_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.