Part 8 (2/2)

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

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

DIEGO

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

CARDINAL

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

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

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

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

DIEGO

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

ACT II

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

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

d.u.c.h.eSS

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

DIEGO

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

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

d.u.c.h.eSS

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

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

DIEGO

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

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