make me ashamed, and yet they make me +smile, being so far of the mark! I have wrestled with nothing; +followed only my soul's blind impulses. + +PRINCESS (_gravely_) + +It must be, then, dear Signor Diego, as the Pythagoreans held: +the discipline of music is virtuous for the soul. There is a +power in numbered and measured sound very akin to wisdom; +mysterious and excellent; as indeed the Ancients fabled in the +tales of Orpheus and Amphion, musicians and great sages and +legislators of states. I have long desired your conversation, +admirable Diego. + +DIEGO (_with secret contempt_) + +Noble maiden, such words exceed my poor unscholarly +appreciation. The antique worthies whom you name are for me +merely figures in tapestries and frescoes, quaint greybeards +in laurel wreaths and helmets; and I can scarcely tell whether +the Ladies Fortitude and Rhetoric with whom they hold +converse, are real daughters of kings, or mere Arts and +Virtues. But the Duke, a learned and judicious prince, will +set due store by his youthful cousin's learning. As for me, +simpleton and ignoramus that I am, all I see is that Princess +Hippolyta is very beautiful and very young. + +PRINCESS + +(_sighing a little, but with great simplicity_) + +I know it. I am young, and perhaps crude; although I study +hard to learn the rules of wisdom. You, Diego, seem to know +them without study. + +DIEGO + +I know somewhat of the world and of men, gracious Princess, +but that can scarce be called knowing wisdom. Say rather +knowing blindness, envy, cruelty, endless nameless folly in +others and oneself. But why should you seek to be wise? you +who are fair, young, a princess, and betrothed from your +cradle to a great prince? Be beautiful, be young, be what you +are, a woman. + +Diego _has said this last word with emphasis, but the_ +Princess _has not noticed the sarcasm in his voice_. + +PRINCESS (_shaking her head_) + +That is not my lot. I was destined, as you said, to be the +wife of a great prince; and my dear father trained me to fill +that office. + +DIEGO + +Well, and to be beautiful, young, radiant; to be a woman; is +not that the office of a wife? + +PRINCESS + +I have not much experience. But my father told me, and I have +gathered from books, that in the wives of princes, such gifts +are often thrown away; that other women, supplying them, seem +to supply them better. Look at my cousin's mother. I can +remember her still beautiful, young, and most tenderly loving. +Yet the Duke, my uncle, disdained her, and all she got was +loneliness and heartbreak. An honourable woman, a princess, +cannot compete with those who study to please and to please +only. She must either submit to being ousted from her +husband's love, or soar above it into other regions. + +DIEGO (_interested_) + +Other regions? + +PRINCESS + +Higher ones. She must be fit to be her husband's help, and to +nurse his sons to valour and wisdom. + +DIEGO + +I see. The Prince must know that besides all the knights that +he summons to battle, and all the wise men whom he hears in +council, there is another knight, in rather lighter armour and +quicker tired, another counsellor, less experienced and of +less steady temper, ready for use. Is this great gain? + +PRINCESS + +It is strange that being a man, you should conceive of women +from---- + +DIEGO + +From a man's standpoint? + +PRINCESS + +Nay; methinks a woman's. For I observe that women, when they +wish to help men, think first of all of some transparent +masquerade, donning men's clothes, at all events in metaphor, +in order to be near their lovers when not wanted. + +DIEGO (_hastily_) + +Donning men's clothes? A masquerade? I fail to follow your +meaning, gracious maiden. + +PRINCESS (_simply_) + +So I have learned at least from our poets. Angelica, and +Bradamante and Fiordispina, scouring the country after their +lovers, who were busy enough without them. I prefer Penelope, +staying at home to save the lands and goods of Ulysses, and +bringing up his son to rescue and avenge him. + +DIEGO (_reassured and indifferent_) + +Did Ulysses love Penelope any better for it, Madam? better +than poor besotted Menelaus, after all his injuries, loved +Helen back in Sparta? + +PRINCESS + +That is not the question. A woman born to be a prince's wife +and prince's mother, does her work not for the sake of +something greater than love, whether much or little. + +DIEGO + +For what then? + +PRINCESS + +Does a well-bred horse or excellent falcon do its duty to +please its master? No; but because such is its nature. +Similarly, methinks, a woman bred to be a princess works with +her husband, for her husband, not for any reward, but because +he and she are of the same breed, and obey the same instincts. + +DIEGO + +Ah!----Then happiness, love,--all that a woman craves for? + +PRINCESS + +Are accidents. Are they not so in the life of a prince? Love +he may snatch; and she, being in woman's fashion not allowed +to snatch, may receive as a gift, or not. But received or +snatched, it is not either's business; not their nature's true +fulfilment. + +DIEGO + +You think so, Lady? + +PRINCESS + +I am bound to think so. I was born to it and taught it. You +know the Duke, my cousin,--well, I am his bride, not being +born his sister. + +DIEGO + +And you are satisfied? O beautiful Princess, you are of +illustrious lineage and mind, and learned. Your father brought +you up on Plutarch instead of Amadis; you know many things; +but there is one, methinks, no one can know the nature of it +until he has it. + +PRINCESS + +What is that, pray? + +DIEGO + +A heart. Because you have not got one yet, you make your plans +without it,--a negligible item in your life. + +Princess + +I am not a child. + +DIEGO + +But not yet a woman. + +PRINCESS (_meditatively_) + +You think, then---- + +DIEGO + +I do not _think_; I _know_. And _you_ will know, some day. And +then---- + +PRINCESS + +Then I shall suffer. Why, we must all suffer. Say that, having +a heart, a heart for husband or child, means certain +grief,--well, does not riding, walking down your stairs, mean +the chance of broken bones? Does not living mean old age, +disease, possible blindness or paralysis, and quite inevitable +aches? If, as you say, I must needs grow a heart, and if a +heart must needs give agony, why, I shall live through +heartbreak as through pain in any other limb. + +DIEGO + +Yes,--were your heart a limb like all the rest,--but 'tis the +very centre and fountain of all life. + +PRINCESS + +You think so? 'Tis, methinks, pushing analogy too far, and +metaphor. This necessary organ, diffusing life throughout us, +and, as physicians say, removing with its vigorous floods all +that has ceased to live, replacing it with new and living +tissue,--this great literal heart cannot be the seat of only +one small passion. + +DIEGO + +Yet I have known more women than one die of that small +passion's frustrating. + +PRINCESS + +But you have known also, I reckon, many a man in whom life, +what he had to live for, was stronger than all love. They say +the Duke my cousin's melancholy sickness was due to love which +he had outlived. + +DIEGO They say so, Madam. + +PRINCESS (_thoughtfully_) + +I think it possible, from what I know of him. He was much with +my father when a lad; and I, a child, would listen to their +converse, not understanding its items, but seeming to +understand the general drift. My father often said my cousin +was romantic, favoured overmuch his tender mother, and would +suffer greatly, learning to live for valour and for wisdom. + +DIEGO + +Think you he has, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +If 'tis true that occasion has already come. + +DIEGO + +And--if that occasion came, for the first time or for the +second, perhaps, after your marriage? What would you do, +Madam? + +PRINCESS + +I cannot tell as yet. Help him, I trust, when help could come, +by the sympathy of a soul's strength and serenity. Stand +aside, most likely, waiting to be wanted. Or else---- + +DIEGO + +Or else, illustrious maiden? + +PRINCESS + +Or else----I know not----perhaps, growing a heart, get some +use from it. + +DIEGO + +Your Highness surely does not mean use it to love with? + +PRINCESS + +Why not? It might be one way of help. And if I saw him +struggling with grief, seeking to live the life and think the +thought fit for his station; why, methinks I could love him. +He seems lovable. Only love could have taught fidelity like +yours. + +DIEGO + +You forget, gracious Princess, that you attributed great power +of virtue to a habit of conduct, which is like the nature of +high-bred horses, needing no spur. But in truth you are right. +I am no high-bred creature. Quite the contrary. Like curs, I +love; love, and only love. For curs are known to love their +masters. + +PRINCESS + +Speak not thus, virtuous Diego. I have indeed talked in +magnanimous fashion, and believed, sincerely, that I felt high +resolves. But you have acted, lived, and done magnanimously. +What you have been and are to the Duke is better schooling for +me than all the Lives of Plutarch. + +DIEGO. + +You could not learn from me, Lady. + +PRINCESS + +But I would try, Diego. + +DIEGO + +Be not grasping, Madam. The generous coursers whom your father +taught you to break and harness have their set of virtues. +Those of curs are different. Do not grudge them those. Your +noble horses kick them enough, without even seeing their +presence. But I feel I am beyond my depth, not being +philosophical by nature or schooling. And I had forgotten to +give you part of his Highnesses message. Knowing your love of +music, and the attention you have given it, the Duke imagined +it might divert you, till he was at leisure to pay you homage, +to make trial of my poor powers. Will it please you to order +the other musicians, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +Nay, good Diego, humour me in this. I have studied music, and +would fain make trial of accompanying your voice. Have you +notes by you? + +DIEGO + +Here are some, Madam, left for the use of his Highness's band +this evening. Here is the pastoral of Phyllis by Ludovic of +the Lute; a hymn in four parts to the Virgin by Orlandus +Lassus; a madrigal by the Pope's Master, Signor Pierluigi of +Praeneste. Ah! Here is a dramatic scene between Medea and +Creusa, rivals in love, by the Florentine Octavio. Have you +knowledge of it, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +I have sung it with my master for exercise. But, good Diego, +find a song for yourself. + +DIEGO + +You shall humour me, now, gracious Lady. Think I am your +master. I desire to hear your voice. And who knows? In this +small matter I may really teach you something. + +_The_ PRINCESS _sits to the harpsichord_, DIEGO _standing +beside her on the dais. They sing, the_ PRINCESS _taking the +treble_, DIEGO _the contralto part. The_ PRINCESS _enters +first--with a full-toned voice clear and high, singing very +carefully_. DIEGO _follows, singing in a whisper. His voice is +a little husky, and here and there broken, but ineffably +delicious and penetrating, and, as he sings, becomes, without +quitting the whisper, dominating and disquieting. The_ +PRINCESS _plays a wrong chord, and breaks off suddenly._ + +DIEGO + +(_having finished a cadence, rudely_) + +What is it, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +I know not. I have lost my place----I----I feel bewildered. +When your voice rose up against mine, Diego, I lost my head. +And--I do not know how to express it--when our voices met in +that held dissonance, it seemed as if you hurt me----horribly. + +DIEGO + +(_smiling, with hypocritical apology_) + +Forgive me, Madam. I sang too loud, perhaps. We theatre +singers are apt to strain things. I trust some day to hear you +sing alone. You have a lovely voice: more like a boy's than +like a maiden's still. + +PRINCESS + +And yours----'tis strange that at your age we should reverse +the parts,--yours, though deeper than mine, is like a +woman's. + +DIEGO (_laughing_) + +I have grown a heart, Madam; 'tis an organ grows quicker where +the breed is mixed and lowly, no nobler limbs retarding its +development by theirs. + +PRINCESS + +Speak not thus, excellent Diego. Why cause me pain by +disrespectful treatment of a person--your own admirable +self--whom I respect? You have experience, Diego, and shall +teach me many things, for I desire learning. + +_The_ Princess _takes his hand in both hers, very kindly and +simply_. Diego, _disengaging his, bows very ceremoniously_. + +DIEGO + +Shall I teach you to sing as I do, gracious Madam? + +PRINCESS (_after a moment_) + +I think not, Diego. + + + + +ACT V + + +_Two months later. The wedding day of the_ DUKE. _Another part +of the Palace of Mantua. A long terrace still to be seen, with +roof supported by columns. It looks on one side on to the +jousting ground, a green meadow surrounded by clipped hedges +and set all round with mulberry trees. On the other side it +overlooks the lake, against which, as a fact, it acts as dyke. +The Court of Mantua and Envoys of foreign Princes, together +with many Prelates, are assembled on the terrace, surrounding +the seats of the_ DUKE, _the young_ DUCHESS HIPPOLYTA, _the_ +DUCHESS DOWAGER _and the_ CARDINAL. _Facing this gallery, and +separated from it by a line of sedge and willows, and a few +yards of pure green water, starred with white lilies, is a +stage in the shape of a Grecian temple, apparently rising out +of the lake. Its pediment and columns are slung with garlands +of bay and cypress. In the gable, the_ DUKE'S _device of a +labyrinth in gold on a blue ground and the motto:_ "RECTAS +PETO." _On the stage, but this side of the curtain, which is +down, are a number of_ Musicians _with violins, viols, +theorbs, a hautboy, a flute, a bassoon, viola d'amore and bass +viols, grouped round two men with double basses and a man at a +harpsichord, in dress like the musicians in Veronese's +paintings. They are preluding gently, playing elaborately +fugued variations on a dance tune in three-eighth time, +rendered singularly plaintive by the absence of perfect +closes_. + +CARDINAL + +(_to_ VENETIAN AMBASSADOR) + +What say you to our Diego's masque, my Lord? Does not his +skill as a composer vie almost with his sublety as a singer? + +MARCHIONESS OF GUASTALLA + +(_to the_ DUCHESS DOWAGER) + +A most excellent masque, methinks, Madam. And of so new a +kind. We have had masques in palaces and also in gardens, and +some, I own it, beautiful; for our palace on the hill affords +fine vistas of cypress avenues and the distant plain. But, +until the Duke your son, no one has had a masque on the water, +it would seem. 'Tis doubtless his invention? + +DUCHESS + +(_with evident preoccupation_) + +I think not, Madam. 'Tis our foolish Diego's freak. And I +confess I like it not. It makes me anxious for the players. + +BISHOP OF CREMONA (_to the_ CARDINAL) + +A wondrous singer, your Signor Diego. They say the Spaniards +have subtle exercises for keeping the voice thus youthful. His +Holiness has several such who sing divinely under Pierluigi's +guidance. But your Diego seems really but a child, yet has a +mode of singing like one who knows a world of joys and +sorrows. + +CARDINAL + +He has. Indeed, I sometimes think he pushes the pathetic +quality too far. I am all for the Olympic serenity of the wise +Ancients. + +YOUNG DUCHESS (_laughing_) + +My uncle would, I almost think, exile our divine Diego, as +Plato did the poets, for moving us too much. + +PRINCE OF MASSA (_whispering_) + +He has moved your noble husband strangely. Or is it, gracious +bride, that too much happiness overwhelms our friend? + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_turning round and noticing the_ DUKE, _a few seats off_) + +'Tis true. Ferdinand is very sensitive to music, and is +greatly concerned for our Diego's play. Still----I wonder----. + +MARCHIONESS (_to the_ DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET, _who is standing +near her_) + +I really never could have recognised Signor Diego in his +disguise. He looks for all the world exactly like a woman. + +POET + +A woman! Say a goddess, Madam! Upon my soul (_whispering_), +the bride is scarce as beautiful as he, although as fair as +one of the noble swans who sail on those clear waters. + +JESTER + +After the play we shall see admiring dames trooping behind the +scenes to learn the secret of the paints which can change a +scrubby boy into a beauteous nymph; a metamorphosis worth +twenty of Sir Ovid's. + +DOGE'S WIFE (_to the_ DUKE) + +They all tell me--but 'tis a secret naturally--that the words +of this ingenious masque are from your Highness's own pen; and +that you helped--such are your varied gifts--your singing-page +to set them to music. + +DUKE (_impatiently_) + +It may be that your Serenity is rightly informed, or not. + +KNIGHT OF MALTA (_to_ YOUNG DUCHESS) + +One recognises, at least, the mark of Duke Ferdinand's genius +in the suiting of the play to the surroundings. Given these +lakes, what fitter argument than Ariadne abandoned on her +little island? And the labyrinth in the story is a pretty +allusion to your lord's personal device and the magnificent +ceiling he lately designed for our admiration. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_with her eyes fixed on the curtain, which begins to move_) + +Nay, 'tis all Diego's thought. Hush, they begin to play. Oh, +my heart beats with curiosity to know how our dear Diego will +carry his invention through, and to hear the last song which +he has never let me hear him sing. + +_The curtain is drawn aside, displaying the stage, set with +orange and myrtle trees in jars, and a big flowering oleander. +There is no painted background; but instead, the lake, with +distant shore, and the sky with the sun slowly descending +into clouds, which light up purple and crimson, and send rosy +streamers into the high blue air. On the stage a rout of_ +Bacchanals, _dressed like Mantegna's Hours, but with +vine-garlands; also_ Satyrs _quaintly dressed in goatskins, +but with top-knots of ribbons, all singing a Latin ode in +praise of_ BACCHUS _and wine; while girls dressed as nymphs, +with ribboned thyrsi in their hands, dance a pavana before a +throne of moss overhung by ribboned garlands. On this throne +are seated a_ TENOR _as_ BACCHUS, _dressed in russet and +leopard skins, a garland of vine leaves round his waist and +round his wide-brimmed hat; and_ DIEGO, _as_ ARIADNE. DIEGO, +_no longer habited as a man, but in woman's garments, like +those of Guercino's Sibyls: a floating robe and vest of orange +and violet, open at the throat; with particoloured scarves +hanging, and a particoloured scarf wound like a turban round +the head, the locks of dark hair escaping from beneath. She is +extremely beautiful_. + +MAGDALEN (_sometime known as_ DIEGO, _now representing_ +ARIADNE) _rises from the throne and speaks, turning to_ +BACCHUS. _Her voice is a contralto, but not deep, and with +upper notes like a hautboy's. She speaks in an irregular +recitative, sustained by chords on the viols and +harpsichord_. + +ARIADNE + +Tempt me not, gentle Bacchus, sunburnt god of ruddy vines and +rustic revelry. The gifts you bring, the queenship of the +world of wine-inspired Fancies, cannot quell my grief at +Theseus' loss. + +BACCHUS (_tenor_) + +Princess, I do beseech you, give me leave to try and soothe +your anguish. Daughter of Cretan Minos, stern Judge of the +Departed, your rearing has been too sad for youth and beauty, +and the shade of Orcus has ever lain across your path. But I +am God of Gladness; I can take your soul, suspend it in +Mirth's sun, even as the grapes, translucent amber or rosy, +hang from the tendril in the ripening sun of the crisp autumn +day. I can unwind your soul, and string it in the serene sky +of evening, smiling in the deep blue like to the stars, +encircled, I offer you as crown. Listen, fair Nymph: 'tis a +God woos you. + +ARIADNE + +Alas, radiant Divinity of a time of year gentler than Spring +and fruitfuller than Summer, there is no Autumn for hapless +Ariadne. Only Winter's nights and frosts wrap my soul. When +Theseus went, my youth went also. I pray you leave me to my +poor tears and the thoughts of him. + +BACCHUS + +Lady, even a God, and even a lover, must respect your grief. +Farewell. Comrades, along; the pine trees on the hills, the +ivy-wreaths upon the rocks, await your company; and the +red-stained vat, the heady-scented oak-wood, demand your +presence. + +_The_ Bacchantes _and_ Satyrs _sing a Latin ode in praise of +Wine, in four parts, with accompaniment of bass viols and +lutes, and exeunt with_ BACCHUS. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_to_ DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET) + +Now, now, Master Torquato, now we shall hear Poetry's own self +sing with our Diego's voice. + +DIEGO, _as_ ARIADNE, _walks slowly up and down the stage, +while the viola plays a prelude in the minor. Then she speaks, +recitative with chords only by strings and harpsichord_. + +ARIADNE + +They are gone at last. Kind creatures, how their kindness +fretted my weary soul I To be alone with grief is almost +pleasure, since grief means thought of Theseus. Yet that +thought is killing me. O Theseus, why didst thou ever come +into my life? Why did not the cruel Minotaur gore and trample +thee like all the others? Hapless Ariadne! The clue was in my +keeping, and I reached it to him. And now his ship has long +since neared his native shores, and he stands on the prow, +watching for his new love. But the Past belongs to me. + +_A flute rises in the orchestra, with viols accompanying, +pizzicati, and plays three or four bars of intricate mazy +passages, very sweet and poignant, stopping on a high note, +with imperfect close_. + +ARIADNE (_continuing_) + +And in the past he loved me, and he loves me still. Nothing +can alter that. Nay, Theseus, thou canst never never love +another like me. + +_Arioso. The declamation becomes more melodic, though still +unrhythmical, and is accompanied by a rapid and passionate +tremolo of violins and viols_. + +And thy love for her will be but the thin ghost of the reality +that lived for me. But Theseus----Do not leave me yet. +Another hour, another minute. I have so much to tell thee, +dearest, ere thou goest. + +_Accompaniment more and more agitated. A hautboy echoes_ +ARIADNE'S _last phrase with poignant reedy tone_. + +Thou knowest, I have not yet sung thee that little song thou +lovest to hear of evenings; the little song made by the +Aeolian Poetess whom Apollo loved when in her teens. And thou +canst not go away till I have sung it. See! my lute. But I +must tune it. All is out of tune in my poor jangled life. + +_Lute solo in the orchestra. A Siciliana or slow dance, very +delicate and simple_. ARIADNE _sings_. + +Song + + Let us forget we loved each other much; + Let us forget we ever have to part; + Let us forget that any look or touch + Once let in either to the other's heart. + + Only we'll sit upon the daisied grass, + And hear the larks and see the swallows pass; + Only we live awhile, as children play, + Without to-morrow, without yesterday. + +_During the ritornello, between the two verses._ + +POET + +(_to the_ Young Duchess, _whispering_) + +Madam, methinks his Highness is unwell. Turn round, I pray +you. + +YOUNG DUCHESS (_without turning_). + +He feels the play's charm. Hush. + +DUCHESS DOWAGER (_whispering_) + +Come Ferdinand, you are faint. Come with me. + +DUKE (_whispering_) + +Nay, mother. It will pass. Only a certain oppression at the +heart, I was once subject to. Let us be still. + +Song (_repeats_) + + Only we'll live awhile, as children play, + Without to-morrow, without yesterday. + +_A few bars of ritornello after the song_. + +DUCHESS DOWAGER (_whispering_) + +Courage, my son, I know all. + +ARIADNE + +(_Recitative with accompaniment of violins, flute and harp_) + +Theseus, I've sung my song. Alas, alas for our poor songs we +sing to the beloved, and vainly try to vary into newness! + +_A few notes of the harp well up, slow and liquid_. + +Now I can go to rest, and darkness lap my weary heart. +Theseus, my love, good night! + +_Violins tremolo. The hautboy suddenly enters with a long +wailing phrase_. ARIADNE _quickly mounts on to the back of the +stage, turns round for one second, waving a kiss to an +imaginary person, and then flings herself down into the lake_. + +_A great burst of applause. Enter immediately, and during the +cries and clapping, a chorus of_ Water-Nymphs _in transparent +veils and garlands of willows and lilies, which sings to a +solemn counterpoint, the dirge of_ ARIADNE. _But their singing +is barely audible through the applause of the whole Court, and +the shouts of_ "DIEGO! DIEGO! ARIADNE! ARIADNE!" _The young_ +DUCHESS _rises excitedly, wiping her eyes_. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +Dear friend! Diego! Diego! Our Orpheus, come forth! + +CROWD + +Diego! Diego! + +POET (_to the_ POPE'S LEGATE) + +He is a real artist, and scorns to spoil the play's impression +by truckling to this foolish habit of applause. + +MARCHIONESS + +Still, a mere singer, a page----when his betters call----. But +see! the Duke has left our midst. + +CARDINAL + +He has gone to bring back Diego in triumph, doubtless. + +VENETIAN AMBASSADOR + +And, I note, his venerable mother has also left us. I doubt +whether this play has not offended her strict widow's +austerity. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +But where is Diego, meanwhile? + +_The Chorus and orchestra continue the dirge for_ ARIADNE. A +GENTLEMAN-IN-WAITING _elbows through the crowd to the_ +CARDINAL. + +GENTLEMAN (_whispering_) + +Most Eminent, a word---- + +CARDINAL (_whispering_) + +The Duke has had a return of his malady? + +GENTLEMAN (_whispering_) + +No, most Eminent. But Diego is nowhere to be found. And they +have brought up behind the stage the body of a woman in +Ariadne's weeds. + +CARDINAL (whispering) + +Ah, is that all? Discretion, pray. I knew it. But 'tis a most +distressing accident. Discretion above all. + +_The Chorus suddenly breaks off. For on to the stage comes +the_ DUKE. _He is dripping, and bears in his arms the dead +body, drowned, of_ DIEGO, _in the garb of_ ARIADNE. _A shout +from the crowd_. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_with a cry, clutching the_ POET'S _arm_) + +Diego! + +DUKE + +(_stooping over the body, which he has laid upon the stage, +and speaking very low_) + +Magdalen! + +(_The curtain is hastily closed_.) + +THE END + + + + +APPENDIX + + +THE LAKES OF MANTUA + +It was the Lakes, the deliciousness of water and sedge seen +from the railway on a blazing June day, that made me stop at +Mantua for the first time; and the thought of them that drew +me back to Mantua this summer. They surround the city on three +sides, being formed by the Mincio on its way from Lake Garda +to the Po, shallow lakes spilt on the great Lombard Plain. +They are clear, rippled, fringed with reed, islanded with +water lilies, and in them wave the longest, greenest weeds. +Here and there a tawny sail of a boat comes up from Venice; +children are bathing under the castle towers; at a narrow +point is a long covered stone bridge where the water rushes +through mills and one has glimpses into cool, dark places +smelling of grist. + +The city itself has many traces of magnificence, although it +has been stripped of pictures more than any other, furnishing +out every gallery in Europe since the splendid Gonzagas +forfeited the Duchy to Austria. There are a good many delicate +late Renaissance houses, carried on fine columns; also some +charming open terra-cotta work in windows and belfries. The +Piazza Erbe has, above its fruit stalls and market of wooden +pails and earthenware, and fishing-tackle and nets (reminding +one of the lakes), a very picturesque clock with a seated +Madonna; and in the Piazza Virgilio there are two very noble +battlemented palaces with beautiful bold Ghibelline +swallow-tails. All the buildings are faintly whitened by damp, +and the roofs and towers are of very pale, almost faded rose +colour, against the always moist blue sky. + +But what goes to the brain at Mantua is the unlikely +combination, the fantastic duet, of the palace and the lake. +One naturally goes first into the oldest part, the red-brick +castle of the older Marquises, in one of whose great square +towers are Mantegna's really delightful frescoes: charming +cupids, like fleecy clouds turned to babies, playing in a sky +of the most marvellous blue, among garlands of green and of +orange and lemon trees cut into triumphal arches, with the +Marquis of Mantua and all the young swashbuckler Gonzagas +underneath. The whole decoration, with its predominant blue, +and enamel white and green, is delicate and cool in its +magnificence, and more thoroughly enjoyable than most of +Mantegna's work. But the tower windows frame in something more +wonderful and delectable--one of the lakes! The pale blue +water, edged with green reeds, the poplars and willows of the +green plain beyond; a blue vagueness of Alps, and, connecting +it all, the long castle bridge with its towers of pale +geranium-coloured bricks. + +One has to pass through colossal yards to get from this +fortified portion to the rest of the Palace, Corte Nuova, as +it is called. They have now become public squares, and the +last time I saw them, it being market day, they were crowded +with carts unloading baskets of silk; and everywhere the +porticoes were heaped with pale yellow and greenish cocoons; +the palace filled with the sickly smell of the silkworm, which +seemed, by coincidence, to express its sæcular decay. For of +all the decaying palaces I have ever seen in Italy this Palace +of Mantua is the most utterly decayed. At first you have no +other impression. But little by little, as you tramp through +what seem miles of solemn emptiness, you find that more than +any similar place it has gone to your brain. For these endless +rooms and cabinets--some, like those of Isabella d'Este (which +held the Mantegna and Perugino and Costa allegories, Triumph +of Chastity and so forth, now in the Louvre), quite delicate +and exquisite; or scantily modernised under Maria Theresa for +a night's ball or assembly; or actually crumbling, defaced, +filled with musty archives; or recently used as fodder stores +and barracks--all this colossal labyrinth, oddly symbolised by +the gold and blue labyrinth on one of the ceilings, is, on the +whole, the most magnificent and fantastic thing left behind by +the Italy of Shakespeare. The art that remains (by the way, in +one dismantled hall I found the empty stucco frames of our +Triumph of Julius Cæsar!) is, indeed, often clumsy and +cheap--elaborate medallions and ceilings by Giulio Romano and +Primaticcio; but one feels that it once appealed to an +Ariosto-Tasso mythological romance which was perfectly +genuine, and another sort of romance now comes with its being +so forlorn. + +Forlorn, forlorn! And everywhere, from the halls with +mouldering zodiacs and Loves of the Gods and Dances of the +Muses; and across hanging gardens choked with weeds and fallen +in to a lower level, appear the blue waters of the lake, and +its green distant banks, to make it all into Fairyland. There +is, more particularly, a certain long, long portico, not far +from Isabella d'Este's writing closet, dividing a great green +field planted with mulberry trees, within the palace walls, +from a fringe of silvery willows growing in the pure, lilied +water. Here the Dukes and their courtiers took the air when +the Alps slowly revealed themselves above the plain after +sunset; and watched, no doubt, either elaborate quadrilles and +joustings in the riding-school, on the one hand, or boat-races +and all manner of water pageants on the other. We know it all +from the books of the noble art of horsemanship: plumes and +curls waving above curvetting Spanish horses; and from the +rarer books of sixteenth and seventeenth century masques and +early operas, where Arion appears on his colossal dolphin +packed with _tiorbos_ and _violas d'amore_, singing some mazy +_aria_ by Caccini or Monteverde, full of plaintive flourishes +and unexpected minors. We know it all, the classical pastoral +still coloured with mediæval romance, from Tasso and +Guarini--nay, from Fletcher and Milton. Moreover, some +chivalrous Gonzaga duke, perhaps that same Vincenzo who had +the blue and gold ceiling made after the pattern of the +labyrinth in which he had been kept by the Turks, not too +unlike, let us hope, Orsino of Illyria, and by his side a not +yet mournful Lady Olivia; and perhaps, directing the concert +at the virginal, some singing page Cesario.... Fancy a water +pastoral, like the Sabrina part of "Comus," watched from that +portico! The nymph Manto, founder of Mantua, rising from the +lake; cardboard shell or real one? Or the shepherds of Father +Virgil, trying to catch hold of Proteus; but all in ruffs and +ribbons, spouting verses like "Amyntas" or "The Faithful +Shepherdess." And now only the song of the frogs rises up from +among the sedge and willows, where the battlemented castle +steeps its buttresses in the lake. + +There is another side to this Shakespearean palace, not of +romance but of grotesqueness verging on to horror. There are +the Dwarfs' Apartments! Imagine a whole piece of the building, +set aside for their dreadful living, a rabbit warren of tiny +rooms, including a chapel against whose vault you knock your +head, and a grand staircase quite sickeningly low to descend. +Strange human or half-human kennels, one trusts never really +put to use, and built as a mere brutal jest by a Duke of +Mantua smarting under the sway of some saturnine little +monster, like the ones who stand at the knee of Mantegna's +frescoed Gonzagas. + +After seeing the Castello and the Corte Nuova one naturally +thinks it one's duty to go and see the little Palazzo del Te, +just outside the town. Inconceivable frescoes, colossal, +sprawling gods and goddesses, all chalk and brick dust, enough +to make Rafael, who was responsible for them through his +abominable pupils, turn for ever in his coffin. Damp-stained +stuccoes and grass-grown courtyards, and no sound save the +noisy cicalas sawing on the plane-trees. How utterly forsaken +of gods and men is all this Gonzaga splendour! But all round, +luxuriant green grass, and English-looking streams winding +flush among great willows. We left the Palazzo del Te very +speedily behind us, and set out toward Pietola, the birthplace +of Virgil. But the magic of one of the lakes bewitched us. We +sat on the wonderful green embankments, former fortifications +of the Austrians, with trees steeping in the water, and a +delicious, ripe, fresh smell of leaves and sun-baked flowers, +and watched quantities of large fish in the green shadow of +the railway bridge. In front of us, under the reddish town +walls, spread an immense field of white water lilies; and +farther off, across the blue rippled water, rose the towers +and cupolas and bastions of the Gonzaga's palace--palest pink, +unsubstantial, utterly unreal, in the trembling heat of the +noontide. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ariadne in Mantua, by Vernon Lee + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 37169 *** diff --git a/37169-h/37169-h.htm b/37169-h/37169-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9cf73b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/37169-h/37169-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2453 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ariadne In Mantua, by Vernon Lee. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + +.persona {font-size: 0.8em;} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 37169 ***</div> + + + + + +<h1>ARIADNE IN MANTUA</h1> + +<h4>A ROMANCE IN FIVE ACTS</h4> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>VERNON LEE</h2> + + +<h5>Portland, Maine</h5> + +<h5>THOMAS B. MOSHER</h5> + +<h5>MDCCCCXII</h5> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h5><a name="TO" id="TO"></a>TO</h5> + +<h5>ETHEL SMYTH</h5> + +<h5>THANKING, AND BEGGING, HER FOR MUSIC</h5> + + +<p><a href="#CONTENTS">Contents</a></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<p>Ariadne <i>in Mantua</i>, <i>A Romance in Five Acts, by Vernon Lee. +Oxford: B.H. Blackwell 50 and 51 Broad Street. London: +Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Company. A.D. MCMIII. +Octavo. Pp. x: 11-66</i>.</p> + + +<p>Like almost everything else written by Vernon Lee there is to +be found that insistent little touch which is her sign-manual +when dealing with Italy or its makers of forgotten melodies. +In other words, the music of her rhythmic prose is summed up +in one poignant vocable—<i>Forlorn</i>.</p> + +<p>As for her vanished world of dear dead women and their lovers +who are dust, we may indeed for a brief hour enter that +enchanted atmosphere. Then a vapour arises as out of long lost +lagoons, and, be it Venice or Mantua, we come to feel "how +deep an abyss separates us—and how many faint and nameless +ghosts crowd round the few enduring things bequeathed to us by +the past."</p> + +<p>T.B.M.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h3> + + +<p><i>"Alles Vergängliche ist nur ein Gleichniss"</i></p> + + +<p><i>It is in order to give others the pleasure of reading or +re-reading a small masterpiece, that I mention the likelihood +of the catastrophe of my</i> Ariadne <i>having been suggested by +the late Mr. Shorthouse's</i> Little Schoolmaster Mark; <i>but I +must ask forgiveness of my dear old friend, Madame Emile +Duclaux</i> (Mary Robinson), <i>for unwarranted use of one of the +songs of her</i> Italian Garden.</p> + +<p><i>Readers of my own little volume</i> Genius Loci <i>may meanwhile +recognise that I have been guilty of plagiarism towards myself +also</i>.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> + +<p><i>For a couple of years after writing those pages, the image of +the Palace of Mantua and the lakes it steeps in, haunted my +fancy with that peculiar insistency, as of the half-lapsed +recollection of a name or date, which tells us that we know +(if we could only remember!)</i> what happened in a place. <i>I let +the matter rest. But, looking into my mind one day, I found +that a certain song of the early seventeenth century</i>—(not +<i>Monteverde's</i> Lamento d'Arianna <i>but an air</i>, Amarilli, <i>by +Caccini, printed alongside in Parisotti's collection</i>)—<i>had +entered that Palace of Mantua, and was, in some manner not +easy to define, the musical shape of what must have happened +there. And that, translated back into human personages, was +the story I have set forth in the following little Drama</i>.</p> + +<p><i>So much for the origin of</i> Ariadne in Mantua, <i>supposing any +friend to be curious about it. What seems more interesting is +my feeling, which grew upon me as I worked over and over the +piece and its French translation, that these personages had an +importance greater than that of their life and adventures, a +meaning, if I may say so, a little</i> sub specie aeternitatis. +<i>For, besides the real figures, there appeared to me vague +shadows cast by them, as it were, on the vast spaces of life, +and magnified far beyond those little puppets that I twitched. +And I seem to feel here the struggle, eternal, necessary, +between mere impulse, unreasoning and violent, but absolutely +true to its aim; and all the moderating, the weighing and +restraining influences of civilisation, with their idealism, +their vacillation, but their final triumph over the mere +forces of nature. These well-born people of Mantua, +privileged beings wanting little because they have much, and +able therefore to spend themselves in quite harmonious effort, +must necessarily get the better of the poor gutter-born +creature without whom, after all, one of them would have been +dead and the others would have had no opening in life. Poor</i> +Diego <i>acts magnanimously, being cornered; but he (or she) has +not the delicacy, the dignity to melt into thin air with a +mere lyric Metastasian "Piangendo partè", and leave them to +their untroubled conscience. He must needs assert himself, +violently wrench at their heart-strings, give them a final +stab, hand them over to endless remorse; briefly, commit that +public and theatrical deed of suicide, splashing the murderous +waters into the eyes of well-behaved wedding guests</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Certainly neither the</i> Duke, <i>nor the</i> Duchess Dowager, <i>nor</i> +Hippolyta <i>would have done this. But, on the other hand, they +could calmly, coldly, kindly accept the self-sacrifice +culminating in that suicide: well-bred people, faithful to +their standards and forcing others, however unwilling, into +their own conformity. Of course without them the world would +be a den of thieves, a wilderness of wolves; for they are,—if +I may call them by their less personal names,—Tradition, +Discipline, Civilisation</i>.</p> + +<p><i>On the other hand, but for such as</i> Diego <i>the world would +come to an end within twenty years: mere sense of duty and +fitness not being sufficient for the killing and cooking of +victuals, let alone the begetting and suckling of children. +The descendants of</i> Ferdinand <i>and</i> Hippolyta, <i>unless they +intermarried with some bastard of</i> Diego's <i>family, would +dwindle, die out; who knows, perhaps supplement the impulses +they lacked by silly newfangled evil</i>.</p> + +<p><i>These are the contending forces of history and life: Impulse +and Discipline, creating and keeping; love such as</i> Diego's, +<i>blind, selfish, magnanimous; and detachment, noble, a little +bloodless and cruel, like that of the</i> Duke of Mantua.</p> + +<p><i>And it seems to me that the conflicts which I set forth on my +improbable little stage, are but the trifling realities +shadowing those great abstractions which we seek all through +the history of man, and everywhere in man's own heart</i>.</p> + + +<p>VERNON LEE.</p> + + +<p>Maiano, near Florence,</p> + +<p>June, 1903.</p> + + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See Appendix where the article referred to is +given entire.</p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>ARIADNE IN MANTUA</h3> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">VIOLA. <i>....I'll serve this Duke:</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11.5em;"><i>....for I can sing</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>And speak to him in many sorts of music.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 13.5em;">TWELFTH NIGHT, 1, 2.</span><br /> +</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="DRAMATIS_PERSONAE" id="DRAMATIS_PERSONAE"></a>DRAMATIS PERSONAE</h4> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">FERDINAND, Duke of Mantua.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE CARDINAL, his Uncle.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE DUCHESS DOWAGER.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">HIPPOLYTA, Princess of Mirandola.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">MAGDALEN, known as DIEGO.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE MARCHIONESS OF GUASTALLA.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE BISHOP OF CREMONA.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE DOGE'S WIFE.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE VENETIAN AMBASSADOR.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE VICEROY OF NAPLES' JESTER.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A TENOR as BACCHUS.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The CARDINAL'S CHAPLAIN.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE DUCHESS'S GENTLEWOMAN.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE PRINCESS'S TUTOR.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Singers as Maenads and Satyrs; Courtiers,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pages, Wedding Guests and Musicians.</span><br /> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The action takes place in the Palace of Mantua through a +period of a year, during the reign of Prospero I, of Milan, +and shortly before the Venetian expedition to Cyprus under +Othello.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ACT_I" id="ACT_I"></a>ACT I</h3> + + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL'S</span> <i>Study in the Palace at Mantua. The</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> +<i>is seated at a table covered with Persian embroidery, +rose-colour picked out with blue, on which lies open a volume +of Machiavelli's works, and in it a manuscript of Catullus; +alongside thereof are a bell and a magnifying-glass. Under his +feet a red cushion with long tassels, and an oriental carpet +of pale lavender and crimson</i>. <i>The</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>is dressed in +scarlet, a crimson fur-lined cape upon his shoulders. He is +old, but beautiful and majestic, his face furrowed like the +marble bust of Seneca among the books opposite</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Through the open Renaissance window, with candelabra and +birds carved on the copings, one sees the lake, pale blue, +faintly rippled, with a rose-coloured brick bridge and +bridge-tower at its narrowest point</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>in reality</i> +<span class="persona">MAGDALEN</span>) <i>has just been admitted into the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL'S</span> +<i>presence, and after kissing his ring, has remained standing, +awaiting his pleasure</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>is fantastically habited as a youth in russet and +violet tunic reaching below the knees in Moorish fashion, as +we see it in the frescoes of Pinturicchio; with silver buttons +down the seams, and plaited linen at the throat and in the +unbuttoned purfles of the sleeves. His hair, dark but red +where it catches the light, is cut over the forehead and +touches his shoulders. He is not very tall in his boy's +clothes, and very sparely built. He is pale, almost sallow; +the face, dogged, sullen, rather expressive than beautiful, +save for the perfection of the brows and of the flower-like +singer's mouth. He stands ceremoniously before the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span>, +<i>one hand on his dagger, nervously, while the other holds a +large travelling hat, looped up, with a long drooping plume</i>.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>raises his eyes, slightly bows his head, +closes the manuscript and the volume, and puts both aside +deliberately. He is, meanwhile, examining the appearance of</i> +<span class="persona">DIEGO</span>.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>We are glad to see you at Mantua, Signor Diego. And from what +our worthy Venetian friend informs us in the letter which he +gave you for our hands, we shall without a doubt be wholly +satisfied with your singing, which is said to be both sweet +and learned. Prythee, Brother Matthias (<i>turning to his</i> +Chaplain), bid them bring hither my virginal,—that with the +Judgment of Paris painted on the lid by Giulio Romano; its +tone is admirably suited to the human voice. And, Brother +Matthias, hasten to the Duke's own theorb player, and bid him +come straightways. Nay, go thyself, good Brother Matthias, and +seek till thou hast found him. We are impatient to judge of +this good youth's skill.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> Chaplain <i>bows and retires</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>in reality</i> +<span class="persona">MAGDALEN</span>) <i>remains alone in the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL'S</span> <i>presence. The</i> +<span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>remains for a second turning over a letter, and then +reads through the magnifying-glass out loud</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>Ah, here is the sentence: "Diego, a Spaniard of Moorish +descent, and a most expert singer and player on the virginal, +whom I commend to your Eminence's favour as entirely fitted +for such services as your revered letter makes mention of——" +Good, good.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>folds the letter and beckons</i> Diego <i>to +approach, then speaks in a manner suddenly altered to +abruptness, but with no enquiry in his tone</i>.</p> + +<p>Signor Diego, you are a woman——</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO <i>starts, flushes and exclaims huskily</i>, "My Lord——." +<i>But the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>makes a deprecatory movement and continues +his sentence</i>.</p> + +<p>and, as my honoured Venetian correspondent assures 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?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO <i>has by this time recovered his composure, and answers +with respectful reserve</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>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 noble 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 compass his strange +malady.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>Even so. You speak discreetly, Diego; and your manner gives +hope of more good sense than is usual in your sex 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 coarse 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 noble dukedom will become +the battlefield of rapacious alien claimants. He denies none +of this, but nevertheless looks on marriage with unseemly +horror.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>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 passion, hopeless, unfitting +to his rank, perhaps?</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>Your imagination, good Madam Magdalen, runs too easily along +the tracks familiar to your sex; 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.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Betray me? My secret? What do you mean, my Lord? I fail to +grasp your meaning.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>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 sexless creature, having seen +passion 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 +hoarseness, 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?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I think I have, my Lord.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>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 circumstance, which +has done good service on occasion. Even close to this pavilion +these blue waters are less shallow than they seem.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>Your words, Diego, are irrelevant, but do not displease me.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>bows. The</i> Chaplain <i>enters with</i> Pages <i>carrying a +harpsichord, which they place upon the table; also two</i> +Musicians <i>with theorb and viol</i>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> chaplain, <i>not unlike the monk in Titian's "Concert" +begins to play</i>, <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>standing by him at the harpsichord. +While the cunningly interlaced themes, with wide, unclosed +cadences, tinkle metallically from the instrument, the</i> +<span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>watches, very deliberately, the face of</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, +<i>seeking to penetrate through its sullen sedateness. But</i> +<span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>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</i> +Chaplain <i>is about to finish his prelude, the face of</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> +<i>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</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>becomes very self-contained +and very listless as before</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Will it please your Eminence that I should sing the Lament of +Ariadne on Naxos?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ACT_II" id="ACT_II"></a>ACT II</h3> + + +<p><i>A few months later. Another part of the Ducal Palace of +Mantua. The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS'S</span> <i>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</i>.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS DOWAGER</span> <i>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</i> +<span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>has laid aside her sewing on the entrance of</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, +<i>in reality</i> <span class="persona">MAGDALEN</span>; <i>and, forgetful of all state, been on +the point of rising to meet him. But</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>has ceremoniously +let himself down on one knee, expecting to kiss her hand</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>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 God'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!</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>has made this speech as if learned by rote, with +listless courtesy. The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>has at first been frozen by +his manner, but at the end she answers very simply</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>You speak too learnedly, good Signor Diego, and your words +pass my poor understanding. The virtue in any of us is but +God'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 God 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.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Give them me now, most gracious Madam. I have no faith in +prayers; but I need them.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Great joy has made me heartless as well as foolish. I have +hurt you, somehow. Forgive me, Signor Diego.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>As you said, I am a courtier, Madam, and I know it is enough +if we can serve our princes. We have no business with troubles +of our own; but having them, we keep them to ourselves. His +Highness awaits me at this hour for the usual song which +happily unclouds his spirit. Has your Grace any message for +him?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Stay. My son will wait a little while. I require you, Diego, +for I have hurt you. Your words are terrible, but just. We +princes are brought up—but many of us, alas, are princes in +this matter!—to think that when we say "I thank you" we have +done our duty; though our very satisfaction, our joy, may +merely bring out by comparison the emptiness of heart, the +secret soreness, of those we thank. We are not allowed to see +the burdens of others, and merely load them with our own.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Is this not wisdom? Princes should not see those burdens which +they cannot, which they must not, try to carry. And after all, +princes or slaves, can others ever help us, save with their +purse, with advice, with a concrete favour, or, say, with a +song? Our troubles smart because they are <i>our</i> troubles; our +burdens weigh because on <i>our</i> shoulders; they are part of us, +and cannot be shifted. But God doubtless loves such kind +thoughts as you have, even if, with your Grace's indulgence, +they are useless.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>If it were so, God would be no better than an earthly prince. +But believe me, Diego, if He prefer what you call +kindness—bare sense of brotherhood in suffering—'tis for its +usefulness. We cannot carry each other's burden for a minute; +true, and rightly so; but we can give each other added +strength to bear it.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>By what means, please your Grace?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>By love, Diego.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Love! But that was surely never a source of strength, craving +your Grace's pardon?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>The love which I am speaking of—and it may surely bear the +name, since 'tis the only sort of love that cannot turn to +hatred. Love for who requires it because it is required—say +love of any woman who has been a mother for any child left +motherless. Nay, forgive my boldness: my gratitude gives me +rights on you, Diego. You are unhappy; you are still a child; +and I imagine that you have no mother.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I am told I had one, gracious Madam. She was, saving your +Grace's presence, only a light woman, and sold for a ducat to +the Infidels. I cannot say I ever missed her. Forgive me, +Madam. Although a courtier, the stock I come from is extremely +base. I have no understanding of the words of noble women and +saints like you. My vileness thinks them hollow; and my pretty +manners are only, as your Grace has unluckily had occasion to +see, a very thin and bad veneer. I thank your Grace, and once +more crave permission to attend the Duke.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Nay. That is not true. Your soul is nowise base-born. I owe +you everything, and, by some inadvertence, I have done nothing +save stir up pain in you. I want—the words may seem +presumptuous, yet carry a meaning which is humble—I want to +be your friend; and to help you to a greater, better Friend. I +will pray for you, Diego.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>No, no. You are a pious and virtuous woman, and your pity and +prayers must keep fit company.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>The only fitting company for pity and prayers, for love, dear +lad, is the company of those who need them. Am I over bold?</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>has risen, and shyly laid her hand on</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO'S</span> +<i>shoulder</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>breaks loose and covers his face, +exclaiming in a dry and husky voice</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Oh the cruelty of loneliness, Madam! Save for two years which +taught me by comparison its misery, I have lived in loneliness +always in this lonely world; though never, alas, alone. Would +it had always continued! But as the wayfarer from out of the +snow and wind feels his limbs numb and frozen in the hearth's +warmth, so, having learned that one might speak, be +understood, be comforted, that one might love and be +beloved,—the misery of loneliness was revealed to me. And +then to be driven back into it once more, shut in to it for +ever! Oh, Madam, when one can no longer claim understanding +and comfort; no longer say "I suffer: help me!"—because the +creature one would say it to is the very same who hurts and +spurns one!</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>How can a child like you already know such things? We women +may, indeed. I was as young as you, years ago, when I too +learned it. And since I learned it, let my knowledge, my poor +child, help you to bear it. I know how silence galls and +wearies. If silence hurts you, speak,—not for me to answer, +but understand and sorrow for you. I am old and simple and +unlearned; but, God willing, I shall understand.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>If anything could help me, 'tis the sense of kindness such as +yours. I thank you for your gift; but acceptance of it would +be theft; for it is not meant for what I really am. And though +a living lie in many things; I am still, oddly enough, honest. +Therefore, I pray you, Madam, farewell.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Do not believe it, Diego. Where it is needed, our poor loving +kindness can never be stolen.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Do not tempt me, Madam! Oh God, I do not want your pity, your +loving kindness! What are such things to me? And as to +understanding my sorrows, no one can, save the very one who is +inflicting them. Besides, you and I call different things by +the same names. What you call <i>love</i>, to me means nothing: +nonsense taught to children, priest's metaphysics. What <i>I</i> +mean, you do not know. (<i>A pause</i>, <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>walks up and down in +agitation</i>.) But woe's me! You have awakened the power of +breaking through this silence,—this silence which is +starvation and deathly thirst and suffocation. And it so +happens that if I speak to you all will be wrecked. (<i>A +pause</i>.) But there remains nothing to wreck! Understand me, +Madam, I care not who you are. I know that once I have spoken, +you <i>must</i> become my enemy. But I am grateful to you; you have +shown me the way to speaking; and, no matter now to whom, I +now <i>must</i> speak.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>You shall speak to God, my friend, though you speak seemingly +to me.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>To God! To God! These are the icy generalities we strike upon +under all pious warmth. No, gracious Madam, I will not speak +to God; for God knows it already, and, knowing, looks on +indifferent. I will speak to you. Not because you are kind and +pitiful; for you will cease to be so. Not because you will +understand; for you never will. I will speak to you because, +although you are a saint, you are <i>his</i> mother, have kept +somewhat of his eyes and mien; because it will hurt you if I +speak, as I would it might hurt <i>him</i>. I am a woman, Madam; a +harlot; and I was the Duke your son's mistress while among the +Infidels.</p> + +<p><i>A long silence. The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>remains seated. She barely +starts, exclaiming</i> "Ah!—" <i>and becomes suddenly absorbed in +thought</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>stands looking listlessly through the window +at the lake and the willow</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I await your Grace's orders. Will it please you that I call +your maid-of-honour, or summon the gentleman outside? If it +so please you, there need be no scandal. I shall give myself +up to any one your Grace prefers.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>pays no attention to</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO'S</span> <i>last words, and +remains reflecting</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Then, it is he who, as you call it, spurns you? How so? For +you are admitted to his close familiarity; nay, you have +worked the miracle of curing him. I do not understand the +situation. For, Diego,—I know not by what other name to call +you—I feel your sorrow is a deep one. You are not +the——woman who would despair and call God cruel for a mere +lover's quarrel. You love my son; you have cured him,—cured +him, do I guess rightly, through your love? But if it be so, +what can my son have done to break your heart?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>after listening astonished at the</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS'S</span> <i>unaltered tone +of kindness</i>)</p> + +<p>Your Grace will understand the matter as much as I can; and I +cannot. He does not recognise me, Madam.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Not recognise you? What do you mean?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>What the words signify: Not recognise.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Then——he does not know——he still believes you to be——a +stranger?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>So it seems, Madam.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>And yet you have cured his melancholy by your presence. And in +the past——tell me: had you ever sung to him?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO (<i>weeping silently</i>)</p> + +<p>Daily, Madam.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS (<i>slowly</i>)</p> + +<p>They say that Ferdinand is, thanks to you, once more in full +possession of his mind. It cannot be. Something still lacks; +he is not fully cured.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Alas, he is. The Duke remembers everything, save me.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>There is some mystery in this. I do not understand such +matters. But I know that Ferdinand could never be base +towards you knowingly. And you, methinks, would never be base +towards him. Diego, time will bring light into this darkness. +Let us pray God together that He may make our eyes and souls +able to bear it.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I cannot pray for light, most gracious Madam, because I fear +it. Indeed I cannot pray at all, there remains nought to pray +for. But, among the vain and worldly songs I have had to get +by heart, there is, by chance, a kind of little hymn, a +childish little verse, but a sincere one. And while you pray +for me—for you promised to pray for me, Madam—I should like +to sing it, with your Grace's leave.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>opens a little movable organ in a corner, and strikes a +few chords, remaining standing the while. The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>kneels +down before the crucifix, turning her back upon him. While she +is silently praying</i>, <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>still on his feet, sings very +low to a kind of lullaby tune</i>.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Mother of God,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">We are thy weary children;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Teach us, thou weeping Mother,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">To cry ourselves to sleep.</span><br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ACT_III" id="ACT_III"></a>ACT III</h3> + + +<p><i>Three months later. Another part of the Palace of Mantua: the +hanging gardens in the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE'S</span> <i>apartments. It is the first +warm night of Spring. The lemon trees have been brought out +that day, and fill the air with fragrance. Terraces and +flights of steps; in the background the dark mass of the +palace, with its cupolas and fortified towers; here and there +a lit window picking out the dark; and from above the +principal yards, the flare of torches rising into the deep +blue of the sky. In the course of the scene, the moon +gradually emerges from behind a group of poplars on the +opposite side of the lake into which the palace is built. +During the earlier part of the act, darkness. Great stillness, +with, only occasionally, the plash of a fisherman's oar, or a +very distant thrum of mandolines.—The</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span> <i>and</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>are +walking up and down the terrace</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Thou askedst me once, dear Diego, the meaning of that +labyrinth which I have had carved, a shapeless pattern enough, +but well suited, methinks, to blue and gold, upon the ceiling +of my new music room. And wouldst have asked, I fancy, as +many have done, the hidden meaning of the device surrounding +it.—I left thee in the dark, dear lad, and treated thy +curiosity in a peevish manner. Thou hast long forgiven and +perhaps forgotten, deeming my lack of courtesy but another +ailment of thy poor sick master; another of those odd +ungracious moods with which, kindest of healing creatures, +thou hast had such wise and cheerful patience. I have often +wished to tell thee; but I could not. 'Tis only now, in some +mysterious fashion, I seem myself once more,—able to do my +judgment's bidding, and to dispose, in memory and words, of my +own past. My strange sickness, which thou hast cured, melting +its mists away with thy beneficent music even as the sun +penetrates and sucks away the fogs of dawn from our lakes—my +sickness, Diego, the sufferings of my flight from Barbary; the +horror, perhaps, of that shipwreck which cast me (so they say, +for I remember nothing) senseless on the Illyrian +coast——these things, or Heaven's judgment on but a lukewarm +Crusader,—had somehow played strange havoc with my will and +recollections. I could not think; or thinking, not speak; or +recollecting, feel that he whom I thought of in the past was +this same man, myself.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span> <i>pauses, and leaning on the parapet, watches the +long reflections of the big stars in the water</i>.</p> + +<p>But now, and thanks to thee, Diego, I am another; I am myself.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO'S</span> <i>face, invisible in the darkness, has undergone +dreadful convulsions. His breast heaves, and he stops for +breath before answering; but when he does so, controls his +voice into its usual rather artificially cadenced tone</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>And now, dear Master, you can recollect——all?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Recollect, sweet friend, and tell thee. For it is seemly that +I should break through this churlish silence with thee. Thou +didst cure the weltering distress of my poor darkened mind; I +would have thee, now, know somewhat of the past of thy +grateful patient. The maze, Diego, carved and gilded on that +ceiling is but a symbol of my former life; and the device +which, being interpreted, means "I seek straight ways," the +expression of my wish and duty.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>You loathed the maze, my Lord?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Not so. I loved it then. And I still love it now. But I have +issued from it—issued to recognise that the maze was good. +Though it is good I left it. When I entered it, I was a raw +youth, although in years a man; full of easy theory, and +thinking all practice simple; unconscious of passion; ready to +govern the world with a few learned notions; moreover never +having known either happiness or grief, never loved and +wondered at a creature different from myself; acquainted, not +with the straight roads which I now seek, but only with the +rectangular walls of schoolrooms. The maze, and all the maze +implied, made me a man.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>who has listened with conflicting feelings, and now unable +to conceal his joy</i>)</p> + +<p>A man, dear Master; and the gentlest, most just of men. Then, +that maze——But idle stories, interpreting all spiritual +meaning as prosy fact, would have it, that this symbol was a +reality. The legend of your captivity, my Lord, has turned the +pattern on that ceiling into a real labyrinth, some cunningly +built fortress or prison, where the Infidels kept you, and +whose clue——you found, and with the clue, freedom, after +five weary years.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Whose clue, dear Diego, was given into my hands,—the clue +meaning freedom, but also eternal parting—by the most +faithful, intrepid, magnanimous, the most loving——and the +most beloved of women!</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span> <i>has raised his arms from the parapet, and drawn +himself erect, folding them on his breast, and seeking for</i> +<span class="persona">DIEGO'S</span> <i>face in the darkness. But</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>unseen by the</i> +<span class="persona">DUKE</span>, <i>has clutched the parapet and sunk on to a bench</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>(<i>walking up and down, slowly and meditatively, after a +pause</i>)</p> + +<p>The poets have fabled many things concerning virtuous women. +The Roman Arria, who stabbed herself to make honourable +suicide easier for her husband; Antigone, who buried her +brother at the risk of death; and the Thracian Alkestis, who +descended into the kingdom of Death in place of Admetus. But +none, to my mind, comes up to <i>her</i>. For fancy is but thin and +simple, a web of few bright threads; whereas reality is +closely knitted out of the numberless fibres of life, of pain +and joy. For note it, Diego—those antique women whom we read +of were daughters of kings, or of Romans more than kings; bred +of a race of heroes, and trained, while still playing with +dolls, to pride themselves on austere duty, and look upon the +wounds and maimings of their soul as their brothers and +husbands looked upon the mutilations of battle. Whereas here; +here was a creature infinitely humble; a waif, a poor spurned +toy of brutal mankind's pleasure; accustomed only to bear +contumely, or to snatch, unthinking, what scanty happiness lay +along her difficult and despised path,—a wild creature, who +had never heard such words as duty or virtue; and yet whose +acts first taught me what they truly meant.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>who has recovered himself, and is now leaning in his turn on +the parapet</i>)</p> + +<p>Ah——a light woman, bought and sold many times over, my Lord; +but who loved, at last.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>That is the shallow and contemptuous way in which men think, +Diego,—and boys like thee pretend to; those to whom life is +but a chess-board, a neatly painted surface alternate black +and white, most suitable for skilful games, with a soul clean +lost or gained at the end! I thought like that. But I grew to +understand life as a solid world: rock, fertile earth, veins +of pure metal, mere mud, all strangely mixed and overlaid; and +eternal fire at the core! I learned it, knowing Magdalen.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Her name was Magdalen?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>So she bade me call her.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>And the name explained the trade?</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUKE</span> (<i>after a pause</i>)</p> + +<p>I cannot understand thee Diego,—cannot understand thy lack of +understanding——Well yes! Her trade. All in this universe is +trade, trade of prince, pope, philosopher or harlot; and once +the badge put on, the licence signed—the badge a crown or a +hot iron's brand, as the case may be,—why then we ply it +according to prescription, and that's all! Yes, Diego,—since +thou obligest me to say it in its harshness, I do so, and I +glory for her in every contemptuous word I use!—The woman I +speak of was but a poor Venetian courtesan; some drab's child, +sold to the Infidels as to the Christians; and my cruel pirate +master's—shall we say?—mistress. There! For the first time, +Diego, thou dost not understand me; or is it——that I +misjudged thee, thinking thee, dear boy——(<i>breaks off +hurriedly</i>).</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>very slowly</i>)</p> + +<p>Thinking me what, my Lord?</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUKE</span> (<i>lightly, but with effort</i>)</p> + +<p>Less of a little Sir Paragon of Virtue than a dear child, who +is only a child, must be.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>It is better, perhaps, that your Highness should be certain of +my limitations——But I crave your Highness's pardon. I had +meant to say that being a waif myself, pure gutter-bred, I +have known, though young, more Magdalens than you, my Lord. +They are, in a way, my sisters; and had I been a woman, I +should, likely enough, have been one myself.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>You mean, Diego?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I mean, that knowing them well, I also know that women such as +your Highness has described, occasionally learn to love most +truly. Nay, let me finish, my Lord; I was not going to repeat +a mere sentimental commonplace. Briefly then, that such women, +being expert in love, sometimes understand, quicker than +virtuous dames brought up to heroism, when love for them is +cloyed. They can walk out of a man's house or life with due +alacrity, being trained to such flittings. Or, recognising the +first signs of weariness before 'tis known to him who feels +it, they can open the door for the other—hand him the clue of +the labyrinth with a fine theatric gesture!—But I crave your +Highness's pardon for enlarging on this theme.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Thou speakest Diego, as if thou hadst a mind to wound thy +Master. Is this, my friend, the reward of my confiding in +thee, even if tardily?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I stand rebuked, my Lord. But, in my own defence——how shall +I say it?——Your Highness has a manner to-night which +disconcerts me by its novelty; a saying things and then +unsaying them; suggesting and then, somehow, treading down the +suggestion like a spark of your lightning. Lovers, I have been +told, use such a manner to revive their flagging feeling by +playing on the other one's. Even in so plain and solid a thing +as friendship, such ways—I say it subject to your Highness's +displeasure—are dangerous. But in love, I have known cases +where, carried to certain lengths, such ways of speaking +undermined a woman's faith and led her to desperate things. +Women, despite their strength, which often surprises us, are +brittle creatures. Did you never, perhaps, make trial of +this——Magdalen, with——</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>With what? Good God, Diego, 'tis I who ask thy pardon; and +thou sheddest a dreadful light upon the past. But it is not +possible. I am not such a cur that, after all she did, after +all she was,—my life saved by her audacity a hundred times, +made rich and lovely by her love, her wit, her power,—that I +could ever have whimpered for my freedom, or made her suspect +I wanted it more than I wanted her? Is it possible, Diego?</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>slowly</i>)</p> + +<p>Why more than you wanted her? She may have thought the two +compatible.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Never. First, because my escape could not be compassed save by +her staying behind; and then because—-she knew, in fact, what +thing I was, or must become, once set at liberty.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>after a pause</i>)</p> + +<p>I see. You mean, my Lord, that you being Duke of Mantua, while +she——If she knew that; knew it not merely as a fact, but as +one knows the full savour of grief,—well, she was indeed the +paragon you think; one might indeed say, bating one point, a +virtuous woman.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Thou hast understood, dear Diego, and I thank thee for it.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>But I fear, my Lord, she did not know these things. Such as +she, as yourself remarked, are not trained to conceive of +duty, even in others. Passion moves them; and they believe in +passion. You loved her; good. Why then, at Mantua as in +Barbary. No, my dear Master, believe me; she had seen your +love was turning stale, and set you free, rather than taste +its staleness. Passion, like duty, has its pride; and even we +waifs, as gypsies, have our point of honour.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Stale! My love grown stale! You make me laugh, boy, instead of +angering. Stale! You never knew her. She was not like a +song—even your sweetest song—which, heard too often, cloys, +its phrases dropping to senseless notes. She was like +music,—the whole art: new modes, new melodies, new rhythms, +with every day and hour, passionate or sad, or gay, or very +quiet; more wondrous notes than in thy voice; and more +strangely sweet, even when they grated, than the tone of those +newfangled fiddles, which wound the ear and pour balm in, they +make now at Cremona.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>You loved her then, sincerely?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Methinks it may be Diego now, tormenting his Master with +needless questions. Loved her, boy! I love her.</p> + +<p><i>A long pause</i>. Diego <i>has covered his face, with a gesture as +if about to speak. But the moon has suddenly risen from behind +the poplars, and put scales of silver light upon the ripples +of the lake, and a pale luminous mist around the palace. As +the light invades the terrace, a sort of chill has come upon +both speakers; they walk up and down further from one +another</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>A marvellous story, dear Master. And I thank you from my heart +for having told it me. I always loved you, and I thought I +knew you. I know you better still, now. You are—a most +magnanimous prince.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Alas, dear lad, I am but a poor prisoner of my duties; a +poorer prisoner, and a sadder far, than there in Barbary——O +Diego, how I have longed for her! How deeply I still long, +sometimes! But I open my eyes, force myself to stare reality +in the face, whenever her image comes behind closed lids, +driving her from me——And to end my confession. At the +beginning, Diego, there seemed in thy voice and manner +something of <i>her</i>; I saw her sometimes in thee, as children +see the elves they fear and hope for in stains on walls and +flickers on the path. And all thy wondrous power, thy +miraculous cure—nay, forgive what seems ingratitude—was due, +Diego, to my sick fancy making me see glances of her in thy +eyes and hear her voice in thine. Not music but love, love's +delusion, was what worked my cure.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Do you speak truly, Master? Was it so? And now?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Now, dear lad, I am cured—completely; I know bushes from +ghosts; and I know thee, dearest friend, to be Diego.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>When these imaginations still held you, my Lord, did it ever +happen that you wondered: what if the bush had been a ghost; +if Diego had turned into—what was she called?——</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Magdalen. My fancy never went so far, good Diego. There was a +grain of reason left. But if it had——Well, I should have +taken Magdalen's hand, and said, "Welcome, dear sister. This +is a world of spells; let us repeat some. Become henceforth +my brother; be the Duke of Mantua's best and truest friend; +turn into Diego, Magdalen."</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span> <i>presses</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO'S</span> <i>arm, and, letting it go, walks +away into the moonlight with an enigmatic air. A long pause</i>.</p> + +<p>Hark, they are singing within; the idle pages making songs to +their ladies' eyebrows. Shall we go and listen?</p> + +<p>(<i>They walk in the direction of the palace</i>.)</p> + +<p>And (<i>with a little hesitation</i>) that makes me say, Diego, +before we close this past of mine, and bury it for ever in our +silence, that there is a little Moorish song, plaintive and +quaint, she used to sing, which some day I will write down, +and thou shalt sing it to me—on my deathbed.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Why not before? Speaking of songs, that mandolin, though out +of tune, and vilely played, has got hold of a ditty I like +well enough. Hark, the words are Tuscan, well known in the +mountains. (<i>Sings</i>.)</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">I'd like to die, but die a little death only,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">I'd like to die, but look down from the window;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">I'd like to die, but stand upon the doorstep;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">I'd like to die, but follow the procession;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">I'd like to die, but see who smiles and weepeth;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">I'd like to die, but die a little death only.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>(<i>While</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>sings very loud, the mandolin inside the +palace thrums faster and faster. As he ends, with a long +defiant leap into a high note, a burst of applause from the +palace</i>.)</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>clapping his hands</i>)</p> + +<p>Well sung, Diego!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ACT_IV" id="ACT_IV"></a>ACT IV</h3> + + +<p><i>A few weeks later. The new music room in the Palace of +Mantua. Windows on both sides admitting a view of the lake, so +that the hall looks like a galley surrounded by water. +Outside, morning: the lake, the sky, and the lines of poplars +on the banks, are all made of various textures of luminous +blue. From the gardens below, bay trees raise their flowering +branches against the windows. In every window an antique +statue: the Mantuan Muse, the Mantuan Apollo, etc. In the +walls between the windows are framed panels representing +allegorical triumphs: those nearest the spectator are the +triumphs of Chastity and of Fortitude. At the end of the room, +steps and a balustrade, with a harpsichord and double basses +on a dais. The roof of the room is blue and gold; a deep blue +ground, constellated with a gold labyrinth in relief. Round +the cornice, blue and gold also, the inscription</i>: "RECTAS +PETO," <i>and the name</i> Ferdinandus Mantuae Dux.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS HIPPOLYTA</span> <i>of Mirandola, cousin to the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>; +<i>and</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>. <span class="persona">HIPPOLYTA</span> <i>is very young, but with the strength +and grace, and the candour, rather of a beautiful boy than of +a woman. She is dazzlingly fair; and her hair, arranged in +waves like an antique amazon's, is stiff and lustrous, as if +made of threads of gold. The brows are wide and straight, +like a man's; the glance fearless, but virginal and almost +childlike</i>. <span class="persona">HIPPOLYTA</span> <i>is dressed in black and gold, +particoloured, like Mantegna's Duchess. An old man, in +scholar's gown, the</i> Princess's Greek Tutor, <i>has just +introduced</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>and retired</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>The Duke your cousin's greeting and service, illustrious +damsel. His Highness bids me ask how you are rested after your +journey hither.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Tell my cousin, good Signor Diego, that I am touched at his +concern for me. And tell him, such is the virtuous air of his +abode, that a whole night's rest sufficed to right me from the +fatigue of two hours' journey in a litter; for I am new to +that exercise, being accustomed to follow my poor father's +hounds and falcons only on horseback. You shall thank the Duke +my cousin for his civility. (<span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>laughs</i>.)</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>bowing, and keeping his eyes on the</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>as he +speaks</i>)</p> + +<p>His Highness wished to make his fair cousin smile. He has told +me often how your illustrious father, the late Lord of +Mirandola, brought his only daughter up in such a wise as +scarcely to lack a son, with manly disciplines of mind and +body; and that he named you fittingly after Hippolyta, who was +Queen of the Amazons, virgins unlike their vain and weakly +sex.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>She was; and wife of Theseus. But it seems that the poets care +but little for the like of her; they tell us nothing of her, +compared with her poor predecessor, Cretan Ariadne, she who +had given Theseus the clue of the labyrinth. Methinks that +maze must have been mazier than this blue and gold one +overhead. What say you, Signor Diego?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO (<i>who has started slightly</i>)</p> + +<p>Ariadne? Was she the predecessor of Hippolyta? I did not know +it. I am but a poor scholar, Madam; knowing the names and +stories of gods and heroes only from songs and masques. The +Duke should have selected some fitter messenger to hold +converse with his fair learned cousin.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>gravely</i>)</p> + +<p>Speak not like that, Signor Diego. You may not be a scholar, +as you say; but surely you are a philosopher. Nay, conceive +my meaning: the fame of your virtuous equanimity has spread +further than from this city to my small dominions. Your +precocious wisdom—for you seem younger than I, and youths do +not delight in being very wise—your moderation in the use of +sudden greatness, your magnanimous treatment of enemies and +detractors; and the manner in which, disdainful of all +personal advantage, you have surrounded the Duke my cousin +with wisest counsellors and men expert in office—such are the +results men seek from the study of philosophy.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>at first astonished, then amused, a little sadly</i>)</p> + +<p>You are mistaken, noble maiden. 'Tis not philosophy to refrain +from things that do not tempt one. Riches or power are useless +to me. As for the rest, you are mistaken also. The Duke is +wise and valiant, and chooses therefore wise and valiant +counsellors.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>impetuously</i>)</p> + +<p>You are eloquent, Signor Diego, even as you are wise! But your +words do not deceive me. Ambition lurks in every one; and +power intoxicates all save those who have schooled themselves +to use it as a means to virtue.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>The thought had never struck me; but men have told me what you +tell me now.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Even Antiquity, which surpasses us so vastly in all manner of +wisdom and heroism, can boast of very few like you. The +noblest souls have grown tyrannical and rapacious and +foolhardy in sudden elevation. Remember Alcibiades, the +beloved pupil of the wisest of all mortals. Signor Diego, you +may have read but little; but you have meditated to much +profit, and must have wrestled like some great athlete with +all that baser self which the divine Plato has told us how to +master.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>shaking his head</i>)</p> + +<p>Alas, Madam, your words make me ashamed, and yet they make me +smile, being so far of the mark! I have wrestled with nothing; +followed only my soul's blind impulses.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>gravely</i>)</p> + +<p>It must be, then, dear Signor Diego, as the Pythagoreans held: +the discipline of music is virtuous for the soul. There is a +power in numbered and measured sound very akin to wisdom; +mysterious and excellent; as indeed the Ancients fabled in the +tales of Orpheus and Amphion, musicians and great sages and +legislators of states. I have long desired your conversation, +admirable Diego.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>with secret contempt</i>)</p> + +<p>Noble maiden, such words exceed my poor unscholarly +appreciation. The antique worthies whom you name are for me +merely figures in tapestries and frescoes, quaint greybeards +in laurel wreaths and helmets; and I can scarcely tell whether +the Ladies Fortitude and Rhetoric with whom they hold +converse, are real daughters of kings, or mere Arts and +Virtues. But the Duke, a learned and judicious prince, will +set due store by his youthful cousin's learning. As for me, +simpleton and ignoramus that I am, all I see is that Princess +Hippolyta is very beautiful and very young.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>(<i>sighing a little, but with great simplicity</i>)</p> + +<p>I know it. I am young, and perhaps crude; although I study +hard to learn the rules of wisdom. You, Diego, seem to know +them without study.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I know somewhat of the world and of men, gracious Princess, +but that can scarce be called knowing wisdom. Say rather +knowing blindness, envy, cruelty, endless nameless folly in +others and oneself. But why should you seek to be wise? you +who are fair, young, a princess, and betrothed from your +cradle to a great prince? Be beautiful, be young, be what you +are, a woman.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>has said this last word with emphasis, but the</i> +<span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>has not noticed the sarcasm in his voice</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>shaking her head</i>)</p> + +<p>That is not my lot. I was destined, as you said, to be the +wife of a great prince; and my dear father trained me to fill +that office.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Well, and to be beautiful, young, radiant; to be a woman; is +not that the office of a wife?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>I have not much experience. But my father told me, and I have +gathered from books, that in the wives of princes, such gifts +are often thrown away; that other women, supplying them, seem +to supply them better. Look at my cousin's mother. I can +remember her still beautiful, young, and most tenderly loving. +Yet the Duke, my uncle, disdained her, and all she got was +loneliness and heartbreak. An honourable woman, a princess, +cannot compete with those who study to please and to please +only. She must either submit to being ousted from her +husband's love, or soar above it into other regions.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>interested</i>)</p> + +<p>Other regions?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Higher ones. She must be fit to be her husband's help, and to +nurse his sons to valour and wisdom.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I see. The Prince must know that besides all the knights that +he summons to battle, and all the wise men whom he hears in +council, there is another knight, in rather lighter armour and +quicker tired, another counsellor, less experienced and of +less steady temper, ready for use. Is this great gain?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>It is strange that being a man, you should conceive of women +from——</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>From a man's standpoint?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Nay; methinks a woman's. For I observe that women, when they +wish to help men, think first of all of some transparent +masquerade, donning men's clothes, at all events in metaphor, +in order to be near their lovers when not wanted.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>hastily</i>)</p> + +<p>Donning men's clothes? A masquerade? I fail to follow your +meaning, gracious maiden.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>simply</i>)</p> + +<p>So I have learned at least from our poets. Angelica, and +Bradamante and Fiordispina, scouring the country after their +lovers, who were busy enough without them. I prefer Penelope, +staying at home to save the lands and goods of Ulysses, and +bringing up his son to rescue and avenge him.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>reassured and indifferent</i>)</p> + +<p>Did Ulysses love Penelope any better for it, Madam? better +than poor besotted Menelaus, after all his injuries, loved +Helen back in Sparta?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>That is not the question. A woman born to be a prince's wife +and prince's mother, does her work not for the sake of +something greater than love, whether much or little.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>For what then?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Does a well-bred horse or excellent falcon do its duty to +please its master? No; but because such is its nature. +Similarly, methinks, a woman bred to be a princess works with +her husband, for her husband, not for any reward, but because +he and she are of the same breed, and obey the same instincts.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Ah!—--Then happiness, love,—all that a woman craves for?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Are accidents. Are they not so in the life of a prince? Love +he may snatch; and she, being in woman's fashion not allowed +to snatch, may receive as a gift, or not. But received or +snatched, it is not either's business; not their nature's true +fulfilment.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>You think so, Lady?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>I am bound to think so. I was born to it and taught it. You +know the Duke, my cousin,—well, I am his bride, not being +born his sister.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>And you are satisfied? O beautiful Princess, you are of +illustrious lineage and mind, and learned. Your father brought +you up on Plutarch instead of Amadis; you know many things; +but there is one, methinks, no one can know the nature of it +until he has it.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>What is that, pray?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>A heart. Because you have not got one yet, you make your plans +without it,—a negligible item in your life.</p> + +<p class="persona">Princess</p> + +<p>I am not a child.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>But not yet a woman.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>meditatively</i>)</p> + +<p>You think, then——</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I do not <i>think</i>; I <i>know</i>. And <i>you</i> will know, some day. And +then——</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Then I shall suffer. Why, we must all suffer. Say that, having +a heart, a heart for husband or child, means certain +grief,—well, does not riding, walking down your stairs, mean +the chance of broken bones? Does not living mean old age, +disease, possible blindness or paralysis, and quite inevitable +aches? If, as you say, I must needs grow a heart, and if a +heart must needs give agony, why, I shall live through +heartbreak as through pain in any other limb.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Yes,—were your heart a limb like all the rest,—but 'tis the +very centre and fountain of all life.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>You think so? 'Tis, methinks, pushing analogy too far, and +metaphor. This necessary organ, diffusing life throughout us, +and, as physicians say, removing with its vigorous floods all +that has ceased to live, replacing it with new and living +tissue,—this great literal heart cannot be the seat of only +one small passion.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Yet I have known more women than one die of that small +passion's frustrating.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>But you have known also, I reckon, many a man in whom life, +what he had to live for, was stronger than all love. They say +the Duke my cousin's melancholy sickness was due to love which +he had outlived.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>They say so, Madam.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS (<i>thoughtfully</i>)</p> + +<p>I think it possible, from what I know of him. He was much with +my father when a lad; and I, a child, would listen to their +converse, not understanding its items, but seeming to +understand the general drift. My father often said my cousin +was romantic, favoured overmuch his tender mother, and would +suffer greatly, learning to live for valour and for wisdom.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Think you he has, Madam?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>If 'tis true that occasion has already come.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>And—if that occasion came, for the first time or for the +second, perhaps, after your marriage? What would you do, +Madam?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>I cannot tell as yet. Help him, I trust, when help could come, +by the sympathy of a soul's strength and serenity. Stand +aside, most likely, waiting to be wanted. Or else——</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Or else, illustrious maiden?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Or else——I know not——perhaps, growing a heart, get some +use from it.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Your Highness surely does not mean use it to love with?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Why not? It might be one way of help. And if I saw him +struggling with grief, seeking to live the life and think the +thought fit for his station; why, methinks I could love him. +He seems lovable. Only love could have taught fidelity like +yours.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>You forget, gracious Princess, that you attributed great power +of virtue to a habit of conduct, which is like the nature of +high-bred horses, needing no spur. But in truth you are right. +I am no high-bred creature. Quite the contrary. Like curs, I +love; love, and only love. For curs are known to love their +masters.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Speak not thus, virtuous Diego. I have indeed talked in +magnanimous fashion, and believed, sincerely, that I felt high +resolves. But you have acted, lived, and done magnanimously. +What you have been and are to the Duke is better schooling for +me than all the Lives of Plutarch.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO.</p> + +<p>You could not learn from me, Lady.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>But I would try, Diego.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Be not grasping, Madam. The generous coursers whom your father +taught you to break and harness have their set of virtues. +Those of curs are different. Do not grudge them those. Your +noble horses kick them enough, without even seeing their +presence. But I feel I am beyond my depth, not being +philosophical by nature or schooling. And I had forgotten to +give you part of his Highnesses message. Knowing your love of +music, and the attention you have given it, the Duke imagined +it might divert you, till he was at leisure to pay you homage, +to make trial of my poor powers. Will it please you to order +the other musicians, Madam?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Nay, good Diego, humour me in this. I have studied music, and +would fain make trial of accompanying your voice. Have you +notes by you?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Here are some, Madam, left for the use of his Highness's band +this evening. Here is the pastoral of Phyllis by Ludovic of +the Lute; a hymn in four parts to the Virgin by Orlandus +Lassus; a madrigal by the Pope's Master, Signor Pierluigi of +Praeneste. Ah! Here is a dramatic scene between Medea and +Creusa, rivals in love, by the Florentine Octavio. Have you +knowledge of it, Madam?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>I have sung it with my master for exercise. But, good Diego, +find a song for yourself.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>You shall humour me, now, gracious Lady. Think I am your +master. I desire to hear your voice. And who knows? In this +small matter I may really teach you something.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>sits to the harpsichord</i>, <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>standing +beside her on the dais. They sing, the</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>taking the +treble</i>, <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>the contralto part. The</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>enters +first—with a full-toned voice clear and high, singing very +carefully</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>follows, singing in a whisper. His voice is +a little husky, and here and there broken, but ineffably +delicious and penetrating, and, as he sings, becomes, without +quitting the whisper, dominating and disquieting. The</i> +<span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>plays a wrong chord, and breaks off suddenly.</i></p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>having finished a cadence, rudely</i>)</p> + +<p>What is it, Madam?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>I know not. I have lost my place——I——I feel bewildered. +When your voice rose up against mine, Diego, I lost my head. +And—I do not know how to express it—when our voices met in +that held dissonance, it seemed as if you hurt me——horribly.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>smiling, with hypocritical apology</i>)</p> + +<p>Forgive me, Madam. I sang too loud, perhaps. We theatre +singers are apt to strain things. I trust some day to hear you +sing alone. You have a lovely voice: more like a boy's than +like a maiden's still.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>And yours——'tis strange that at your age we should reverse +the parts,—yours, though deeper than mine, is like a +woman's.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>laughing</i>)</p> + +<p>I have grown a heart, Madam; 'tis an organ grows quicker where +the breed is mixed and lowly, no nobler limbs retarding its +development by theirs.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Speak not thus, excellent Diego. Why cause me pain by +disrespectful treatment of a person—your own admirable +self—whom I respect? You have experience, Diego, and shall +teach me many things, for I desire learning.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>takes his hand in both hers, very kindly and +simply</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>disengaging his, bows very ceremoniously</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Shall I teach you to sing as I do, gracious Madam?</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>after a moment</i>)</p> + +<p>I think not, Diego.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ACT_V" id="ACT_V"></a>ACT V</h3> + + +<p><i>Two months later. The wedding day of the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>. <i>Another part +of the Palace of Mantua. A long terrace still to be seen, with +roof supported by columns. It looks on one side on to the +jousting ground, a green meadow surrounded by clipped hedges +and set all round with mulberry trees. On the other side it +overlooks the lake, against which, as a fact, it acts as dyke. +The Court of Mantua and Envoys of foreign Princes, together +with many Prelates, are assembled on the terrace, surrounding +the seats of the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>, <i>the young</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS HIPPOLYTA</span>, <i>the</i> +<span class="persona">DUCHESS DOWAGER</span> <i>and the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span>. <i>Facing this gallery, and +separated from it by a line of sedge and willows, and a few +yards of pure green water, starred with white lilies, is a +stage in the shape of a Grecian temple, apparently rising out +of the lake. Its pediment and columns are slung with garlands +of bay and cypress. In the gable, the</i> DUKE'S <i>device of a +labyrinth in gold on a blue ground and the motto:</i> "<span class="persona">RECTAS +PETO.</span>" <i>On the stage, but this side of the curtain, which is +down, are a number of</i> Musicians <i>with violins, viols, +theorbs, a hautboy, a flute, a bassoon, viola d'amore and bass +viols, grouped round two men with double basses and a man at a +harpsichord, in dress like the musicians in Veronese's +paintings. They are preluding gently, playing elaborately +fugued variations on a dance tune in three-eighth time, +rendered singularly plaintive by the absence of perfect +closes</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>(<i>to</i> <span class="persona">VENETIAN AMBASSADOR</span>)</p> + +<p>What say you to our Diego's masque, my Lord? Does not his +skill as a composer vie almost with his sublety as a singer?</p> + +<p class="persona">MARCHIONESS OF GUASTALLA</p> + +<p>(<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS DOWAGER</span>)</p> + +<p>A most excellent masque, methinks, Madam. And of so new a +kind. We have had masques in palaces and also in gardens, and +some, I own it, beautiful; for our palace on the hill affords +fine vistas of cypress avenues and the distant plain. But, +until the Duke your son, no one has had a masque on the water, +it would seem. 'Tis doubtless his invention?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>(<i>with evident preoccupation</i>)</p> + +<p>I think not, Madam. 'Tis our foolish Diego's freak. And I +confess I like it not. It makes me anxious for the players.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">BISHOP OF CREMONA</span> (<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span>)</p> + +<p>A wondrous singer, your Signor Diego. They say the Spaniards +have subtle exercises for keeping the voice thus youthful. His +Holiness has several such who sing divinely under Pierluigi's +guidance. But your Diego seems really but a child, yet has a +mode of singing like one who knows a world of joys and +sorrows.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>He has. Indeed, I sometimes think he pushes the pathetic +quality too far. I am all for the Olympic serenity of the wise +Ancients.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</span> (<i>laughing</i>)</p> + +<p>My uncle would, I almost think, exile our divine Diego, as +Plato did the poets, for moving us too much.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCE OF MASSA</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>He has moved your noble husband strangely. Or is it, gracious +bride, that too much happiness overwhelms our friend?</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>(<i>turning round and noticing the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>, <i>a few seats off</i>)</p> + +<p>'Tis true. Ferdinand is very sensitive to music, and is +greatly concerned for our Diego's play. Still——I wonder——.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">MARCHIONESS</span> (<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET</span>, <i>who is standing +near her</i>)</p> + +<p>I really never could have recognised Signor Diego in his +disguise. He looks for all the world exactly like a woman.</p> + +<p class="persona">POET</p> + +<p>A woman! Say a goddess, Madam! Upon my soul (<i>whispering</i>), +the bride is scarce as beautiful as he, although as fair as +one of the noble swans who sail on those clear waters.</p> + +<p class="persona">JESTER</p> + +<p>After the play we shall see admiring dames trooping behind the +scenes to learn the secret of the paints which can change a +scrubby boy into a beauteous nymph; a metamorphosis worth +twenty of Sir Ovid's.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DOGE'S WIFE</span> (<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>)</p> + +<p>They all tell me—but 'tis a secret naturally—that the words +of this ingenious masque are from your Highness's own pen; and +that you helped—such are your varied gifts—your singing-page +to set them to music.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUKE</span> (<i>impatiently</i>)</p> + +<p>It may be that your Serenity is rightly informed, or not.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">KNIGHT OF MALTA</span> (<i>to</i> <span class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</span>)</p> + +<p>One recognises, at least, the mark of Duke Ferdinand's genius +in the suiting of the play to the surroundings. Given these +lakes, what fitter argument than Ariadne abandoned on her +little island? And the labyrinth in the story is a pretty +allusion to your lord's personal device and the magnificent +ceiling he lately designed for our admiration.</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>(<i>with her eyes fixed on the curtain, which begins to move</i>)</p> + +<p>Nay, 'tis all Diego's thought. Hush, they begin to play. Oh, +my heart beats with curiosity to know how our dear Diego will +carry his invention through, and to hear the last song which +he has never let me hear him sing.</p> + +<p><i>The curtain is drawn aside, displaying the stage, set with +orange and myrtle trees in jars, and a big flowering oleander. +There is no painted background; but instead, the lake, with +distant shore, and the sky with the sun slowly descending +into clouds, which light up purple and crimson, and send rosy +streamers into the high blue air. On the stage a rout of</i> +Bacchanals, <i>dressed like Mantegna's Hours, but with +vine-garlands; also</i> Satyrs <i>quaintly dressed in goatskins, +but with top-knots of ribbons, all singing a Latin ode in +praise of</i> <span class="persona">BACCHUS</span> <i>and wine; while girls dressed as nymphs, +with ribboned thyrsi in their hands, dance a pavana before a +throne of moss overhung by ribboned garlands. On this throne +are seated a</i> <span class="persona">TENOR</span> <i>as</i> <span class="persona">BACCHUS</span>, <i>dressed in russet and +leopard skins, a garland of vine leaves round his waist and +round his wide-brimmed hat; and</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>as</i> <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, +<i>no longer habited as a man, but in woman's garments, like +those of Guercino's Sibyls: a floating robe and vest of orange +and violet, open at the throat; with particoloured scarves +hanging, and a particoloured scarf wound like a turban round +the head, the locks of dark hair escaping from beneath. She is +extremely beautiful</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">MAGDALEN</span> (<i>sometime known as</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>now representing</i> +<span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>) <i>rises from the throne and speaks, turning to</i> +<span class="persona">BACCHUS</span>. <i>Her voice is a contralto, but not deep, and with +upper notes like a hautboy's. She speaks in an irregular +recitative, sustained by chords on the viols and +harpsichord</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">ARIADNE</p> + +<p>Tempt me not, gentle Bacchus, sunburnt god of ruddy vines and +rustic revelry. The gifts you bring, the queenship of the +world of wine-inspired Fancies, cannot quell my grief at +Theseus' loss.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">BACCHUS</span> (<i>tenor</i>)</p> + +<p>Princess, I do beseech you, give me leave to try and soothe +your anguish. Daughter of Cretan Minos, stern Judge of the +Departed, your rearing has been too sad for youth and beauty, +and the shade of Orcus has ever lain across your path. But I +am God of Gladness; I can take your soul, suspend it in +Mirth's sun, even as the grapes, translucent amber or rosy, +hang from the tendril in the ripening sun of the crisp autumn +day. I can unwind your soul, and string it in the serene sky +of evening, smiling in the deep blue like to the stars, +encircled, I offer you as crown. Listen, fair Nymph: 'tis a +God woos you.</p> + +<p class="persona">ARIADNE</p> + +<p>Alas, radiant Divinity of a time of year gentler than Spring +and fruitfuller than Summer, there is no Autumn for hapless +Ariadne. Only Winter's nights and frosts wrap my soul. When +Theseus went, my youth went also. I pray you leave me to my +poor tears and the thoughts of him.</p> + +<p class="persona">BACCHUS</p> + +<p>Lady, even a God, and even a lover, must respect your grief. +Farewell. Comrades, along; the pine trees on the hills, the +ivy-wreaths upon the rocks, await your company; and the +red-stained vat, the heady-scented oak-wood, demand your +presence.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> Bacchantes <i>and</i> Satyrs <i>sing a Latin ode in praise of +Wine, in four parts, with accompaniment of bass viols and +lutes, and exeunt with</i> <span class="persona">BACCHUS</span>.</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>(<i>to</i> <span class="persona">DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET</span>)</p> + +<p>Now, now, Master Torquato, now we shall hear Poetry's own self +sing with our Diego's voice.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>as</i> <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>, <i>walks slowly up and down the stage, +while the viola plays a prelude in the minor. Then she speaks, +recitative with chords only by strings and harpsichord</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">ARIADNE</p> + +<p>They are gone at last. Kind creatures, how their kindness +fretted my weary soul I To be alone with grief is almost +pleasure, since grief means thought of Theseus. Yet that +thought is killing me. O Theseus, why didst thou ever come +into my life? Why did not the cruel Minotaur gore and trample +thee like all the others? Hapless Ariadne! The clue was in my +keeping, and I reached it to him. And now his ship has long +since neared his native shores, and he stands on the prow, +watching for his new love. But the Past belongs to me.</p> + +<p><i>A flute rises in the orchestra, with viols accompanying, +pizzicati, and plays three or four bars of intricate mazy +passages, very sweet and poignant, stopping on a high note, +with imperfect close</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">ARIADNE</span> (<i>continuing</i>)</p> + +<p>And in the past he loved me, and he loves me still. Nothing +can alter that. Nay, Theseus, thou canst never never love +another like me.</p> + +<p><i>Arioso. The declamation becomes more melodic, though still +unrhythmical, and is accompanied by a rapid and passionate +tremolo of violins and viols</i>.</p> + +<p>And thy love for her will be but the thin ghost of the reality +that lived for me. But Theseus——Do not leave me yet. +Another hour, another minute. I have so much to tell thee, +dearest, ere thou goest.</p> + +<p><i>Accompaniment more and more agitated. A hautboy echoes</i> +<span class="persona">ARIADNE'S</span> <i>last phrase with poignant reedy tone</i>.</p> + +<p>Thou knowest, I have not yet sung thee that little song thou +lovest to hear of evenings; the little song made by the +Aeolian Poetess whom Apollo loved when in her teens. And thou +canst not go away till I have sung it. See! my lute. But I +must tune it. All is out of tune in my poor jangled life.</p> + +<p><i>Lute solo in the orchestra. A Siciliana or slow dance, very +delicate and simple</i>. <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span> <i>sings</i>.</p> + +<p>Song</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Let us forget we loved each other much;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Let us forget we ever have to part;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Let us forget that any look or touch</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Once let in either to the other's heart.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Only we'll sit upon the daisied grass,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">And hear the larks and see the swallows pass;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Only we live awhile, as children play,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Without to-morrow, without yesterday.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><i>During the ritornello, between the two verses.</i></p> + +<p class="persona">POET</p> + +<p>(<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</span>, <i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>Madam, methinks his Highness is unwell. Turn round, I pray +you.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</span> (<i>without turning</i>).</p> + +<p>He feels the play's charm. Hush.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUCHESS DOWAGER</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>Come Ferdinand, you are faint. Come with me.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUKE</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>Nay, mother. It will pass. Only a certain oppression at the +heart, I was once subject to. Let us be still.</p> + +<p>Song (<i>repeats</i>)</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Only we'll live awhile, as children play,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Without to-morrow, without yesterday.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><i>A few bars of ritornello after the song</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUCHESS DOWAGER</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>Courage, my son, I know all.</p> + +<p class="persona">ARIADNE</p> + +<p>(<i>Recitative with accompaniment of violins, flute and harp</i>)</p> + +<p>Theseus, I've sung my song. Alas, alas for our poor songs we +sing to the beloved, and vainly try to vary into newness!</p> + +<p><i>A few notes of the harp well up, slow and liquid</i>.</p> + +<p>Now I can go to rest, and darkness lap my weary heart. +Theseus, my love, good night!</p> + +<p><i>Violins tremolo. The hautboy suddenly enters with a long +wailing phrase</i>. <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span> <i>quickly mounts on to the back of the +stage, turns round for one second, waving a kiss to an +imaginary person, and then flings herself down into the lake</i>.</p> + +<p><i>A great burst of applause. Enter immediately, and during the +cries and clapping, a chorus of</i> Water-Nymphs <i>in transparent +veils and garlands of willows and lilies, which sings to a +solemn counterpoint, the dirge of</i> <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>. <i>But their singing +is barely audible through the applause of the whole Court, and +the shouts of</i> "<span class="persona">DIEGO! DIEGO! ARIADNE! ARIADNE!</span>" <i>The young</i> +<span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>rises excitedly, wiping her eyes</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Dear friend! Diego! Diego! Our Orpheus, come forth!</p> + +<p class="persona">CROWD</p> + +<p>Diego! Diego!</p> + +<p><span class="persona">POET</span> (<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">POPE'S LEGATE</span>)</p> + +<p>He is a real artist, and scorns to spoil the play's impression +by truckling to this foolish habit of applause.</p> + +<p class="persona">MARCHIONESS</p> + +<p>Still, a mere singer, a page——when his betters call——. But +see! the Duke has left our midst.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>He has gone to bring back Diego in triumph, doubtless.</p> + +<p class="persona">VENETIAN AMBASSADOR</p> + +<p>And, I note, his venerable mother has also left us. I doubt +whether this play has not offended her strict widow's +austerity.</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>But where is Diego, meanwhile?</p> + +<p><i>The Chorus and orchestra continue the dirge for</i> <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>. A +<span class="persona">GENTLEMAN-IN-WAITING</span> <i>elbows through the crowd to the</i> +<span class="persona">CARDINAL</span>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">GENTLEMAN</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>Most Eminent, a word——</p> + +<p><span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>The Duke has had a return of his malady?</p> + +<p><span class="persona">GENTLEMAN</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>No, most Eminent. But Diego is nowhere to be found. And they +have brought up behind the stage the body of a woman in +Ariadne's weeds.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> (whispering)</p> + +<p>Ah, is that all? Discretion, pray. I knew it. But 'tis a most +distressing accident. Discretion above all.</p> + +<p><i>The Chorus suddenly breaks off. For on to the stage comes +the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>. <i>He is dripping, and bears in his arms the dead +body, drowned, of</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>in the garb of</i> <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>. <i>A shout +from the crowd</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>(<i>with a cry, clutching the</i> <span class="persona">POET'S</span> <i>arm</i>)</p> + +<p>Diego!</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>(<i>stooping over the body, which he has laid upon the stage, +and speaking very low</i>)</p> + +<p>Magdalen!</p> + +<p>(<i>The curtain is hastily closed</i>.)</p> + +<p>THE END</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="APPENDIX" id="APPENDIX"></a>APPENDIX</h3> + + +<h4>THE LAKES OF MANTUA</h4> + +<p>It was the Lakes, the deliciousness of water and sedge seen +from the railway on a blazing June day, that made me stop at +Mantua for the first time; and the thought of them that drew +me back to Mantua this summer. They surround the city on three +sides, being formed by the Mincio on its way from Lake Garda +to the Po, shallow lakes spilt on the great Lombard Plain. +They are clear, rippled, fringed with reed, islanded with +water lilies, and in them wave the longest, greenest weeds. +Here and there a tawny sail of a boat comes up from Venice; +children are bathing under the castle towers; at a narrow +point is a long covered stone bridge where the water rushes +through mills and one has glimpses into cool, dark places +smelling of grist.</p> + +<p>The city itself has many traces of magnificence, although it +has been stripped of pictures more than any other, furnishing +out every gallery in Europe since the splendid Gonzagas +forfeited the Duchy to Austria. There are a good many delicate +late Renaissance houses, carried on fine columns; also some +charming open terra-cotta work in windows and belfries. The +Piazza Erbe has, above its fruit stalls and market of wooden +pails and earthenware, and fishing-tackle and nets (reminding +one of the lakes), a very picturesque clock with a seated +Madonna; and in the Piazza Virgilio there are two very noble +battlemented palaces with beautiful bold Ghibelline +swallow-tails. All the buildings are faintly whitened by damp, +and the roofs and towers are of very pale, almost faded rose +colour, against the always moist blue sky.</p> + +<p>But what goes to the brain at Mantua is the unlikely +combination, the fantastic duet, of the palace and the lake. +One naturally goes first into the oldest part, the red-brick +castle of the older Marquises, in one of whose great square +towers are Mantegna's really delightful frescoes: charming +cupids, like fleecy clouds turned to babies, playing in a sky +of the most marvellous blue, among garlands of green and of +orange and lemon trees cut into triumphal arches, with the +Marquis of Mantua and all the young swashbuckler Gonzagas +underneath. The whole decoration, with its predominant blue, +and enamel white and green, is delicate and cool in its +magnificence, and more thoroughly enjoyable than most of +Mantegna's work. But the tower windows frame in something more +wonderful and delectable—one of the lakes! The pale blue +water, edged with green reeds, the poplars and willows of the +green plain beyond; a blue vagueness of Alps, and, connecting +it all, the long castle bridge with its towers of pale +geranium-coloured bricks.</p> + +<p>One has to pass through colossal yards to get from this +fortified portion to the rest of the Palace, Corte Nuova, as +it is called. They have now become public squares, and the +last time I saw them, it being market day, they were crowded +with carts unloading baskets of silk; and everywhere the +porticoes were heaped with pale yellow and greenish cocoons; +the palace filled with the sickly smell of the silkworm, which +seemed, by coincidence, to express its sæcular decay. For of +all the decaying palaces I have ever seen in Italy this Palace +of Mantua is the most utterly decayed. At first you have no +other impression. But little by little, as you tramp through +what seem miles of solemn emptiness, you find that more than +any similar place it has gone to your brain. For these endless +rooms and cabinets—some, like those of Isabella d'Este (which +held the Mantegna and Perugino and Costa allegories, Triumph +of Chastity and so forth, now in the Louvre), quite delicate +and exquisite; or scantily modernised under Maria Theresa for +a night's ball or assembly; or actually crumbling, defaced, +filled with musty archives; or recently used as fodder stores +and barracks—all this colossal labyrinth, oddly symbolised by +the gold and blue labyrinth on one of the ceilings, is, on the +whole, the most magnificent and fantastic thing left behind by +the Italy of Shakespeare. The art that remains (by the way, in +one dismantled hall I found the empty stucco frames of our +Triumph of Julius Cæsar!) is, indeed, often clumsy and +cheap—elaborate medallions and ceilings by Giulio Romano and +Primaticcio; but one feels that it once appealed to an +Ariosto-Tasso mythological romance which was perfectly +genuine, and another sort of romance now comes with its being +so forlorn.</p> + +<p>Forlorn, forlorn! And everywhere, from the halls with +mouldering zodiacs and Loves of the Gods and Dances of the +Muses; and across hanging gardens choked with weeds and fallen +in to a lower level, appear the blue waters of the lake, and +its green distant banks, to make it all into Fairyland. There +is, more particularly, a certain long, long portico, not far +from Isabella d'Este's writing closet, dividing a great green +field planted with mulberry trees, within the palace walls, +from a fringe of silvery willows growing in the pure, lilied +water. Here the Dukes and their courtiers took the air when +the Alps slowly revealed themselves above the plain after +sunset; and watched, no doubt, either elaborate quadrilles and +joustings in the riding-school, on the one hand, or boat-races +and all manner of water pageants on the other. We know it all +from the books of the noble art of horsemanship: plumes and +curls waving above curvetting Spanish horses; and from the +rarer books of sixteenth and seventeenth century masques and +early operas, where Arion appears on his colossal dolphin +packed with <i>tiorbos</i> and <i>violas d'amore</i>, singing some mazy +<i>aria</i> by Caccini or Monteverde, full of plaintive flourishes +and unexpected minors. We know it all, the classical pastoral +still coloured with mediæval romance, from Tasso and +Guarini—nay, from Fletcher and Milton. Moreover, some +chivalrous Gonzaga duke, perhaps that same Vincenzo who had +the blue and gold ceiling made after the pattern of the +labyrinth in which he had been kept by the Turks, not too +unlike, let us hope, Orsino of Illyria, and by his side a not +yet mournful Lady Olivia; and perhaps, directing the concert +at the virginal, some singing page Cesario.... Fancy a water +pastoral, like the Sabrina part of "Comus," watched from that +portico! The nymph Manto, founder of Mantua, rising from the +lake; cardboard shell or real one? Or the shepherds of Father +Virgil, trying to catch hold of Proteus; but all in ruffs and +ribbons, spouting verses like "Amyntas" or "The Faithful +Shepherdess." And now only the song of the frogs rises up from +among the sedge and willows, where the battlemented castle +steeps its buttresses in the lake.</p> + +<p>There is another side to this Shakespearean palace, not of +romance but of grotesqueness verging on to horror. There are +the Dwarfs' Apartments! Imagine a whole piece of the building, +set aside for their dreadful living, a rabbit warren of tiny +rooms, including a chapel against whose vault you knock your +head, and a grand staircase quite sickeningly low to descend. +Strange human or half-human kennels, one trusts never really +put to use, and built as a mere brutal jest by a Duke of +Mantua smarting under the sway of some saturnine little +monster, like the ones who stand at the knee of Mantegna's +frescoed Gonzagas.</p> + +<p>After seeing the Castello and the Corte Nuova one naturally +thinks it one's duty to go and see the little Palazzo del Te, +just outside the town. Inconceivable frescoes, colossal, +sprawling gods and goddesses, all chalk and brick dust, enough +to make Rafael, who was responsible for them through his +abominable pupils, turn for ever in his coffin. Damp-stained +stuccoes and grass-grown courtyards, and no sound save the +noisy cicalas sawing on the plane-trees. How utterly forsaken +of gods and men is all this Gonzaga splendour! But all round, +luxuriant green grass, and English-looking streams winding +flush among great willows. We left the Palazzo del Te very +speedily behind us, and set out toward Pietola, the birthplace +of Virgil. But the magic of one of the lakes bewitched us. We +sat on the wonderful green embankments, former fortifications +of the Austrians, with trees steeping in the water, and a +delicious, ripe, fresh smell of leaves and sun-baked flowers, +and watched quantities of large fish in the green shadow of +the railway bridge. In front of us, under the reddish town +walls, spread an immense field of white water lilies; and +farther off, across the blue rippled water, rose the towers +and cupolas and bastions of the Gonzaga's palace—palest pink, +unsubstantial, utterly unreal, in the trembling heat of the +noontide.</p> +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> + +<p class="caption"><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</p> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#PREFACE"><b>PREFACE</b></a><br /> +<a href="#DRAMATIS_PERSONAE"><b>DRAMATIS PERSONAE</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ACT_I"><b>ACT I</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ACT_II"><b>ACT II</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ACT_III"><b>ACT III</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ACT_IV"><b>ACT IV</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ACT_V"><b>ACT V</b></a><br /> +<a href="#APPENDIX"><b>APPENDIX</b></a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + + + + + + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 37169 ***</div> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a68465e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #37169 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37169) diff --git a/old/37169-8.txt b/old/37169-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..06cfd57 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/37169-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2728 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ariadne in Mantua, by Vernon Lee + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ariadne in Mantua + A Romance in Five Acts + +Author: Vernon Lee + +Release Date: August 23, 2011 [EBook #37169] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARIADNE IN MANTUA *** + + + + +Produced by Andrea Ball, Christine Bell & Marc D'Hooghe +at http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously +made available by the Internet Archive) + + + + + +ARIADNE IN MANTUA + +A ROMANCE IN FIVE ACTS + +BY + +VERNON LEE + + +Portland, Maine + +THOMAS B. MOSHER + +MDCCCCXII + + + + +TO + +ETHEL SMYTH + +THANKING, AND BEGGING, HER FOR MUSIC + + + + +PREFACE + + +Ariadne _in Mantua_, _A Romance in Five Acts, by Vernon Lee. +Oxford: B.H. Blackwell 50 and 51 Broad Street. London: +Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Company. A.D. MCMIII. +Octavo. Pp. x: 11-66_. + + +Like almost everything else written by Vernon Lee there is to +be found that insistent little touch which is her sign-manual +when dealing with Italy or its makers of forgotten melodies. +In other words, the music of her rhythmic prose is summed up +in one poignant vocable--_Forlorn_. + +As for her vanished world of dear dead women and their lovers +who are dust, we may indeed for a brief hour enter that +enchanted atmosphere. Then a vapour arises as out of long lost +lagoons, and, be it Venice or Mantua, we come to feel "how +deep an abyss separates us--and how many faint and nameless +ghosts crowd round the few enduring things bequeathed to us by +the past." + +T.B.M. + + + + +PREFACE + + +_"Alles Vergängliche ist nur ein Gleichniss"_ + + +_It is in order to give others the pleasure of reading or +re-reading a small masterpiece, that I mention the likelihood +of the catastrophe of my_ Ariadne _having been suggested by +the late Mr. Shorthouse's_ Little Schoolmaster Mark; _but I +must ask forgiveness of my dear old friend, Madame Emile +Duclaux_ (Mary Robinson), _for unwarranted use of one of the +songs of her_ Italian Garden. + +_Readers of my own little volume_ Genius Loci _may meanwhile +recognise that I have been guilty of plagiarism towards myself +also_.[1] + +_For a couple of years after writing those pages, the image of +the Palace of Mantua and the lakes it steeps in, haunted my +fancy with that peculiar insistency, as of the half-lapsed +recollection of a name or date, which tells us that we know +(if we could only remember!)_ what happened in a place. _I let +the matter rest. But, looking into my mind one day, I found +that a certain song of the early seventeenth century_--(not +_Monteverde's_ Lamento d'Arianna _but an air_, Amarilli, _by +Caccini, printed alongside in Parisotti's collection_)--_had +entered that Palace of Mantua, and was, in some manner not +easy to define, the musical shape of what must have happened +there. And that, translated back into human personages, was +the story I have set forth in the following little Drama_. + +_So much for the origin of_ Ariadne in Mantua, _supposing any +friend to be curious about it. What seems more interesting is +my feeling, which grew upon me as I worked over and over the +piece and its French translation, that these personages had an +importance greater than that of their life and adventures, a +meaning, if I may say so, a little_ sub specie aeternitatis. +_For, besides the real figures, there appeared to me vague +shadows cast by them, as it were, on the vast spaces of life, +and magnified far beyond those little puppets that I twitched. +And I seem to feel here the struggle, eternal, necessary, +between mere impulse, unreasoning and violent, but absolutely +true to its aim; and all the moderating, the weighing and +restraining influences of civilisation, with their idealism, +their vacillation, but their final triumph over the mere +forces of nature. These well-born people of Mantua, +privileged beings wanting little because they have much, and +able therefore to spend themselves in quite harmonious effort, +must necessarily get the better of the poor gutter-born +creature without whom, after all, one of them would have been +dead and the others would have had no opening in life. Poor_ +Diego _acts magnanimously, being cornered; but he (or she) has +not the delicacy, the dignity to melt into thin air with a +mere lyric Metastasian "Piangendo partè", and leave them to +their untroubled conscience. He must needs assert himself, +violently wrench at their heart-strings, give them a final +stab, hand them over to endless remorse; briefly, commit that +public and theatrical deed of suicide, splashing the murderous +waters into the eyes of well-behaved wedding guests_. + +_Certainly neither the_ Duke, _nor the_ Duchess Dowager, _nor_ +Hippolyta _would have done this. But, on the other hand, they +could calmly, coldly, kindly accept the self-sacrifice +culminating in that suicide: well-bred people, faithful to +their standards and forcing others, however unwilling, into +their own conformity. Of course without them the world would +be a den of thieves, a wilderness of wolves; for they are,--if +I may call them by their less personal names,--Tradition, +Discipline, Civilisation_. + +_On the other hand, but for such as_ Diego _the world would +come to an end within twenty years: mere sense of duty and +fitness not being sufficient for the killing and cooking of +victuals, let alone the begetting and suckling of children. +The descendants of_ Ferdinand _and_ Hippolyta, _unless they +intermarried with some bastard of_ Diego's _family, would +dwindle, die out; who knows, perhaps supplement the impulses +they lacked by silly newfangled evil_. + +_These are the contending forces of history and life: Impulse +and Discipline, creating and keeping; love such as_ Diego's, +_blind, selfish, magnanimous; and detachment, noble, a little +bloodless and cruel, like that of the_ Duke of Mantua. + +_And it seems to me that the conflicts which I set forth on my +improbable little stage, are but the trifling realities +shadowing those great abstractions which we seek all through +the history of man, and everywhere in man's own heart_. + + +VERNON LEE. + + +Maiano, near Florence, + +June, 1903. + + + [1] See Appendix where the article referred to is given entire. + + + + +ARIADNE IN MANTUA + + + VIOLA. _....I'll serve this Duke: + ....for I can sing + And speak to him in many sorts of music._ + TWELFTH NIGHT, 1, 2. + + + + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + FERDINAND, Duke of Mantua. + THE CARDINAL, his Uncle. + THE DUCHESS DOWAGER. + HIPPOLYTA, Princess of Mirandola. + MAGDALEN, known as DIEGO. + THE MARCHIONESS OF GUASTALLA. + THE BISHOP OF CREMONA. + THE DOGE'S WIFE. + THE VENETIAN AMBASSADOR. + THE DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET. + THE VICEROY OF NAPLES' JESTER. + A TENOR as BACCHUS. + The CARDINAL'S CHAPLAIN. + THE DUCHESS'S GENTLEWOMAN. + THE PRINCESS'S TUTOR. + Singers as Maenads and Satyrs; Courtiers, + Pages, Wedding Guests and Musicians. + + * * * * * + +The action takes place in the Palace of Mantua through a +period of a year, during the reign of Prospero I, of Milan, +and shortly before the Venetian expedition to Cyprus under +Othello. + + + + +ARIADNE IN MANTUA + + + + +ACT I + + +_The_ CARDINAL'S _Study in the Palace at Mantua. The_ CARDINAL +_is seated at a table covered with Persian embroidery, +rose-colour picked out with blue, on which lies open a volume +of Machiavelli's works, and in it a manuscript of Catullus; +alongside thereof are a bell and a magnifying-glass. Under his +feet a red cushion with long tassels, and an oriental carpet +of pale lavender and crimson_. _The_ CARDINAL _is dressed in +scarlet, a crimson fur-lined cape upon his shoulders. He is +old, but beautiful and majestic, his face furrowed like the +marble bust of Seneca among the books opposite_. + +_Through the open Renaissance window, with candelabra and +birds carved on the copings, one sees the lake, pale blue, +faintly rippled, with a rose-coloured brick bridge and +bridge-tower at its narrowest point_. DIEGO (_in reality_ +MAGDALEN) _has just been admitted into the_ CARDINAL'S +_presence, and after kissing his ring, has remained standing, +awaiting his pleasure_. + +DIEGO _is fantastically habited as a youth in russet and +violet tunic reaching below the knees in Moorish fashion, as +we see it in the frescoes of Pinturicchio; with silver buttons +down the seams, and plaited linen at the throat and in the +unbuttoned purfles of the sleeves. His hair, dark but red +where it catches the light, is cut over the forehead and +touches his shoulders. He is not very tall in his boy's +clothes, and very sparely built. He is pale, almost sallow; +the face, dogged, sullen, rather expressive than beautiful, +save for the perfection of the brows and of the flower-like +singer's mouth. He stands ceremoniously before the_ CARDINAL, +_one hand on his dagger, nervously, while the other holds a +large travelling hat, looped up, with a long drooping plume_. + +_The_ CARDINAL _raises his eyes, slightly bows his head, +closes the manuscript and the volume, and puts both aside +deliberately. He is, meanwhile, examining the appearance of_ +DIEGO. + +CARDINAL + +We are glad to see you at Mantua, Signor Diego. And from what +our worthy Venetian friend informs us in the letter which he +gave you for our hands, we shall without a doubt be wholly +satisfied with your singing, which is said to be both sweet +and learned. Prythee, Brother Matthias (_turning to his_ +Chaplain), bid them bring hither my virginal,--that with the +Judgment of Paris painted on the lid by Giulio Romano; its +tone is admirably suited to the human voice. And, Brother +Matthias, hasten to the Duke's own theorb player, and bid him +come straightways. Nay, go thyself, good Brother Matthias, and +seek till thou hast found him. We are impatient to judge of +this good youth's skill. + +_The_ Chaplain _bows and retires_. DIEGO (_in reality_ +MAGDALEN) _remains alone in the_ CARDINAL'S _presence. The_ +CARDINAL _remains for a second turning over a letter, and then +reads through the magnifying-glass out loud_. + +CARDINAL + +Ah, here is the sentence: "Diego, a Spaniard of Moorish +descent, and a most expert singer and player on the virginal, +whom I commend to your Eminence's favour as entirely fitted +for such services as your revered letter makes mention of----" +Good, good. + +_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 assures 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 noble 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 compass his strange +malady. + +CARDINAL + +Even so. You speak discreetly, Diego; and your manner gives +hope of more good sense than is usual in your sex 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 coarse 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 noble 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 passion, hopeless, unfitting +to his rank, perhaps? + +CARDINAL + +Your imagination, good Madam Magdalen, runs too easily along +the tracks familiar to your sex; 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 sexless creature, having seen +passion 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 +hoarseness, 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 circumstance, 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 Titian'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_ DUCHESS'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_ DUCHESS 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_ +DUCHESS _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_. + +DUCHESS + +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 God'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_ DUCHESS _has at first been frozen by +his manner, but at the end she answers very simply_. + +DUCHESS + +You speak too learnedly, good Signor Diego, and your words +pass my poor understanding. The virtue in any of us is but +God'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 God 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. + +DUCHESS + +Great joy has made me heartless as well as foolish. I have +hurt you, somehow. Forgive me, Signor Diego. + +DIEGO + +As you said, I am a courtier, Madam, and I know it is enough +if we can serve our princes. We have no business with troubles +of our own; but having them, we keep them to ourselves. His +Highness awaits me at this hour for the usual song which +happily unclouds his spirit. Has your Grace any message for +him? + +DUCHESS + +Stay. My son will wait a little while. I require you, Diego, +for I have hurt you. Your words are terrible, but just. We +princes are brought up--but many of us, alas, are princes in +this matter!--to think that when we say "I thank you" we have +done our duty; though our very satisfaction, our joy, may +merely bring out by comparison the emptiness of heart, the +secret soreness, of those we thank. We are not allowed to see +the burdens of others, and merely load them with our own. + +DIEGO + +Is this not wisdom? Princes should not see those burdens which +they cannot, which they must not, try to carry. And after all, +princes or slaves, can others ever help us, save with their +purse, with advice, with a concrete favour, or, say, with a +song? Our troubles smart because they are _our_ troubles; our +burdens weigh because on _our_ shoulders; they are part of us, +and cannot be shifted. But God doubtless loves such kind +thoughts as you have, even if, with your Grace's indulgence, +they are useless. + +DUCHESS + +If it were so, God would be no better than an earthly prince. +But believe me, Diego, if He prefer what you call +kindness--bare sense of brotherhood in suffering--'tis for its +usefulness. We cannot carry each other's burden for a minute; +true, and rightly so; but we can give each other added +strength to bear it. + +DIEGO + +By what means, please your Grace? + +DUCHESS + +By love, Diego. + +DIEGO + +Love! But that was surely never a source of strength, craving +your Grace's pardon? + +DUCHESS + +The love which I am speaking of--and it may surely bear the +name, since 'tis the only sort of love that cannot turn to +hatred. Love for who requires it because it is required--say +love of any woman who has been a mother for any child left +motherless. Nay, forgive my boldness: my gratitude gives me +rights on you, Diego. You are unhappy; you are still a child; +and I imagine that you have no mother. + +DIEGO + +I am told I had one, gracious Madam. She was, saving your +Grace's presence, only a light woman, and sold for a ducat to +the Infidels. I cannot say I ever missed her. Forgive me, +Madam. Although a courtier, the stock I come from is extremely +base. I have no understanding of the words of noble women and +saints like you. My vileness thinks them hollow; and my pretty +manners are only, as your Grace has unluckily had occasion to +see, a very thin and bad veneer. I thank your Grace, and once +more crave permission to attend the Duke. + +DUCHESS + +Nay. That is not true. Your soul is nowise base-born. I owe +you everything, and, by some inadvertence, I have done nothing +save stir up pain in you. I want--the words may seem +presumptuous, yet carry a meaning which is humble--I want to +be your friend; and to help you to a greater, better Friend. I +will pray for you, Diego. + +DIEGO + +No, no. You are a pious and virtuous woman, and your pity and +prayers must keep fit company. + +DUCHESS + +The only fitting company for pity and prayers, for love, dear +lad, is the company of those who need them. Am I over bold? + +_The_ DUCHESS _has risen, and shyly laid her hand on_ DIEGO'S +_shoulder_. DIEGO _breaks loose and covers his face, +exclaiming in a dry and husky voice_. + +DIEGO + +Oh the cruelty of loneliness, Madam! Save for two years which +taught me by comparison its misery, I have lived in loneliness +always in this lonely world; though never, alas, alone. Would +it had always continued! But as the wayfarer from out of the +snow and wind feels his limbs numb and frozen in the hearth's +warmth, so, having learned that one might speak, be +understood, be comforted, that one might love and be +beloved,--the misery of loneliness was revealed to me. And +then to be driven back into it once more, shut in to it for +ever! Oh, Madam, when one can no longer claim understanding +and comfort; no longer say "I suffer: help me!"--because the +creature one would say it to is the very same who hurts and +spurns one! + +DUCHESS + +How can a child like you already know such things? We women +may, indeed. I was as young as you, years ago, when I too +learned it. And since I learned it, let my knowledge, my poor +child, help you to bear it. I know how silence galls and +wearies. If silence hurts you, speak,--not for me to answer, +but understand and sorrow for you. I am old and simple and +unlearned; but, God willing, I shall understand. + +DIEGO + +If anything could help me, 'tis the sense of kindness such as +yours. I thank you for your gift; but acceptance of it would +be theft; for it is not meant for what I really am. And though +a living lie in many things; I am still, oddly enough, honest. +Therefore, I pray you, Madam, farewell. + +DUCHESS + +Do not believe it, Diego. Where it is needed, our poor loving +kindness can never be stolen. + +DIEGO + +Do not tempt me, Madam! Oh God, I do not want your pity, your +loving kindness! What are such things to me? And as to +understanding my sorrows, no one can, save the very one who is +inflicting them. Besides, you and I call different things by +the same names. What you call _love_, to me means nothing: +nonsense taught to children, priest's metaphysics. What _I_ +mean, you do not know. (_A pause_, DIEGO _walks up and down in +agitation_.) But woe's me! You have awakened the power of +breaking through this silence,--this silence which is +starvation and deathly thirst and suffocation. And it so +happens that if I speak to you all will be wrecked. (_A +pause_.) But there remains nothing to wreck! Understand me, +Madam, I care not who you are. I know that once I have spoken, +you _must_ become my enemy. But I am grateful to you; you have +shown me the way to speaking; and, no matter now to whom, I +now _must_ speak. + +DUCHESS + +You shall speak to God, my friend, though you speak seemingly +to me. + +DIEGO + +To God! To God! These are the icy generalities we strike upon +under all pious warmth. No, gracious Madam, I will not speak +to God; for God knows it already, and, knowing, looks on +indifferent. I will speak to you. Not because you are kind and +pitiful; for you will cease to be so. Not because you will +understand; for you never will. I will speak to you because, +although you are a saint, you are _his_ mother, have kept +somewhat of his eyes and mien; because it will hurt you if I +speak, as I would it might hurt _him_. I am a woman, Madam; a +harlot; and I was the Duke your son's mistress while among the +Infidels. + +_A long silence. The_ DUCHESS _remains seated. She barely +starts, exclaiming_ "Ah!--" _and becomes suddenly absorbed in +thought_. DIEGO _stands looking listlessly through the window +at the lake and the willow_. + +DIEGO + +I await your Grace's orders. Will it please you that I call +your maid-of-honour, or summon the gentleman outside? If it +so please you, there need be no scandal. I shall give myself +up to any one your Grace prefers. + +_The_ DUCHESS _pays no attention to_ DIEGO'S _last words, and +remains reflecting_. + +DUCHESS + +Then, it is he who, as you call it, spurns you? How so? For +you are admitted to his close familiarity; nay, you have +worked the miracle of curing him. I do not understand the +situation. For, Diego,--I know not by what other name to call +you--I feel your sorrow is a deep one. You are not +the----woman who would despair and call God cruel for a mere +lover's quarrel. You love my son; you have cured him,--cured +him, do I guess rightly, through your love? But if it be so, +what can my son have done to break your heart? + +DIEGO + +(_after listening astonished at the_ DUCHESS'S _unaltered tone +of kindness_) + +Your Grace will understand the matter as much as I can; and I +cannot. He does not recognise me, Madam. + +DUCHESS + +Not recognise you? What do you mean? + +DIEGO + +What the words signify: Not recognise. + +DUCHESS + +Then----he does not know----he still believes you to be----a +stranger? + +DIEGO + +So it seems, Madam. + +DUCHESS + +And yet you have cured his melancholy by your presence. And in +the past----tell me: had you ever sung to him? + +DIEGO (_weeping silently_) + +Daily, Madam. + +DUCHESS (_slowly_) + +They say that Ferdinand is, thanks to you, once more in full +possession of his mind. It cannot be. Something still lacks; +he is not fully cured. + +DIEGO + +Alas, he is. The Duke remembers everything, save me. + +DUCHESS + +There is some mystery in this. I do not understand such +matters. But I know that Ferdinand could never be base +towards you knowingly. And you, methinks, would never be base +towards him. Diego, time will bring light into this darkness. +Let us pray God together that He may make our eyes and souls +able to bear it. + +DIEGO + +I cannot pray for light, most gracious Madam, because I fear +it. Indeed I cannot pray at all, there remains nought to pray +for. But, among the vain and worldly songs I have had to get +by heart, there is, by chance, a kind of little hymn, a +childish little verse, but a sincere one. And while you pray +for me--for you promised to pray for me, Madam--I should like +to sing it, with your Grace's leave. + +DIEGO _opens a little movable organ in a corner, and strikes a +few chords, remaining standing the while. The_ DUCHESS _kneels +down before the crucifix, turning her back upon him. While she +is silently praying_, DIEGO, _still on his feet, sings very +low to a kind of lullaby tune_. + + Mother of God, + We are thy weary children; + Teach us, thou weeping Mother, + To cry ourselves to sleep. + + + + +ACT III + + +_Three months later. Another part of the Palace of Mantua: the +hanging gardens in the_ DUKE'S _apartments. It is the first +warm night of Spring. The lemon trees have been brought out +that day, and fill the air with fragrance. Terraces and +flights of steps; in the background the dark mass of the +palace, with its cupolas and fortified towers; here and there +a lit window picking out the dark; and from above the +principal yards, the flare of torches rising into the deep +blue of the sky. In the course of the scene, the moon +gradually emerges from behind a group of poplars on the +opposite side of the lake into which the palace is built. +During the earlier part of the act, darkness. Great stillness, +with, only occasionally, the plash of a fisherman's oar, or a +very distant thrum of mandolines.--The_ DUKE _and_ DIEGO _are +walking up and down the terrace_. + +DUKE + +Thou askedst me once, dear Diego, the meaning of that +labyrinth which I have had carved, a shapeless pattern enough, +but well suited, methinks, to blue and gold, upon the ceiling +of my new music room. And wouldst have asked, I fancy, as +many have done, the hidden meaning of the device surrounding +it.--I left thee in the dark, dear lad, and treated thy +curiosity in a peevish manner. Thou hast long forgiven and +perhaps forgotten, deeming my lack of courtesy but another +ailment of thy poor sick master; another of those odd +ungracious moods with which, kindest of healing creatures, +thou hast had such wise and cheerful patience. I have often +wished to tell thee; but I could not. 'Tis only now, in some +mysterious fashion, I seem myself once more,--able to do my +judgment's bidding, and to dispose, in memory and words, of my +own past. My strange sickness, which thou hast cured, melting +its mists away with thy beneficent music even as the sun +penetrates and sucks away the fogs of dawn from our lakes--my +sickness, Diego, the sufferings of my flight from Barbary; the +horror, perhaps, of that shipwreck which cast me (so they say, +for I remember nothing) senseless on the Illyrian +coast----these things, or Heaven's judgment on but a lukewarm +Crusader,--had somehow played strange havoc with my will and +recollections. I could not think; or thinking, not speak; or +recollecting, feel that he whom I thought of in the past was +this same man, myself. + +_The_ DUKE _pauses, and leaning on the parapet, watches the +long reflections of the big stars in the water_. + +But now, and thanks to thee, Diego, I am another; I am myself. + +DIEGO'S _face, invisible in the darkness, has undergone +dreadful convulsions. His breast heaves, and he stops for +breath before answering; but when he does so, controls his +voice into its usual rather artificially cadenced tone_. + +DIEGO + +And now, dear Master, you can recollect----all? + +DUKE + +Recollect, sweet friend, and tell thee. For it is seemly that +I should break through this churlish silence with thee. Thou +didst cure the weltering distress of my poor darkened mind; I +would have thee, now, know somewhat of the past of thy +grateful patient. The maze, Diego, carved and gilded on that +ceiling is but a symbol of my former life; and the device +which, being interpreted, means "I seek straight ways," the +expression of my wish and duty. + +DIEGO + +You loathed the maze, my Lord? + +DUKE + +Not so. I loved it then. And I still love it now. But I have +issued from it--issued to recognise that the maze was good. +Though it is good I left it. When I entered it, I was a raw +youth, although in years a man; full of easy theory, and +thinking all practice simple; unconscious of passion; ready to +govern the world with a few learned notions; moreover never +having known either happiness or grief, never loved and +wondered at a creature different from myself; acquainted, not +with the straight roads which I now seek, but only with the +rectangular walls of schoolrooms. The maze, and all the maze +implied, made me a man. + +DIEGO + +(_who has listened with conflicting feelings, and now unable +to conceal his joy_) + +A man, dear Master; and the gentlest, most just of men. Then, +that maze----But idle stories, interpreting all spiritual +meaning as prosy fact, would have it, that this symbol was a +reality. The legend of your captivity, my Lord, has turned the +pattern on that ceiling into a real labyrinth, some cunningly +built fortress or prison, where the Infidels kept you, and +whose clue----you found, and with the clue, freedom, after +five weary years. + +DUKE + +Whose clue, dear Diego, was given into my hands,--the clue +meaning freedom, but also eternal parting--by the most +faithful, intrepid, magnanimous, the most loving----and the +most beloved of women! + +_The_ Duke _has raised his arms from the parapet, and drawn +himself erect, folding them on his breast, and seeking for_ +Diego's _face in the darkness. But_ Diego, _unseen by the_ +Duke, _has clutched the parapet and sunk on to a bench_. + +DUKE + +(_walking up and down, slowly and meditatively, after a +pause_) + +The poets have fabled many things concerning virtuous women. +The Roman Arria, who stabbed herself to make honourable +suicide easier for her husband; Antigone, who buried her +brother at the risk of death; and the Thracian Alkestis, who +descended into the kingdom of Death in place of Admetus. But +none, to my mind, comes up to _her_. For fancy is but thin and +simple, a web of few bright threads; whereas reality is +closely knitted out of the numberless fibres of life, of pain +and joy. For note it, Diego--those antique women whom we read +of were daughters of kings, or of Romans more than kings; bred +of a race of heroes, and trained, while still playing with +dolls, to pride themselves on austere duty, and look upon the +wounds and maimings of their soul as their brothers and +husbands looked upon the mutilations of battle. Whereas here; +here was a creature infinitely humble; a waif, a poor spurned +toy of brutal mankind's pleasure; accustomed only to bear +contumely, or to snatch, unthinking, what scanty happiness lay +along her difficult and despised path,--a wild creature, who +had never heard such words as duty or virtue; and yet whose +acts first taught me what they truly meant. + +DIEGO + +(_who has recovered himself, and is now leaning in his turn on +the parapet_) + +Ah----a light woman, bought and sold many times over, my Lord; +but who loved, at last. + +DUKE + +That is the shallow and contemptuous way in which men think, +Diego,--and boys like thee pretend to; those to whom life is +but a chess-board, a neatly painted surface alternate black +and white, most suitable for skilful games, with a soul clean +lost or gained at the end! I thought like that. But I grew to +understand life as a solid world: rock, fertile earth, veins +of pure metal, mere mud, all strangely mixed and overlaid; and +eternal fire at the core! I learned it, knowing Magdalen. + +DIEGO + +Her name was Magdalen? + +DUKE + +So she bade me call her. + +DIEGO + +And the name explained the trade? + +DUKE (_after a pause_) + +I cannot understand thee Diego,--cannot understand thy lack of +understanding----Well yes! Her trade. All in this universe is +trade, trade of prince, pope, philosopher or harlot; and once +the badge put on, the licence signed--the badge a crown or a +hot iron's brand, as the case may be,--why then we ply it +according to prescription, and that's all! Yes, Diego,--since +thou obligest me to say it in its harshness, I do so, and I +glory for her in every contemptuous word I use!--The woman I +speak of was but a poor Venetian courtesan; some drab's child, +sold to the Infidels as to the Christians; and my cruel pirate +master's--shall we say?--mistress. There! For the first time, +Diego, thou dost not understand me; or is it----that I +misjudged thee, thinking thee, dear boy----(_breaks off +hurriedly_). + +DIEGO (_very slowly_) + +Thinking me what, my Lord? + +DUKE (_lightly, but with effort_) + +Less of a little Sir Paragon of Virtue than a dear child, who +is only a child, must be. + +DIEGO + +It is better, perhaps, that your Highness should be certain of +my limitations----But I crave your Highness's pardon. I had +meant to say that being a waif myself, pure gutter-bred, I +have known, though young, more Magdalens than you, my Lord. +They are, in a way, my sisters; and had I been a woman, I +should, likely enough, have been one myself. + +DUKE + +You mean, Diego? + +DIEGO + +I mean, that knowing them well, I also know that women such as +your Highness has described, occasionally learn to love most +truly. Nay, let me finish, my Lord; I was not going to repeat +a mere sentimental commonplace. Briefly then, that such women, +being expert in love, sometimes understand, quicker than +virtuous dames brought up to heroism, when love for them is +cloyed. They can walk out of a man's house or life with due +alacrity, being trained to such flittings. Or, recognising the +first signs of weariness before 'tis known to him who feels +it, they can open the door for the other--hand him the clue of +the labyrinth with a fine theatric gesture!--But I crave your +Highness's pardon for enlarging on this theme. + +DUKE + +Thou speakest Diego, as if thou hadst a mind to wound thy +Master. Is this, my friend, the reward of my confiding in +thee, even if tardily? + +DIEGO + +I stand rebuked, my Lord. But, in my own defence----how shall +I say it?----Your Highness has a manner to-night which +disconcerts me by its novelty; a saying things and then +unsaying them; suggesting and then, somehow, treading down the +suggestion like a spark of your lightning. Lovers, I have been +told, use such a manner to revive their flagging feeling by +playing on the other one's. Even in so plain and solid a thing +as friendship, such ways--I say it subject to your Highness's +displeasure--are dangerous. But in love, I have known cases +where, carried to certain lengths, such ways of speaking +undermined a woman's faith and led her to desperate things. +Women, despite their strength, which often surprises us, are +brittle creatures. Did you never, perhaps, make trial of +this----Magdalen, with---- + +DUKE + +With what? Good God, Diego, 'tis I who ask thy pardon; and +thou sheddest a dreadful light upon the past. But it is not +possible. I am not such a cur that, after all she did, after +all she was,--my life saved by her audacity a hundred times, +made rich and lovely by her love, her wit, her power,--that I +could ever have whimpered for my freedom, or made her suspect +I wanted it more than I wanted her? Is it possible, Diego? + +DIEGO (_slowly_) + +Why more than you wanted her? She may have thought the two +compatible. + +DUKE + +Never. First, because my escape could not be compassed save by +her staying behind; and then because---she knew, in fact, what +thing I was, or must become, once set at liberty. + +DIEGO (_after a pause_) + +I see. You mean, my Lord, that you being Duke of Mantua, while +she----If she knew that; knew it not merely as a fact, but as +one knows the full savour of grief,--well, she was indeed the +paragon you think; one might indeed say, bating one point, a +virtuous woman. + +DUKE + +Thou hast understood, dear Diego, and I thank thee for it. + +DIEGO + +But I fear, my Lord, she did not know these things. Such as +she, as yourself remarked, are not trained to conceive of +duty, even in others. Passion moves them; and they believe in +passion. You loved her; good. Why then, at Mantua as in +Barbary. No, my dear Master, believe me; she had seen your +love was turning stale, and set you free, rather than taste +its staleness. Passion, like duty, has its pride; and even we +waifs, as gypsies, have our point of honour. + +DUKE + +Stale! My love grown stale! You make me laugh, boy, instead of +angering. Stale! You never knew her. She was not like a +song--even your sweetest song--which, heard too often, cloys, +its phrases dropping to senseless notes. She was like +music,--the whole art: new modes, new melodies, new rhythms, +with every day and hour, passionate or sad, or gay, or very +quiet; more wondrous notes than in thy voice; and more +strangely sweet, even when they grated, than the tone of those +newfangled fiddles, which wound the ear and pour balm in, they +make now at Cremona. + +DIEGO + +You loved her then, sincerely? + +DUKE + +Methinks it may be Diego now, tormenting his Master with +needless questions. Loved her, boy! I love her. + +_A long pause_. Diego _has covered his face, with a gesture as +if about to speak. But the moon has suddenly risen from behind +the poplars, and put scales of silver light upon the ripples +of the lake, and a pale luminous mist around the palace. As +the light invades the terrace, a sort of chill has come upon +both speakers; they walk up and down further from one +another_. + +DIEGO + +A marvellous story, dear Master. And I thank you from my heart +for having told it me. I always loved you, and I thought I +knew you. I know you better still, now. You are--a most +magnanimous prince. + +DUKE + +Alas, dear lad, I am but a poor prisoner of my duties; a +poorer prisoner, and a sadder far, than there in Barbary----O +Diego, how I have longed for her! How deeply I still long, +sometimes! But I open my eyes, force myself to stare reality +in the face, whenever her image comes behind closed lids, +driving her from me----And to end my confession. At the +beginning, Diego, there seemed in thy voice and manner +something of _her_; I saw her sometimes in thee, as children +see the elves they fear and hope for in stains on walls and +flickers on the path. And all thy wondrous power, thy +miraculous cure--nay, forgive what seems ingratitude--was due, +Diego, to my sick fancy making me see glances of her in thy +eyes and hear her voice in thine. Not music but love, love's +delusion, was what worked my cure. + +DIEGO + +Do you speak truly, Master? Was it so? And now? + +DUKE + +Now, dear lad, I am cured--completely; I know bushes from +ghosts; and I know thee, dearest friend, to be Diego. + +DIEGO + +When these imaginations still held you, my Lord, did it ever +happen that you wondered: what if the bush had been a ghost; +if Diego had turned into--what was she called?---- + +DUKE + +Magdalen. My fancy never went so far, good Diego. There was a +grain of reason left. But if it had----Well, I should have +taken Magdalen's hand, and said, "Welcome, dear sister. This +is a world of spells; let us repeat some. Become henceforth +my brother; be the Duke of Mantua's best and truest friend; +turn into Diego, Magdalen." + +_The_ DUKE _presses_ DIEGO'S _arm, and, letting it go, walks +away into the moonlight with an enigmatic air. A long pause_. + +Hark, they are singing within; the idle pages making songs to +their ladies' eyebrows. Shall we go and listen? + +(_They walk in the direction of the palace_.) + +And (_with a little hesitation_) that makes me say, Diego, +before we close this past of mine, and bury it for ever in our +silence, that there is a little Moorish song, plaintive and +quaint, she used to sing, which some day I will write down, +and thou shalt sing it to me--on my deathbed. + +DIEGO + +Why not before? Speaking of songs, that mandolin, though out +of tune, and vilely played, has got hold of a ditty I like +well enough. Hark, the words are Tuscan, well known in the +mountains. (_Sings_.) + + I'd like to die, but die a little death only, + I'd like to die, but look down from the window; + I'd like to die, but stand upon the doorstep; + I'd like to die, but follow the procession; + I'd like to die, but see who smiles and weepeth; + I'd like to die, but die a little death only. + +(_While_ DIEGO _sings very loud, the mandolin inside the +palace thrums faster and faster. As he ends, with a long +defiant leap into a high note, a burst of applause from the +palace_.) + +DIEGO (_clapping his hands_) + +Well sung, Diego! + + + + +ACT IV + + +_A few weeks later. The new music room in the Palace of +Mantua. Windows on both sides admitting a view of the lake, so +that the hall looks like a galley surrounded by water. +Outside, morning: the lake, the sky, and the lines of poplars +on the banks, are all made of various textures of luminous +blue. From the gardens below, bay trees raise their flowering +branches against the windows. In every window an antique +statue: the Mantuan Muse, the Mantuan Apollo, etc. In the +walls between the windows are framed panels representing +allegorical triumphs: those nearest the spectator are the +triumphs of Chastity and of Fortitude. At the end of the room, +steps and a balustrade, with a harpsichord and double basses +on a dais. The roof of the room is blue and gold; a deep blue +ground, constellated with a gold labyrinth in relief. Round +the cornice, blue and gold also, the inscription_: "RECTAS +PETO," _and the name_ Ferdinandus Mantuae Dux. + +_The_ PRINCESS HIPPOLYTA _of Mirandola, cousin to the_ DUKE; +_and_ DIEGO. HIPPOLYTA _is very young, but with the strength +and grace, and the candour, rather of a beautiful boy than of +a woman. She is dazzlingly fair; and her hair, arranged in +waves like an antique amazon's, is stiff and lustrous, as if +made of threads of gold. The brows are wide and straight, +like a man's; the glance fearless, but virginal and almost +childlike_. HIPPOLYTA _is dressed in black and gold, +particoloured, like Mantegna's Duchess. An old man, in +scholar's gown, the_ Princess's Greek Tutor, _has just +introduced_ DIEGO _and retired_. + +DIEGO + +The Duke your cousin's greeting and service, illustrious +damsel. His Highness bids me ask how you are rested after your +journey hither. + +PRINCESS + +Tell my cousin, good Signor Diego, that I am touched at his +concern for me. And tell him, such is the virtuous air of his +abode, that a whole night's rest sufficed to right me from the +fatigue of two hours' journey in a litter; for I am new to +that exercise, being accustomed to follow my poor father's +hounds and falcons only on horseback. You shall thank the Duke +my cousin for his civility. (PRINCESS _laughs_.) + +DIEGO + +(_bowing, and keeping his eyes on the_ PRINCESS _as he +speaks_) + +His Highness wished to make his fair cousin smile. He has told +me often how your illustrious father, the late Lord of +Mirandola, brought his only daughter up in such a wise as +scarcely to lack a son, with manly disciplines of mind and +body; and that he named you fittingly after Hippolyta, who was +Queen of the Amazons, virgins unlike their vain and weakly +sex. + +PRINCESS + +She was; and wife of Theseus. But it seems that the poets care +but little for the like of her; they tell us nothing of her, +compared with her poor predecessor, Cretan Ariadne, she who +had given Theseus the clue of the labyrinth. Methinks that +maze must have been mazier than this blue and gold one +overhead. What say you, Signor Diego? + +DIEGO (_who has started slightly_) + +Ariadne? Was she the predecessor of Hippolyta? I did not know +it. I am but a poor scholar, Madam; knowing the names and +stories of gods and heroes only from songs and masques. The +Duke should have selected some fitter messenger to hold +converse with his fair learned cousin. + +PRINCESS (_gravely_) + +Speak not like that, Signor Diego. You may not be a scholar, +as you say; but surely you are a philosopher. Nay, conceive +my meaning: the fame of your virtuous equanimity has spread +further than from this city to my small dominions. Your +precocious wisdom--for you seem younger than I, and youths do +not delight in being very wise--your moderation in the use of +sudden greatness, your magnanimous treatment of enemies and +detractors; and the manner in which, disdainful of all +personal advantage, you have surrounded the Duke my cousin +with wisest counsellors and men expert in office--such are the +results men seek from the study of philosophy. + +DIEGO + +(_at first astonished, then amused, a little sadly_) + +You are mistaken, noble maiden. 'Tis not philosophy to refrain +from things that do not tempt one. Riches or power are useless +to me. As for the rest, you are mistaken also. The Duke is +wise and valiant, and chooses therefore wise and valiant +counsellors. + +PRINCESS (_impetuously_) + +You are eloquent, Signor Diego, even as you are wise! But your +words do not deceive me. Ambition lurks in every one; and +power intoxicates all save those who have schooled themselves +to use it as a means to virtue. + +DIEGO + +The thought had never struck me; but men have told me what you +tell me now. + +PRINCESS + +Even Antiquity, which surpasses us so vastly in all manner of +wisdom and heroism, can boast of very few like you. The +noblest souls have grown tyrannical and rapacious and +foolhardy in sudden elevation. Remember Alcibiades, the +beloved pupil of the wisest of all mortals. Signor Diego, you +may have read but little; but you have meditated to much +profit, and must have wrestled like some great athlete with +all that baser self which the divine Plato has told us how to +master. + +DIEGO (_shaking his head_) + +Alas, Madam, your words make me ashamed, and yet they make me +smile, being so far of the mark! I have wrestled with nothing; +followed only my soul's blind impulses. + +PRINCESS (_gravely_) + +It must be, then, dear Signor Diego, as the Pythagoreans held: +the discipline of music is virtuous for the soul. There is a +power in numbered and measured sound very akin to wisdom; +mysterious and excellent; as indeed the Ancients fabled in the +tales of Orpheus and Amphion, musicians and great sages and +legislators of states. I have long desired your conversation, +admirable Diego. + +DIEGO (_with secret contempt_) + +Noble maiden, such words exceed my poor unscholarly +appreciation. The antique worthies whom you name are for me +merely figures in tapestries and frescoes, quaint greybeards +in laurel wreaths and helmets; and I can scarcely tell whether +the Ladies Fortitude and Rhetoric with whom they hold +converse, are real daughters of kings, or mere Arts and +Virtues. But the Duke, a learned and judicious prince, will +set due store by his youthful cousin's learning. As for me, +simpleton and ignoramus that I am, all I see is that Princess +Hippolyta is very beautiful and very young. + +PRINCESS + +(_sighing a little, but with great simplicity_) + +I know it. I am young, and perhaps crude; although I study +hard to learn the rules of wisdom. You, Diego, seem to know +them without study. + +DIEGO + +I know somewhat of the world and of men, gracious Princess, +but that can scarce be called knowing wisdom. Say rather +knowing blindness, envy, cruelty, endless nameless folly in +others and oneself. But why should you seek to be wise? you +who are fair, young, a princess, and betrothed from your +cradle to a great prince? Be beautiful, be young, be what you +are, a woman. + +Diego _has said this last word with emphasis, but the_ +Princess _has not noticed the sarcasm in his voice_. + +PRINCESS (_shaking her head_) + +That is not my lot. I was destined, as you said, to be the +wife of a great prince; and my dear father trained me to fill +that office. + +DIEGO + +Well, and to be beautiful, young, radiant; to be a woman; is +not that the office of a wife? + +PRINCESS + +I have not much experience. But my father told me, and I have +gathered from books, that in the wives of princes, such gifts +are often thrown away; that other women, supplying them, seem +to supply them better. Look at my cousin's mother. I can +remember her still beautiful, young, and most tenderly loving. +Yet the Duke, my uncle, disdained her, and all she got was +loneliness and heartbreak. An honourable woman, a princess, +cannot compete with those who study to please and to please +only. She must either submit to being ousted from her +husband's love, or soar above it into other regions. + +DIEGO (_interested_) + +Other regions? + +PRINCESS + +Higher ones. She must be fit to be her husband's help, and to +nurse his sons to valour and wisdom. + +DIEGO + +I see. The Prince must know that besides all the knights that +he summons to battle, and all the wise men whom he hears in +council, there is another knight, in rather lighter armour and +quicker tired, another counsellor, less experienced and of +less steady temper, ready for use. Is this great gain? + +PRINCESS + +It is strange that being a man, you should conceive of women +from---- + +DIEGO + +From a man's standpoint? + +PRINCESS + +Nay; methinks a woman's. For I observe that women, when they +wish to help men, think first of all of some transparent +masquerade, donning men's clothes, at all events in metaphor, +in order to be near their lovers when not wanted. + +DIEGO (_hastily_) + +Donning men's clothes? A masquerade? I fail to follow your +meaning, gracious maiden. + +PRINCESS (_simply_) + +So I have learned at least from our poets. Angelica, and +Bradamante and Fiordispina, scouring the country after their +lovers, who were busy enough without them. I prefer Penelope, +staying at home to save the lands and goods of Ulysses, and +bringing up his son to rescue and avenge him. + +DIEGO (_reassured and indifferent_) + +Did Ulysses love Penelope any better for it, Madam? better +than poor besotted Menelaus, after all his injuries, loved +Helen back in Sparta? + +PRINCESS + +That is not the question. A woman born to be a prince's wife +and prince's mother, does her work not for the sake of +something greater than love, whether much or little. + +DIEGO + +For what then? + +PRINCESS + +Does a well-bred horse or excellent falcon do its duty to +please its master? No; but because such is its nature. +Similarly, methinks, a woman bred to be a princess works with +her husband, for her husband, not for any reward, but because +he and she are of the same breed, and obey the same instincts. + +DIEGO + +Ah!----Then happiness, love,--all that a woman craves for? + +PRINCESS + +Are accidents. Are they not so in the life of a prince? Love +he may snatch; and she, being in woman's fashion not allowed +to snatch, may receive as a gift, or not. But received or +snatched, it is not either's business; not their nature's true +fulfilment. + +DIEGO + +You think so, Lady? + +PRINCESS + +I am bound to think so. I was born to it and taught it. You +know the Duke, my cousin,--well, I am his bride, not being +born his sister. + +DIEGO + +And you are satisfied? O beautiful Princess, you are of +illustrious lineage and mind, and learned. Your father brought +you up on Plutarch instead of Amadis; you know many things; +but there is one, methinks, no one can know the nature of it +until he has it. + +PRINCESS + +What is that, pray? + +DIEGO + +A heart. Because you have not got one yet, you make your plans +without it,--a negligible item in your life. + +Princess + +I am not a child. + +DIEGO + +But not yet a woman. + +PRINCESS (_meditatively_) + +You think, then---- + +DIEGO + +I do not _think_; I _know_. And _you_ will know, some day. And +then---- + +PRINCESS + +Then I shall suffer. Why, we must all suffer. Say that, having +a heart, a heart for husband or child, means certain +grief,--well, does not riding, walking down your stairs, mean +the chance of broken bones? Does not living mean old age, +disease, possible blindness or paralysis, and quite inevitable +aches? If, as you say, I must needs grow a heart, and if a +heart must needs give agony, why, I shall live through +heartbreak as through pain in any other limb. + +DIEGO + +Yes,--were your heart a limb like all the rest,--but 'tis the +very centre and fountain of all life. + +PRINCESS + +You think so? 'Tis, methinks, pushing analogy too far, and +metaphor. This necessary organ, diffusing life throughout us, +and, as physicians say, removing with its vigorous floods all +that has ceased to live, replacing it with new and living +tissue,--this great literal heart cannot be the seat of only +one small passion. + +DIEGO + +Yet I have known more women than one die of that small +passion's frustrating. + +PRINCESS + +But you have known also, I reckon, many a man in whom life, +what he had to live for, was stronger than all love. They say +the Duke my cousin's melancholy sickness was due to love which +he had outlived. + +DIEGO They say so, Madam. + +PRINCESS (_thoughtfully_) + +I think it possible, from what I know of him. He was much with +my father when a lad; and I, a child, would listen to their +converse, not understanding its items, but seeming to +understand the general drift. My father often said my cousin +was romantic, favoured overmuch his tender mother, and would +suffer greatly, learning to live for valour and for wisdom. + +DIEGO + +Think you he has, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +If 'tis true that occasion has already come. + +DIEGO + +And--if that occasion came, for the first time or for the +second, perhaps, after your marriage? What would you do, +Madam? + +PRINCESS + +I cannot tell as yet. Help him, I trust, when help could come, +by the sympathy of a soul's strength and serenity. Stand +aside, most likely, waiting to be wanted. Or else---- + +DIEGO + +Or else, illustrious maiden? + +PRINCESS + +Or else----I know not----perhaps, growing a heart, get some +use from it. + +DIEGO + +Your Highness surely does not mean use it to love with? + +PRINCESS + +Why not? It might be one way of help. And if I saw him +struggling with grief, seeking to live the life and think the +thought fit for his station; why, methinks I could love him. +He seems lovable. Only love could have taught fidelity like +yours. + +DIEGO + +You forget, gracious Princess, that you attributed great power +of virtue to a habit of conduct, which is like the nature of +high-bred horses, needing no spur. But in truth you are right. +I am no high-bred creature. Quite the contrary. Like curs, I +love; love, and only love. For curs are known to love their +masters. + +PRINCESS + +Speak not thus, virtuous Diego. I have indeed talked in +magnanimous fashion, and believed, sincerely, that I felt high +resolves. But you have acted, lived, and done magnanimously. +What you have been and are to the Duke is better schooling for +me than all the Lives of Plutarch. + +DIEGO. + +You could not learn from me, Lady. + +PRINCESS + +But I would try, Diego. + +DIEGO + +Be not grasping, Madam. The generous coursers whom your father +taught you to break and harness have their set of virtues. +Those of curs are different. Do not grudge them those. Your +noble horses kick them enough, without even seeing their +presence. But I feel I am beyond my depth, not being +philosophical by nature or schooling. And I had forgotten to +give you part of his Highnesses message. Knowing your love of +music, and the attention you have given it, the Duke imagined +it might divert you, till he was at leisure to pay you homage, +to make trial of my poor powers. Will it please you to order +the other musicians, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +Nay, good Diego, humour me in this. I have studied music, and +would fain make trial of accompanying your voice. Have you +notes by you? + +DIEGO + +Here are some, Madam, left for the use of his Highness's band +this evening. Here is the pastoral of Phyllis by Ludovic of +the Lute; a hymn in four parts to the Virgin by Orlandus +Lassus; a madrigal by the Pope's Master, Signor Pierluigi of +Praeneste. Ah! Here is a dramatic scene between Medea and +Creusa, rivals in love, by the Florentine Octavio. Have you +knowledge of it, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +I have sung it with my master for exercise. But, good Diego, +find a song for yourself. + +DIEGO + +You shall humour me, now, gracious Lady. Think I am your +master. I desire to hear your voice. And who knows? In this +small matter I may really teach you something. + +_The_ PRINCESS _sits to the harpsichord_, DIEGO _standing +beside her on the dais. They sing, the_ PRINCESS _taking the +treble_, DIEGO _the contralto part. The_ PRINCESS _enters +first--with a full-toned voice clear and high, singing very +carefully_. DIEGO _follows, singing in a whisper. His voice is +a little husky, and here and there broken, but ineffably +delicious and penetrating, and, as he sings, becomes, without +quitting the whisper, dominating and disquieting. The_ +PRINCESS _plays a wrong chord, and breaks off suddenly._ + +DIEGO + +(_having finished a cadence, rudely_) + +What is it, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +I know not. I have lost my place----I----I feel bewildered. +When your voice rose up against mine, Diego, I lost my head. +And--I do not know how to express it--when our voices met in +that held dissonance, it seemed as if you hurt me----horribly. + +DIEGO + +(_smiling, with hypocritical apology_) + +Forgive me, Madam. I sang too loud, perhaps. We theatre +singers are apt to strain things. I trust some day to hear you +sing alone. You have a lovely voice: more like a boy's than +like a maiden's still. + +PRINCESS + +And yours----'tis strange that at your age we should reverse +the parts,--yours, though deeper than mine, is like a +woman's. + +DIEGO (_laughing_) + +I have grown a heart, Madam; 'tis an organ grows quicker where +the breed is mixed and lowly, no nobler limbs retarding its +development by theirs. + +PRINCESS + +Speak not thus, excellent Diego. Why cause me pain by +disrespectful treatment of a person--your own admirable +self--whom I respect? You have experience, Diego, and shall +teach me many things, for I desire learning. + +_The_ Princess _takes his hand in both hers, very kindly and +simply_. Diego, _disengaging his, bows very ceremoniously_. + +DIEGO + +Shall I teach you to sing as I do, gracious Madam? + +PRINCESS (_after a moment_) + +I think not, Diego. + + + + +ACT V + + +_Two months later. The wedding day of the_ DUKE. _Another part +of the Palace of Mantua. A long terrace still to be seen, with +roof supported by columns. It looks on one side on to the +jousting ground, a green meadow surrounded by clipped hedges +and set all round with mulberry trees. On the other side it +overlooks the lake, against which, as a fact, it acts as dyke. +The Court of Mantua and Envoys of foreign Princes, together +with many Prelates, are assembled on the terrace, surrounding +the seats of the_ DUKE, _the young_ DUCHESS HIPPOLYTA, _the_ +DUCHESS DOWAGER _and the_ CARDINAL. _Facing this gallery, and +separated from it by a line of sedge and willows, and a few +yards of pure green water, starred with white lilies, is a +stage in the shape of a Grecian temple, apparently rising out +of the lake. Its pediment and columns are slung with garlands +of bay and cypress. In the gable, the_ DUKE'S _device of a +labyrinth in gold on a blue ground and the motto:_ "RECTAS +PETO." _On the stage, but this side of the curtain, which is +down, are a number of_ Musicians _with violins, viols, +theorbs, a hautboy, a flute, a bassoon, viola d'amore and bass +viols, grouped round two men with double basses and a man at a +harpsichord, in dress like the musicians in Veronese's +paintings. They are preluding gently, playing elaborately +fugued variations on a dance tune in three-eighth time, +rendered singularly plaintive by the absence of perfect +closes_. + +CARDINAL + +(_to_ VENETIAN AMBASSADOR) + +What say you to our Diego's masque, my Lord? Does not his +skill as a composer vie almost with his sublety as a singer? + +MARCHIONESS OF GUASTALLA + +(_to the_ DUCHESS DOWAGER) + +A most excellent masque, methinks, Madam. And of so new a +kind. We have had masques in palaces and also in gardens, and +some, I own it, beautiful; for our palace on the hill affords +fine vistas of cypress avenues and the distant plain. But, +until the Duke your son, no one has had a masque on the water, +it would seem. 'Tis doubtless his invention? + +DUCHESS + +(_with evident preoccupation_) + +I think not, Madam. 'Tis our foolish Diego's freak. And I +confess I like it not. It makes me anxious for the players. + +BISHOP OF CREMONA (_to the_ CARDINAL) + +A wondrous singer, your Signor Diego. They say the Spaniards +have subtle exercises for keeping the voice thus youthful. His +Holiness has several such who sing divinely under Pierluigi's +guidance. But your Diego seems really but a child, yet has a +mode of singing like one who knows a world of joys and +sorrows. + +CARDINAL + +He has. Indeed, I sometimes think he pushes the pathetic +quality too far. I am all for the Olympic serenity of the wise +Ancients. + +YOUNG DUCHESS (_laughing_) + +My uncle would, I almost think, exile our divine Diego, as +Plato did the poets, for moving us too much. + +PRINCE OF MASSA (_whispering_) + +He has moved your noble husband strangely. Or is it, gracious +bride, that too much happiness overwhelms our friend? + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_turning round and noticing the_ DUKE, _a few seats off_) + +'Tis true. Ferdinand is very sensitive to music, and is +greatly concerned for our Diego's play. Still----I wonder----. + +MARCHIONESS (_to the_ DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET, _who is standing +near her_) + +I really never could have recognised Signor Diego in his +disguise. He looks for all the world exactly like a woman. + +POET + +A woman! Say a goddess, Madam! Upon my soul (_whispering_), +the bride is scarce as beautiful as he, although as fair as +one of the noble swans who sail on those clear waters. + +JESTER + +After the play we shall see admiring dames trooping behind the +scenes to learn the secret of the paints which can change a +scrubby boy into a beauteous nymph; a metamorphosis worth +twenty of Sir Ovid's. + +DOGE'S WIFE (_to the_ DUKE) + +They all tell me--but 'tis a secret naturally--that the words +of this ingenious masque are from your Highness's own pen; and +that you helped--such are your varied gifts--your singing-page +to set them to music. + +DUKE (_impatiently_) + +It may be that your Serenity is rightly informed, or not. + +KNIGHT OF MALTA (_to_ YOUNG DUCHESS) + +One recognises, at least, the mark of Duke Ferdinand's genius +in the suiting of the play to the surroundings. Given these +lakes, what fitter argument than Ariadne abandoned on her +little island? And the labyrinth in the story is a pretty +allusion to your lord's personal device and the magnificent +ceiling he lately designed for our admiration. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_with her eyes fixed on the curtain, which begins to move_) + +Nay, 'tis all Diego's thought. Hush, they begin to play. Oh, +my heart beats with curiosity to know how our dear Diego will +carry his invention through, and to hear the last song which +he has never let me hear him sing. + +_The curtain is drawn aside, displaying the stage, set with +orange and myrtle trees in jars, and a big flowering oleander. +There is no painted background; but instead, the lake, with +distant shore, and the sky with the sun slowly descending +into clouds, which light up purple and crimson, and send rosy +streamers into the high blue air. On the stage a rout of_ +Bacchanals, _dressed like Mantegna's Hours, but with +vine-garlands; also_ Satyrs _quaintly dressed in goatskins, +but with top-knots of ribbons, all singing a Latin ode in +praise of_ BACCHUS _and wine; while girls dressed as nymphs, +with ribboned thyrsi in their hands, dance a pavana before a +throne of moss overhung by ribboned garlands. On this throne +are seated a_ TENOR _as_ BACCHUS, _dressed in russet and +leopard skins, a garland of vine leaves round his waist and +round his wide-brimmed hat; and_ DIEGO, _as_ ARIADNE. DIEGO, +_no longer habited as a man, but in woman's garments, like +those of Guercino's Sibyls: a floating robe and vest of orange +and violet, open at the throat; with particoloured scarves +hanging, and a particoloured scarf wound like a turban round +the head, the locks of dark hair escaping from beneath. She is +extremely beautiful_. + +MAGDALEN (_sometime known as_ DIEGO, _now representing_ +ARIADNE) _rises from the throne and speaks, turning to_ +BACCHUS. _Her voice is a contralto, but not deep, and with +upper notes like a hautboy's. She speaks in an irregular +recitative, sustained by chords on the viols and +harpsichord_. + +ARIADNE + +Tempt me not, gentle Bacchus, sunburnt god of ruddy vines and +rustic revelry. The gifts you bring, the queenship of the +world of wine-inspired Fancies, cannot quell my grief at +Theseus' loss. + +BACCHUS (_tenor_) + +Princess, I do beseech you, give me leave to try and soothe +your anguish. Daughter of Cretan Minos, stern Judge of the +Departed, your rearing has been too sad for youth and beauty, +and the shade of Orcus has ever lain across your path. But I +am God of Gladness; I can take your soul, suspend it in +Mirth's sun, even as the grapes, translucent amber or rosy, +hang from the tendril in the ripening sun of the crisp autumn +day. I can unwind your soul, and string it in the serene sky +of evening, smiling in the deep blue like to the stars, +encircled, I offer you as crown. Listen, fair Nymph: 'tis a +God woos you. + +ARIADNE + +Alas, radiant Divinity of a time of year gentler than Spring +and fruitfuller than Summer, there is no Autumn for hapless +Ariadne. Only Winter's nights and frosts wrap my soul. When +Theseus went, my youth went also. I pray you leave me to my +poor tears and the thoughts of him. + +BACCHUS + +Lady, even a God, and even a lover, must respect your grief. +Farewell. Comrades, along; the pine trees on the hills, the +ivy-wreaths upon the rocks, await your company; and the +red-stained vat, the heady-scented oak-wood, demand your +presence. + +_The_ Bacchantes _and_ Satyrs _sing a Latin ode in praise of +Wine, in four parts, with accompaniment of bass viols and +lutes, and exeunt with_ BACCHUS. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_to_ DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET) + +Now, now, Master Torquato, now we shall hear Poetry's own self +sing with our Diego's voice. + +DIEGO, _as_ ARIADNE, _walks slowly up and down the stage, +while the viola plays a prelude in the minor. Then she speaks, +recitative with chords only by strings and harpsichord_. + +ARIADNE + +They are gone at last. Kind creatures, how their kindness +fretted my weary soul I To be alone with grief is almost +pleasure, since grief means thought of Theseus. Yet that +thought is killing me. O Theseus, why didst thou ever come +into my life? Why did not the cruel Minotaur gore and trample +thee like all the others? Hapless Ariadne! The clue was in my +keeping, and I reached it to him. And now his ship has long +since neared his native shores, and he stands on the prow, +watching for his new love. But the Past belongs to me. + +_A flute rises in the orchestra, with viols accompanying, +pizzicati, and plays three or four bars of intricate mazy +passages, very sweet and poignant, stopping on a high note, +with imperfect close_. + +ARIADNE (_continuing_) + +And in the past he loved me, and he loves me still. Nothing +can alter that. Nay, Theseus, thou canst never never love +another like me. + +_Arioso. The declamation becomes more melodic, though still +unrhythmical, and is accompanied by a rapid and passionate +tremolo of violins and viols_. + +And thy love for her will be but the thin ghost of the reality +that lived for me. But Theseus----Do not leave me yet. +Another hour, another minute. I have so much to tell thee, +dearest, ere thou goest. + +_Accompaniment more and more agitated. A hautboy echoes_ +ARIADNE'S _last phrase with poignant reedy tone_. + +Thou knowest, I have not yet sung thee that little song thou +lovest to hear of evenings; the little song made by the +Aeolian Poetess whom Apollo loved when in her teens. And thou +canst not go away till I have sung it. See! my lute. But I +must tune it. All is out of tune in my poor jangled life. + +_Lute solo in the orchestra. A Siciliana or slow dance, very +delicate and simple_. ARIADNE _sings_. + +Song + + Let us forget we loved each other much; + Let us forget we ever have to part; + Let us forget that any look or touch + Once let in either to the other's heart. + + Only we'll sit upon the daisied grass, + And hear the larks and see the swallows pass; + Only we live awhile, as children play, + Without to-morrow, without yesterday. + +_During the ritornello, between the two verses._ + +POET + +(_to the_ Young Duchess, _whispering_) + +Madam, methinks his Highness is unwell. Turn round, I pray +you. + +YOUNG DUCHESS (_without turning_). + +He feels the play's charm. Hush. + +DUCHESS DOWAGER (_whispering_) + +Come Ferdinand, you are faint. Come with me. + +DUKE (_whispering_) + +Nay, mother. It will pass. Only a certain oppression at the +heart, I was once subject to. Let us be still. + +Song (_repeats_) + + Only we'll live awhile, as children play, + Without to-morrow, without yesterday. + +_A few bars of ritornello after the song_. + +DUCHESS DOWAGER (_whispering_) + +Courage, my son, I know all. + +ARIADNE + +(_Recitative with accompaniment of violins, flute and harp_) + +Theseus, I've sung my song. Alas, alas for our poor songs we +sing to the beloved, and vainly try to vary into newness! + +_A few notes of the harp well up, slow and liquid_. + +Now I can go to rest, and darkness lap my weary heart. +Theseus, my love, good night! + +_Violins tremolo. The hautboy suddenly enters with a long +wailing phrase_. ARIADNE _quickly mounts on to the back of the +stage, turns round for one second, waving a kiss to an +imaginary person, and then flings herself down into the lake_. + +_A great burst of applause. Enter immediately, and during the +cries and clapping, a chorus of_ Water-Nymphs _in transparent +veils and garlands of willows and lilies, which sings to a +solemn counterpoint, the dirge of_ ARIADNE. _But their singing +is barely audible through the applause of the whole Court, and +the shouts of_ "DIEGO! DIEGO! ARIADNE! ARIADNE!" _The young_ +DUCHESS _rises excitedly, wiping her eyes_. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +Dear friend! Diego! Diego! Our Orpheus, come forth! + +CROWD + +Diego! Diego! + +POET (_to the_ POPE'S LEGATE) + +He is a real artist, and scorns to spoil the play's impression +by truckling to this foolish habit of applause. + +MARCHIONESS + +Still, a mere singer, a page----when his betters call----. But +see! the Duke has left our midst. + +CARDINAL + +He has gone to bring back Diego in triumph, doubtless. + +VENETIAN AMBASSADOR + +And, I note, his venerable mother has also left us. I doubt +whether this play has not offended her strict widow's +austerity. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +But where is Diego, meanwhile? + +_The Chorus and orchestra continue the dirge for_ ARIADNE. A +GENTLEMAN-IN-WAITING _elbows through the crowd to the_ +CARDINAL. + +GENTLEMAN (_whispering_) + +Most Eminent, a word---- + +CARDINAL (_whispering_) + +The Duke has had a return of his malady? + +GENTLEMAN (_whispering_) + +No, most Eminent. But Diego is nowhere to be found. And they +have brought up behind the stage the body of a woman in +Ariadne's weeds. + +CARDINAL (whispering) + +Ah, is that all? Discretion, pray. I knew it. But 'tis a most +distressing accident. Discretion above all. + +_The Chorus suddenly breaks off. For on to the stage comes +the_ DUKE. _He is dripping, and bears in his arms the dead +body, drowned, of_ DIEGO, _in the garb of_ ARIADNE. _A shout +from the crowd_. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_with a cry, clutching the_ POET'S _arm_) + +Diego! + +DUKE + +(_stooping over the body, which he has laid upon the stage, +and speaking very low_) + +Magdalen! + +(_The curtain is hastily closed_.) + +THE END + + + + +APPENDIX + + +THE LAKES OF MANTUA + +It was the Lakes, the deliciousness of water and sedge seen +from the railway on a blazing June day, that made me stop at +Mantua for the first time; and the thought of them that drew +me back to Mantua this summer. They surround the city on three +sides, being formed by the Mincio on its way from Lake Garda +to the Po, shallow lakes spilt on the great Lombard Plain. +They are clear, rippled, fringed with reed, islanded with +water lilies, and in them wave the longest, greenest weeds. +Here and there a tawny sail of a boat comes up from Venice; +children are bathing under the castle towers; at a narrow +point is a long covered stone bridge where the water rushes +through mills and one has glimpses into cool, dark places +smelling of grist. + +The city itself has many traces of magnificence, although it +has been stripped of pictures more than any other, furnishing +out every gallery in Europe since the splendid Gonzagas +forfeited the Duchy to Austria. There are a good many delicate +late Renaissance houses, carried on fine columns; also some +charming open terra-cotta work in windows and belfries. The +Piazza Erbe has, above its fruit stalls and market of wooden +pails and earthenware, and fishing-tackle and nets (reminding +one of the lakes), a very picturesque clock with a seated +Madonna; and in the Piazza Virgilio there are two very noble +battlemented palaces with beautiful bold Ghibelline +swallow-tails. All the buildings are faintly whitened by damp, +and the roofs and towers are of very pale, almost faded rose +colour, against the always moist blue sky. + +But what goes to the brain at Mantua is the unlikely +combination, the fantastic duet, of the palace and the lake. +One naturally goes first into the oldest part, the red-brick +castle of the older Marquises, in one of whose great square +towers are Mantegna's really delightful frescoes: charming +cupids, like fleecy clouds turned to babies, playing in a sky +of the most marvellous blue, among garlands of green and of +orange and lemon trees cut into triumphal arches, with the +Marquis of Mantua and all the young swashbuckler Gonzagas +underneath. The whole decoration, with its predominant blue, +and enamel white and green, is delicate and cool in its +magnificence, and more thoroughly enjoyable than most of +Mantegna's work. But the tower windows frame in something more +wonderful and delectable--one of the lakes! The pale blue +water, edged with green reeds, the poplars and willows of the +green plain beyond; a blue vagueness of Alps, and, connecting +it all, the long castle bridge with its towers of pale +geranium-coloured bricks. + +One has to pass through colossal yards to get from this +fortified portion to the rest of the Palace, Corte Nuova, as +it is called. They have now become public squares, and the +last time I saw them, it being market day, they were crowded +with carts unloading baskets of silk; and everywhere the +porticoes were heaped with pale yellow and greenish cocoons; +the palace filled with the sickly smell of the silkworm, which +seemed, by coincidence, to express its sæcular decay. For of +all the decaying palaces I have ever seen in Italy this Palace +of Mantua is the most utterly decayed. At first you have no +other impression. But little by little, as you tramp through +what seem miles of solemn emptiness, you find that more than +any similar place it has gone to your brain. For these endless +rooms and cabinets--some, like those of Isabella d'Este (which +held the Mantegna and Perugino and Costa allegories, Triumph +of Chastity and so forth, now in the Louvre), quite delicate +and exquisite; or scantily modernised under Maria Theresa for +a night's ball or assembly; or actually crumbling, defaced, +filled with musty archives; or recently used as fodder stores +and barracks--all this colossal labyrinth, oddly symbolised by +the gold and blue labyrinth on one of the ceilings, is, on the +whole, the most magnificent and fantastic thing left behind by +the Italy of Shakespeare. The art that remains (by the way, in +one dismantled hall I found the empty stucco frames of our +Triumph of Julius Cæsar!) is, indeed, often clumsy and +cheap--elaborate medallions and ceilings by Giulio Romano and +Primaticcio; but one feels that it once appealed to an +Ariosto-Tasso mythological romance which was perfectly +genuine, and another sort of romance now comes with its being +so forlorn. + +Forlorn, forlorn! And everywhere, from the halls with +mouldering zodiacs and Loves of the Gods and Dances of the +Muses; and across hanging gardens choked with weeds and fallen +in to a lower level, appear the blue waters of the lake, and +its green distant banks, to make it all into Fairyland. There +is, more particularly, a certain long, long portico, not far +from Isabella d'Este's writing closet, dividing a great green +field planted with mulberry trees, within the palace walls, +from a fringe of silvery willows growing in the pure, lilied +water. Here the Dukes and their courtiers took the air when +the Alps slowly revealed themselves above the plain after +sunset; and watched, no doubt, either elaborate quadrilles and +joustings in the riding-school, on the one hand, or boat-races +and all manner of water pageants on the other. We know it all +from the books of the noble art of horsemanship: plumes and +curls waving above curvetting Spanish horses; and from the +rarer books of sixteenth and seventeenth century masques and +early operas, where Arion appears on his colossal dolphin +packed with _tiorbos_ and _violas d'amore_, singing some mazy +_aria_ by Caccini or Monteverde, full of plaintive flourishes +and unexpected minors. We know it all, the classical pastoral +still coloured with mediæval romance, from Tasso and +Guarini--nay, from Fletcher and Milton. Moreover, some +chivalrous Gonzaga duke, perhaps that same Vincenzo who had +the blue and gold ceiling made after the pattern of the +labyrinth in which he had been kept by the Turks, not too +unlike, let us hope, Orsino of Illyria, and by his side a not +yet mournful Lady Olivia; and perhaps, directing the concert +at the virginal, some singing page Cesario.... Fancy a water +pastoral, like the Sabrina part of "Comus," watched from that +portico! The nymph Manto, founder of Mantua, rising from the +lake; cardboard shell or real one? Or the shepherds of Father +Virgil, trying to catch hold of Proteus; but all in ruffs and +ribbons, spouting verses like "Amyntas" or "The Faithful +Shepherdess." And now only the song of the frogs rises up from +among the sedge and willows, where the battlemented castle +steeps its buttresses in the lake. + +There is another side to this Shakespearean palace, not of +romance but of grotesqueness verging on to horror. There are +the Dwarfs' Apartments! Imagine a whole piece of the building, +set aside for their dreadful living, a rabbit warren of tiny +rooms, including a chapel against whose vault you knock your +head, and a grand staircase quite sickeningly low to descend. +Strange human or half-human kennels, one trusts never really +put to use, and built as a mere brutal jest by a Duke of +Mantua smarting under the sway of some saturnine little +monster, like the ones who stand at the knee of Mantegna's +frescoed Gonzagas. + +After seeing the Castello and the Corte Nuova one naturally +thinks it one's duty to go and see the little Palazzo del Te, +just outside the town. Inconceivable frescoes, colossal, +sprawling gods and goddesses, all chalk and brick dust, enough +to make Rafael, who was responsible for them through his +abominable pupils, turn for ever in his coffin. Damp-stained +stuccoes and grass-grown courtyards, and no sound save the +noisy cicalas sawing on the plane-trees. How utterly forsaken +of gods and men is all this Gonzaga splendour! But all round, +luxuriant green grass, and English-looking streams winding +flush among great willows. We left the Palazzo del Te very +speedily behind us, and set out toward Pietola, the birthplace +of Virgil. But the magic of one of the lakes bewitched us. We +sat on the wonderful green embankments, former fortifications +of the Austrians, with trees steeping in the water, and a +delicious, ripe, fresh smell of leaves and sun-baked flowers, +and watched quantities of large fish in the green shadow of +the railway bridge. In front of us, under the reddish town +walls, spread an immense field of white water lilies; and +farther off, across the blue rippled water, rose the towers +and cupolas and bastions of the Gonzaga's palace--palest pink, +unsubstantial, utterly unreal, in the trembling heat of the +noontide. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ariadne in Mantua, by Vernon Lee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARIADNE IN MANTUA *** + +***** This file should be named 37169-8.txt or 37169-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/1/6/37169/ + +Produced by Andrea Ball, Christine Bell & Marc D'Hooghe +at http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously +made available by the Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ariadne in Mantua + A Romance in Five Acts + +Author: Vernon Lee + +Release Date: August 23, 2011 [EBook #37169] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARIADNE IN MANTUA *** + + + + +Produced by Andrea Ball, Christine Bell & Marc D'Hooghe +at http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously +made available by the Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<h1>ARIADNE IN MANTUA</h1> + +<h4>A ROMANCE IN FIVE ACTS</h4> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>VERNON LEE</h2> + + +<h5>Portland, Maine</h5> + +<h5>THOMAS B. MOSHER</h5> + +<h5>MDCCCCXII</h5> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h5><a name="TO" id="TO"></a>TO</h5> + +<h5>ETHEL SMYTH</h5> + +<h5>THANKING, AND BEGGING, HER FOR MUSIC</h5> + + +<p><a href="#CONTENTS">Contents</a></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<p>Ariadne <i>in Mantua</i>, <i>A Romance in Five Acts, by Vernon Lee. +Oxford: B.H. Blackwell 50 and 51 Broad Street. London: +Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Company. A.D. MCMIII. +Octavo. Pp. x: 11-66</i>.</p> + + +<p>Like almost everything else written by Vernon Lee there is to +be found that insistent little touch which is her sign-manual +when dealing with Italy or its makers of forgotten melodies. +In other words, the music of her rhythmic prose is summed up +in one poignant vocable—<i>Forlorn</i>.</p> + +<p>As for her vanished world of dear dead women and their lovers +who are dust, we may indeed for a brief hour enter that +enchanted atmosphere. Then a vapour arises as out of long lost +lagoons, and, be it Venice or Mantua, we come to feel "how +deep an abyss separates us—and how many faint and nameless +ghosts crowd round the few enduring things bequeathed to us by +the past."</p> + +<p>T.B.M.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h3> + + +<p><i>"Alles Vergängliche ist nur ein Gleichniss"</i></p> + + +<p><i>It is in order to give others the pleasure of reading or +re-reading a small masterpiece, that I mention the likelihood +of the catastrophe of my</i> Ariadne <i>having been suggested by +the late Mr. Shorthouse's</i> Little Schoolmaster Mark; <i>but I +must ask forgiveness of my dear old friend, Madame Emile +Duclaux</i> (Mary Robinson), <i>for unwarranted use of one of the +songs of her</i> Italian Garden.</p> + +<p><i>Readers of my own little volume</i> Genius Loci <i>may meanwhile +recognise that I have been guilty of plagiarism towards myself +also</i>.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> + +<p><i>For a couple of years after writing those pages, the image of +the Palace of Mantua and the lakes it steeps in, haunted my +fancy with that peculiar insistency, as of the half-lapsed +recollection of a name or date, which tells us that we know +(if we could only remember!)</i> what happened in a place. <i>I let +the matter rest. But, looking into my mind one day, I found +that a certain song of the early seventeenth century</i>—(not +<i>Monteverde's</i> Lamento d'Arianna <i>but an air</i>, Amarilli, <i>by +Caccini, printed alongside in Parisotti's collection</i>)—<i>had +entered that Palace of Mantua, and was, in some manner not +easy to define, the musical shape of what must have happened +there. And that, translated back into human personages, was +the story I have set forth in the following little Drama</i>.</p> + +<p><i>So much for the origin of</i> Ariadne in Mantua, <i>supposing any +friend to be curious about it. What seems more interesting is +my feeling, which grew upon me as I worked over and over the +piece and its French translation, that these personages had an +importance greater than that of their life and adventures, a +meaning, if I may say so, a little</i> sub specie aeternitatis. +<i>For, besides the real figures, there appeared to me vague +shadows cast by them, as it were, on the vast spaces of life, +and magnified far beyond those little puppets that I twitched. +And I seem to feel here the struggle, eternal, necessary, +between mere impulse, unreasoning and violent, but absolutely +true to its aim; and all the moderating, the weighing and +restraining influences of civilisation, with their idealism, +their vacillation, but their final triumph over the mere +forces of nature. These well-born people of Mantua, +privileged beings wanting little because they have much, and +able therefore to spend themselves in quite harmonious effort, +must necessarily get the better of the poor gutter-born +creature without whom, after all, one of them would have been +dead and the others would have had no opening in life. Poor</i> +Diego <i>acts magnanimously, being cornered; but he (or she) has +not the delicacy, the dignity to melt into thin air with a +mere lyric Metastasian "Piangendo partè", and leave them to +their untroubled conscience. He must needs assert himself, +violently wrench at their heart-strings, give them a final +stab, hand them over to endless remorse; briefly, commit that +public and theatrical deed of suicide, splashing the murderous +waters into the eyes of well-behaved wedding guests</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Certainly neither the</i> Duke, <i>nor the</i> Duchess Dowager, <i>nor</i> +Hippolyta <i>would have done this. But, on the other hand, they +could calmly, coldly, kindly accept the self-sacrifice +culminating in that suicide: well-bred people, faithful to +their standards and forcing others, however unwilling, into +their own conformity. Of course without them the world would +be a den of thieves, a wilderness of wolves; for they are,—if +I may call them by their less personal names,—Tradition, +Discipline, Civilisation</i>.</p> + +<p><i>On the other hand, but for such as</i> Diego <i>the world would +come to an end within twenty years: mere sense of duty and +fitness not being sufficient for the killing and cooking of +victuals, let alone the begetting and suckling of children. +The descendants of</i> Ferdinand <i>and</i> Hippolyta, <i>unless they +intermarried with some bastard of</i> Diego's <i>family, would +dwindle, die out; who knows, perhaps supplement the impulses +they lacked by silly newfangled evil</i>.</p> + +<p><i>These are the contending forces of history and life: Impulse +and Discipline, creating and keeping; love such as</i> Diego's, +<i>blind, selfish, magnanimous; and detachment, noble, a little +bloodless and cruel, like that of the</i> Duke of Mantua.</p> + +<p><i>And it seems to me that the conflicts which I set forth on my +improbable little stage, are but the trifling realities +shadowing those great abstractions which we seek all through +the history of man, and everywhere in man's own heart</i>.</p> + + +<p>VERNON LEE.</p> + + +<p>Maiano, near Florence,</p> + +<p>June, 1903.</p> + + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See Appendix where the article referred to is +given entire.</p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>ARIADNE IN MANTUA</h3> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">VIOLA. <i>....I'll serve this Duke:</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11.5em;"><i>....for I can sing</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><i>And speak to him in many sorts of music.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 13.5em;">TWELFTH NIGHT, 1, 2.</span><br /> +</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="DRAMATIS_PERSONAE" id="DRAMATIS_PERSONAE"></a>DRAMATIS PERSONAE</h4> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">FERDINAND, Duke of Mantua.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE CARDINAL, his Uncle.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE DUCHESS DOWAGER.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">HIPPOLYTA, Princess of Mirandola.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">MAGDALEN, known as DIEGO.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE MARCHIONESS OF GUASTALLA.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE BISHOP OF CREMONA.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE DOGE'S WIFE.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE VENETIAN AMBASSADOR.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE VICEROY OF NAPLES' JESTER.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A TENOR as BACCHUS.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The CARDINAL'S CHAPLAIN.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE DUCHESS'S GENTLEWOMAN.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">THE PRINCESS'S TUTOR.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Singers as Maenads and Satyrs; Courtiers,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pages, Wedding Guests and Musicians.</span><br /> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The action takes place in the Palace of Mantua through a +period of a year, during the reign of Prospero I, of Milan, +and shortly before the Venetian expedition to Cyprus under +Othello.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ACT_I" id="ACT_I"></a>ACT I</h3> + + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL'S</span> <i>Study in the Palace at Mantua. The</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> +<i>is seated at a table covered with Persian embroidery, +rose-colour picked out with blue, on which lies open a volume +of Machiavelli's works, and in it a manuscript of Catullus; +alongside thereof are a bell and a magnifying-glass. Under his +feet a red cushion with long tassels, and an oriental carpet +of pale lavender and crimson</i>. <i>The</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>is dressed in +scarlet, a crimson fur-lined cape upon his shoulders. He is +old, but beautiful and majestic, his face furrowed like the +marble bust of Seneca among the books opposite</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Through the open Renaissance window, with candelabra and +birds carved on the copings, one sees the lake, pale blue, +faintly rippled, with a rose-coloured brick bridge and +bridge-tower at its narrowest point</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>in reality</i> +<span class="persona">MAGDALEN</span>) <i>has just been admitted into the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL'S</span> +<i>presence, and after kissing his ring, has remained standing, +awaiting his pleasure</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>is fantastically habited as a youth in russet and +violet tunic reaching below the knees in Moorish fashion, as +we see it in the frescoes of Pinturicchio; with silver buttons +down the seams, and plaited linen at the throat and in the +unbuttoned purfles of the sleeves. His hair, dark but red +where it catches the light, is cut over the forehead and +touches his shoulders. He is not very tall in his boy's +clothes, and very sparely built. He is pale, almost sallow; +the face, dogged, sullen, rather expressive than beautiful, +save for the perfection of the brows and of the flower-like +singer's mouth. He stands ceremoniously before the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span>, +<i>one hand on his dagger, nervously, while the other holds a +large travelling hat, looped up, with a long drooping plume</i>.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>raises his eyes, slightly bows his head, +closes the manuscript and the volume, and puts both aside +deliberately. He is, meanwhile, examining the appearance of</i> +<span class="persona">DIEGO</span>.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>We are glad to see you at Mantua, Signor Diego. And from what +our worthy Venetian friend informs us in the letter which he +gave you for our hands, we shall without a doubt be wholly +satisfied with your singing, which is said to be both sweet +and learned. Prythee, Brother Matthias (<i>turning to his</i> +Chaplain), bid them bring hither my virginal,—that with the +Judgment of Paris painted on the lid by Giulio Romano; its +tone is admirably suited to the human voice. And, Brother +Matthias, hasten to the Duke's own theorb player, and bid him +come straightways. Nay, go thyself, good Brother Matthias, and +seek till thou hast found him. We are impatient to judge of +this good youth's skill.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> Chaplain <i>bows and retires</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>in reality</i> +<span class="persona">MAGDALEN</span>) <i>remains alone in the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL'S</span> <i>presence. The</i> +<span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>remains for a second turning over a letter, and then +reads through the magnifying-glass out loud</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>Ah, here is the sentence: "Diego, a Spaniard of Moorish +descent, and a most expert singer and player on the virginal, +whom I commend to your Eminence's favour as entirely fitted +for such services as your revered letter makes mention of——" +Good, good.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>folds the letter and beckons</i> Diego <i>to +approach, then speaks in a manner suddenly altered to +abruptness, but with no enquiry in his tone</i>.</p> + +<p>Signor Diego, you are a woman——</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO <i>starts, flushes and exclaims huskily</i>, "My Lord——." +<i>But the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>makes a deprecatory movement and continues +his sentence</i>.</p> + +<p>and, as my honoured Venetian correspondent assures 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?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO <i>has by this time recovered his composure, and answers +with respectful reserve</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>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 noble 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 compass his strange +malady.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>Even so. You speak discreetly, Diego; and your manner gives +hope of more good sense than is usual in your sex 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 coarse 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 noble dukedom will become +the battlefield of rapacious alien claimants. He denies none +of this, but nevertheless looks on marriage with unseemly +horror.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>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 passion, hopeless, unfitting +to his rank, perhaps?</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>Your imagination, good Madam Magdalen, runs too easily along +the tracks familiar to your sex; 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.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Betray me? My secret? What do you mean, my Lord? I fail to +grasp your meaning.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>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 sexless creature, having seen +passion 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 +hoarseness, 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?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I think I have, my Lord.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>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 circumstance, which +has done good service on occasion. Even close to this pavilion +these blue waters are less shallow than they seem.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>Your words, Diego, are irrelevant, but do not displease me.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>bows. The</i> Chaplain <i>enters with</i> Pages <i>carrying a +harpsichord, which they place upon the table; also two</i> +Musicians <i>with theorb and viol</i>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> chaplain, <i>not unlike the monk in Titian's "Concert" +begins to play</i>, <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>standing by him at the harpsichord. +While the cunningly interlaced themes, with wide, unclosed +cadences, tinkle metallically from the instrument, the</i> +<span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> <i>watches, very deliberately, the face of</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, +<i>seeking to penetrate through its sullen sedateness. But</i> +<span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>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</i> +Chaplain <i>is about to finish his prelude, the face of</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> +<i>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</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>becomes very self-contained +and very listless as before</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Will it please your Eminence that I should sing the Lament of +Ariadne on Naxos?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ACT_II" id="ACT_II"></a>ACT II</h3> + + +<p><i>A few months later. Another part of the Ducal Palace of +Mantua. The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS'S</span> <i>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</i>.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS DOWAGER</span> <i>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</i> +<span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>has laid aside her sewing on the entrance of</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, +<i>in reality</i> <span class="persona">MAGDALEN</span>; <i>and, forgetful of all state, been on +the point of rising to meet him. But</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>has ceremoniously +let himself down on one knee, expecting to kiss her hand</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>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 God'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!</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>has made this speech as if learned by rote, with +listless courtesy. The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>has at first been frozen by +his manner, but at the end she answers very simply</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>You speak too learnedly, good Signor Diego, and your words +pass my poor understanding. The virtue in any of us is but +God'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 God 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.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Give them me now, most gracious Madam. I have no faith in +prayers; but I need them.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Great joy has made me heartless as well as foolish. I have +hurt you, somehow. Forgive me, Signor Diego.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>As you said, I am a courtier, Madam, and I know it is enough +if we can serve our princes. We have no business with troubles +of our own; but having them, we keep them to ourselves. His +Highness awaits me at this hour for the usual song which +happily unclouds his spirit. Has your Grace any message for +him?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Stay. My son will wait a little while. I require you, Diego, +for I have hurt you. Your words are terrible, but just. We +princes are brought up—but many of us, alas, are princes in +this matter!—to think that when we say "I thank you" we have +done our duty; though our very satisfaction, our joy, may +merely bring out by comparison the emptiness of heart, the +secret soreness, of those we thank. We are not allowed to see +the burdens of others, and merely load them with our own.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Is this not wisdom? Princes should not see those burdens which +they cannot, which they must not, try to carry. And after all, +princes or slaves, can others ever help us, save with their +purse, with advice, with a concrete favour, or, say, with a +song? Our troubles smart because they are <i>our</i> troubles; our +burdens weigh because on <i>our</i> shoulders; they are part of us, +and cannot be shifted. But God doubtless loves such kind +thoughts as you have, even if, with your Grace's indulgence, +they are useless.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>If it were so, God would be no better than an earthly prince. +But believe me, Diego, if He prefer what you call +kindness—bare sense of brotherhood in suffering—'tis for its +usefulness. We cannot carry each other's burden for a minute; +true, and rightly so; but we can give each other added +strength to bear it.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>By what means, please your Grace?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>By love, Diego.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Love! But that was surely never a source of strength, craving +your Grace's pardon?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>The love which I am speaking of—and it may surely bear the +name, since 'tis the only sort of love that cannot turn to +hatred. Love for who requires it because it is required—say +love of any woman who has been a mother for any child left +motherless. Nay, forgive my boldness: my gratitude gives me +rights on you, Diego. You are unhappy; you are still a child; +and I imagine that you have no mother.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I am told I had one, gracious Madam. She was, saving your +Grace's presence, only a light woman, and sold for a ducat to +the Infidels. I cannot say I ever missed her. Forgive me, +Madam. Although a courtier, the stock I come from is extremely +base. I have no understanding of the words of noble women and +saints like you. My vileness thinks them hollow; and my pretty +manners are only, as your Grace has unluckily had occasion to +see, a very thin and bad veneer. I thank your Grace, and once +more crave permission to attend the Duke.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Nay. That is not true. Your soul is nowise base-born. I owe +you everything, and, by some inadvertence, I have done nothing +save stir up pain in you. I want—the words may seem +presumptuous, yet carry a meaning which is humble—I want to +be your friend; and to help you to a greater, better Friend. I +will pray for you, Diego.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>No, no. You are a pious and virtuous woman, and your pity and +prayers must keep fit company.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>The only fitting company for pity and prayers, for love, dear +lad, is the company of those who need them. Am I over bold?</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>has risen, and shyly laid her hand on</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO'S</span> +<i>shoulder</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>breaks loose and covers his face, +exclaiming in a dry and husky voice</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Oh the cruelty of loneliness, Madam! Save for two years which +taught me by comparison its misery, I have lived in loneliness +always in this lonely world; though never, alas, alone. Would +it had always continued! But as the wayfarer from out of the +snow and wind feels his limbs numb and frozen in the hearth's +warmth, so, having learned that one might speak, be +understood, be comforted, that one might love and be +beloved,—the misery of loneliness was revealed to me. And +then to be driven back into it once more, shut in to it for +ever! Oh, Madam, when one can no longer claim understanding +and comfort; no longer say "I suffer: help me!"—because the +creature one would say it to is the very same who hurts and +spurns one!</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>How can a child like you already know such things? We women +may, indeed. I was as young as you, years ago, when I too +learned it. And since I learned it, let my knowledge, my poor +child, help you to bear it. I know how silence galls and +wearies. If silence hurts you, speak,—not for me to answer, +but understand and sorrow for you. I am old and simple and +unlearned; but, God willing, I shall understand.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>If anything could help me, 'tis the sense of kindness such as +yours. I thank you for your gift; but acceptance of it would +be theft; for it is not meant for what I really am. And though +a living lie in many things; I am still, oddly enough, honest. +Therefore, I pray you, Madam, farewell.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Do not believe it, Diego. Where it is needed, our poor loving +kindness can never be stolen.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Do not tempt me, Madam! Oh God, I do not want your pity, your +loving kindness! What are such things to me? And as to +understanding my sorrows, no one can, save the very one who is +inflicting them. Besides, you and I call different things by +the same names. What you call <i>love</i>, to me means nothing: +nonsense taught to children, priest's metaphysics. What <i>I</i> +mean, you do not know. (<i>A pause</i>, <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>walks up and down in +agitation</i>.) But woe's me! You have awakened the power of +breaking through this silence,—this silence which is +starvation and deathly thirst and suffocation. And it so +happens that if I speak to you all will be wrecked. (<i>A +pause</i>.) But there remains nothing to wreck! Understand me, +Madam, I care not who you are. I know that once I have spoken, +you <i>must</i> become my enemy. But I am grateful to you; you have +shown me the way to speaking; and, no matter now to whom, I +now <i>must</i> speak.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>You shall speak to God, my friend, though you speak seemingly +to me.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>To God! To God! These are the icy generalities we strike upon +under all pious warmth. No, gracious Madam, I will not speak +to God; for God knows it already, and, knowing, looks on +indifferent. I will speak to you. Not because you are kind and +pitiful; for you will cease to be so. Not because you will +understand; for you never will. I will speak to you because, +although you are a saint, you are <i>his</i> mother, have kept +somewhat of his eyes and mien; because it will hurt you if I +speak, as I would it might hurt <i>him</i>. I am a woman, Madam; a +harlot; and I was the Duke your son's mistress while among the +Infidels.</p> + +<p><i>A long silence. The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>remains seated. She barely +starts, exclaiming</i> "Ah!—" <i>and becomes suddenly absorbed in +thought</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>stands looking listlessly through the window +at the lake and the willow</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I await your Grace's orders. Will it please you that I call +your maid-of-honour, or summon the gentleman outside? If it +so please you, there need be no scandal. I shall give myself +up to any one your Grace prefers.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>pays no attention to</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO'S</span> <i>last words, and +remains reflecting</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Then, it is he who, as you call it, spurns you? How so? For +you are admitted to his close familiarity; nay, you have +worked the miracle of curing him. I do not understand the +situation. For, Diego,—I know not by what other name to call +you—I feel your sorrow is a deep one. You are not +the——woman who would despair and call God cruel for a mere +lover's quarrel. You love my son; you have cured him,—cured +him, do I guess rightly, through your love? But if it be so, +what can my son have done to break your heart?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>after listening astonished at the</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS'S</span> <i>unaltered tone +of kindness</i>)</p> + +<p>Your Grace will understand the matter as much as I can; and I +cannot. He does not recognise me, Madam.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Not recognise you? What do you mean?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>What the words signify: Not recognise.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Then——he does not know——he still believes you to be——a +stranger?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>So it seems, Madam.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>And yet you have cured his melancholy by your presence. And in +the past——tell me: had you ever sung to him?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO (<i>weeping silently</i>)</p> + +<p>Daily, Madam.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS (<i>slowly</i>)</p> + +<p>They say that Ferdinand is, thanks to you, once more in full +possession of his mind. It cannot be. Something still lacks; +he is not fully cured.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Alas, he is. The Duke remembers everything, save me.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>There is some mystery in this. I do not understand such +matters. But I know that Ferdinand could never be base +towards you knowingly. And you, methinks, would never be base +towards him. Diego, time will bring light into this darkness. +Let us pray God together that He may make our eyes and souls +able to bear it.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I cannot pray for light, most gracious Madam, because I fear +it. Indeed I cannot pray at all, there remains nought to pray +for. But, among the vain and worldly songs I have had to get +by heart, there is, by chance, a kind of little hymn, a +childish little verse, but a sincere one. And while you pray +for me—for you promised to pray for me, Madam—I should like +to sing it, with your Grace's leave.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>opens a little movable organ in a corner, and strikes a +few chords, remaining standing the while. The</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>kneels +down before the crucifix, turning her back upon him. While she +is silently praying</i>, <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>still on his feet, sings very +low to a kind of lullaby tune</i>.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Mother of God,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">We are thy weary children;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Teach us, thou weeping Mother,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">To cry ourselves to sleep.</span><br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ACT_III" id="ACT_III"></a>ACT III</h3> + + +<p><i>Three months later. Another part of the Palace of Mantua: the +hanging gardens in the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE'S</span> <i>apartments. It is the first +warm night of Spring. The lemon trees have been brought out +that day, and fill the air with fragrance. Terraces and +flights of steps; in the background the dark mass of the +palace, with its cupolas and fortified towers; here and there +a lit window picking out the dark; and from above the +principal yards, the flare of torches rising into the deep +blue of the sky. In the course of the scene, the moon +gradually emerges from behind a group of poplars on the +opposite side of the lake into which the palace is built. +During the earlier part of the act, darkness. Great stillness, +with, only occasionally, the plash of a fisherman's oar, or a +very distant thrum of mandolines.—The</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span> <i>and</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>are +walking up and down the terrace</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Thou askedst me once, dear Diego, the meaning of that +labyrinth which I have had carved, a shapeless pattern enough, +but well suited, methinks, to blue and gold, upon the ceiling +of my new music room. And wouldst have asked, I fancy, as +many have done, the hidden meaning of the device surrounding +it.—I left thee in the dark, dear lad, and treated thy +curiosity in a peevish manner. Thou hast long forgiven and +perhaps forgotten, deeming my lack of courtesy but another +ailment of thy poor sick master; another of those odd +ungracious moods with which, kindest of healing creatures, +thou hast had such wise and cheerful patience. I have often +wished to tell thee; but I could not. 'Tis only now, in some +mysterious fashion, I seem myself once more,—able to do my +judgment's bidding, and to dispose, in memory and words, of my +own past. My strange sickness, which thou hast cured, melting +its mists away with thy beneficent music even as the sun +penetrates and sucks away the fogs of dawn from our lakes—my +sickness, Diego, the sufferings of my flight from Barbary; the +horror, perhaps, of that shipwreck which cast me (so they say, +for I remember nothing) senseless on the Illyrian +coast——these things, or Heaven's judgment on but a lukewarm +Crusader,—had somehow played strange havoc with my will and +recollections. I could not think; or thinking, not speak; or +recollecting, feel that he whom I thought of in the past was +this same man, myself.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span> <i>pauses, and leaning on the parapet, watches the +long reflections of the big stars in the water</i>.</p> + +<p>But now, and thanks to thee, Diego, I am another; I am myself.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO'S</span> <i>face, invisible in the darkness, has undergone +dreadful convulsions. His breast heaves, and he stops for +breath before answering; but when he does so, controls his +voice into its usual rather artificially cadenced tone</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>And now, dear Master, you can recollect——all?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Recollect, sweet friend, and tell thee. For it is seemly that +I should break through this churlish silence with thee. Thou +didst cure the weltering distress of my poor darkened mind; I +would have thee, now, know somewhat of the past of thy +grateful patient. The maze, Diego, carved and gilded on that +ceiling is but a symbol of my former life; and the device +which, being interpreted, means "I seek straight ways," the +expression of my wish and duty.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>You loathed the maze, my Lord?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Not so. I loved it then. And I still love it now. But I have +issued from it—issued to recognise that the maze was good. +Though it is good I left it. When I entered it, I was a raw +youth, although in years a man; full of easy theory, and +thinking all practice simple; unconscious of passion; ready to +govern the world with a few learned notions; moreover never +having known either happiness or grief, never loved and +wondered at a creature different from myself; acquainted, not +with the straight roads which I now seek, but only with the +rectangular walls of schoolrooms. The maze, and all the maze +implied, made me a man.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>who has listened with conflicting feelings, and now unable +to conceal his joy</i>)</p> + +<p>A man, dear Master; and the gentlest, most just of men. Then, +that maze——But idle stories, interpreting all spiritual +meaning as prosy fact, would have it, that this symbol was a +reality. The legend of your captivity, my Lord, has turned the +pattern on that ceiling into a real labyrinth, some cunningly +built fortress or prison, where the Infidels kept you, and +whose clue——you found, and with the clue, freedom, after +five weary years.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Whose clue, dear Diego, was given into my hands,—the clue +meaning freedom, but also eternal parting—by the most +faithful, intrepid, magnanimous, the most loving——and the +most beloved of women!</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span> <i>has raised his arms from the parapet, and drawn +himself erect, folding them on his breast, and seeking for</i> +<span class="persona">DIEGO'S</span> <i>face in the darkness. But</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>unseen by the</i> +<span class="persona">DUKE</span>, <i>has clutched the parapet and sunk on to a bench</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>(<i>walking up and down, slowly and meditatively, after a +pause</i>)</p> + +<p>The poets have fabled many things concerning virtuous women. +The Roman Arria, who stabbed herself to make honourable +suicide easier for her husband; Antigone, who buried her +brother at the risk of death; and the Thracian Alkestis, who +descended into the kingdom of Death in place of Admetus. But +none, to my mind, comes up to <i>her</i>. For fancy is but thin and +simple, a web of few bright threads; whereas reality is +closely knitted out of the numberless fibres of life, of pain +and joy. For note it, Diego—those antique women whom we read +of were daughters of kings, or of Romans more than kings; bred +of a race of heroes, and trained, while still playing with +dolls, to pride themselves on austere duty, and look upon the +wounds and maimings of their soul as their brothers and +husbands looked upon the mutilations of battle. Whereas here; +here was a creature infinitely humble; a waif, a poor spurned +toy of brutal mankind's pleasure; accustomed only to bear +contumely, or to snatch, unthinking, what scanty happiness lay +along her difficult and despised path,—a wild creature, who +had never heard such words as duty or virtue; and yet whose +acts first taught me what they truly meant.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>who has recovered himself, and is now leaning in his turn on +the parapet</i>)</p> + +<p>Ah——a light woman, bought and sold many times over, my Lord; +but who loved, at last.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>That is the shallow and contemptuous way in which men think, +Diego,—and boys like thee pretend to; those to whom life is +but a chess-board, a neatly painted surface alternate black +and white, most suitable for skilful games, with a soul clean +lost or gained at the end! I thought like that. But I grew to +understand life as a solid world: rock, fertile earth, veins +of pure metal, mere mud, all strangely mixed and overlaid; and +eternal fire at the core! I learned it, knowing Magdalen.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Her name was Magdalen?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>So she bade me call her.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>And the name explained the trade?</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUKE</span> (<i>after a pause</i>)</p> + +<p>I cannot understand thee Diego,—cannot understand thy lack of +understanding——Well yes! Her trade. All in this universe is +trade, trade of prince, pope, philosopher or harlot; and once +the badge put on, the licence signed—the badge a crown or a +hot iron's brand, as the case may be,—why then we ply it +according to prescription, and that's all! Yes, Diego,—since +thou obligest me to say it in its harshness, I do so, and I +glory for her in every contemptuous word I use!—The woman I +speak of was but a poor Venetian courtesan; some drab's child, +sold to the Infidels as to the Christians; and my cruel pirate +master's—shall we say?—mistress. There! For the first time, +Diego, thou dost not understand me; or is it——that I +misjudged thee, thinking thee, dear boy——(<i>breaks off +hurriedly</i>).</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>very slowly</i>)</p> + +<p>Thinking me what, my Lord?</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUKE</span> (<i>lightly, but with effort</i>)</p> + +<p>Less of a little Sir Paragon of Virtue than a dear child, who +is only a child, must be.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>It is better, perhaps, that your Highness should be certain of +my limitations——But I crave your Highness's pardon. I had +meant to say that being a waif myself, pure gutter-bred, I +have known, though young, more Magdalens than you, my Lord. +They are, in a way, my sisters; and had I been a woman, I +should, likely enough, have been one myself.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>You mean, Diego?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I mean, that knowing them well, I also know that women such as +your Highness has described, occasionally learn to love most +truly. Nay, let me finish, my Lord; I was not going to repeat +a mere sentimental commonplace. Briefly then, that such women, +being expert in love, sometimes understand, quicker than +virtuous dames brought up to heroism, when love for them is +cloyed. They can walk out of a man's house or life with due +alacrity, being trained to such flittings. Or, recognising the +first signs of weariness before 'tis known to him who feels +it, they can open the door for the other—hand him the clue of +the labyrinth with a fine theatric gesture!—But I crave your +Highness's pardon for enlarging on this theme.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Thou speakest Diego, as if thou hadst a mind to wound thy +Master. Is this, my friend, the reward of my confiding in +thee, even if tardily?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I stand rebuked, my Lord. But, in my own defence——how shall +I say it?——Your Highness has a manner to-night which +disconcerts me by its novelty; a saying things and then +unsaying them; suggesting and then, somehow, treading down the +suggestion like a spark of your lightning. Lovers, I have been +told, use such a manner to revive their flagging feeling by +playing on the other one's. Even in so plain and solid a thing +as friendship, such ways—I say it subject to your Highness's +displeasure—are dangerous. But in love, I have known cases +where, carried to certain lengths, such ways of speaking +undermined a woman's faith and led her to desperate things. +Women, despite their strength, which often surprises us, are +brittle creatures. Did you never, perhaps, make trial of +this——Magdalen, with——</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>With what? Good God, Diego, 'tis I who ask thy pardon; and +thou sheddest a dreadful light upon the past. But it is not +possible. I am not such a cur that, after all she did, after +all she was,—my life saved by her audacity a hundred times, +made rich and lovely by her love, her wit, her power,—that I +could ever have whimpered for my freedom, or made her suspect +I wanted it more than I wanted her? Is it possible, Diego?</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>slowly</i>)</p> + +<p>Why more than you wanted her? She may have thought the two +compatible.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Never. First, because my escape could not be compassed save by +her staying behind; and then because—-she knew, in fact, what +thing I was, or must become, once set at liberty.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>after a pause</i>)</p> + +<p>I see. You mean, my Lord, that you being Duke of Mantua, while +she——If she knew that; knew it not merely as a fact, but as +one knows the full savour of grief,—well, she was indeed the +paragon you think; one might indeed say, bating one point, a +virtuous woman.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Thou hast understood, dear Diego, and I thank thee for it.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>But I fear, my Lord, she did not know these things. Such as +she, as yourself remarked, are not trained to conceive of +duty, even in others. Passion moves them; and they believe in +passion. You loved her; good. Why then, at Mantua as in +Barbary. No, my dear Master, believe me; she had seen your +love was turning stale, and set you free, rather than taste +its staleness. Passion, like duty, has its pride; and even we +waifs, as gypsies, have our point of honour.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Stale! My love grown stale! You make me laugh, boy, instead of +angering. Stale! You never knew her. She was not like a +song—even your sweetest song—which, heard too often, cloys, +its phrases dropping to senseless notes. She was like +music,—the whole art: new modes, new melodies, new rhythms, +with every day and hour, passionate or sad, or gay, or very +quiet; more wondrous notes than in thy voice; and more +strangely sweet, even when they grated, than the tone of those +newfangled fiddles, which wound the ear and pour balm in, they +make now at Cremona.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>You loved her then, sincerely?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Methinks it may be Diego now, tormenting his Master with +needless questions. Loved her, boy! I love her.</p> + +<p><i>A long pause</i>. Diego <i>has covered his face, with a gesture as +if about to speak. But the moon has suddenly risen from behind +the poplars, and put scales of silver light upon the ripples +of the lake, and a pale luminous mist around the palace. As +the light invades the terrace, a sort of chill has come upon +both speakers; they walk up and down further from one +another</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>A marvellous story, dear Master. And I thank you from my heart +for having told it me. I always loved you, and I thought I +knew you. I know you better still, now. You are—a most +magnanimous prince.</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Alas, dear lad, I am but a poor prisoner of my duties; a +poorer prisoner, and a sadder far, than there in Barbary——O +Diego, how I have longed for her! How deeply I still long, +sometimes! But I open my eyes, force myself to stare reality +in the face, whenever her image comes behind closed lids, +driving her from me——And to end my confession. At the +beginning, Diego, there seemed in thy voice and manner +something of <i>her</i>; I saw her sometimes in thee, as children +see the elves they fear and hope for in stains on walls and +flickers on the path. And all thy wondrous power, thy +miraculous cure—nay, forgive what seems ingratitude—was due, +Diego, to my sick fancy making me see glances of her in thy +eyes and hear her voice in thine. Not music but love, love's +delusion, was what worked my cure.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Do you speak truly, Master? Was it so? And now?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Now, dear lad, I am cured—completely; I know bushes from +ghosts; and I know thee, dearest friend, to be Diego.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>When these imaginations still held you, my Lord, did it ever +happen that you wondered: what if the bush had been a ghost; +if Diego had turned into—what was she called?——</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>Magdalen. My fancy never went so far, good Diego. There was a +grain of reason left. But if it had——Well, I should have +taken Magdalen's hand, and said, "Welcome, dear sister. This +is a world of spells; let us repeat some. Become henceforth +my brother; be the Duke of Mantua's best and truest friend; +turn into Diego, Magdalen."</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span> <i>presses</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO'S</span> <i>arm, and, letting it go, walks +away into the moonlight with an enigmatic air. A long pause</i>.</p> + +<p>Hark, they are singing within; the idle pages making songs to +their ladies' eyebrows. Shall we go and listen?</p> + +<p>(<i>They walk in the direction of the palace</i>.)</p> + +<p>And (<i>with a little hesitation</i>) that makes me say, Diego, +before we close this past of mine, and bury it for ever in our +silence, that there is a little Moorish song, plaintive and +quaint, she used to sing, which some day I will write down, +and thou shalt sing it to me—on my deathbed.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Why not before? Speaking of songs, that mandolin, though out +of tune, and vilely played, has got hold of a ditty I like +well enough. Hark, the words are Tuscan, well known in the +mountains. (<i>Sings</i>.)</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">I'd like to die, but die a little death only,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">I'd like to die, but look down from the window;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">I'd like to die, but stand upon the doorstep;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">I'd like to die, but follow the procession;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">I'd like to die, but see who smiles and weepeth;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">I'd like to die, but die a little death only.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>(<i>While</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>sings very loud, the mandolin inside the +palace thrums faster and faster. As he ends, with a long +defiant leap into a high note, a burst of applause from the +palace</i>.)</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>clapping his hands</i>)</p> + +<p>Well sung, Diego!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ACT_IV" id="ACT_IV"></a>ACT IV</h3> + + +<p><i>A few weeks later. The new music room in the Palace of +Mantua. Windows on both sides admitting a view of the lake, so +that the hall looks like a galley surrounded by water. +Outside, morning: the lake, the sky, and the lines of poplars +on the banks, are all made of various textures of luminous +blue. From the gardens below, bay trees raise their flowering +branches against the windows. In every window an antique +statue: the Mantuan Muse, the Mantuan Apollo, etc. In the +walls between the windows are framed panels representing +allegorical triumphs: those nearest the spectator are the +triumphs of Chastity and of Fortitude. At the end of the room, +steps and a balustrade, with a harpsichord and double basses +on a dais. The roof of the room is blue and gold; a deep blue +ground, constellated with a gold labyrinth in relief. Round +the cornice, blue and gold also, the inscription</i>: "RECTAS +PETO," <i>and the name</i> Ferdinandus Mantuae Dux.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS HIPPOLYTA</span> <i>of Mirandola, cousin to the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>; +<i>and</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>. <span class="persona">HIPPOLYTA</span> <i>is very young, but with the strength +and grace, and the candour, rather of a beautiful boy than of +a woman. She is dazzlingly fair; and her hair, arranged in +waves like an antique amazon's, is stiff and lustrous, as if +made of threads of gold. The brows are wide and straight, +like a man's; the glance fearless, but virginal and almost +childlike</i>. <span class="persona">HIPPOLYTA</span> <i>is dressed in black and gold, +particoloured, like Mantegna's Duchess. An old man, in +scholar's gown, the</i> Princess's Greek Tutor, <i>has just +introduced</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>and retired</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>The Duke your cousin's greeting and service, illustrious +damsel. His Highness bids me ask how you are rested after your +journey hither.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Tell my cousin, good Signor Diego, that I am touched at his +concern for me. And tell him, such is the virtuous air of his +abode, that a whole night's rest sufficed to right me from the +fatigue of two hours' journey in a litter; for I am new to +that exercise, being accustomed to follow my poor father's +hounds and falcons only on horseback. You shall thank the Duke +my cousin for his civility. (<span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>laughs</i>.)</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>bowing, and keeping his eyes on the</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>as he +speaks</i>)</p> + +<p>His Highness wished to make his fair cousin smile. He has told +me often how your illustrious father, the late Lord of +Mirandola, brought his only daughter up in such a wise as +scarcely to lack a son, with manly disciplines of mind and +body; and that he named you fittingly after Hippolyta, who was +Queen of the Amazons, virgins unlike their vain and weakly +sex.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>She was; and wife of Theseus. But it seems that the poets care +but little for the like of her; they tell us nothing of her, +compared with her poor predecessor, Cretan Ariadne, she who +had given Theseus the clue of the labyrinth. Methinks that +maze must have been mazier than this blue and gold one +overhead. What say you, Signor Diego?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO (<i>who has started slightly</i>)</p> + +<p>Ariadne? Was she the predecessor of Hippolyta? I did not know +it. I am but a poor scholar, Madam; knowing the names and +stories of gods and heroes only from songs and masques. The +Duke should have selected some fitter messenger to hold +converse with his fair learned cousin.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>gravely</i>)</p> + +<p>Speak not like that, Signor Diego. You may not be a scholar, +as you say; but surely you are a philosopher. Nay, conceive +my meaning: the fame of your virtuous equanimity has spread +further than from this city to my small dominions. Your +precocious wisdom—for you seem younger than I, and youths do +not delight in being very wise—your moderation in the use of +sudden greatness, your magnanimous treatment of enemies and +detractors; and the manner in which, disdainful of all +personal advantage, you have surrounded the Duke my cousin +with wisest counsellors and men expert in office—such are the +results men seek from the study of philosophy.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>at first astonished, then amused, a little sadly</i>)</p> + +<p>You are mistaken, noble maiden. 'Tis not philosophy to refrain +from things that do not tempt one. Riches or power are useless +to me. As for the rest, you are mistaken also. The Duke is +wise and valiant, and chooses therefore wise and valiant +counsellors.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>impetuously</i>)</p> + +<p>You are eloquent, Signor Diego, even as you are wise! But your +words do not deceive me. Ambition lurks in every one; and +power intoxicates all save those who have schooled themselves +to use it as a means to virtue.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>The thought had never struck me; but men have told me what you +tell me now.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Even Antiquity, which surpasses us so vastly in all manner of +wisdom and heroism, can boast of very few like you. The +noblest souls have grown tyrannical and rapacious and +foolhardy in sudden elevation. Remember Alcibiades, the +beloved pupil of the wisest of all mortals. Signor Diego, you +may have read but little; but you have meditated to much +profit, and must have wrestled like some great athlete with +all that baser self which the divine Plato has told us how to +master.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>shaking his head</i>)</p> + +<p>Alas, Madam, your words make me ashamed, and yet they make me +smile, being so far of the mark! I have wrestled with nothing; +followed only my soul's blind impulses.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>gravely</i>)</p> + +<p>It must be, then, dear Signor Diego, as the Pythagoreans held: +the discipline of music is virtuous for the soul. There is a +power in numbered and measured sound very akin to wisdom; +mysterious and excellent; as indeed the Ancients fabled in the +tales of Orpheus and Amphion, musicians and great sages and +legislators of states. I have long desired your conversation, +admirable Diego.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>with secret contempt</i>)</p> + +<p>Noble maiden, such words exceed my poor unscholarly +appreciation. The antique worthies whom you name are for me +merely figures in tapestries and frescoes, quaint greybeards +in laurel wreaths and helmets; and I can scarcely tell whether +the Ladies Fortitude and Rhetoric with whom they hold +converse, are real daughters of kings, or mere Arts and +Virtues. But the Duke, a learned and judicious prince, will +set due store by his youthful cousin's learning. As for me, +simpleton and ignoramus that I am, all I see is that Princess +Hippolyta is very beautiful and very young.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>(<i>sighing a little, but with great simplicity</i>)</p> + +<p>I know it. I am young, and perhaps crude; although I study +hard to learn the rules of wisdom. You, Diego, seem to know +them without study.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I know somewhat of the world and of men, gracious Princess, +but that can scarce be called knowing wisdom. Say rather +knowing blindness, envy, cruelty, endless nameless folly in +others and oneself. But why should you seek to be wise? you +who are fair, young, a princess, and betrothed from your +cradle to a great prince? Be beautiful, be young, be what you +are, a woman.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>has said this last word with emphasis, but the</i> +<span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>has not noticed the sarcasm in his voice</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>shaking her head</i>)</p> + +<p>That is not my lot. I was destined, as you said, to be the +wife of a great prince; and my dear father trained me to fill +that office.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Well, and to be beautiful, young, radiant; to be a woman; is +not that the office of a wife?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>I have not much experience. But my father told me, and I have +gathered from books, that in the wives of princes, such gifts +are often thrown away; that other women, supplying them, seem +to supply them better. Look at my cousin's mother. I can +remember her still beautiful, young, and most tenderly loving. +Yet the Duke, my uncle, disdained her, and all she got was +loneliness and heartbreak. An honourable woman, a princess, +cannot compete with those who study to please and to please +only. She must either submit to being ousted from her +husband's love, or soar above it into other regions.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>interested</i>)</p> + +<p>Other regions?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Higher ones. She must be fit to be her husband's help, and to +nurse his sons to valour and wisdom.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I see. The Prince must know that besides all the knights that +he summons to battle, and all the wise men whom he hears in +council, there is another knight, in rather lighter armour and +quicker tired, another counsellor, less experienced and of +less steady temper, ready for use. Is this great gain?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>It is strange that being a man, you should conceive of women +from——</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>From a man's standpoint?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Nay; methinks a woman's. For I observe that women, when they +wish to help men, think first of all of some transparent +masquerade, donning men's clothes, at all events in metaphor, +in order to be near their lovers when not wanted.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>hastily</i>)</p> + +<p>Donning men's clothes? A masquerade? I fail to follow your +meaning, gracious maiden.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>simply</i>)</p> + +<p>So I have learned at least from our poets. Angelica, and +Bradamante and Fiordispina, scouring the country after their +lovers, who were busy enough without them. I prefer Penelope, +staying at home to save the lands and goods of Ulysses, and +bringing up his son to rescue and avenge him.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>reassured and indifferent</i>)</p> + +<p>Did Ulysses love Penelope any better for it, Madam? better +than poor besotted Menelaus, after all his injuries, loved +Helen back in Sparta?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>That is not the question. A woman born to be a prince's wife +and prince's mother, does her work not for the sake of +something greater than love, whether much or little.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>For what then?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Does a well-bred horse or excellent falcon do its duty to +please its master? No; but because such is its nature. +Similarly, methinks, a woman bred to be a princess works with +her husband, for her husband, not for any reward, but because +he and she are of the same breed, and obey the same instincts.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Ah!—--Then happiness, love,—all that a woman craves for?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Are accidents. Are they not so in the life of a prince? Love +he may snatch; and she, being in woman's fashion not allowed +to snatch, may receive as a gift, or not. But received or +snatched, it is not either's business; not their nature's true +fulfilment.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>You think so, Lady?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>I am bound to think so. I was born to it and taught it. You +know the Duke, my cousin,—well, I am his bride, not being +born his sister.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>And you are satisfied? O beautiful Princess, you are of +illustrious lineage and mind, and learned. Your father brought +you up on Plutarch instead of Amadis; you know many things; +but there is one, methinks, no one can know the nature of it +until he has it.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>What is that, pray?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>A heart. Because you have not got one yet, you make your plans +without it,—a negligible item in your life.</p> + +<p class="persona">Princess</p> + +<p>I am not a child.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>But not yet a woman.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>meditatively</i>)</p> + +<p>You think, then——</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>I do not <i>think</i>; I <i>know</i>. And <i>you</i> will know, some day. And +then——</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Then I shall suffer. Why, we must all suffer. Say that, having +a heart, a heart for husband or child, means certain +grief,—well, does not riding, walking down your stairs, mean +the chance of broken bones? Does not living mean old age, +disease, possible blindness or paralysis, and quite inevitable +aches? If, as you say, I must needs grow a heart, and if a +heart must needs give agony, why, I shall live through +heartbreak as through pain in any other limb.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Yes,—were your heart a limb like all the rest,—but 'tis the +very centre and fountain of all life.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>You think so? 'Tis, methinks, pushing analogy too far, and +metaphor. This necessary organ, diffusing life throughout us, +and, as physicians say, removing with its vigorous floods all +that has ceased to live, replacing it with new and living +tissue,—this great literal heart cannot be the seat of only +one small passion.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Yet I have known more women than one die of that small +passion's frustrating.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>But you have known also, I reckon, many a man in whom life, +what he had to live for, was stronger than all love. They say +the Duke my cousin's melancholy sickness was due to love which +he had outlived.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>They say so, Madam.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS (<i>thoughtfully</i>)</p> + +<p>I think it possible, from what I know of him. He was much with +my father when a lad; and I, a child, would listen to their +converse, not understanding its items, but seeming to +understand the general drift. My father often said my cousin +was romantic, favoured overmuch his tender mother, and would +suffer greatly, learning to live for valour and for wisdom.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Think you he has, Madam?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>If 'tis true that occasion has already come.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>And—if that occasion came, for the first time or for the +second, perhaps, after your marriage? What would you do, +Madam?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>I cannot tell as yet. Help him, I trust, when help could come, +by the sympathy of a soul's strength and serenity. Stand +aside, most likely, waiting to be wanted. Or else——</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Or else, illustrious maiden?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Or else——I know not——perhaps, growing a heart, get some +use from it.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Your Highness surely does not mean use it to love with?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Why not? It might be one way of help. And if I saw him +struggling with grief, seeking to live the life and think the +thought fit for his station; why, methinks I could love him. +He seems lovable. Only love could have taught fidelity like +yours.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>You forget, gracious Princess, that you attributed great power +of virtue to a habit of conduct, which is like the nature of +high-bred horses, needing no spur. But in truth you are right. +I am no high-bred creature. Quite the contrary. Like curs, I +love; love, and only love. For curs are known to love their +masters.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Speak not thus, virtuous Diego. I have indeed talked in +magnanimous fashion, and believed, sincerely, that I felt high +resolves. But you have acted, lived, and done magnanimously. +What you have been and are to the Duke is better schooling for +me than all the Lives of Plutarch.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO.</p> + +<p>You could not learn from me, Lady.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>But I would try, Diego.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Be not grasping, Madam. The generous coursers whom your father +taught you to break and harness have their set of virtues. +Those of curs are different. Do not grudge them those. Your +noble horses kick them enough, without even seeing their +presence. But I feel I am beyond my depth, not being +philosophical by nature or schooling. And I had forgotten to +give you part of his Highnesses message. Knowing your love of +music, and the attention you have given it, the Duke imagined +it might divert you, till he was at leisure to pay you homage, +to make trial of my poor powers. Will it please you to order +the other musicians, Madam?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Nay, good Diego, humour me in this. I have studied music, and +would fain make trial of accompanying your voice. Have you +notes by you?</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Here are some, Madam, left for the use of his Highness's band +this evening. Here is the pastoral of Phyllis by Ludovic of +the Lute; a hymn in four parts to the Virgin by Orlandus +Lassus; a madrigal by the Pope's Master, Signor Pierluigi of +Praeneste. Ah! Here is a dramatic scene between Medea and +Creusa, rivals in love, by the Florentine Octavio. Have you +knowledge of it, Madam?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>I have sung it with my master for exercise. But, good Diego, +find a song for yourself.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>You shall humour me, now, gracious Lady. Think I am your +master. I desire to hear your voice. And who knows? In this +small matter I may really teach you something.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>sits to the harpsichord</i>, <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>standing +beside her on the dais. They sing, the</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>taking the +treble</i>, <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>the contralto part. The</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>enters +first—with a full-toned voice clear and high, singing very +carefully</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span> <i>follows, singing in a whisper. His voice is +a little husky, and here and there broken, but ineffably +delicious and penetrating, and, as he sings, becomes, without +quitting the whisper, dominating and disquieting. The</i> +<span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>plays a wrong chord, and breaks off suddenly.</i></p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>having finished a cadence, rudely</i>)</p> + +<p>What is it, Madam?</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>I know not. I have lost my place——I——I feel bewildered. +When your voice rose up against mine, Diego, I lost my head. +And—I do not know how to express it—when our voices met in +that held dissonance, it seemed as if you hurt me——horribly.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>(<i>smiling, with hypocritical apology</i>)</p> + +<p>Forgive me, Madam. I sang too loud, perhaps. We theatre +singers are apt to strain things. I trust some day to hear you +sing alone. You have a lovely voice: more like a boy's than +like a maiden's still.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>And yours——'tis strange that at your age we should reverse +the parts,—yours, though deeper than mine, is like a +woman's.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span> (<i>laughing</i>)</p> + +<p>I have grown a heart, Madam; 'tis an organ grows quicker where +the breed is mixed and lowly, no nobler limbs retarding its +development by theirs.</p> + +<p class="persona">PRINCESS</p> + +<p>Speak not thus, excellent Diego. Why cause me pain by +disrespectful treatment of a person—your own admirable +self—whom I respect? You have experience, Diego, and shall +teach me many things, for I desire learning.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> <span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> <i>takes his hand in both hers, very kindly and +simply</i>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>disengaging his, bows very ceremoniously</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">DIEGO</p> + +<p>Shall I teach you to sing as I do, gracious Madam?</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCESS</span> (<i>after a moment</i>)</p> + +<p>I think not, Diego.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="ACT_V" id="ACT_V"></a>ACT V</h3> + + +<p><i>Two months later. The wedding day of the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>. <i>Another part +of the Palace of Mantua. A long terrace still to be seen, with +roof supported by columns. It looks on one side on to the +jousting ground, a green meadow surrounded by clipped hedges +and set all round with mulberry trees. On the other side it +overlooks the lake, against which, as a fact, it acts as dyke. +The Court of Mantua and Envoys of foreign Princes, together +with many Prelates, are assembled on the terrace, surrounding +the seats of the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>, <i>the young</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS HIPPOLYTA</span>, <i>the</i> +<span class="persona">DUCHESS DOWAGER</span> <i>and the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span>. <i>Facing this gallery, and +separated from it by a line of sedge and willows, and a few +yards of pure green water, starred with white lilies, is a +stage in the shape of a Grecian temple, apparently rising out +of the lake. Its pediment and columns are slung with garlands +of bay and cypress. In the gable, the</i> DUKE'S <i>device of a +labyrinth in gold on a blue ground and the motto:</i> "<span class="persona">RECTAS +PETO.</span>" <i>On the stage, but this side of the curtain, which is +down, are a number of</i> Musicians <i>with violins, viols, +theorbs, a hautboy, a flute, a bassoon, viola d'amore and bass +viols, grouped round two men with double basses and a man at a +harpsichord, in dress like the musicians in Veronese's +paintings. They are preluding gently, playing elaborately +fugued variations on a dance tune in three-eighth time, +rendered singularly plaintive by the absence of perfect +closes</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>(<i>to</i> <span class="persona">VENETIAN AMBASSADOR</span>)</p> + +<p>What say you to our Diego's masque, my Lord? Does not his +skill as a composer vie almost with his sublety as a singer?</p> + +<p class="persona">MARCHIONESS OF GUASTALLA</p> + +<p>(<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">DUCHESS DOWAGER</span>)</p> + +<p>A most excellent masque, methinks, Madam. And of so new a +kind. We have had masques in palaces and also in gardens, and +some, I own it, beautiful; for our palace on the hill affords +fine vistas of cypress avenues and the distant plain. But, +until the Duke your son, no one has had a masque on the water, +it would seem. 'Tis doubtless his invention?</p> + +<p class="persona">DUCHESS</p> + +<p>(<i>with evident preoccupation</i>)</p> + +<p>I think not, Madam. 'Tis our foolish Diego's freak. And I +confess I like it not. It makes me anxious for the players.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">BISHOP OF CREMONA</span> (<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">CARDINAL</span>)</p> + +<p>A wondrous singer, your Signor Diego. They say the Spaniards +have subtle exercises for keeping the voice thus youthful. His +Holiness has several such who sing divinely under Pierluigi's +guidance. But your Diego seems really but a child, yet has a +mode of singing like one who knows a world of joys and +sorrows.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>He has. Indeed, I sometimes think he pushes the pathetic +quality too far. I am all for the Olympic serenity of the wise +Ancients.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</span> (<i>laughing</i>)</p> + +<p>My uncle would, I almost think, exile our divine Diego, as +Plato did the poets, for moving us too much.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">PRINCE OF MASSA</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>He has moved your noble husband strangely. Or is it, gracious +bride, that too much happiness overwhelms our friend?</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>(<i>turning round and noticing the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>, <i>a few seats off</i>)</p> + +<p>'Tis true. Ferdinand is very sensitive to music, and is +greatly concerned for our Diego's play. Still——I wonder——.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">MARCHIONESS</span> (<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET</span>, <i>who is standing +near her</i>)</p> + +<p>I really never could have recognised Signor Diego in his +disguise. He looks for all the world exactly like a woman.</p> + +<p class="persona">POET</p> + +<p>A woman! Say a goddess, Madam! Upon my soul (<i>whispering</i>), +the bride is scarce as beautiful as he, although as fair as +one of the noble swans who sail on those clear waters.</p> + +<p class="persona">JESTER</p> + +<p>After the play we shall see admiring dames trooping behind the +scenes to learn the secret of the paints which can change a +scrubby boy into a beauteous nymph; a metamorphosis worth +twenty of Sir Ovid's.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DOGE'S WIFE</span> (<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>)</p> + +<p>They all tell me—but 'tis a secret naturally—that the words +of this ingenious masque are from your Highness's own pen; and +that you helped—such are your varied gifts—your singing-page +to set them to music.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUKE</span> (<i>impatiently</i>)</p> + +<p>It may be that your Serenity is rightly informed, or not.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">KNIGHT OF MALTA</span> (<i>to</i> <span class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</span>)</p> + +<p>One recognises, at least, the mark of Duke Ferdinand's genius +in the suiting of the play to the surroundings. Given these +lakes, what fitter argument than Ariadne abandoned on her +little island? And the labyrinth in the story is a pretty +allusion to your lord's personal device and the magnificent +ceiling he lately designed for our admiration.</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>(<i>with her eyes fixed on the curtain, which begins to move</i>)</p> + +<p>Nay, 'tis all Diego's thought. Hush, they begin to play. Oh, +my heart beats with curiosity to know how our dear Diego will +carry his invention through, and to hear the last song which +he has never let me hear him sing.</p> + +<p><i>The curtain is drawn aside, displaying the stage, set with +orange and myrtle trees in jars, and a big flowering oleander. +There is no painted background; but instead, the lake, with +distant shore, and the sky with the sun slowly descending +into clouds, which light up purple and crimson, and send rosy +streamers into the high blue air. On the stage a rout of</i> +Bacchanals, <i>dressed like Mantegna's Hours, but with +vine-garlands; also</i> Satyrs <i>quaintly dressed in goatskins, +but with top-knots of ribbons, all singing a Latin ode in +praise of</i> <span class="persona">BACCHUS</span> <i>and wine; while girls dressed as nymphs, +with ribboned thyrsi in their hands, dance a pavana before a +throne of moss overhung by ribboned garlands. On this throne +are seated a</i> <span class="persona">TENOR</span> <i>as</i> <span class="persona">BACCHUS</span>, <i>dressed in russet and +leopard skins, a garland of vine leaves round his waist and +round his wide-brimmed hat; and</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>as</i> <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>. <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, +<i>no longer habited as a man, but in woman's garments, like +those of Guercino's Sibyls: a floating robe and vest of orange +and violet, open at the throat; with particoloured scarves +hanging, and a particoloured scarf wound like a turban round +the head, the locks of dark hair escaping from beneath. She is +extremely beautiful</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">MAGDALEN</span> (<i>sometime known as</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>now representing</i> +<span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>) <i>rises from the throne and speaks, turning to</i> +<span class="persona">BACCHUS</span>. <i>Her voice is a contralto, but not deep, and with +upper notes like a hautboy's. She speaks in an irregular +recitative, sustained by chords on the viols and +harpsichord</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">ARIADNE</p> + +<p>Tempt me not, gentle Bacchus, sunburnt god of ruddy vines and +rustic revelry. The gifts you bring, the queenship of the +world of wine-inspired Fancies, cannot quell my grief at +Theseus' loss.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">BACCHUS</span> (<i>tenor</i>)</p> + +<p>Princess, I do beseech you, give me leave to try and soothe +your anguish. Daughter of Cretan Minos, stern Judge of the +Departed, your rearing has been too sad for youth and beauty, +and the shade of Orcus has ever lain across your path. But I +am God of Gladness; I can take your soul, suspend it in +Mirth's sun, even as the grapes, translucent amber or rosy, +hang from the tendril in the ripening sun of the crisp autumn +day. I can unwind your soul, and string it in the serene sky +of evening, smiling in the deep blue like to the stars, +encircled, I offer you as crown. Listen, fair Nymph: 'tis a +God woos you.</p> + +<p class="persona">ARIADNE</p> + +<p>Alas, radiant Divinity of a time of year gentler than Spring +and fruitfuller than Summer, there is no Autumn for hapless +Ariadne. Only Winter's nights and frosts wrap my soul. When +Theseus went, my youth went also. I pray you leave me to my +poor tears and the thoughts of him.</p> + +<p class="persona">BACCHUS</p> + +<p>Lady, even a God, and even a lover, must respect your grief. +Farewell. Comrades, along; the pine trees on the hills, the +ivy-wreaths upon the rocks, await your company; and the +red-stained vat, the heady-scented oak-wood, demand your +presence.</p> + +<p><i>The</i> Bacchantes <i>and</i> Satyrs <i>sing a Latin ode in praise of +Wine, in four parts, with accompaniment of bass viols and +lutes, and exeunt with</i> <span class="persona">BACCHUS</span>.</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>(<i>to</i> <span class="persona">DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET</span>)</p> + +<p>Now, now, Master Torquato, now we shall hear Poetry's own self +sing with our Diego's voice.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>as</i> <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>, <i>walks slowly up and down the stage, +while the viola plays a prelude in the minor. Then she speaks, +recitative with chords only by strings and harpsichord</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">ARIADNE</p> + +<p>They are gone at last. Kind creatures, how their kindness +fretted my weary soul I To be alone with grief is almost +pleasure, since grief means thought of Theseus. Yet that +thought is killing me. O Theseus, why didst thou ever come +into my life? Why did not the cruel Minotaur gore and trample +thee like all the others? Hapless Ariadne! The clue was in my +keeping, and I reached it to him. And now his ship has long +since neared his native shores, and he stands on the prow, +watching for his new love. But the Past belongs to me.</p> + +<p><i>A flute rises in the orchestra, with viols accompanying, +pizzicati, and plays three or four bars of intricate mazy +passages, very sweet and poignant, stopping on a high note, +with imperfect close</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">ARIADNE</span> (<i>continuing</i>)</p> + +<p>And in the past he loved me, and he loves me still. Nothing +can alter that. Nay, Theseus, thou canst never never love +another like me.</p> + +<p><i>Arioso. The declamation becomes more melodic, though still +unrhythmical, and is accompanied by a rapid and passionate +tremolo of violins and viols</i>.</p> + +<p>And thy love for her will be but the thin ghost of the reality +that lived for me. But Theseus——Do not leave me yet. +Another hour, another minute. I have so much to tell thee, +dearest, ere thou goest.</p> + +<p><i>Accompaniment more and more agitated. A hautboy echoes</i> +<span class="persona">ARIADNE'S</span> <i>last phrase with poignant reedy tone</i>.</p> + +<p>Thou knowest, I have not yet sung thee that little song thou +lovest to hear of evenings; the little song made by the +Aeolian Poetess whom Apollo loved when in her teens. And thou +canst not go away till I have sung it. See! my lute. But I +must tune it. All is out of tune in my poor jangled life.</p> + +<p><i>Lute solo in the orchestra. A Siciliana or slow dance, very +delicate and simple</i>. <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span> <i>sings</i>.</p> + +<p>Song</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Let us forget we loved each other much;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Let us forget we ever have to part;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Let us forget that any look or touch</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Once let in either to the other's heart.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Only we'll sit upon the daisied grass,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">And hear the larks and see the swallows pass;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Only we live awhile, as children play,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Without to-morrow, without yesterday.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><i>During the ritornello, between the two verses.</i></p> + +<p class="persona">POET</p> + +<p>(<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</span>, <i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>Madam, methinks his Highness is unwell. Turn round, I pray +you.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</span> (<i>without turning</i>).</p> + +<p>He feels the play's charm. Hush.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUCHESS DOWAGER</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>Come Ferdinand, you are faint. Come with me.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUKE</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>Nay, mother. It will pass. Only a certain oppression at the +heart, I was once subject to. Let us be still.</p> + +<p>Song (<i>repeats</i>)</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Only we'll live awhile, as children play,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Without to-morrow, without yesterday.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><i>A few bars of ritornello after the song</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">DUCHESS DOWAGER</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>Courage, my son, I know all.</p> + +<p class="persona">ARIADNE</p> + +<p>(<i>Recitative with accompaniment of violins, flute and harp</i>)</p> + +<p>Theseus, I've sung my song. Alas, alas for our poor songs we +sing to the beloved, and vainly try to vary into newness!</p> + +<p><i>A few notes of the harp well up, slow and liquid</i>.</p> + +<p>Now I can go to rest, and darkness lap my weary heart. +Theseus, my love, good night!</p> + +<p><i>Violins tremolo. The hautboy suddenly enters with a long +wailing phrase</i>. <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span> <i>quickly mounts on to the back of the +stage, turns round for one second, waving a kiss to an +imaginary person, and then flings herself down into the lake</i>.</p> + +<p><i>A great burst of applause. Enter immediately, and during the +cries and clapping, a chorus of</i> Water-Nymphs <i>in transparent +veils and garlands of willows and lilies, which sings to a +solemn counterpoint, the dirge of</i> <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>. <i>But their singing +is barely audible through the applause of the whole Court, and +the shouts of</i> "<span class="persona">DIEGO! DIEGO! ARIADNE! ARIADNE!</span>" <i>The young</i> +<span class="persona">DUCHESS</span> <i>rises excitedly, wiping her eyes</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>Dear friend! Diego! Diego! Our Orpheus, come forth!</p> + +<p class="persona">CROWD</p> + +<p>Diego! Diego!</p> + +<p><span class="persona">POET</span> (<i>to the</i> <span class="persona">POPE'S LEGATE</span>)</p> + +<p>He is a real artist, and scorns to spoil the play's impression +by truckling to this foolish habit of applause.</p> + +<p class="persona">MARCHIONESS</p> + +<p>Still, a mere singer, a page——when his betters call——. But +see! the Duke has left our midst.</p> + +<p class="persona">CARDINAL</p> + +<p>He has gone to bring back Diego in triumph, doubtless.</p> + +<p class="persona">VENETIAN AMBASSADOR</p> + +<p>And, I note, his venerable mother has also left us. I doubt +whether this play has not offended her strict widow's +austerity.</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>But where is Diego, meanwhile?</p> + +<p><i>The Chorus and orchestra continue the dirge for</i> <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>. A +<span class="persona">GENTLEMAN-IN-WAITING</span> <i>elbows through the crowd to the</i> +<span class="persona">CARDINAL</span>.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">GENTLEMAN</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>Most Eminent, a word——</p> + +<p><span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>The Duke has had a return of his malady?</p> + +<p><span class="persona">GENTLEMAN</span> (<i>whispering</i>)</p> + +<p>No, most Eminent. But Diego is nowhere to be found. And they +have brought up behind the stage the body of a woman in +Ariadne's weeds.</p> + +<p><span class="persona">CARDINAL</span> (whispering)</p> + +<p>Ah, is that all? Discretion, pray. I knew it. But 'tis a most +distressing accident. Discretion above all.</p> + +<p><i>The Chorus suddenly breaks off. For on to the stage comes +the</i> <span class="persona">DUKE</span>. <i>He is dripping, and bears in his arms the dead +body, drowned, of</i> <span class="persona">DIEGO</span>, <i>in the garb of</i> <span class="persona">ARIADNE</span>. <i>A shout +from the crowd</i>.</p> + +<p class="persona">YOUNG DUCHESS</p> + +<p>(<i>with a cry, clutching the</i> <span class="persona">POET'S</span> <i>arm</i>)</p> + +<p>Diego!</p> + +<p class="persona">DUKE</p> + +<p>(<i>stooping over the body, which he has laid upon the stage, +and speaking very low</i>)</p> + +<p>Magdalen!</p> + +<p>(<i>The curtain is hastily closed</i>.)</p> + +<p>THE END</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="APPENDIX" id="APPENDIX"></a>APPENDIX</h3> + + +<h4>THE LAKES OF MANTUA</h4> + +<p>It was the Lakes, the deliciousness of water and sedge seen +from the railway on a blazing June day, that made me stop at +Mantua for the first time; and the thought of them that drew +me back to Mantua this summer. They surround the city on three +sides, being formed by the Mincio on its way from Lake Garda +to the Po, shallow lakes spilt on the great Lombard Plain. +They are clear, rippled, fringed with reed, islanded with +water lilies, and in them wave the longest, greenest weeds. +Here and there a tawny sail of a boat comes up from Venice; +children are bathing under the castle towers; at a narrow +point is a long covered stone bridge where the water rushes +through mills and one has glimpses into cool, dark places +smelling of grist.</p> + +<p>The city itself has many traces of magnificence, although it +has been stripped of pictures more than any other, furnishing +out every gallery in Europe since the splendid Gonzagas +forfeited the Duchy to Austria. There are a good many delicate +late Renaissance houses, carried on fine columns; also some +charming open terra-cotta work in windows and belfries. The +Piazza Erbe has, above its fruit stalls and market of wooden +pails and earthenware, and fishing-tackle and nets (reminding +one of the lakes), a very picturesque clock with a seated +Madonna; and in the Piazza Virgilio there are two very noble +battlemented palaces with beautiful bold Ghibelline +swallow-tails. All the buildings are faintly whitened by damp, +and the roofs and towers are of very pale, almost faded rose +colour, against the always moist blue sky.</p> + +<p>But what goes to the brain at Mantua is the unlikely +combination, the fantastic duet, of the palace and the lake. +One naturally goes first into the oldest part, the red-brick +castle of the older Marquises, in one of whose great square +towers are Mantegna's really delightful frescoes: charming +cupids, like fleecy clouds turned to babies, playing in a sky +of the most marvellous blue, among garlands of green and of +orange and lemon trees cut into triumphal arches, with the +Marquis of Mantua and all the young swashbuckler Gonzagas +underneath. The whole decoration, with its predominant blue, +and enamel white and green, is delicate and cool in its +magnificence, and more thoroughly enjoyable than most of +Mantegna's work. But the tower windows frame in something more +wonderful and delectable—one of the lakes! The pale blue +water, edged with green reeds, the poplars and willows of the +green plain beyond; a blue vagueness of Alps, and, connecting +it all, the long castle bridge with its towers of pale +geranium-coloured bricks.</p> + +<p>One has to pass through colossal yards to get from this +fortified portion to the rest of the Palace, Corte Nuova, as +it is called. They have now become public squares, and the +last time I saw them, it being market day, they were crowded +with carts unloading baskets of silk; and everywhere the +porticoes were heaped with pale yellow and greenish cocoons; +the palace filled with the sickly smell of the silkworm, which +seemed, by coincidence, to express its sæcular decay. For of +all the decaying palaces I have ever seen in Italy this Palace +of Mantua is the most utterly decayed. At first you have no +other impression. But little by little, as you tramp through +what seem miles of solemn emptiness, you find that more than +any similar place it has gone to your brain. For these endless +rooms and cabinets—some, like those of Isabella d'Este (which +held the Mantegna and Perugino and Costa allegories, Triumph +of Chastity and so forth, now in the Louvre), quite delicate +and exquisite; or scantily modernised under Maria Theresa for +a night's ball or assembly; or actually crumbling, defaced, +filled with musty archives; or recently used as fodder stores +and barracks—all this colossal labyrinth, oddly symbolised by +the gold and blue labyrinth on one of the ceilings, is, on the +whole, the most magnificent and fantastic thing left behind by +the Italy of Shakespeare. The art that remains (by the way, in +one dismantled hall I found the empty stucco frames of our +Triumph of Julius Cæsar!) is, indeed, often clumsy and +cheap—elaborate medallions and ceilings by Giulio Romano and +Primaticcio; but one feels that it once appealed to an +Ariosto-Tasso mythological romance which was perfectly +genuine, and another sort of romance now comes with its being +so forlorn.</p> + +<p>Forlorn, forlorn! And everywhere, from the halls with +mouldering zodiacs and Loves of the Gods and Dances of the +Muses; and across hanging gardens choked with weeds and fallen +in to a lower level, appear the blue waters of the lake, and +its green distant banks, to make it all into Fairyland. There +is, more particularly, a certain long, long portico, not far +from Isabella d'Este's writing closet, dividing a great green +field planted with mulberry trees, within the palace walls, +from a fringe of silvery willows growing in the pure, lilied +water. Here the Dukes and their courtiers took the air when +the Alps slowly revealed themselves above the plain after +sunset; and watched, no doubt, either elaborate quadrilles and +joustings in the riding-school, on the one hand, or boat-races +and all manner of water pageants on the other. We know it all +from the books of the noble art of horsemanship: plumes and +curls waving above curvetting Spanish horses; and from the +rarer books of sixteenth and seventeenth century masques and +early operas, where Arion appears on his colossal dolphin +packed with <i>tiorbos</i> and <i>violas d'amore</i>, singing some mazy +<i>aria</i> by Caccini or Monteverde, full of plaintive flourishes +and unexpected minors. We know it all, the classical pastoral +still coloured with mediæval romance, from Tasso and +Guarini—nay, from Fletcher and Milton. Moreover, some +chivalrous Gonzaga duke, perhaps that same Vincenzo who had +the blue and gold ceiling made after the pattern of the +labyrinth in which he had been kept by the Turks, not too +unlike, let us hope, Orsino of Illyria, and by his side a not +yet mournful Lady Olivia; and perhaps, directing the concert +at the virginal, some singing page Cesario.... Fancy a water +pastoral, like the Sabrina part of "Comus," watched from that +portico! The nymph Manto, founder of Mantua, rising from the +lake; cardboard shell or real one? Or the shepherds of Father +Virgil, trying to catch hold of Proteus; but all in ruffs and +ribbons, spouting verses like "Amyntas" or "The Faithful +Shepherdess." And now only the song of the frogs rises up from +among the sedge and willows, where the battlemented castle +steeps its buttresses in the lake.</p> + +<p>There is another side to this Shakespearean palace, not of +romance but of grotesqueness verging on to horror. There are +the Dwarfs' Apartments! Imagine a whole piece of the building, +set aside for their dreadful living, a rabbit warren of tiny +rooms, including a chapel against whose vault you knock your +head, and a grand staircase quite sickeningly low to descend. +Strange human or half-human kennels, one trusts never really +put to use, and built as a mere brutal jest by a Duke of +Mantua smarting under the sway of some saturnine little +monster, like the ones who stand at the knee of Mantegna's +frescoed Gonzagas.</p> + +<p>After seeing the Castello and the Corte Nuova one naturally +thinks it one's duty to go and see the little Palazzo del Te, +just outside the town. Inconceivable frescoes, colossal, +sprawling gods and goddesses, all chalk and brick dust, enough +to make Rafael, who was responsible for them through his +abominable pupils, turn for ever in his coffin. Damp-stained +stuccoes and grass-grown courtyards, and no sound save the +noisy cicalas sawing on the plane-trees. How utterly forsaken +of gods and men is all this Gonzaga splendour! But all round, +luxuriant green grass, and English-looking streams winding +flush among great willows. We left the Palazzo del Te very +speedily behind us, and set out toward Pietola, the birthplace +of Virgil. But the magic of one of the lakes bewitched us. We +sat on the wonderful green embankments, former fortifications +of the Austrians, with trees steeping in the water, and a +delicious, ripe, fresh smell of leaves and sun-baked flowers, +and watched quantities of large fish in the green shadow of +the railway bridge. In front of us, under the reddish town +walls, spread an immense field of white water lilies; and +farther off, across the blue rippled water, rose the towers +and cupolas and bastions of the Gonzaga's palace—palest pink, +unsubstantial, utterly unreal, in the trembling heat of the +noontide.</p> +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> + +<p class="caption"><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</p> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#PREFACE"><b>PREFACE</b></a><br /> +<a href="#DRAMATIS_PERSONAE"><b>DRAMATIS PERSONAE</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ACT_I"><b>ACT I</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ACT_II"><b>ACT II</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ACT_III"><b>ACT III</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ACT_IV"><b>ACT IV</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ACT_V"><b>ACT V</b></a><br /> +<a href="#APPENDIX"><b>APPENDIX</b></a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ariadne in Mantua, by Vernon Lee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARIADNE IN MANTUA *** + +***** This file should be named 37169-h.htm or 37169-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/1/6/37169/ + +Produced by Andrea Ball, Christine Bell & Marc D'Hooghe +at http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously +made available by the Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ariadne in Mantua + A Romance in Five Acts + +Author: Vernon Lee + +Release Date: August 23, 2011 [EBook #37169] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARIADNE IN MANTUA *** + + + + +Produced by Andrea Ball, Christine Bell & Marc D'Hooghe +at http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously +made available by the Internet Archive) + + + + + +ARIADNE IN MANTUA + +A ROMANCE IN FIVE ACTS + +BY + +VERNON LEE + + +Portland, Maine + +THOMAS B. MOSHER + +MDCCCCXII + + + + +TO + +ETHEL SMYTH + +THANKING, AND BEGGING, HER FOR MUSIC + + + + +PREFACE + + +Ariadne _in Mantua_, _A Romance in Five Acts, by Vernon Lee. +Oxford: B.H. Blackwell 50 and 51 Broad Street. London: +Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Company. A.D. MCMIII. +Octavo. Pp. x: 11-66_. + + +Like almost everything else written by Vernon Lee there is to +be found that insistent little touch which is her sign-manual +when dealing with Italy or its makers of forgotten melodies. +In other words, the music of her rhythmic prose is summed up +in one poignant vocable--_Forlorn_. + +As for her vanished world of dear dead women and their lovers +who are dust, we may indeed for a brief hour enter that +enchanted atmosphere. Then a vapour arises as out of long lost +lagoons, and, be it Venice or Mantua, we come to feel "how +deep an abyss separates us--and how many faint and nameless +ghosts crowd round the few enduring things bequeathed to us by +the past." + +T.B.M. + + + + +PREFACE + + +_"Alles Vergaengliche ist nur ein Gleichniss"_ + + +_It is in order to give others the pleasure of reading or +re-reading a small masterpiece, that I mention the likelihood +of the catastrophe of my_ Ariadne _having been suggested by +the late Mr. Shorthouse's_ Little Schoolmaster Mark; _but I +must ask forgiveness of my dear old friend, Madame Emile +Duclaux_ (Mary Robinson), _for unwarranted use of one of the +songs of her_ Italian Garden. + +_Readers of my own little volume_ Genius Loci _may meanwhile +recognise that I have been guilty of plagiarism towards myself +also_.[1] + +_For a couple of years after writing those pages, the image of +the Palace of Mantua and the lakes it steeps in, haunted my +fancy with that peculiar insistency, as of the half-lapsed +recollection of a name or date, which tells us that we know +(if we could only remember!)_ what happened in a place. _I let +the matter rest. But, looking into my mind one day, I found +that a certain song of the early seventeenth century_--(not +_Monteverde's_ Lamento d'Arianna _but an air_, Amarilli, _by +Caccini, printed alongside in Parisotti's collection_)--_had +entered that Palace of Mantua, and was, in some manner not +easy to define, the musical shape of what must have happened +there. And that, translated back into human personages, was +the story I have set forth in the following little Drama_. + +_So much for the origin of_ Ariadne in Mantua, _supposing any +friend to be curious about it. What seems more interesting is +my feeling, which grew upon me as I worked over and over the +piece and its French translation, that these personages had an +importance greater than that of their life and adventures, a +meaning, if I may say so, a little_ sub specie aeternitatis. +_For, besides the real figures, there appeared to me vague +shadows cast by them, as it were, on the vast spaces of life, +and magnified far beyond those little puppets that I twitched. +And I seem to feel here the struggle, eternal, necessary, +between mere impulse, unreasoning and violent, but absolutely +true to its aim; and all the moderating, the weighing and +restraining influences of civilisation, with their idealism, +their vacillation, but their final triumph over the mere +forces of nature. These well-born people of Mantua, +privileged beings wanting little because they have much, and +able therefore to spend themselves in quite harmonious effort, +must necessarily get the better of the poor gutter-born +creature without whom, after all, one of them would have been +dead and the others would have had no opening in life. Poor_ +Diego _acts magnanimously, being cornered; but he (or she) has +not the delicacy, the dignity to melt into thin air with a +mere lyric Metastasian "Piangendo parte", and leave them to +their untroubled conscience. He must needs assert himself, +violently wrench at their heart-strings, give them a final +stab, hand them over to endless remorse; briefly, commit that +public and theatrical deed of suicide, splashing the murderous +waters into the eyes of well-behaved wedding guests_. + +_Certainly neither the_ Duke, _nor the_ Duchess Dowager, _nor_ +Hippolyta _would have done this. But, on the other hand, they +could calmly, coldly, kindly accept the self-sacrifice +culminating in that suicide: well-bred people, faithful to +their standards and forcing others, however unwilling, into +their own conformity. Of course without them the world would +be a den of thieves, a wilderness of wolves; for they are,--if +I may call them by their less personal names,--Tradition, +Discipline, Civilisation_. + +_On the other hand, but for such as_ Diego _the world would +come to an end within twenty years: mere sense of duty and +fitness not being sufficient for the killing and cooking of +victuals, let alone the begetting and suckling of children. +The descendants of_ Ferdinand _and_ Hippolyta, _unless they +intermarried with some bastard of_ Diego's _family, would +dwindle, die out; who knows, perhaps supplement the impulses +they lacked by silly newfangled evil_. + +_These are the contending forces of history and life: Impulse +and Discipline, creating and keeping; love such as_ Diego's, +_blind, selfish, magnanimous; and detachment, noble, a little +bloodless and cruel, like that of the_ Duke of Mantua. + +_And it seems to me that the conflicts which I set forth on my +improbable little stage, are but the trifling realities +shadowing those great abstractions which we seek all through +the history of man, and everywhere in man's own heart_. + + +VERNON LEE. + + +Maiano, near Florence, + +June, 1903. + + + [1] See Appendix where the article referred to is given entire. + + + + +ARIADNE IN MANTUA + + + VIOLA. _....I'll serve this Duke: + ....for I can sing + And speak to him in many sorts of music._ + TWELFTH NIGHT, 1, 2. + + + + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + FERDINAND, Duke of Mantua. + THE CARDINAL, his Uncle. + THE DUCHESS DOWAGER. + HIPPOLYTA, Princess of Mirandola. + MAGDALEN, known as DIEGO. + THE MARCHIONESS OF GUASTALLA. + THE BISHOP OF CREMONA. + THE DOGE'S WIFE. + THE VENETIAN AMBASSADOR. + THE DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET. + THE VICEROY OF NAPLES' JESTER. + A TENOR as BACCHUS. + The CARDINAL'S CHAPLAIN. + THE DUCHESS'S GENTLEWOMAN. + THE PRINCESS'S TUTOR. + Singers as Maenads and Satyrs; Courtiers, + Pages, Wedding Guests and Musicians. + + * * * * * + +The action takes place in the Palace of Mantua through a +period of a year, during the reign of Prospero I, of Milan, +and shortly before the Venetian expedition to Cyprus under +Othello. + + + + +ARIADNE IN MANTUA + + + + +ACT I + + +_The_ CARDINAL'S _Study in the Palace at Mantua. The_ CARDINAL +_is seated at a table covered with Persian embroidery, +rose-colour picked out with blue, on which lies open a volume +of Machiavelli's works, and in it a manuscript of Catullus; +alongside thereof are a bell and a magnifying-glass. Under his +feet a red cushion with long tassels, and an oriental carpet +of pale lavender and crimson_. _The_ CARDINAL _is dressed in +scarlet, a crimson fur-lined cape upon his shoulders. He is +old, but beautiful and majestic, his face furrowed like the +marble bust of Seneca among the books opposite_. + +_Through the open Renaissance window, with candelabra and +birds carved on the copings, one sees the lake, pale blue, +faintly rippled, with a rose-coloured brick bridge and +bridge-tower at its narrowest point_. DIEGO (_in reality_ +MAGDALEN) _has just been admitted into the_ CARDINAL'S +_presence, and after kissing his ring, has remained standing, +awaiting his pleasure_. + +DIEGO _is fantastically habited as a youth in russet and +violet tunic reaching below the knees in Moorish fashion, as +we see it in the frescoes of Pinturicchio; with silver buttons +down the seams, and plaited linen at the throat and in the +unbuttoned purfles of the sleeves. His hair, dark but red +where it catches the light, is cut over the forehead and +touches his shoulders. He is not very tall in his boy's +clothes, and very sparely built. He is pale, almost sallow; +the face, dogged, sullen, rather expressive than beautiful, +save for the perfection of the brows and of the flower-like +singer's mouth. He stands ceremoniously before the_ CARDINAL, +_one hand on his dagger, nervously, while the other holds a +large travelling hat, looped up, with a long drooping plume_. + +_The_ CARDINAL _raises his eyes, slightly bows his head, +closes the manuscript and the volume, and puts both aside +deliberately. He is, meanwhile, examining the appearance of_ +DIEGO. + +CARDINAL + +We are glad to see you at Mantua, Signor Diego. And from what +our worthy Venetian friend informs us in the letter which he +gave you for our hands, we shall without a doubt be wholly +satisfied with your singing, which is said to be both sweet +and learned. Prythee, Brother Matthias (_turning to his_ +Chaplain), bid them bring hither my virginal,--that with the +Judgment of Paris painted on the lid by Giulio Romano; its +tone is admirably suited to the human voice. And, Brother +Matthias, hasten to the Duke's own theorb player, and bid him +come straightways. Nay, go thyself, good Brother Matthias, and +seek till thou hast found him. We are impatient to judge of +this good youth's skill. + +_The_ Chaplain _bows and retires_. DIEGO (_in reality_ +MAGDALEN) _remains alone in the_ CARDINAL'S _presence. The_ +CARDINAL _remains for a second turning over a letter, and then +reads through the magnifying-glass out loud_. + +CARDINAL + +Ah, here is the sentence: "Diego, a Spaniard of Moorish +descent, and a most expert singer and player on the virginal, +whom I commend to your Eminence's favour as entirely fitted +for such services as your revered letter makes mention of----" +Good, good. + +_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 assures 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 noble 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 compass his strange +malady. + +CARDINAL + +Even so. You speak discreetly, Diego; and your manner gives +hope of more good sense than is usual in your sex 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 coarse 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 noble 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 passion, hopeless, unfitting +to his rank, perhaps? + +CARDINAL + +Your imagination, good Madam Magdalen, runs too easily along +the tracks familiar to your sex; 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 sexless creature, having seen +passion 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 +hoarseness, 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 circumstance, 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 Titian'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_ DUCHESS'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_ DUCHESS 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_ +DUCHESS _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_. + +DUCHESS + +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 God'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_ DUCHESS _has at first been frozen by +his manner, but at the end she answers very simply_. + +DUCHESS + +You speak too learnedly, good Signor Diego, and your words +pass my poor understanding. The virtue in any of us is but +God'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 God 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. + +DUCHESS + +Great joy has made me heartless as well as foolish. I have +hurt you, somehow. Forgive me, Signor Diego. + +DIEGO + +As you said, I am a courtier, Madam, and I know it is enough +if we can serve our princes. We have no business with troubles +of our own; but having them, we keep them to ourselves. His +Highness awaits me at this hour for the usual song which +happily unclouds his spirit. Has your Grace any message for +him? + +DUCHESS + +Stay. My son will wait a little while. I require you, Diego, +for I have hurt you. Your words are terrible, but just. We +princes are brought up--but many of us, alas, are princes in +this matter!--to think that when we say "I thank you" we have +done our duty; though our very satisfaction, our joy, may +merely bring out by comparison the emptiness of heart, the +secret soreness, of those we thank. We are not allowed to see +the burdens of others, and merely load them with our own. + +DIEGO + +Is this not wisdom? Princes should not see those burdens which +they cannot, which they must not, try to carry. And after all, +princes or slaves, can others ever help us, save with their +purse, with advice, with a concrete favour, or, say, with a +song? Our troubles smart because they are _our_ troubles; our +burdens weigh because on _our_ shoulders; they are part of us, +and cannot be shifted. But God doubtless loves such kind +thoughts as you have, even if, with your Grace's indulgence, +they are useless. + +DUCHESS + +If it were so, God would be no better than an earthly prince. +But believe me, Diego, if He prefer what you call +kindness--bare sense of brotherhood in suffering--'tis for its +usefulness. We cannot carry each other's burden for a minute; +true, and rightly so; but we can give each other added +strength to bear it. + +DIEGO + +By what means, please your Grace? + +DUCHESS + +By love, Diego. + +DIEGO + +Love! But that was surely never a source of strength, craving +your Grace's pardon? + +DUCHESS + +The love which I am speaking of--and it may surely bear the +name, since 'tis the only sort of love that cannot turn to +hatred. Love for who requires it because it is required--say +love of any woman who has been a mother for any child left +motherless. Nay, forgive my boldness: my gratitude gives me +rights on you, Diego. You are unhappy; you are still a child; +and I imagine that you have no mother. + +DIEGO + +I am told I had one, gracious Madam. She was, saving your +Grace's presence, only a light woman, and sold for a ducat to +the Infidels. I cannot say I ever missed her. Forgive me, +Madam. Although a courtier, the stock I come from is extremely +base. I have no understanding of the words of noble women and +saints like you. My vileness thinks them hollow; and my pretty +manners are only, as your Grace has unluckily had occasion to +see, a very thin and bad veneer. I thank your Grace, and once +more crave permission to attend the Duke. + +DUCHESS + +Nay. That is not true. Your soul is nowise base-born. I owe +you everything, and, by some inadvertence, I have done nothing +save stir up pain in you. I want--the words may seem +presumptuous, yet carry a meaning which is humble--I want to +be your friend; and to help you to a greater, better Friend. I +will pray for you, Diego. + +DIEGO + +No, no. You are a pious and virtuous woman, and your pity and +prayers must keep fit company. + +DUCHESS + +The only fitting company for pity and prayers, for love, dear +lad, is the company of those who need them. Am I over bold? + +_The_ DUCHESS _has risen, and shyly laid her hand on_ DIEGO'S +_shoulder_. DIEGO _breaks loose and covers his face, +exclaiming in a dry and husky voice_. + +DIEGO + +Oh the cruelty of loneliness, Madam! Save for two years which +taught me by comparison its misery, I have lived in loneliness +always in this lonely world; though never, alas, alone. Would +it had always continued! But as the wayfarer from out of the +snow and wind feels his limbs numb and frozen in the hearth's +warmth, so, having learned that one might speak, be +understood, be comforted, that one might love and be +beloved,--the misery of loneliness was revealed to me. And +then to be driven back into it once more, shut in to it for +ever! Oh, Madam, when one can no longer claim understanding +and comfort; no longer say "I suffer: help me!"--because the +creature one would say it to is the very same who hurts and +spurns one! + +DUCHESS + +How can a child like you already know such things? We women +may, indeed. I was as young as you, years ago, when I too +learned it. And since I learned it, let my knowledge, my poor +child, help you to bear it. I know how silence galls and +wearies. If silence hurts you, speak,--not for me to answer, +but understand and sorrow for you. I am old and simple and +unlearned; but, God willing, I shall understand. + +DIEGO + +If anything could help me, 'tis the sense of kindness such as +yours. I thank you for your gift; but acceptance of it would +be theft; for it is not meant for what I really am. And though +a living lie in many things; I am still, oddly enough, honest. +Therefore, I pray you, Madam, farewell. + +DUCHESS + +Do not believe it, Diego. Where it is needed, our poor loving +kindness can never be stolen. + +DIEGO + +Do not tempt me, Madam! Oh God, I do not want your pity, your +loving kindness! What are such things to me? And as to +understanding my sorrows, no one can, save the very one who is +inflicting them. Besides, you and I call different things by +the same names. What you call _love_, to me means nothing: +nonsense taught to children, priest's metaphysics. What _I_ +mean, you do not know. (_A pause_, DIEGO _walks up and down in +agitation_.) But woe's me! You have awakened the power of +breaking through this silence,--this silence which is +starvation and deathly thirst and suffocation. And it so +happens that if I speak to you all will be wrecked. (_A +pause_.) But there remains nothing to wreck! Understand me, +Madam, I care not who you are. I know that once I have spoken, +you _must_ become my enemy. But I am grateful to you; you have +shown me the way to speaking; and, no matter now to whom, I +now _must_ speak. + +DUCHESS + +You shall speak to God, my friend, though you speak seemingly +to me. + +DIEGO + +To God! To God! These are the icy generalities we strike upon +under all pious warmth. No, gracious Madam, I will not speak +to God; for God knows it already, and, knowing, looks on +indifferent. I will speak to you. Not because you are kind and +pitiful; for you will cease to be so. Not because you will +understand; for you never will. I will speak to you because, +although you are a saint, you are _his_ mother, have kept +somewhat of his eyes and mien; because it will hurt you if I +speak, as I would it might hurt _him_. I am a woman, Madam; a +harlot; and I was the Duke your son's mistress while among the +Infidels. + +_A long silence. The_ DUCHESS _remains seated. She barely +starts, exclaiming_ "Ah!--" _and becomes suddenly absorbed in +thought_. DIEGO _stands looking listlessly through the window +at the lake and the willow_. + +DIEGO + +I await your Grace's orders. Will it please you that I call +your maid-of-honour, or summon the gentleman outside? If it +so please you, there need be no scandal. I shall give myself +up to any one your Grace prefers. + +_The_ DUCHESS _pays no attention to_ DIEGO'S _last words, and +remains reflecting_. + +DUCHESS + +Then, it is he who, as you call it, spurns you? How so? For +you are admitted to his close familiarity; nay, you have +worked the miracle of curing him. I do not understand the +situation. For, Diego,--I know not by what other name to call +you--I feel your sorrow is a deep one. You are not +the----woman who would despair and call God cruel for a mere +lover's quarrel. You love my son; you have cured him,--cured +him, do I guess rightly, through your love? But if it be so, +what can my son have done to break your heart? + +DIEGO + +(_after listening astonished at the_ DUCHESS'S _unaltered tone +of kindness_) + +Your Grace will understand the matter as much as I can; and I +cannot. He does not recognise me, Madam. + +DUCHESS + +Not recognise you? What do you mean? + +DIEGO + +What the words signify: Not recognise. + +DUCHESS + +Then----he does not know----he still believes you to be----a +stranger? + +DIEGO + +So it seems, Madam. + +DUCHESS + +And yet you have cured his melancholy by your presence. And in +the past----tell me: had you ever sung to him? + +DIEGO (_weeping silently_) + +Daily, Madam. + +DUCHESS (_slowly_) + +They say that Ferdinand is, thanks to you, once more in full +possession of his mind. It cannot be. Something still lacks; +he is not fully cured. + +DIEGO + +Alas, he is. The Duke remembers everything, save me. + +DUCHESS + +There is some mystery in this. I do not understand such +matters. But I know that Ferdinand could never be base +towards you knowingly. And you, methinks, would never be base +towards him. Diego, time will bring light into this darkness. +Let us pray God together that He may make our eyes and souls +able to bear it. + +DIEGO + +I cannot pray for light, most gracious Madam, because I fear +it. Indeed I cannot pray at all, there remains nought to pray +for. But, among the vain and worldly songs I have had to get +by heart, there is, by chance, a kind of little hymn, a +childish little verse, but a sincere one. And while you pray +for me--for you promised to pray for me, Madam--I should like +to sing it, with your Grace's leave. + +DIEGO _opens a little movable organ in a corner, and strikes a +few chords, remaining standing the while. The_ DUCHESS _kneels +down before the crucifix, turning her back upon him. While she +is silently praying_, DIEGO, _still on his feet, sings very +low to a kind of lullaby tune_. + + Mother of God, + We are thy weary children; + Teach us, thou weeping Mother, + To cry ourselves to sleep. + + + + +ACT III + + +_Three months later. Another part of the Palace of Mantua: the +hanging gardens in the_ DUKE'S _apartments. It is the first +warm night of Spring. The lemon trees have been brought out +that day, and fill the air with fragrance. Terraces and +flights of steps; in the background the dark mass of the +palace, with its cupolas and fortified towers; here and there +a lit window picking out the dark; and from above the +principal yards, the flare of torches rising into the deep +blue of the sky. In the course of the scene, the moon +gradually emerges from behind a group of poplars on the +opposite side of the lake into which the palace is built. +During the earlier part of the act, darkness. Great stillness, +with, only occasionally, the plash of a fisherman's oar, or a +very distant thrum of mandolines.--The_ DUKE _and_ DIEGO _are +walking up and down the terrace_. + +DUKE + +Thou askedst me once, dear Diego, the meaning of that +labyrinth which I have had carved, a shapeless pattern enough, +but well suited, methinks, to blue and gold, upon the ceiling +of my new music room. And wouldst have asked, I fancy, as +many have done, the hidden meaning of the device surrounding +it.--I left thee in the dark, dear lad, and treated thy +curiosity in a peevish manner. Thou hast long forgiven and +perhaps forgotten, deeming my lack of courtesy but another +ailment of thy poor sick master; another of those odd +ungracious moods with which, kindest of healing creatures, +thou hast had such wise and cheerful patience. I have often +wished to tell thee; but I could not. 'Tis only now, in some +mysterious fashion, I seem myself once more,--able to do my +judgment's bidding, and to dispose, in memory and words, of my +own past. My strange sickness, which thou hast cured, melting +its mists away with thy beneficent music even as the sun +penetrates and sucks away the fogs of dawn from our lakes--my +sickness, Diego, the sufferings of my flight from Barbary; the +horror, perhaps, of that shipwreck which cast me (so they say, +for I remember nothing) senseless on the Illyrian +coast----these things, or Heaven's judgment on but a lukewarm +Crusader,--had somehow played strange havoc with my will and +recollections. I could not think; or thinking, not speak; or +recollecting, feel that he whom I thought of in the past was +this same man, myself. + +_The_ DUKE _pauses, and leaning on the parapet, watches the +long reflections of the big stars in the water_. + +But now, and thanks to thee, Diego, I am another; I am myself. + +DIEGO'S _face, invisible in the darkness, has undergone +dreadful convulsions. His breast heaves, and he stops for +breath before answering; but when he does so, controls his +voice into its usual rather artificially cadenced tone_. + +DIEGO + +And now, dear Master, you can recollect----all? + +DUKE + +Recollect, sweet friend, and tell thee. For it is seemly that +I should break through this churlish silence with thee. Thou +didst cure the weltering distress of my poor darkened mind; I +would have thee, now, know somewhat of the past of thy +grateful patient. The maze, Diego, carved and gilded on that +ceiling is but a symbol of my former life; and the device +which, being interpreted, means "I seek straight ways," the +expression of my wish and duty. + +DIEGO + +You loathed the maze, my Lord? + +DUKE + +Not so. I loved it then. And I still love it now. But I have +issued from it--issued to recognise that the maze was good. +Though it is good I left it. When I entered it, I was a raw +youth, although in years a man; full of easy theory, and +thinking all practice simple; unconscious of passion; ready to +govern the world with a few learned notions; moreover never +having known either happiness or grief, never loved and +wondered at a creature different from myself; acquainted, not +with the straight roads which I now seek, but only with the +rectangular walls of schoolrooms. The maze, and all the maze +implied, made me a man. + +DIEGO + +(_who has listened with conflicting feelings, and now unable +to conceal his joy_) + +A man, dear Master; and the gentlest, most just of men. Then, +that maze----But idle stories, interpreting all spiritual +meaning as prosy fact, would have it, that this symbol was a +reality. The legend of your captivity, my Lord, has turned the +pattern on that ceiling into a real labyrinth, some cunningly +built fortress or prison, where the Infidels kept you, and +whose clue----you found, and with the clue, freedom, after +five weary years. + +DUKE + +Whose clue, dear Diego, was given into my hands,--the clue +meaning freedom, but also eternal parting--by the most +faithful, intrepid, magnanimous, the most loving----and the +most beloved of women! + +_The_ Duke _has raised his arms from the parapet, and drawn +himself erect, folding them on his breast, and seeking for_ +Diego's _face in the darkness. But_ Diego, _unseen by the_ +Duke, _has clutched the parapet and sunk on to a bench_. + +DUKE + +(_walking up and down, slowly and meditatively, after a +pause_) + +The poets have fabled many things concerning virtuous women. +The Roman Arria, who stabbed herself to make honourable +suicide easier for her husband; Antigone, who buried her +brother at the risk of death; and the Thracian Alkestis, who +descended into the kingdom of Death in place of Admetus. But +none, to my mind, comes up to _her_. For fancy is but thin and +simple, a web of few bright threads; whereas reality is +closely knitted out of the numberless fibres of life, of pain +and joy. For note it, Diego--those antique women whom we read +of were daughters of kings, or of Romans more than kings; bred +of a race of heroes, and trained, while still playing with +dolls, to pride themselves on austere duty, and look upon the +wounds and maimings of their soul as their brothers and +husbands looked upon the mutilations of battle. Whereas here; +here was a creature infinitely humble; a waif, a poor spurned +toy of brutal mankind's pleasure; accustomed only to bear +contumely, or to snatch, unthinking, what scanty happiness lay +along her difficult and despised path,--a wild creature, who +had never heard such words as duty or virtue; and yet whose +acts first taught me what they truly meant. + +DIEGO + +(_who has recovered himself, and is now leaning in his turn on +the parapet_) + +Ah----a light woman, bought and sold many times over, my Lord; +but who loved, at last. + +DUKE + +That is the shallow and contemptuous way in which men think, +Diego,--and boys like thee pretend to; those to whom life is +but a chess-board, a neatly painted surface alternate black +and white, most suitable for skilful games, with a soul clean +lost or gained at the end! I thought like that. But I grew to +understand life as a solid world: rock, fertile earth, veins +of pure metal, mere mud, all strangely mixed and overlaid; and +eternal fire at the core! I learned it, knowing Magdalen. + +DIEGO + +Her name was Magdalen? + +DUKE + +So she bade me call her. + +DIEGO + +And the name explained the trade? + +DUKE (_after a pause_) + +I cannot understand thee Diego,--cannot understand thy lack of +understanding----Well yes! Her trade. All in this universe is +trade, trade of prince, pope, philosopher or harlot; and once +the badge put on, the licence signed--the badge a crown or a +hot iron's brand, as the case may be,--why then we ply it +according to prescription, and that's all! Yes, Diego,--since +thou obligest me to say it in its harshness, I do so, and I +glory for her in every contemptuous word I use!--The woman I +speak of was but a poor Venetian courtesan; some drab's child, +sold to the Infidels as to the Christians; and my cruel pirate +master's--shall we say?--mistress. There! For the first time, +Diego, thou dost not understand me; or is it----that I +misjudged thee, thinking thee, dear boy----(_breaks off +hurriedly_). + +DIEGO (_very slowly_) + +Thinking me what, my Lord? + +DUKE (_lightly, but with effort_) + +Less of a little Sir Paragon of Virtue than a dear child, who +is only a child, must be. + +DIEGO + +It is better, perhaps, that your Highness should be certain of +my limitations----But I crave your Highness's pardon. I had +meant to say that being a waif myself, pure gutter-bred, I +have known, though young, more Magdalens than you, my Lord. +They are, in a way, my sisters; and had I been a woman, I +should, likely enough, have been one myself. + +DUKE + +You mean, Diego? + +DIEGO + +I mean, that knowing them well, I also know that women such as +your Highness has described, occasionally learn to love most +truly. Nay, let me finish, my Lord; I was not going to repeat +a mere sentimental commonplace. Briefly then, that such women, +being expert in love, sometimes understand, quicker than +virtuous dames brought up to heroism, when love for them is +cloyed. They can walk out of a man's house or life with due +alacrity, being trained to such flittings. Or, recognising the +first signs of weariness before 'tis known to him who feels +it, they can open the door for the other--hand him the clue of +the labyrinth with a fine theatric gesture!--But I crave your +Highness's pardon for enlarging on this theme. + +DUKE + +Thou speakest Diego, as if thou hadst a mind to wound thy +Master. Is this, my friend, the reward of my confiding in +thee, even if tardily? + +DIEGO + +I stand rebuked, my Lord. But, in my own defence----how shall +I say it?----Your Highness has a manner to-night which +disconcerts me by its novelty; a saying things and then +unsaying them; suggesting and then, somehow, treading down the +suggestion like a spark of your lightning. Lovers, I have been +told, use such a manner to revive their flagging feeling by +playing on the other one's. Even in so plain and solid a thing +as friendship, such ways--I say it subject to your Highness's +displeasure--are dangerous. But in love, I have known cases +where, carried to certain lengths, such ways of speaking +undermined a woman's faith and led her to desperate things. +Women, despite their strength, which often surprises us, are +brittle creatures. Did you never, perhaps, make trial of +this----Magdalen, with---- + +DUKE + +With what? Good God, Diego, 'tis I who ask thy pardon; and +thou sheddest a dreadful light upon the past. But it is not +possible. I am not such a cur that, after all she did, after +all she was,--my life saved by her audacity a hundred times, +made rich and lovely by her love, her wit, her power,--that I +could ever have whimpered for my freedom, or made her suspect +I wanted it more than I wanted her? Is it possible, Diego? + +DIEGO (_slowly_) + +Why more than you wanted her? She may have thought the two +compatible. + +DUKE + +Never. First, because my escape could not be compassed save by +her staying behind; and then because---she knew, in fact, what +thing I was, or must become, once set at liberty. + +DIEGO (_after a pause_) + +I see. You mean, my Lord, that you being Duke of Mantua, while +she----If she knew that; knew it not merely as a fact, but as +one knows the full savour of grief,--well, she was indeed the +paragon you think; one might indeed say, bating one point, a +virtuous woman. + +DUKE + +Thou hast understood, dear Diego, and I thank thee for it. + +DIEGO + +But I fear, my Lord, she did not know these things. Such as +she, as yourself remarked, are not trained to conceive of +duty, even in others. Passion moves them; and they believe in +passion. You loved her; good. Why then, at Mantua as in +Barbary. No, my dear Master, believe me; she had seen your +love was turning stale, and set you free, rather than taste +its staleness. Passion, like duty, has its pride; and even we +waifs, as gypsies, have our point of honour. + +DUKE + +Stale! My love grown stale! You make me laugh, boy, instead of +angering. Stale! You never knew her. She was not like a +song--even your sweetest song--which, heard too often, cloys, +its phrases dropping to senseless notes. She was like +music,--the whole art: new modes, new melodies, new rhythms, +with every day and hour, passionate or sad, or gay, or very +quiet; more wondrous notes than in thy voice; and more +strangely sweet, even when they grated, than the tone of those +newfangled fiddles, which wound the ear and pour balm in, they +make now at Cremona. + +DIEGO + +You loved her then, sincerely? + +DUKE + +Methinks it may be Diego now, tormenting his Master with +needless questions. Loved her, boy! I love her. + +_A long pause_. Diego _has covered his face, with a gesture as +if about to speak. But the moon has suddenly risen from behind +the poplars, and put scales of silver light upon the ripples +of the lake, and a pale luminous mist around the palace. As +the light invades the terrace, a sort of chill has come upon +both speakers; they walk up and down further from one +another_. + +DIEGO + +A marvellous story, dear Master. And I thank you from my heart +for having told it me. I always loved you, and I thought I +knew you. I know you better still, now. You are--a most +magnanimous prince. + +DUKE + +Alas, dear lad, I am but a poor prisoner of my duties; a +poorer prisoner, and a sadder far, than there in Barbary----O +Diego, how I have longed for her! How deeply I still long, +sometimes! But I open my eyes, force myself to stare reality +in the face, whenever her image comes behind closed lids, +driving her from me----And to end my confession. At the +beginning, Diego, there seemed in thy voice and manner +something of _her_; I saw her sometimes in thee, as children +see the elves they fear and hope for in stains on walls and +flickers on the path. And all thy wondrous power, thy +miraculous cure--nay, forgive what seems ingratitude--was due, +Diego, to my sick fancy making me see glances of her in thy +eyes and hear her voice in thine. Not music but love, love's +delusion, was what worked my cure. + +DIEGO + +Do you speak truly, Master? Was it so? And now? + +DUKE + +Now, dear lad, I am cured--completely; I know bushes from +ghosts; and I know thee, dearest friend, to be Diego. + +DIEGO + +When these imaginations still held you, my Lord, did it ever +happen that you wondered: what if the bush had been a ghost; +if Diego had turned into--what was she called?---- + +DUKE + +Magdalen. My fancy never went so far, good Diego. There was a +grain of reason left. But if it had----Well, I should have +taken Magdalen's hand, and said, "Welcome, dear sister. This +is a world of spells; let us repeat some. Become henceforth +my brother; be the Duke of Mantua's best and truest friend; +turn into Diego, Magdalen." + +_The_ DUKE _presses_ DIEGO'S _arm, and, letting it go, walks +away into the moonlight with an enigmatic air. A long pause_. + +Hark, they are singing within; the idle pages making songs to +their ladies' eyebrows. Shall we go and listen? + +(_They walk in the direction of the palace_.) + +And (_with a little hesitation_) that makes me say, Diego, +before we close this past of mine, and bury it for ever in our +silence, that there is a little Moorish song, plaintive and +quaint, she used to sing, which some day I will write down, +and thou shalt sing it to me--on my deathbed. + +DIEGO + +Why not before? Speaking of songs, that mandolin, though out +of tune, and vilely played, has got hold of a ditty I like +well enough. Hark, the words are Tuscan, well known in the +mountains. (_Sings_.) + + I'd like to die, but die a little death only, + I'd like to die, but look down from the window; + I'd like to die, but stand upon the doorstep; + I'd like to die, but follow the procession; + I'd like to die, but see who smiles and weepeth; + I'd like to die, but die a little death only. + +(_While_ DIEGO _sings very loud, the mandolin inside the +palace thrums faster and faster. As he ends, with a long +defiant leap into a high note, a burst of applause from the +palace_.) + +DIEGO (_clapping his hands_) + +Well sung, Diego! + + + + +ACT IV + + +_A few weeks later. The new music room in the Palace of +Mantua. Windows on both sides admitting a view of the lake, so +that the hall looks like a galley surrounded by water. +Outside, morning: the lake, the sky, and the lines of poplars +on the banks, are all made of various textures of luminous +blue. From the gardens below, bay trees raise their flowering +branches against the windows. In every window an antique +statue: the Mantuan Muse, the Mantuan Apollo, etc. In the +walls between the windows are framed panels representing +allegorical triumphs: those nearest the spectator are the +triumphs of Chastity and of Fortitude. At the end of the room, +steps and a balustrade, with a harpsichord and double basses +on a dais. The roof of the room is blue and gold; a deep blue +ground, constellated with a gold labyrinth in relief. Round +the cornice, blue and gold also, the inscription_: "RECTAS +PETO," _and the name_ Ferdinandus Mantuae Dux. + +_The_ PRINCESS HIPPOLYTA _of Mirandola, cousin to the_ DUKE; +_and_ DIEGO. HIPPOLYTA _is very young, but with the strength +and grace, and the candour, rather of a beautiful boy than of +a woman. She is dazzlingly fair; and her hair, arranged in +waves like an antique amazon's, is stiff and lustrous, as if +made of threads of gold. The brows are wide and straight, +like a man's; the glance fearless, but virginal and almost +childlike_. HIPPOLYTA _is dressed in black and gold, +particoloured, like Mantegna's Duchess. An old man, in +scholar's gown, the_ Princess's Greek Tutor, _has just +introduced_ DIEGO _and retired_. + +DIEGO + +The Duke your cousin's greeting and service, illustrious +damsel. His Highness bids me ask how you are rested after your +journey hither. + +PRINCESS + +Tell my cousin, good Signor Diego, that I am touched at his +concern for me. And tell him, such is the virtuous air of his +abode, that a whole night's rest sufficed to right me from the +fatigue of two hours' journey in a litter; for I am new to +that exercise, being accustomed to follow my poor father's +hounds and falcons only on horseback. You shall thank the Duke +my cousin for his civility. (PRINCESS _laughs_.) + +DIEGO + +(_bowing, and keeping his eyes on the_ PRINCESS _as he +speaks_) + +His Highness wished to make his fair cousin smile. He has told +me often how your illustrious father, the late Lord of +Mirandola, brought his only daughter up in such a wise as +scarcely to lack a son, with manly disciplines of mind and +body; and that he named you fittingly after Hippolyta, who was +Queen of the Amazons, virgins unlike their vain and weakly +sex. + +PRINCESS + +She was; and wife of Theseus. But it seems that the poets care +but little for the like of her; they tell us nothing of her, +compared with her poor predecessor, Cretan Ariadne, she who +had given Theseus the clue of the labyrinth. Methinks that +maze must have been mazier than this blue and gold one +overhead. What say you, Signor Diego? + +DIEGO (_who has started slightly_) + +Ariadne? Was she the predecessor of Hippolyta? I did not know +it. I am but a poor scholar, Madam; knowing the names and +stories of gods and heroes only from songs and masques. The +Duke should have selected some fitter messenger to hold +converse with his fair learned cousin. + +PRINCESS (_gravely_) + +Speak not like that, Signor Diego. You may not be a scholar, +as you say; but surely you are a philosopher. Nay, conceive +my meaning: the fame of your virtuous equanimity has spread +further than from this city to my small dominions. Your +precocious wisdom--for you seem younger than I, and youths do +not delight in being very wise--your moderation in the use of +sudden greatness, your magnanimous treatment of enemies and +detractors; and the manner in which, disdainful of all +personal advantage, you have surrounded the Duke my cousin +with wisest counsellors and men expert in office--such are the +results men seek from the study of philosophy. + +DIEGO + +(_at first astonished, then amused, a little sadly_) + +You are mistaken, noble maiden. 'Tis not philosophy to refrain +from things that do not tempt one. Riches or power are useless +to me. As for the rest, you are mistaken also. The Duke is +wise and valiant, and chooses therefore wise and valiant +counsellors. + +PRINCESS (_impetuously_) + +You are eloquent, Signor Diego, even as you are wise! But your +words do not deceive me. Ambition lurks in every one; and +power intoxicates all save those who have schooled themselves +to use it as a means to virtue. + +DIEGO + +The thought had never struck me; but men have told me what you +tell me now. + +PRINCESS + +Even Antiquity, which surpasses us so vastly in all manner of +wisdom and heroism, can boast of very few like you. The +noblest souls have grown tyrannical and rapacious and +foolhardy in sudden elevation. Remember Alcibiades, the +beloved pupil of the wisest of all mortals. Signor Diego, you +may have read but little; but you have meditated to much +profit, and must have wrestled like some great athlete with +all that baser self which the divine Plato has told us how to +master. + +DIEGO (_shaking his head_) + +Alas, Madam, your words make me ashamed, and yet they make me +smile, being so far of the mark! I have wrestled with nothing; +followed only my soul's blind impulses. + +PRINCESS (_gravely_) + +It must be, then, dear Signor Diego, as the Pythagoreans held: +the discipline of music is virtuous for the soul. There is a +power in numbered and measured sound very akin to wisdom; +mysterious and excellent; as indeed the Ancients fabled in the +tales of Orpheus and Amphion, musicians and great sages and +legislators of states. I have long desired your conversation, +admirable Diego. + +DIEGO (_with secret contempt_) + +Noble maiden, such words exceed my poor unscholarly +appreciation. The antique worthies whom you name are for me +merely figures in tapestries and frescoes, quaint greybeards +in laurel wreaths and helmets; and I can scarcely tell whether +the Ladies Fortitude and Rhetoric with whom they hold +converse, are real daughters of kings, or mere Arts and +Virtues. But the Duke, a learned and judicious prince, will +set due store by his youthful cousin's learning. As for me, +simpleton and ignoramus that I am, all I see is that Princess +Hippolyta is very beautiful and very young. + +PRINCESS + +(_sighing a little, but with great simplicity_) + +I know it. I am young, and perhaps crude; although I study +hard to learn the rules of wisdom. You, Diego, seem to know +them without study. + +DIEGO + +I know somewhat of the world and of men, gracious Princess, +but that can scarce be called knowing wisdom. Say rather +knowing blindness, envy, cruelty, endless nameless folly in +others and oneself. But why should you seek to be wise? you +who are fair, young, a princess, and betrothed from your +cradle to a great prince? Be beautiful, be young, be what you +are, a woman. + +Diego _has said this last word with emphasis, but the_ +Princess _has not noticed the sarcasm in his voice_. + +PRINCESS (_shaking her head_) + +That is not my lot. I was destined, as you said, to be the +wife of a great prince; and my dear father trained me to fill +that office. + +DIEGO + +Well, and to be beautiful, young, radiant; to be a woman; is +not that the office of a wife? + +PRINCESS + +I have not much experience. But my father told me, and I have +gathered from books, that in the wives of princes, such gifts +are often thrown away; that other women, supplying them, seem +to supply them better. Look at my cousin's mother. I can +remember her still beautiful, young, and most tenderly loving. +Yet the Duke, my uncle, disdained her, and all she got was +loneliness and heartbreak. An honourable woman, a princess, +cannot compete with those who study to please and to please +only. She must either submit to being ousted from her +husband's love, or soar above it into other regions. + +DIEGO (_interested_) + +Other regions? + +PRINCESS + +Higher ones. She must be fit to be her husband's help, and to +nurse his sons to valour and wisdom. + +DIEGO + +I see. The Prince must know that besides all the knights that +he summons to battle, and all the wise men whom he hears in +council, there is another knight, in rather lighter armour and +quicker tired, another counsellor, less experienced and of +less steady temper, ready for use. Is this great gain? + +PRINCESS + +It is strange that being a man, you should conceive of women +from---- + +DIEGO + +From a man's standpoint? + +PRINCESS + +Nay; methinks a woman's. For I observe that women, when they +wish to help men, think first of all of some transparent +masquerade, donning men's clothes, at all events in metaphor, +in order to be near their lovers when not wanted. + +DIEGO (_hastily_) + +Donning men's clothes? A masquerade? I fail to follow your +meaning, gracious maiden. + +PRINCESS (_simply_) + +So I have learned at least from our poets. Angelica, and +Bradamante and Fiordispina, scouring the country after their +lovers, who were busy enough without them. I prefer Penelope, +staying at home to save the lands and goods of Ulysses, and +bringing up his son to rescue and avenge him. + +DIEGO (_reassured and indifferent_) + +Did Ulysses love Penelope any better for it, Madam? better +than poor besotted Menelaus, after all his injuries, loved +Helen back in Sparta? + +PRINCESS + +That is not the question. A woman born to be a prince's wife +and prince's mother, does her work not for the sake of +something greater than love, whether much or little. + +DIEGO + +For what then? + +PRINCESS + +Does a well-bred horse or excellent falcon do its duty to +please its master? No; but because such is its nature. +Similarly, methinks, a woman bred to be a princess works with +her husband, for her husband, not for any reward, but because +he and she are of the same breed, and obey the same instincts. + +DIEGO + +Ah!----Then happiness, love,--all that a woman craves for? + +PRINCESS + +Are accidents. Are they not so in the life of a prince? Love +he may snatch; and she, being in woman's fashion not allowed +to snatch, may receive as a gift, or not. But received or +snatched, it is not either's business; not their nature's true +fulfilment. + +DIEGO + +You think so, Lady? + +PRINCESS + +I am bound to think so. I was born to it and taught it. You +know the Duke, my cousin,--well, I am his bride, not being +born his sister. + +DIEGO + +And you are satisfied? O beautiful Princess, you are of +illustrious lineage and mind, and learned. Your father brought +you up on Plutarch instead of Amadis; you know many things; +but there is one, methinks, no one can know the nature of it +until he has it. + +PRINCESS + +What is that, pray? + +DIEGO + +A heart. Because you have not got one yet, you make your plans +without it,--a negligible item in your life. + +Princess + +I am not a child. + +DIEGO + +But not yet a woman. + +PRINCESS (_meditatively_) + +You think, then---- + +DIEGO + +I do not _think_; I _know_. And _you_ will know, some day. And +then---- + +PRINCESS + +Then I shall suffer. Why, we must all suffer. Say that, having +a heart, a heart for husband or child, means certain +grief,--well, does not riding, walking down your stairs, mean +the chance of broken bones? Does not living mean old age, +disease, possible blindness or paralysis, and quite inevitable +aches? If, as you say, I must needs grow a heart, and if a +heart must needs give agony, why, I shall live through +heartbreak as through pain in any other limb. + +DIEGO + +Yes,--were your heart a limb like all the rest,--but 'tis the +very centre and fountain of all life. + +PRINCESS + +You think so? 'Tis, methinks, pushing analogy too far, and +metaphor. This necessary organ, diffusing life throughout us, +and, as physicians say, removing with its vigorous floods all +that has ceased to live, replacing it with new and living +tissue,--this great literal heart cannot be the seat of only +one small passion. + +DIEGO + +Yet I have known more women than one die of that small +passion's frustrating. + +PRINCESS + +But you have known also, I reckon, many a man in whom life, +what he had to live for, was stronger than all love. They say +the Duke my cousin's melancholy sickness was due to love which +he had outlived. + +DIEGO They say so, Madam. + +PRINCESS (_thoughtfully_) + +I think it possible, from what I know of him. He was much with +my father when a lad; and I, a child, would listen to their +converse, not understanding its items, but seeming to +understand the general drift. My father often said my cousin +was romantic, favoured overmuch his tender mother, and would +suffer greatly, learning to live for valour and for wisdom. + +DIEGO + +Think you he has, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +If 'tis true that occasion has already come. + +DIEGO + +And--if that occasion came, for the first time or for the +second, perhaps, after your marriage? What would you do, +Madam? + +PRINCESS + +I cannot tell as yet. Help him, I trust, when help could come, +by the sympathy of a soul's strength and serenity. Stand +aside, most likely, waiting to be wanted. Or else---- + +DIEGO + +Or else, illustrious maiden? + +PRINCESS + +Or else----I know not----perhaps, growing a heart, get some +use from it. + +DIEGO + +Your Highness surely does not mean use it to love with? + +PRINCESS + +Why not? It might be one way of help. And if I saw him +struggling with grief, seeking to live the life and think the +thought fit for his station; why, methinks I could love him. +He seems lovable. Only love could have taught fidelity like +yours. + +DIEGO + +You forget, gracious Princess, that you attributed great power +of virtue to a habit of conduct, which is like the nature of +high-bred horses, needing no spur. But in truth you are right. +I am no high-bred creature. Quite the contrary. Like curs, I +love; love, and only love. For curs are known to love their +masters. + +PRINCESS + +Speak not thus, virtuous Diego. I have indeed talked in +magnanimous fashion, and believed, sincerely, that I felt high +resolves. But you have acted, lived, and done magnanimously. +What you have been and are to the Duke is better schooling for +me than all the Lives of Plutarch. + +DIEGO. + +You could not learn from me, Lady. + +PRINCESS + +But I would try, Diego. + +DIEGO + +Be not grasping, Madam. The generous coursers whom your father +taught you to break and harness have their set of virtues. +Those of curs are different. Do not grudge them those. Your +noble horses kick them enough, without even seeing their +presence. But I feel I am beyond my depth, not being +philosophical by nature or schooling. And I had forgotten to +give you part of his Highnesses message. Knowing your love of +music, and the attention you have given it, the Duke imagined +it might divert you, till he was at leisure to pay you homage, +to make trial of my poor powers. Will it please you to order +the other musicians, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +Nay, good Diego, humour me in this. I have studied music, and +would fain make trial of accompanying your voice. Have you +notes by you? + +DIEGO + +Here are some, Madam, left for the use of his Highness's band +this evening. Here is the pastoral of Phyllis by Ludovic of +the Lute; a hymn in four parts to the Virgin by Orlandus +Lassus; a madrigal by the Pope's Master, Signor Pierluigi of +Praeneste. Ah! Here is a dramatic scene between Medea and +Creusa, rivals in love, by the Florentine Octavio. Have you +knowledge of it, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +I have sung it with my master for exercise. But, good Diego, +find a song for yourself. + +DIEGO + +You shall humour me, now, gracious Lady. Think I am your +master. I desire to hear your voice. And who knows? In this +small matter I may really teach you something. + +_The_ PRINCESS _sits to the harpsichord_, DIEGO _standing +beside her on the dais. They sing, the_ PRINCESS _taking the +treble_, DIEGO _the contralto part. The_ PRINCESS _enters +first--with a full-toned voice clear and high, singing very +carefully_. DIEGO _follows, singing in a whisper. His voice is +a little husky, and here and there broken, but ineffably +delicious and penetrating, and, as he sings, becomes, without +quitting the whisper, dominating and disquieting. The_ +PRINCESS _plays a wrong chord, and breaks off suddenly._ + +DIEGO + +(_having finished a cadence, rudely_) + +What is it, Madam? + +PRINCESS + +I know not. I have lost my place----I----I feel bewildered. +When your voice rose up against mine, Diego, I lost my head. +And--I do not know how to express it--when our voices met in +that held dissonance, it seemed as if you hurt me----horribly. + +DIEGO + +(_smiling, with hypocritical apology_) + +Forgive me, Madam. I sang too loud, perhaps. We theatre +singers are apt to strain things. I trust some day to hear you +sing alone. You have a lovely voice: more like a boy's than +like a maiden's still. + +PRINCESS + +And yours----'tis strange that at your age we should reverse +the parts,--yours, though deeper than mine, is like a +woman's. + +DIEGO (_laughing_) + +I have grown a heart, Madam; 'tis an organ grows quicker where +the breed is mixed and lowly, no nobler limbs retarding its +development by theirs. + +PRINCESS + +Speak not thus, excellent Diego. Why cause me pain by +disrespectful treatment of a person--your own admirable +self--whom I respect? You have experience, Diego, and shall +teach me many things, for I desire learning. + +_The_ Princess _takes his hand in both hers, very kindly and +simply_. Diego, _disengaging his, bows very ceremoniously_. + +DIEGO + +Shall I teach you to sing as I do, gracious Madam? + +PRINCESS (_after a moment_) + +I think not, Diego. + + + + +ACT V + + +_Two months later. The wedding day of the_ DUKE. _Another part +of the Palace of Mantua. A long terrace still to be seen, with +roof supported by columns. It looks on one side on to the +jousting ground, a green meadow surrounded by clipped hedges +and set all round with mulberry trees. On the other side it +overlooks the lake, against which, as a fact, it acts as dyke. +The Court of Mantua and Envoys of foreign Princes, together +with many Prelates, are assembled on the terrace, surrounding +the seats of the_ DUKE, _the young_ DUCHESS HIPPOLYTA, _the_ +DUCHESS DOWAGER _and the_ CARDINAL. _Facing this gallery, and +separated from it by a line of sedge and willows, and a few +yards of pure green water, starred with white lilies, is a +stage in the shape of a Grecian temple, apparently rising out +of the lake. Its pediment and columns are slung with garlands +of bay and cypress. In the gable, the_ DUKE'S _device of a +labyrinth in gold on a blue ground and the motto:_ "RECTAS +PETO." _On the stage, but this side of the curtain, which is +down, are a number of_ Musicians _with violins, viols, +theorbs, a hautboy, a flute, a bassoon, viola d'amore and bass +viols, grouped round two men with double basses and a man at a +harpsichord, in dress like the musicians in Veronese's +paintings. They are preluding gently, playing elaborately +fugued variations on a dance tune in three-eighth time, +rendered singularly plaintive by the absence of perfect +closes_. + +CARDINAL + +(_to_ VENETIAN AMBASSADOR) + +What say you to our Diego's masque, my Lord? Does not his +skill as a composer vie almost with his sublety as a singer? + +MARCHIONESS OF GUASTALLA + +(_to the_ DUCHESS DOWAGER) + +A most excellent masque, methinks, Madam. And of so new a +kind. We have had masques in palaces and also in gardens, and +some, I own it, beautiful; for our palace on the hill affords +fine vistas of cypress avenues and the distant plain. But, +until the Duke your son, no one has had a masque on the water, +it would seem. 'Tis doubtless his invention? + +DUCHESS + +(_with evident preoccupation_) + +I think not, Madam. 'Tis our foolish Diego's freak. And I +confess I like it not. It makes me anxious for the players. + +BISHOP OF CREMONA (_to the_ CARDINAL) + +A wondrous singer, your Signor Diego. They say the Spaniards +have subtle exercises for keeping the voice thus youthful. His +Holiness has several such who sing divinely under Pierluigi's +guidance. But your Diego seems really but a child, yet has a +mode of singing like one who knows a world of joys and +sorrows. + +CARDINAL + +He has. Indeed, I sometimes think he pushes the pathetic +quality too far. I am all for the Olympic serenity of the wise +Ancients. + +YOUNG DUCHESS (_laughing_) + +My uncle would, I almost think, exile our divine Diego, as +Plato did the poets, for moving us too much. + +PRINCE OF MASSA (_whispering_) + +He has moved your noble husband strangely. Or is it, gracious +bride, that too much happiness overwhelms our friend? + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_turning round and noticing the_ DUKE, _a few seats off_) + +'Tis true. Ferdinand is very sensitive to music, and is +greatly concerned for our Diego's play. Still----I wonder----. + +MARCHIONESS (_to the_ DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET, _who is standing +near her_) + +I really never could have recognised Signor Diego in his +disguise. He looks for all the world exactly like a woman. + +POET + +A woman! Say a goddess, Madam! Upon my soul (_whispering_), +the bride is scarce as beautiful as he, although as fair as +one of the noble swans who sail on those clear waters. + +JESTER + +After the play we shall see admiring dames trooping behind the +scenes to learn the secret of the paints which can change a +scrubby boy into a beauteous nymph; a metamorphosis worth +twenty of Sir Ovid's. + +DOGE'S WIFE (_to the_ DUKE) + +They all tell me--but 'tis a secret naturally--that the words +of this ingenious masque are from your Highness's own pen; and +that you helped--such are your varied gifts--your singing-page +to set them to music. + +DUKE (_impatiently_) + +It may be that your Serenity is rightly informed, or not. + +KNIGHT OF MALTA (_to_ YOUNG DUCHESS) + +One recognises, at least, the mark of Duke Ferdinand's genius +in the suiting of the play to the surroundings. Given these +lakes, what fitter argument than Ariadne abandoned on her +little island? And the labyrinth in the story is a pretty +allusion to your lord's personal device and the magnificent +ceiling he lately designed for our admiration. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_with her eyes fixed on the curtain, which begins to move_) + +Nay, 'tis all Diego's thought. Hush, they begin to play. Oh, +my heart beats with curiosity to know how our dear Diego will +carry his invention through, and to hear the last song which +he has never let me hear him sing. + +_The curtain is drawn aside, displaying the stage, set with +orange and myrtle trees in jars, and a big flowering oleander. +There is no painted background; but instead, the lake, with +distant shore, and the sky with the sun slowly descending +into clouds, which light up purple and crimson, and send rosy +streamers into the high blue air. On the stage a rout of_ +Bacchanals, _dressed like Mantegna's Hours, but with +vine-garlands; also_ Satyrs _quaintly dressed in goatskins, +but with top-knots of ribbons, all singing a Latin ode in +praise of_ BACCHUS _and wine; while girls dressed as nymphs, +with ribboned thyrsi in their hands, dance a pavana before a +throne of moss overhung by ribboned garlands. On this throne +are seated a_ TENOR _as_ BACCHUS, _dressed in russet and +leopard skins, a garland of vine leaves round his waist and +round his wide-brimmed hat; and_ DIEGO, _as_ ARIADNE. DIEGO, +_no longer habited as a man, but in woman's garments, like +those of Guercino's Sibyls: a floating robe and vest of orange +and violet, open at the throat; with particoloured scarves +hanging, and a particoloured scarf wound like a turban round +the head, the locks of dark hair escaping from beneath. She is +extremely beautiful_. + +MAGDALEN (_sometime known as_ DIEGO, _now representing_ +ARIADNE) _rises from the throne and speaks, turning to_ +BACCHUS. _Her voice is a contralto, but not deep, and with +upper notes like a hautboy's. She speaks in an irregular +recitative, sustained by chords on the viols and +harpsichord_. + +ARIADNE + +Tempt me not, gentle Bacchus, sunburnt god of ruddy vines and +rustic revelry. The gifts you bring, the queenship of the +world of wine-inspired Fancies, cannot quell my grief at +Theseus' loss. + +BACCHUS (_tenor_) + +Princess, I do beseech you, give me leave to try and soothe +your anguish. Daughter of Cretan Minos, stern Judge of the +Departed, your rearing has been too sad for youth and beauty, +and the shade of Orcus has ever lain across your path. But I +am God of Gladness; I can take your soul, suspend it in +Mirth's sun, even as the grapes, translucent amber or rosy, +hang from the tendril in the ripening sun of the crisp autumn +day. I can unwind your soul, and string it in the serene sky +of evening, smiling in the deep blue like to the stars, +encircled, I offer you as crown. Listen, fair Nymph: 'tis a +God woos you. + +ARIADNE + +Alas, radiant Divinity of a time of year gentler than Spring +and fruitfuller than Summer, there is no Autumn for hapless +Ariadne. Only Winter's nights and frosts wrap my soul. When +Theseus went, my youth went also. I pray you leave me to my +poor tears and the thoughts of him. + +BACCHUS + +Lady, even a God, and even a lover, must respect your grief. +Farewell. Comrades, along; the pine trees on the hills, the +ivy-wreaths upon the rocks, await your company; and the +red-stained vat, the heady-scented oak-wood, demand your +presence. + +_The_ Bacchantes _and_ Satyrs _sing a Latin ode in praise of +Wine, in four parts, with accompaniment of bass viols and +lutes, and exeunt with_ BACCHUS. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_to_ DUKE OF FERRARA'S POET) + +Now, now, Master Torquato, now we shall hear Poetry's own self +sing with our Diego's voice. + +DIEGO, _as_ ARIADNE, _walks slowly up and down the stage, +while the viola plays a prelude in the minor. Then she speaks, +recitative with chords only by strings and harpsichord_. + +ARIADNE + +They are gone at last. Kind creatures, how their kindness +fretted my weary soul I To be alone with grief is almost +pleasure, since grief means thought of Theseus. Yet that +thought is killing me. O Theseus, why didst thou ever come +into my life? Why did not the cruel Minotaur gore and trample +thee like all the others? Hapless Ariadne! The clue was in my +keeping, and I reached it to him. And now his ship has long +since neared his native shores, and he stands on the prow, +watching for his new love. But the Past belongs to me. + +_A flute rises in the orchestra, with viols accompanying, +pizzicati, and plays three or four bars of intricate mazy +passages, very sweet and poignant, stopping on a high note, +with imperfect close_. + +ARIADNE (_continuing_) + +And in the past he loved me, and he loves me still. Nothing +can alter that. Nay, Theseus, thou canst never never love +another like me. + +_Arioso. The declamation becomes more melodic, though still +unrhythmical, and is accompanied by a rapid and passionate +tremolo of violins and viols_. + +And thy love for her will be but the thin ghost of the reality +that lived for me. But Theseus----Do not leave me yet. +Another hour, another minute. I have so much to tell thee, +dearest, ere thou goest. + +_Accompaniment more and more agitated. A hautboy echoes_ +ARIADNE'S _last phrase with poignant reedy tone_. + +Thou knowest, I have not yet sung thee that little song thou +lovest to hear of evenings; the little song made by the +Aeolian Poetess whom Apollo loved when in her teens. And thou +canst not go away till I have sung it. See! my lute. But I +must tune it. All is out of tune in my poor jangled life. + +_Lute solo in the orchestra. A Siciliana or slow dance, very +delicate and simple_. ARIADNE _sings_. + +Song + + Let us forget we loved each other much; + Let us forget we ever have to part; + Let us forget that any look or touch + Once let in either to the other's heart. + + Only we'll sit upon the daisied grass, + And hear the larks and see the swallows pass; + Only we live awhile, as children play, + Without to-morrow, without yesterday. + +_During the ritornello, between the two verses._ + +POET + +(_to the_ Young Duchess, _whispering_) + +Madam, methinks his Highness is unwell. Turn round, I pray +you. + +YOUNG DUCHESS (_without turning_). + +He feels the play's charm. Hush. + +DUCHESS DOWAGER (_whispering_) + +Come Ferdinand, you are faint. Come with me. + +DUKE (_whispering_) + +Nay, mother. It will pass. Only a certain oppression at the +heart, I was once subject to. Let us be still. + +Song (_repeats_) + + Only we'll live awhile, as children play, + Without to-morrow, without yesterday. + +_A few bars of ritornello after the song_. + +DUCHESS DOWAGER (_whispering_) + +Courage, my son, I know all. + +ARIADNE + +(_Recitative with accompaniment of violins, flute and harp_) + +Theseus, I've sung my song. Alas, alas for our poor songs we +sing to the beloved, and vainly try to vary into newness! + +_A few notes of the harp well up, slow and liquid_. + +Now I can go to rest, and darkness lap my weary heart. +Theseus, my love, good night! + +_Violins tremolo. The hautboy suddenly enters with a long +wailing phrase_. ARIADNE _quickly mounts on to the back of the +stage, turns round for one second, waving a kiss to an +imaginary person, and then flings herself down into the lake_. + +_A great burst of applause. Enter immediately, and during the +cries and clapping, a chorus of_ Water-Nymphs _in transparent +veils and garlands of willows and lilies, which sings to a +solemn counterpoint, the dirge of_ ARIADNE. _But their singing +is barely audible through the applause of the whole Court, and +the shouts of_ "DIEGO! DIEGO! ARIADNE! ARIADNE!" _The young_ +DUCHESS _rises excitedly, wiping her eyes_. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +Dear friend! Diego! Diego! Our Orpheus, come forth! + +CROWD + +Diego! Diego! + +POET (_to the_ POPE'S LEGATE) + +He is a real artist, and scorns to spoil the play's impression +by truckling to this foolish habit of applause. + +MARCHIONESS + +Still, a mere singer, a page----when his betters call----. But +see! the Duke has left our midst. + +CARDINAL + +He has gone to bring back Diego in triumph, doubtless. + +VENETIAN AMBASSADOR + +And, I note, his venerable mother has also left us. I doubt +whether this play has not offended her strict widow's +austerity. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +But where is Diego, meanwhile? + +_The Chorus and orchestra continue the dirge for_ ARIADNE. A +GENTLEMAN-IN-WAITING _elbows through the crowd to the_ +CARDINAL. + +GENTLEMAN (_whispering_) + +Most Eminent, a word---- + +CARDINAL (_whispering_) + +The Duke has had a return of his malady? + +GENTLEMAN (_whispering_) + +No, most Eminent. But Diego is nowhere to be found. And they +have brought up behind the stage the body of a woman in +Ariadne's weeds. + +CARDINAL (whispering) + +Ah, is that all? Discretion, pray. I knew it. But 'tis a most +distressing accident. Discretion above all. + +_The Chorus suddenly breaks off. For on to the stage comes +the_ DUKE. _He is dripping, and bears in his arms the dead +body, drowned, of_ DIEGO, _in the garb of_ ARIADNE. _A shout +from the crowd_. + +YOUNG DUCHESS + +(_with a cry, clutching the_ POET'S _arm_) + +Diego! + +DUKE + +(_stooping over the body, which he has laid upon the stage, +and speaking very low_) + +Magdalen! + +(_The curtain is hastily closed_.) + +THE END + + + + +APPENDIX + + +THE LAKES OF MANTUA + +It was the Lakes, the deliciousness of water and sedge seen +from the railway on a blazing June day, that made me stop at +Mantua for the first time; and the thought of them that drew +me back to Mantua this summer. They surround the city on three +sides, being formed by the Mincio on its way from Lake Garda +to the Po, shallow lakes spilt on the great Lombard Plain. +They are clear, rippled, fringed with reed, islanded with +water lilies, and in them wave the longest, greenest weeds. +Here and there a tawny sail of a boat comes up from Venice; +children are bathing under the castle towers; at a narrow +point is a long covered stone bridge where the water rushes +through mills and one has glimpses into cool, dark places +smelling of grist. + +The city itself has many traces of magnificence, although it +has been stripped of pictures more than any other, furnishing +out every gallery in Europe since the splendid Gonzagas +forfeited the Duchy to Austria. There are a good many delicate +late Renaissance houses, carried on fine columns; also some +charming open terra-cotta work in windows and belfries. The +Piazza Erbe has, above its fruit stalls and market of wooden +pails and earthenware, and fishing-tackle and nets (reminding +one of the lakes), a very picturesque clock with a seated +Madonna; and in the Piazza Virgilio there are two very noble +battlemented palaces with beautiful bold Ghibelline +swallow-tails. All the buildings are faintly whitened by damp, +and the roofs and towers are of very pale, almost faded rose +colour, against the always moist blue sky. + +But what goes to the brain at Mantua is the unlikely +combination, the fantastic duet, of the palace and the lake. +One naturally goes first into the oldest part, the red-brick +castle of the older Marquises, in one of whose great square +towers are Mantegna's really delightful frescoes: charming +cupids, like fleecy clouds turned to babies, playing in a sky +of the most marvellous blue, among garlands of green and of +orange and lemon trees cut into triumphal arches, with the +Marquis of Mantua and all the young swashbuckler Gonzagas +underneath. The whole decoration, with its predominant blue, +and enamel white and green, is delicate and cool in its +magnificence, and more thoroughly enjoyable than most of +Mantegna's work. But the tower windows frame in something more +wonderful and delectable--one of the lakes! The pale blue +water, edged with green reeds, the poplars and willows of the +green plain beyond; a blue vagueness of Alps, and, connecting +it all, the long castle bridge with its towers of pale +geranium-coloured bricks. + +One has to pass through colossal yards to get from this +fortified portion to the rest of the Palace, Corte Nuova, as +it is called. They have now become public squares, and the +last time I saw them, it being market day, they were crowded +with carts unloading baskets of silk; and everywhere the +porticoes were heaped with pale yellow and greenish cocoons; +the palace filled with the sickly smell of the silkworm, which +seemed, by coincidence, to express its saecular decay. For of +all the decaying palaces I have ever seen in Italy this Palace +of Mantua is the most utterly decayed. At first you have no +other impression. But little by little, as you tramp through +what seem miles of solemn emptiness, you find that more than +any similar place it has gone to your brain. For these endless +rooms and cabinets--some, like those of Isabella d'Este (which +held the Mantegna and Perugino and Costa allegories, Triumph +of Chastity and so forth, now in the Louvre), quite delicate +and exquisite; or scantily modernised under Maria Theresa for +a night's ball or assembly; or actually crumbling, defaced, +filled with musty archives; or recently used as fodder stores +and barracks--all this colossal labyrinth, oddly symbolised by +the gold and blue labyrinth on one of the ceilings, is, on the +whole, the most magnificent and fantastic thing left behind by +the Italy of Shakespeare. The art that remains (by the way, in +one dismantled hall I found the empty stucco frames of our +Triumph of Julius Caesar!) is, indeed, often clumsy and +cheap--elaborate medallions and ceilings by Giulio Romano and +Primaticcio; but one feels that it once appealed to an +Ariosto-Tasso mythological romance which was perfectly +genuine, and another sort of romance now comes with its being +so forlorn. + +Forlorn, forlorn! And everywhere, from the halls with +mouldering zodiacs and Loves of the Gods and Dances of the +Muses; and across hanging gardens choked with weeds and fallen +in to a lower level, appear the blue waters of the lake, and +its green distant banks, to make it all into Fairyland. There +is, more particularly, a certain long, long portico, not far +from Isabella d'Este's writing closet, dividing a great green +field planted with mulberry trees, within the palace walls, +from a fringe of silvery willows growing in the pure, lilied +water. Here the Dukes and their courtiers took the air when +the Alps slowly revealed themselves above the plain after +sunset; and watched, no doubt, either elaborate quadrilles and +joustings in the riding-school, on the one hand, or boat-races +and all manner of water pageants on the other. We know it all +from the books of the noble art of horsemanship: plumes and +curls waving above curvetting Spanish horses; and from the +rarer books of sixteenth and seventeenth century masques and +early operas, where Arion appears on his colossal dolphin +packed with _tiorbos_ and _violas d'amore_, singing some mazy +_aria_ by Caccini or Monteverde, full of plaintive flourishes +and unexpected minors. We know it all, the classical pastoral +still coloured with mediaeval romance, from Tasso and +Guarini--nay, from Fletcher and Milton. Moreover, some +chivalrous Gonzaga duke, perhaps that same Vincenzo who had +the blue and gold ceiling made after the pattern of the +labyrinth in which he had been kept by the Turks, not too +unlike, let us hope, Orsino of Illyria, and by his side a not +yet mournful Lady Olivia; and perhaps, directing the concert +at the virginal, some singing page Cesario.... Fancy a water +pastoral, like the Sabrina part of "Comus," watched from that +portico! The nymph Manto, founder of Mantua, rising from the +lake; cardboard shell or real one? Or the shepherds of Father +Virgil, trying to catch hold of Proteus; but all in ruffs and +ribbons, spouting verses like "Amyntas" or "The Faithful +Shepherdess." And now only the song of the frogs rises up from +among the sedge and willows, where the battlemented castle +steeps its buttresses in the lake. + +There is another side to this Shakespearean palace, not of +romance but of grotesqueness verging on to horror. There are +the Dwarfs' Apartments! Imagine a whole piece of the building, +set aside for their dreadful living, a rabbit warren of tiny +rooms, including a chapel against whose vault you knock your +head, and a grand staircase quite sickeningly low to descend. +Strange human or half-human kennels, one trusts never really +put to use, and built as a mere brutal jest by a Duke of +Mantua smarting under the sway of some saturnine little +monster, like the ones who stand at the knee of Mantegna's +frescoed Gonzagas. + +After seeing the Castello and the Corte Nuova one naturally +thinks it one's duty to go and see the little Palazzo del Te, +just outside the town. Inconceivable frescoes, colossal, +sprawling gods and goddesses, all chalk and brick dust, enough +to make Rafael, who was responsible for them through his +abominable pupils, turn for ever in his coffin. Damp-stained +stuccoes and grass-grown courtyards, and no sound save the +noisy cicalas sawing on the plane-trees. How utterly forsaken +of gods and men is all this Gonzaga splendour! But all round, +luxuriant green grass, and English-looking streams winding +flush among great willows. We left the Palazzo del Te very +speedily behind us, and set out toward Pietola, the birthplace +of Virgil. But the magic of one of the lakes bewitched us. We +sat on the wonderful green embankments, former fortifications +of the Austrians, with trees steeping in the water, and a +delicious, ripe, fresh smell of leaves and sun-baked flowers, +and watched quantities of large fish in the green shadow of +the railway bridge. In front of us, under the reddish town +walls, spread an immense field of white water lilies; and +farther off, across the blue rippled water, rose the towers +and cupolas and bastions of the Gonzaga's palace--palest pink, +unsubstantial, utterly unreal, in the trembling heat of the +noontide. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ariadne in Mantua, by Vernon Lee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARIADNE IN MANTUA *** + +***** This file should be named 37169.txt or 37169.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/1/6/37169/ + +Produced by Andrea Ball, Christine Bell & Marc D'Hooghe +at http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously +made available by the Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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