_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.