Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  By ten o’clock, all the retainers were at prayer in the unfinished chapel of the palace; the townspeople were summoned by the great bell to the cathedral; each man carried a taper and went barefoot; there was much outward solemnity and devotion, although when whisperers got together in the crowd you might have heard a great deal of incredulous wit about the miracle, and Saint-Orsino (as they took to calling him) and the Jordan water. The Duke confessed himself, received plenary absolution and partook of the sacrament, with so much enthusiasm and his fancy running so high at the moment, that if you were to believe himself, a miracle had already been wrought in his behalf. Then he drank off the remainder of the blessed water, the doctor administered the opiate, the lights were shaded, the priest fell to silent prayer in the oratory, and the penitent was soon asleep in the hope of a miraculous restoration on the morrow.

  At an early hour, as the priest was still muttering prayers with a somewhat sleepy fervency, he felt a hand laid upon his shoulder, and beheld Orsino standing by him in a bed-gown, his face lit up with joy as by sunlight. He had raised himself and walked thither, without help. Both knelt a while before the altar and returned thanks. Then the physician was summoned and the Duchess and all the retainers and servants of the palace. The bell of the chapel passed the signal to the great bell of the Cathedral. The news flew from mouth to mouth, from house to house, from street to street. Those who were devout, went and prostrated themselves in the churches. Those who were loyal or politic, hung their houses with rich carpets and cast flowers upon the pavement. Those who were simply indifferent went, nevertheless, and drank wine at the public fountain. Those who were incredulous shook their heads and winked and made epigrams. But none among all who were astonished were astonished so much as Bartolomeo della Scala and his son, the beautiful Gian Pietro, who had carefully emptied the bottle and filled it again with putrid water from the town moat...

  Nearly a month went by without much accident. Sanazarro worked on doggedly at the tomb. Orsino continued to mend and gather strength; and as he mended, he was ever less with the priest and more with his uncle Cosmo. I could never hear that any but the most inconsiderable property was restored; but what was done in this way, was done with all the ostentation in the world. At last, came the day for public thanksgiving. Standing before the great door of the Cathedral, Orsino confessed with a loud voice his sins against God and the townspeople, and vowed a different life in the future. He vowed also to lead back Bartolomeo by the hand, into the town from which he had wrongfully expelled him years before. The country should be no more wasted by this insensate feud. Peace, plenty, and equal rule, in as far as it lay in his hands and in as far as God should help him — this was what he promised to his subjects on that great occasion.

  And there the thing rested. Many golden words, some reforms in detail, a milder and perhaps a more equitable executive in all the states, and no more. It is true that there were continual preparations being made for the reception of Bartolomeo; it is true that a day had been fixed on which the Duke was to go to visit him in sackcloth and ask pardon for his misdeeds; and true that Bartolomeo had agreed to be entertained on the night following at Orsino’s palace. But the poor confessor was not satisfied; he began to guess shrewdly that all his sleepless nights had been somewhat thrown away; that Orsino’s health had been restored, but not his heart renovated. One day, he lost patience and broke out.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you were raised some time ago by a miracle from the bed of death. Tempt not the living God, lest He cut you off as suddenly and strangely as He raised you up.’

  The Duke pressed down the tip of his nose with his forefinger and puffed out his cheeks; his face became the very picture of humorous incredulity.

  ‘Why, as to miracle,’ he said, ‘as to miracle, father, let us not insist too far. It has a good sound; I would have the people continue to speak of it; I will even strike a medal and found a chapel in its commemoration. But on a little thought, dear father, you may remember that I could move the night before the miracle.’

  The priest thereupon went away, and I think he had some matter for reflexion as he went. This is a very sad end for so glorious a story, is it not?

  This little bit of conversation may be dated, I believe, the day before Orsino’s visit to Della Scala’s castle. If so, it would be on the next forenoon that Sanazarro threw open his workshop for inspection; for the sculptor was very absolute, and played Michael Angelo on a small scale in the palace: it was not every day of the week that an eager patron was allowed to mark the progress of his statues, as they grew towards shape and significance. And so when Orsino heard the good news, he did not hesitate to put off the period of his departure by some hours, and go immediately to the studio with his wife, his uncle, bandy-legged Cosmo, and a due following of gentlemen. The Duke, as I have said, had a refined and passionate appreciation of good art; and, as the sculptor had surpassed himself in the design and, so far as it was finished, in the execution, his ecstasy was so natural and uncontrolled that both Sanazarro and the Duchess blushed for pride and pleasure. Suddenly, as he was going from one part to another, full of graceful praise, fine appreciation, and valuable criticism, he stayed for a moment before one of the large figures.

  ‘This is the Duchess,’ said he, and he looked sharply at the pair. Sanazarro preserved an imperturbable countenance, but Ippolita was plainly discomposed under his eyes. The Duke put his eyes through the sculptor’s in the most friendly manner: ‘This is a very graceful compliment, Signor,’ he said. ‘In the Duchess’s name and in my own, I offer you thanks. And now be so good as to tell me what fable, what allegory, what general conception, binds your design together; for I own I can scarcely understand the position of this admirable portrait-statue.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord,’ replied Sanazarro, ‘your lordship understands art too well to force upon me so unfair a trial. Doubtless, when I designed the tomb, I had some such allegory as you desire before me; but, my lord, I have described it in these figures, and cannot otherwise describe it without falling short or going too far. You will not ask me to caricature my own work, my lord.’

  It is characteristic of Orsino, although he had put the question with an ulterior purpose, that this argument closed his mouth. He agreed cordially with Sanazarro, and continued loudly to criticise and compliment the statues, while he was silently turning over a very different question in his mind. ‘Plainly there is an understanding between them,’ he thought. ‘If I could but foster this, I might be rid of her with a good conscience, marry Isotta, and so save my soul alive’; for he had always one eye on eternity, even in his most criminal moments. At last it was time for him to trick himself out for the penitential visit to Bartolomeo. ‘Signor Sanazarro,’ he said, ‘I recommend my Duchess to your attention. Ippolita, you have not tended enough upon our guest. Give him your hand into the garden.’

  No sooner were these two alone in an open part of the garden, where no eavesdropper could come near them, than Sanazarro asked what this should signify.

  ‘Nay,’ she answered, ‘something evil. I had thought that if God raised him up by this wonder, He would give him a new spirit. But it is not so. He has been already to visit that bad woman.’

  ‘Isotta!’ ejaculated Sanazarro.

  The Duchess bowed. ‘I do not think,’ she continued, ‘that I shall abide here many days longer. I have done my utmost to forgive and better this man, and I will not stay to be degraded uselessly. It is well that we should not tempt Heaven either, my dear friend.’

  ‘But you will tell me whither you go?’ he asked.

  ‘Not so. We are weak creatures all. And remember this, that I have bright blood in my veins that does not fear death, but cannot bear dishonour. God keep us all from sin,’ she added, crossing herself. ‘Even now there are eyes upon us, I do not doubt. We must separate, my friend. Make the tomb worthy of your genius. I doubt not, we shall meet again in God’s justice, when we may dare to be happy.’

  ‘This is not fare
well?’ he said.

  ‘Fear not,’ she answered. ‘I shall see you ere I go.’

  The day went heavily for Sanazarro. He returned to the studio and sought to work, but it would not come from his hands; his head was full of fancies, but the power of execution had deserted him; so he gave up the attempt and went out into the garden, driven by a dull restlessness. He found there a young man, a hired sword of Orsino’s, — handsome, brave, and utterly wicked, who had formed a sort of intimacy with the sculptor for the love of his statues, and was just then somewhat touched in his head with wine.

  ‘Have you your poniard sharp, Sanazarro?’ he asked, coming up with an extravagant gesture.

  ‘Do you mean my chisel?’ said the sculptor. ‘I am going but now to the wheel with it; though, indeed, I fancy it was the hand that was heavy and not the poor instrument that was blunt.’ And he drew a chisel from a pouch at his girdle.

  The young man damned all double meaning heartily. ‘Your poniard, man,’ he reiterated,— ‘your dagger — your little tickle-the heart. Great death, Sanazarro, have you not heard the news?’ And he steadied himself by the full of the sculptor’s sleeve. ‘Do you not know the ball’s on for tomorrow night? God’s malison, are you not ready to make an end of them?’

  Sanazarro was stricken by a great doubt suddenly; he led on the drunken mercenary, until he learned from him, that the next night’s festival was meant only as a snare for Bartolomeo and his son; that, at an hour not yet decided, they should be slain while they slept, with a great uproar, and the rumour spread among the townsfolk that they had attempted their host’s life by treachery, and justly fallen in the attempt. So soon as it was possible, he disengaged himself from his informant, and got away into an alley alone. The sun was down already, but the upper windows of the palace were all encrimsoned, and the bartisans and turret tops and chimneys stood out against the veiled sky, as it were the colour of blood. Sanazarro put his hand before his eyes: Bartolomeo had been amongst his earliest patrons, and the blood upon that long line of pinnacles and windows was to him as the blood of his patron. He was not chary of life; but a horror rose up in his throat, like sickness, against the demon who had gone forth some hours ago upon his treacherous mission. As his thoughts began to collect themselves, however, he overcame this physical oppression of disgust, and became once more cool and provident. He hurried to the gate nearest the palace, where he was well known to the warder and had been let out and in already at forbidden hours, and arranged that, on the morrow, the gate should be open, whatever inconsistent consign should be given forth, on the payment of a small sum and the repetition of a certain watchword. While he was still chaffering there, the noise of a trumpet told him of the Duke’s return. He hurried back to the palace. The confessor was the only person in whom he dared confide; and the confessor he hoped to find for a moment ere the feast began.

  But Orsino, during his penitential ride, had found time for reflexion, and come to think differently of any intimacy between the sculptor and his wife. Somehow or other, he had succeeded in making himself jealous; and the first thing he had done, on his return, was to issue an order for the arrest of Sanazarro. At the same time, as he was not quite certain whether he might not go back again to his former scheme, and perhaps was a little ashamed of the proceeding, this arrest was to be kept secret; the sculptor was to be reported on a visit to the marble quarries, and meanwhile was to be used with no needless indignity.

  The captain of halberdiers charged with this duty, met Sanazarro as he went hither and thither seeking the confessor, and requested a few words with him in private. The sculptor, thinking no ill, followed down the corridor, until he found himself surrounded by several men, and was bidden to give up his sword. Resistance was impossible. He freed his rapier and surrendered it to the officer. He was led down a stair and along several passages, and then a door was opened, he was pushed into a cell and heard the door lock behind him.

  At supper that evening, the Duke drank several glasses of a strong wine — too strong, as the result proved, for his head, which was not yet well assured. He grew flushed and voluble and fierce; he taunted his wife to her face about Sanazarro’s statue; it was plain enough, he said, that the sculptor had seen his model through coloured glasses. ‘If you had been as beautiful as your minion makes you, we should have been faster friends, Signora’; and he began to compare her disparagingly — and in a grumbling but still audible undertone — with the more luxuriant Isotta. Some of his worthless adherents tittered approvingly; and the bandylegged Cosmo leaned over and cracked a joke of his own in Orsino’s ear, which set the Duke and two or three near him into open and insulting laughter. Ippolita had to bear herself with as good a grace as she could, meanwhile, and keep a composed demeanour under all these eyes.

  The next morning early she presented herself before the Duke with a severe reverence, and requested his permission to go once again into the seclusion of a religious house; he was now re-established in health, and she could be of no further use to him in the capacity of nurse; in no other, she feared, was she fit to adorn his court. The Duke laughed heartily; he was glad that she should take some revenge upon him for his last night’s behaviour, with which (to say truth) he had not been altogether satisfied on cool reflexion; he was glad that she should speak with irony, for it seemed to put them on a level. Nor was he much grieved at her request; in his better moments, he had just enough respect for his wife to find her presence a restraint on his free action; and besides, in his new whim of jealousy, he was pleased that she should be separated from Sanazarro.

  ‘My permission!’ he said, repeating her words. ‘Nay, it is all the other way. Do me justice, Signora. I asked you very humbly to come to me when I was sick; now that I am well, I am afraid I must prepare myself to lose you. Whenever you cease to pity me, I understand very well that you begin to despise.’ And he made her a fine bow.

  ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘I wish to tell you otherwise. But for this grace of yours in letting me go, I thank you from the heart.’

  ‘Stay, though, stay,’ interrupted Orsino. ‘I cannot let you go before tomorrow. I desire your presence at the feast tonight. It will be but a lame ceremony, if my Duchess were absent, when I eat and drink in reconciliation with my old enemy.’

  ‘I shall never more eat at your board of my own free will. If you compel me, I fear my presence will not add to your mirth. I warn you I shall not care to dissemble my true feelings.’

  ‘Then, Signora,’ the Duke answered with a laugh, ‘we were as well without you, as you say. Do this for me at least, and if you go this morning, cover your face with a thick veil, and speak to no one. In an hour’s time, the escort will await you at the postern — we require all our men for tonight’s pageantry.’ And kissing her hand in a very gallant and airy manner, the Duke led her to the door.

  As soon as she was gone, Cosmo stepped forth from the oratory where he had been concealed throughout the interview. ‘You should have made her stay,’ he said. ‘Your wife gone, the half of your penitential credit goes with her. Bartolomeo will be ready to suspect the very walls.’

  ‘Not so,’ replied Orsino. ‘The Duchess is indisposed this evening; she has fatigued herself nursing me during my sickness; tomorrow, she will be better. The tale goes like a glove.’

  Just then Lippo entered the room; and Orsino whispered a few phrases in his ear, of which Cosmo caught no more than the word ‘Isotta’. The man went to the door, and then returned and whispered back again, as though he were not sure of having rightly comprehended. ‘No, no,’ said the Duke, with a stamp. ‘Where are your seven wits? In the Belvedere.’ The valet nodded and withdrew; and his master remained for some seconds in thought, and in thought that was seemingly disagreeable to him, for his brows were gathered together darkly, and his underlip was drawn in, as in a timorous uncertainty. ‘God have mercy upon me,’ he said, at last, ‘this is like the mad wicked old days before my chastisement.’

  ‘Not dissimilar truly,’ returned
Cosmo.

  ‘I fear I am a great backslider,’ said the Duke; and he fell actively to his beads.

  The older man put his hand on the other’s shoulder, and shook him: ‘Leave me these playthings alone,’ he said. ‘You may go back to your prayers tomorrow; but today is the day for business.’

  Orsino hesitated, and looked from his chaplet to the severe visage of his uncle, and back again from Cosmo to the beads. ‘I wish I knew whether or not it was a miracle,’ he said with a sigh. And then the two fell to their preparations in all seriousness.

  Ippolita was astonished to hear of Sanazarro’s departure, the night before, to the marble quarries; she was even a little offended that he should thus have gone without a word. But she had no time for reflexion: before the hour was out, she and her maid, both closely veiled, were hurried through the postern and, with an escort of three horsemen, took the road that leads north-eastward into the hills.

  The sculptor awoke late in the morning of the fatal day. The cell was full of sunshine already. As he had not been searched, he still had his chisel in his pouch, and a brief examination of the door showed him that he could free himself by the labour of half an hour; but as the corridor sounded all day long with the passage of many feet, he judged it wiser to wait until the feast began, when the whole household would be concentrated about the kitchen and the hall, and there would be few to come and go about this remote wing. The time passed heavily, and he had many grave anxieties to torment him. If he had been arrested because the Duke was jealous, might not the same fate have befallen Ippolita? Even if she were free, he feared some mischance in the confusion of the massacre. He was eaten up with impatience, and paced his prison as a wild beast paces its cage. From without he could hear carpenters hammering at the great platform on which the Duke’s private actors were to represent an allegorical play, written by the Duke’s private poet. As the day drew on, this noise dropped off, hammer by hammer, until it had entirely ceased: the stage was ready. Soon after, there was a long flourish of drums and trumpets in the distance; at the same moment all the bells of the town fell a-ringing; and Sanazarro knew that Orsino and his guest had entered the gate amid a mighty acclamation of the mob. The shouting drew nearer; until at last it halted just outside the palace, and there redoubled and grew more confused: the company were taking their places for the spectacle. Then the trumpets sounded once more, the roar of the mob settled down with a growl into silence, only disturbed, for the space of an hour, by the thin tones of the actors declaiming inaudible verses, by a little half-suppressed applause now and then from the audience, and now and then a roll on the drums or a blast upon the trumpets to accentuate some important moment of the action. The piece came to an end amid general satisfaction; the mob dispersed slowly as the sun went down; and Sanazarro was left to count time by the bell until the feast should begin.