_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