The days were beginning to darken early. It was the season when exotic
flowers of passion luxuriate under glass, in that close coverture which
is the very opposite to the law's understanding of the term.
Beatrice, like all tropical things, loved this time; basked in the glow
of tapers; hugged her own warm sweetness in the confidence of a
sanctuary for ever besieged by, and for ever impervious to, the forces
of cold and gloom. To fancy herself the desired of night, unattainable
through all its storming, was a commanding ecstasy. She liked to hear
the hail on the roof, trampling and threshing for an opening, and
flinging away baffled. The muffled slam of the thunder was her lullaby;
while the candles shivered in it, she closed her eyes and dreamed. The
thought of wrenched clouds, of crying human shapes, of torn beasts and
birds sobbing and circling without the closed curtains of her shrine,
served her imagination like a hymn. She measured her content against
the strength of such hopeless appeals, like a very nun of incontinence,
shut from the rigour of the world within the scented oratory of her own
worship. She was Venus Anno Domini, the Paphian goddess yet
undethroned, and yet justified of her influence over man and Nature.
'_About her carven palace walls a thousand blossoming lilies
brake;_
_Within, a thousand years of love had wrought, for utter
beauty's sake,_
_Triumphs of art for her blue eyes, and for her feet rich
stained floors,_
_And ever in her ears sweet moan of music down dim corridors?_
Agapemone was her temple, and its inmost chamber her shrine. Here,
under stained glass windows, ran a frieze in relievo of warm
terra-cotta, thronged with little goat-faced satyrs pursuing nymphs
through groves of pregnant vines. Here, supporting the frieze, were
pilasters of blood-red porphyry, which burst high up into fronds of
gold; while, screening the interspaces on the walls, were panels of
glowing tapestry relating the legend of Adonis, from his first budding
on the enchanted tree to his final shrouding under the winter of love's
grief. Here, also, the faces of dead Capronas, past lords of this House
Beautiful, winked and gloated out of shadowy corners, whenever a log,
toppling over on the hearth, sent up a shower of sparks. Prominent in
one place was a tall massive clock, copper and brass, a
_chef-d'[oe]uvre_ of Dondi the horologist, which thudded the hours
melodiously, like a chime of distant bells, and made the swooning senses
in love with time. Couches there were everywhere, soft and wooing to
the soul of languor; thick rugs and skins upon the marble floor; tables
with clawed legs, of chalcedony or jasper, on which were scattered in
lovely wantonness a hundred toys of Elysium. Lutes, sweets, and goblets
of rich repousse; wine in green flasks, and delicate long-stemmed
glasses; an ivory and silver crucifix, half-hidden under a pile of
raisins; two love-birds in a gilded cage, and a golden salver containing
an aspic of larks' tongues, tilted upon a volume of some French Romaunt
touching the knightly adventures of Messer Roland a troubadour--these
and their like, varied or repeated, returned, in a thousandfold interest
of colour and sparkle, the soft investment of the tapers--enough, but
not too many--in their beauty. One velvet cloth had been swept from its
place, spilling upon a rug, where it sprawled unregarded, its costly
burden of a begemmed chalice, a pair of perfumed gloves, and an
illuminated volume of sonnets in a jewelled cover, dedicated to the
goddess herself, and celebrating, in letters of gold and silver on
vellum, her incomparable seductions. She had pulled them over, no
doubt, when she reached for the orange which now, untasted, filled her
hand, soft and covetous as a child's.
The warmth and drowsy stillness of the room penetrated her as she lay
holding it. Gradually her lids closed, her bare arm drooped from its
sleeve, and the orange rolled on the floor. Her thoughts and
expectations had been already busy for an hour with, 'Will he come?
Will he come? Will he come?' It had been like counting sheep trotting
through a hedge--one, two, three, four--up to a hundred--and now her
drugged brain confused the tally, and she seemed to herself to swerve
all in a moment into a luminous mist.
He entered like a pale scented flower into her dream--a soft and shapely
thing, melting into its ecstasy, fulfilling its enchantment. She held
him, and whispered to him: 'The hour, sweet love! Is it mine at
last?'--and, so murmuring, stirred and opened her eyes.
He was there, close by her, looking down upon her as she lay. How pale
was his face, and how wistful. His walk through the icy dark had but
just tinted it, as when November flaws blow the snow from the rose's
dead cheek. He looked dispirited and tired. The childlike pathos of
his eyes moved her heart-strings no less than did the red, combative
swelling of his lips. She longed to master him in order to be mastered.
Her hedonism's highest moral attainment was always in pleasing herself
by surrendering herself to the pleasure of another; and how, knowing
herself, could she doubt the irresistible persuasiveness of her faith?
She did not speak for a little, the wine of slumber in her brain
emboldening her in the meanwhile to dare this vision with her beauty, to
seek her response in its eyes. Her cheeks, her half-closed lids, were,
like a baby's, flushed with sleep. Suddenly she stirred, and, smiling
and murmuring, held out white arms to it:--
'The hour thou sang'st to me! Bernardo, hast thou come to make that
mine?'
He stood as if stricken--white, dumfoundered. She stretched her
shoulders a little, and, raising her hands, put their rosy knuckles to
her eyes; and so relaxed all, and drooped.
'I was dreaming,' she murmured. 'I thought thou camest to me and said:
"Beatrice, I will forego that heaven for thy sake. Give me the hour, to
kiss and shame." She stole a glance at him, and dropped her clasped
hands to her lap, and hung her head. 'And I answered,' she whispered,
'"Take it, and make one woman happy."'
He gave a little cry. And then, suddenly, before he could move or
speak, she had sat up swiftly, and whipped her arms about his neck, and
pulled him to the couch beside her.
'Listen,' she urged--'nay, thou shalt not go. I hold thy weakness in a
vice. Struggle, and I will tighten it. Listen, child, while I tell thee
a child's tale. It is about a huntsman that followed a voice; and he
pushed into a thicket, and lo! enchantment seized him beyond. And he
whispered amazed, "What is this?" and the voice answered, "Love--the end
to all thy hunting." O! little huntsman of Nature, be content. Thou
hast traced the voice of thy long longing to its home.'
She repaid his struggles with kisses, his wild protests with honeyed
words. He set his pretty teeth at her, and she pouted her mouth to
them; he hurled insult at her head, and she bore the sweet ache of it
for the sake of the lips that bruised. When he desisted, exhausted, she
would get in her soft pleas, rebuking him with a tearful meekness:--
'Ay, scourge me, set thy teeth in me, only hate me not. Shalt find me
but the tenderer, being whipped. Talk on of Nature. Is it not natural
to want to be loved; and, for a woman, in a woman's way?'
'Forbear!--O, wicked! O, thou harlot!' he panted, still fighting with
her.
'Lie still! So a sick infant quarrels with its food,' she answered. 'O
love--dear love, will you not hear reason?'
'Reason!' he stormed. 'O, thou siren! to beguile me here on that lying
pretext, and thus shame me for my trust!'
'No lie,' she pleaded. 'Thou shalt have the ring indeed.'
'At thy price? I will die first.'
'Bernardo!'
'_Thou_ to talk of natural love! False to it; false to thy lord; false
even to thy stained bed! Unhand me! Why, I loathe thee.'
'Not yet.'
Her eyes were hot waters, all misted over with passion. 'Thou canst not
indeed, so pitiful to the worst. I cry to thee in my need. I knew thee
first. Bernardo! will you forsake your friend?'
'Friend!'
'Ay. Only tell me what you would do with the ring?'
'What but return it to her that trusted me with it,'
'And for what reward?--Nay, strive not.'
'My conscience's peace--just that. Unclasp thy hands.'
'See there! Her gratitude would kill it in thee for ever. As would be
hers to thee, so be thine to me. Art thou for a fall? Fall soft, then,
on my love. She will not let thee down so kindly, who hath a lord and
duchy to consider.'
He made a supreme effort--her robe tore in his hand--and, breaking from
her, stood panting and disordered. She made no effort to recapture him,
but, flinging herself to abandonment, sobbed and sighed.
'O, I am undone! Wilt thou forsake me? Kill me first! Nay, I will not
let thee go!'
She sprang to her feet. He leapt away from her.
'Beast!' he cried, 'that foulest our garden! I will have thee whipped
out of Milan with a bow-string.'
Scorn and hatred flashed into her face. She was no longer Venus, but
Ashtoreth, the goddess of unclean frenzy.
'Thou wilt?' she hissed. 'I thank thee for that warning. Go, sir, and
claim thy doxy to thy vengeance. She will leap, I promise thee, to that
chance. Only, wouldst thou view the sport'--she struck her naked bosom
relentlessly--'by this I advise thee--O, I advise thee like a
lover!--hide well in her skirts--hide well. They will need to be thick
and close to screen thee from a woman scorned. Wilt thou not go? I
have the ring, I tell thee--_I_, myself, no other. Let her know.
She'll bid thee pay the price perchance--too late. A fatal ring to
thee. Why art thou lingering? I would not spare thee now, though thou
knelt'st and prayed to me with tears of blood.'
She stood up rigid, her hands clenched, as, without another word,
Bernardo turned, and, stalking with high head and glittering eyes,
passed out of the room.
But, the moment the door had closed upon him, she flung herself face
downwards on the couch, writhing and choking and clutching at her
throat.
'I must kill him,' she moaned; 'I must kill my love!'
*CHAPTER XIX*
The hitch in the progress of the harvest came ever a little and a little
more into evidence: the smut darkened on the ear; the whisper of a
threatened blight grew from vague to articulate--grew clearer, grew
bolder--until, lo!--all in a moment it was a definite voice.
This happened on the morning succeeding Bernardo's visit to the Casa
Caprona--a visit of which, it would appear, the Duchess of Milan had
been made somehow cognisant.
Bona, on this morning, came into the hall of council, her white hand
laid, as she walked, upon the shoulder of Messer Cecco Simonetta, the
State Secretary. That light, caressing touch was an arresting one to
some eyes observing it--Ludovico's among the number. Its like, in that
particular context of confidence and affection, had not been seen for
many weeks--never, indeed, since the secretary had taken it upon himself
to caution his mistress on the subject of a perilous fancy. He would
have had no wish to balk any whim of hers that turned on
self-indulgence. It was this whim of self-renunciation which had
alarmed him. There was a mood which might conceivably vindicate itself
in the sacrifice of a kingdom to a sentiment. Such things had happened;
and saints were men. He would put it to her with all humility.
And she had listened and answered icily: 'I thank thee, Messer
Secretary. But our faith is commensurate with our purpose, which is to
sweep out our house, not pull it down. What then? Dread'st thou to be
included in the scourings? Fear not. It is no part of our faith to
forget our obligations.'
Which was a cruel response; but its hauteur silenced Mr. Secretary. And
thenceforth he served in silence, watching, anxiously enough, the
progress of his lady's infatuation, and feeling at last immensely
relieved when on this day, her warm palm settled on his shoulder,
melting the long frost between them.
She looked rather wistfully into his worn eyes, and smiled a little tale
without words of confidence restored. And he, for his part, spoke of no
matters less commonplace than the State's welfare.
'The Duke will make Christmas with us, Madonna,' he said; 'I have
advices from him.'
'He will be most welcome,' she answered, and her face coloured with real
pleasure. But the next moment it was like snow, and its vision hard
crystals of frost. She had seen the Saint Magistrate advancing to
accost her.
There was a strange look in the boy's eyes as they gazed, unflinchingly
nevertheless, into hers--a look mingled of pain and doubt and fortitude.
She had said no unkind word to him; yet a frost can nip without wind;
and surely here was a plant very sensitive to the human atmosphere. He
questioned her face a little; then spoke out bold, though low--while
Messer Ludovico, turning papers at the table, was very busy--watching.
'Madonna, wilt thou walk apart? I am fain to crave thy private ear a
moment.'
She stood like ice.
'Touching whose shortcomings now?' she asked aloud, and with a little
cold laugh which disdained that implied confidence.
He gazed at her steadily, though in trouble.
'Nay, I spoke of none. It is of moment. Madonna, I entreat thee.'
For an instant the milk of her sweetened to him. He was such a baby
after all. And then she remembered whence he had lately come, and gall
flooded her veins--gall not so much of jealousy, perhaps, as of
contempt. Doubtless, she thought, he could have ventured himself into
that hothouse in the Via Sforza with impunity, since, though spirit he
might be, he was of that uninflammability that his virtue amounted to
little better than the virtue of sexlessness. She felt almost glad, at
last, to have this excuse for dissociating herself from a cause which
had always chilled, and had ceased now for some time even to amuse her.
Feel no surprise over the seeming suddenness of her revolt. Apart from
her position, this Duchess of Milan was never anything but a typical
woman, common-souled, lacking spiritual sensitiveness, leaning to her
masculine peers. Breeding was her business, and motherhood her passion.
She took no more jar of offence from the intimate custody of babies,
than does a cat in licking open the eyes of its seven-days born. Her
refinements were adventitious, an accident of her condition. She had
felt it no outrage to her stately loveliness to yield it to Tassino's
usings. She had that Madonna-like serenity of face which is the
expression of an inviolable mindlessness; and no impressions other than
physical could long pervade her. Stupidity is the rarest
beauty-preserver; and it is to be feared that Bona was stupid.
Now, it is to be remembered that Bernardo had not mentioned shortcomings
at all; but her object being to snub rather than answer him, she chose
to take refuge in her sex's prerogative of intuition. Dwelling a moment
in a rising temper, she suddenly flounced on him.
'If you will seek doubtful company, Messer, you must not cry out to have
your fervour misread by it.'
He was about to answer; but she stopped him peremptorily.
'Women will be women, good or bad. We cannot promote a civil war in
Milan to avenge some pin-prick to thy conscience. Indeed, sir, we weary
a little of this precisianism. Is it come to be a sin to laugh, to warm
our hands at a fire, to prefer a fried collop to a wafer? You must
forgive us, like the angel that you are. We are human, after all, and
pledged to human policies. Our State's before the magistracy. There are
things weightier to discuss than a mischief's naughty word. We cannot
hear you now.'
She turned away, relenting but a little, though flushed and trembling.
'Come, brother,' she said. 'Shall we not pass to the order of the day?'
Ludovico responded with smooth and smiling alacrity. One could never
have guessed by his face the consternation which had seized his soul.
Yet, so cleverly had he hoodwinked himself, this sudden leap of light
was near staggering him. Merriment and warmth and fried collops? The
charge in its utter, its laughable irrelevancy, was, he thought, a
little hard on the saint, seeing how the gist of the new creed lay all
in a natural enjoyment of life's bounties. What powder had winged such
a startling shot?--weariness?--disenchantment?--remorseful hankerings,
perhaps, after a discarded suet pudding, which, after all, had been
infinitely more native to this woman's taste than the ethereal souffle,
whose frothy prettiness had for the moment appealed to her meat-fed
satiety?