_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.