Ariadne in Mantua.
by Vernon Lee.
PREFACE
_"Alles Vergangliche ist nur ein Gleichniss"_
_It is in order to give others the pleasure of reading or re-reading a small masterpiece, that I mention the likelihood of the catastrophe of my_ Ariadne _having been suggested by the late Mr. Shorthouse's_ Little Schoolmaster Mark; _but I must ask forgiveness of my dear old friend, Madame Emile Duclaux_ (Mary Robinson), _for unwarranted use of one of the songs of her_ Italian Garden.
_Readers of my own little volume_ Genius Loci _may meanwhile recognise that I have been guilty of plagiarism towards myself also_.[1]
_For a couple of years after writing those pages, the image of the Palace of Mantua and the lakes it steeps in, haunted my fancy with that peculiar insistency, as of the half-lapsed recollection of a name or date, which tells us that we know (if we could only remember!)_ what happened in a place. _I let the matter rest. But, looking into my mind one day, I found that a certain song of the early seventeenth century_--(not _Monteverde's_ Lamento d'Arianna _but an air_, Amarilli, _by Caccini, printed alongside in Parisotti's collection_)--_had entered that Palace of Mantua, and was, in some manner not easy to define, the musical shape of what must have happened there. And that, translated back into human personages, was the story I have set forth in the following little Drama_.
_So much for the origin of_ Ariadne in Mantua, _supposing any friend to be curious about it. What seems more interesting is my feeling, which grew upon me as I worked over and over the piece and its French translation, that these personages had an importance greater than that of their life and adventures, a meaning, if I may say so, a little_ sub specie aeternitatis.
_For, besides the real figures, there appeared to me vague shadows cast by them, as it were, on the vast spaces of life, and magnified far beyond those little puppets that I twitched.
And I seem to feel here the struggle, eternal, necessary, between mere impulse, unreasoning and violent, but absolutely true to its aim; and all the moderating, the weighing and restraining influences of civilisation, with their idealism, their vacillation, but their final triumph over the mere forces of nature. These well-born people of Mantua, privileged beings wanting little because they have much, and able therefore to spend themselves in quite harmonious effort, must necessarily get the better of the poor gutter-born creature without whom, after all, one of them would have been dead and the others would have had no opening in life. Poor_ Diego _acts magnanimously, being cornered; but he (or she) has not the delicacy, the dignity to melt into thin air with a mere lyric Metastasian "Piangendo parte", and leave them to their untroubled conscience. He must needs assert himself, violently wrench at their heart-strings, give them a final stab, hand them over to endless remorse; briefly, commit that public and theatrical deed of suicide, splashing the murderous waters into the eyes of well-behaved wedding guests_.
_Certainly neither the_ Duke, _nor the_ Duchess Dowager, _nor_ Hippolyta _would have done this. But, on the other hand, they could calmly, coldly, kindly accept the self-sacrifice culminating in that suicide: well-bred people, faithful to their standards and forcing others, however unwilling, into their own conformity. Of course without them the world would be a den of thieves, a wilderness of wolves; for they are,--if I may call them by their less personal names,--Tradition, Discipline, Civilisation_.
_On the other hand, but for such as_ Diego _the world would come to an end within twenty years: mere sense of duty and fitness not being sufficient for the killing and cooking of victuals, let alone the begetting and suckling of children.
The descendants of_ Ferdinand _and_ Hippolyta, _unless they intermarried with some bastard of_ Diego's _family, would dwindle, die out; who knows, perhaps supplement the impulses they lacked by silly newfangled evil_.
_These are the contending forces of history and life: Impulse and Discipline, creating and keeping; love such as_ Diego's, _blind, selfish, magnanimous; and detachment, noble, a little bloodless and cruel, like that of the_ Duke of Mantua.
_And it seems to me that the conflicts which I set forth on my improbable little stage, are but the trifling realities shadowing those great abstractions which we seek all through the history of man, and everywhere in man's own heart_.
VERNON LEE.
Maiano, near Florence,
June, 1903.
ARIADNE IN MANTUA
ACT I
_The_ CARDINAL'S _Study in the Palace at Mantua. The_ CARDINAL _is seated at a table covered with Persian embroidery, rose-colour picked out with blue, on which lies open a volume of Machiavelli's works, and in it a manuscript of Catullus; alongside thereof are a bell and a magnifying-glass. Under his feet a red cushion with long tassels, and an oriental carpet of pale lavender and crimson_. _The_ CARDINAL _is dressed in scarlet, a crimson fur-lined cape upon his shoulders. He is old, but beautiful and majestic, his face furrowed like the marble bust of Seneca among the books opposite_.
_Through the open Renaissance window, with candelabra and birds carved on the copings, one sees the lake, pale blue, faintly rippled, with a rose-coloured brick bridge and bridge-tower at its narrowest point_. DIEGO (_in reality_ MAGDALEN) _has just been admitted into the_ CARDINAL'S _presence, and after kissing his ring, has remained standing, awaiting his pleasure_.
DIEGO _is fantastically habited as a youth in russet and violet tunic reaching below the knees in Moorish fashion, as we see it in the frescoes of Pinturicchio; with silver buttons down the seams, and plaited linen at the throat and in the unbuttoned purfles of the sleeves. His hair, dark but red where it catches the light, is cut over the forehead and touches his shoulders. He is not very tall in his boy's clothes, and very sparely built. He is pale, almost sallow; the face, dogged, sullen, rather expressive than beautiful, save for the perfection of the brows and of the flower-like singer's mouth. He stands ceremoniously before the_ CARDINAL, _one hand on his dagger, nervously, while the other holds a large travelling hat, looped up, with a long drooping plume_.
_The_ CARDINAL _raises his eyes, slightly bows his head, closes the manuscript and the volume, and puts both aside deliberately. He is, meanwhile, examining the appearance of_ DIEGO.
CARDINAL
We are glad to see you at Mantua, Signor Diego. And from what our worthy Venetian friend informs us in the letter which he gave you for our hands, we shall without a doubt be wholly satisfied with your singing, which is said to be both sweet and learned. Prythee, Brother Matthias (_turning to his_ Chaplain), bid them bring hither my virginal,--that with the Judgment of Paris painted on the lid by Giulio Romano; its tone is admirably suited to the human voice. And, Brother Matthias, hasten to the Duke's own theorb player, and bid him come straightways. Nay, go thyself, good Brother Matthias, and seek till thou hast found him. We are impatient to judge of this good youth's skill.
_The_ Chaplain _bows and retires_. DIEGO (_in reality_ MAGDALEN) _remains alone in the_ CARDINAL'S _presence. The_ CARDINAL _remains for a second turning over a letter, and then reads through the magnifying-glass out loud_.
CARDINAL
Ah, here is the sentence: "Diego, a Spaniard of Moorish descent, and a most expert singer and player on the virginal, whom I commend to your Eminence's favour as entirely fitted for such services as your revered letter makes mention of----"
Good, good.
_The_ CARDINAL _folds the letter and beckons_ Diego _to approach, then speaks in a manner suddenly altered to abruptness, but with no enquiry in his tone_.
Signor Diego, you are a woman----
DIEGO _starts, flushes and exclaims huskily_, "My Lord----."
_But the_ CARDINAL _makes a deprecatory movement and continues his sentence_.
and, as my honoured Venetian correspondent assures me, a courtesan of some experience and of more than usual tact. I trust this favourable judgment may be justified. The situation is delicate; and the work for which you have been selected is dangerous as well as difficult. Have you been given any knowledge of this case?
DIEGO _has by this time recovered his composure, and answers with respectful reserve_.
DIEGO
I asked no questions, your Eminence. But the Senator Gratiano vouchsafed to tell me that my work at Mantua would be to soothe and cheer with music your noble nephew Duke Ferdinand, who, as is rumoured, has been a prey to a certain languor and moodiness ever since his return from many years' captivity among the Infidels. Moreover (such were the Senator Gratiano's words), that if the Fates proved favourable to my music, I might gain access to His Highness's confidence, and thus enable your Eminence to understand and compass his strange malady.
CARDINAL
Even so. You speak discreetly, Diego; and your manner gives hope of more good sense than is usual in your sex and in your trade. But this matter is of more difficulty than such as you can realise. Your being a woman will be of use should our scheme prove practicable. In the outset it may wreck us beyond recovery. For all his gloomy apathy, my nephew is quick to suspicion, and extremely subtle. He will delight in flouting us, should the thought cross his brain that we are practising some coarse and foolish stratagem. And it so happens, that his strange moodiness is marked by abhorrence of all womankind.
For months he has refused the visits of his virtuous mother.
And the mere name of his young cousin and affianced bride, Princess Hippolyta, has thrown him into paroxysms of anger.
Yet Duke Ferdinand possesses all his faculties. He is aware of being the last of our house, and must know full well that, should he die without an heir, this noble dukedom will become the battlefield of rapacious alien claimants. He denies none of this, but nevertheless looks on marriage with unseemly horror.
DIEGO
Is it so?----And----is there any reason His Highness's melancholy should take this shape? I crave your Eminence's pardon if there is any indiscretion in this question; but I feel it may be well that I should know some more upon this point. Has Duke Ferdinand suffered some wrong at the hands of women? Or is it the case of some passion, hopeless, unfitting to his rank, perhaps?
CARDINAL
Your imagination, good Madam Magdalen, runs too easily along the tracks familiar to your sex; and such inquisitiveness smacks too much of the courtesan. And beware, my lad, of touching on such subjects with the Duke: women and love, and so forth. For I fear, that while endeavouring to elicit the Duke's secret, thy eyes, thy altered voice, might betray thy own.
DIEGO