Limbo and Other Essays Part 16

My uncle would, I almost think, exile our divine Diego, as Plato did the poets, for moving us too much.

PRINCE OF Ma.s.sA (_whispering_)

He has moved your n.o.ble husband strangely. Or is it, gracious bride, that too much happiness overwhelms our friend?

YOUNG d.u.c.h.eSS

(_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 G.o.ddess, Madam! Upon my soul (_whispering_), the bride is scarce as beautiful as he, although as fair as one of the n.o.ble 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 d.u.c.h.eSS)

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 d.u.c.h.eSS

(_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 sh.o.r.e, 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_ Baccha.n.a.ls, _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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 ba.s.s viols and lutes, and exeunt with_ BACCHUS.

YOUNG d.u.c.h.eSS

(_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 sh.o.r.es, 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 pa.s.sages, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 gra.s.s, And hear the larks and see the swallows pa.s.s; Only we live awhile, as children play, Without to-morrow, without yesterday.

_During the ritornello, between the two verses._