_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.