Act 5

________________________________________________
_ ACT V

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]
Vernon Lee's play: Ariadne in Mantua

_


Read previous: Act 4

Table of content of Ariadne in Mantua


GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book