Glorious Ones

by Francine Prose

  Columbina pretended to care for Flaminio. Often, I would see them conversing, see her stroking his head with her fat hand. But it is my well-considered opinion that Armanda was the only one of us who was deeply concerned. Sometimes, I saw tears pop into her eyes as she watched the Captain.

  So I was not at all surprised that night, when she came to my room at the palace. Indeed, only a man of my superb sensitivity could have predicted the entire scene so accurately. And, as a testament to my foresight, as a monument to posterity, I have recorded all the details of our little conversation. I have departed from my usual areas of excellence, I have surpassed myself: I have composed a sort of play.

  It is long past midnight, but there is no moon in the sky. Isabella sits in my room, on a corner of the silken-canopied bed; she appears even sadder than usual. At last, I gently remind her that it is time to return to Andreini’s room. I help her to the door; and, as she glides slowly out of my bedchamber, it does indeed seem that her feet do not quite touch the ground.

  In the doorway, she passes Armanda Ragusa, who is coming in. The dwarf raises herself up on tiptoe, peering curiously into Isabella’s face, as if to fathom some ineffable mystery. But Isabella, who will not look directly at anything but the moon, refuses to meet her eyes, and continues on her way.

  “Armanda,” I say graciously, “to what miracle of science or nature do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit, at this untimely hour?”

  “Stop it, Doctor,” replies the dwarf, who could not recognize graciousness if it came up and tripped over her flat feet. “I have come to ask you for a favor.”

  “Ah, Armanda,” I sigh. “You, too, have come to acknowledge the supreme wisdom of my medical knowledge!”

  “I have come to kiss your ass if necessary, Doctor,” she says. “I will do anything you ask, if you will give me what I want.”

  “And what is that?” I inquire.

  “I want you to do something for Flaminio,” she tells me, “I want you to heal his soul, to restore his spirit. I want you to make him the man he used to be, before this Isabella joined our troupe. For I cannot stand to see him this way—a shadow, a ghost. I would do anything to change it.”

  “Armanda!” I exclaim. “Why such sympathy for a used-up old man like the Captain?”

  The dwarf looks at me quickly, nervously, her crossed eyes wandering in their orbits like unsteady planets. “It is not sympathy,” she says. “It is just my suspicion of Andreini. I fear the consequences for all of us should he gain complete control of The Glorious Ones. That is why I want Flaminio made strong again.”

  “I am sorry, my dear,” I tell her. “But your beloved Flaminio has been weak—sick, if I may venture a medical opinion—for a long time.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Armanda.

  I can see that I have her interest, that she is waiting for me to expound my thesis, to dredge up the truth from the depths of my extraordinary knowledge.

  “I will tell you a story,” I say, “a secret, in strictest confidence, of course. For it would certainly be a gross betrayal of my medical ethics to reveal the intimate exchanges which transpire between myself and my patients within the sanctum of my tent.”

  “Of course,” nods Armanda.

  “All right, then,” I say. “As long as you understand. Well, then, tell me: do you remember that time, not so long ago, when Flaminio was so madly in love with Vittoria—despite the fact, which all of us could see, that her heart belonged wholly to Francesco?”

  “I believe that I know which time you mean,” snarls the dwarf. “But I have always thought that Flaminio secretly despised Vittoria for the slut she was. All that passion of his was merely a charade, for the purposes of the dramas he was playing on stage.”

  “You may think what you please,” I tell her, pursing my lips together. “But I know differently. For, one morning, the Captain—the great Flaminio Scala himself—came to me in tears.

  “ ‘Captain,’ I asked him. ‘What could be wrong? All the troupe knows that you finally got your desire last night—Vittoria went with you to your tent. Surely, you must have passed the night in the most sublime state of delight. So what could be wrong?

  “ ‘But wait. Forgive me if I am mistaken, but let me venture a diagnosis. Could it be that you have just discovered the truth, the simple fact which everyone else knows? Could it be that you have just realized that Vittoria only went with you in order to make Andreini jealous?’

  “ ‘Dottore,’ sighed the Captain. ‘Do you take me for a fool? Oh, how I wish it were that simple!’

  “ ‘Then what is troubling you?’ I persisted.

  “ ‘It is this,’ Flaminio blurted out. ‘I—Flaminio Scala, the greatest lover in the Western World, second in potency only to the great Sheik of Arabia—I, Flaminio Scala, could not perform the act of love with Vittoria Coroniti last night.’

  “ ‘I see,’ I nodded, avoiding his eyes and whistling softly through my teeth.

  “ ‘Doctor!’ cried Flaminio, more desperate man I’d ever seen him, even during the course of that first trip to France. ‘Help me! Is there nothing you can do?!’

  “ ‘I will do what I can,’ I said, smiling at the thought that even the Captain himself had at last come begging for a bit of my knowledge.

  “And so I began to treat Flaminio’s—shall we say—‘problem.’ I dosed him with tiger’s milk, with ground deer horn, powdered shark’s fin, dried sea horse, with all the most powerful remedies and aphrodisiacs known to modern medical science. I made a paste of secret, special ingredients, and rubbed it on his temples. I carefully instructed him to avoid exercise and milk products. I advised him to conjure up visions of amorous delights at the moment before sleep, so as to assure the most efficacious dreams. In short, I performed to the utmost limits of my medical capabilities.

  “But, each morning, Flaminio came to me with tears in his eyes, and told me that the little fellow between his legs was still as lifeless as the great pharaohs of Egypt…”

  Suddenly, I notice that I have completely captured Armanda’s attention. She is sitting forward on the edge of her chair, straining to catch my every word.

  “And so, my dear,” I say, very slowly, “you will never guess what I told him.”

  “What?” asks the dwarf, her voice trembling slightly as she speaks.

  “ ‘Flaminio,’ I told him, ‘it has just occurred to me: the fact that you cannot do it with Vittoria does not mean a thing. When there is such deep passion involved, many men cannot consummate their desire for the mistress of their dreams. They cannot bring themselves to debase the goddess they have worshiped for so long.

  “ ‘How careless of me to have overlooked this scientific truth! But now—lest we waste another minute—I will tell you what to do:

  “ ‘You must go and practice, Captain. You must find a woman whom you do not love at all, whom you value less than a bit of straw blown by the wind. Surely, there are several such women in the troupe. Armanda will be glad to oblige you, Captain, Columbina as well. And, if they do not agree, there are always the girls who crowd the stage after the performances.

  “ ‘You will see, Flaminio. It will be easy for you to do it with such a woman. You will gain confidence and assurance from it, so that the next time Vittoria consents to share your bed, I guarantee that you will not waste another golden opportunity.’ ”

  At this point in the drama, I am surprised to notice tears coursing down Armanda Ragusa’s face.

  “My dear!” I exclaim. “Why ever are you crying? Can I get you a mild sedative?”

  “I’m not crying!” snaps the dwarf, a mean look on her face. “It’s just that the filthy camphor you always burn is making my eyes smart!”

  “Camphor is good for you,” I assure her. “It soothes the humors, purges the lungs, strengthens the spirit. But you see, my dear, it is just as I told you—nothing could strengthen Flaminio’s spirit.

  “You must see, now, how long he has been ill. For years, he has b
een something less than a man. I fear that he is one of those gentlemen who will always have terrible difficulties with women. And I believe that these difficulties are in great measure responsible for the lethargy which is softening the Captain’s bones at this very moment. For, due to some reason which even I do not quite understand, he seems so frightened of our mad Isabella that he can barely bring himself to go on stage with her.”

  “Then you do not think he is madly in love with her like all the others?” asks the dwarf.

  “No,” I tell her. “Flaminio feels nothing for Isabella but pure terror.”

  At this, Armanda seems somewhat relieved. Brushing the tears from her eyes, she rises.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she says, her voice still hoarse. “I am grateful for the information. But you and I both know that if you were a real doctor—in fact, if you knew anything at all about medicine—there would be something you could do for our Captain.”

  Then, without another word, she leaves my room.

  As the curtain falls on my little scenario, I am smiling while I prepare for bed.

  At this point, I must make a confession. Even I, Dottore Graziano, the most upright and honest practitioner in all Italy, even I am only human. I, too, am quite capable of dissembling, of falsifying, of committing small, trifling, insignificant breaches of professional ethic.

  For, that evening, when Armanda Ragusa visited me, I did not tell her the truth.

  The facts of the matter were just as I told her. Flaminio Scala had come to me complaining of impotence, and I had advised him to seek out an unattractive woman. But I had misled Armanda concerning my diagnosis of the Captain’s current disability.

  Do you think me an idiot, a mental defective? A man of my deep wisdom could never really have believed that Flaminio Scala had lost all his vitality because of love trouble! Of course not! I knew the truth, I knew that the Captain had finally admitted Andreini’s victory, and had given up hope.

  But I hated that filthy toad Armanda like the Reaper himself. For she and Brighella had been the worst of them, always ridiculing my knowledge, accusing me of being a posturer, a charlatan, a quack. I couldn’t find it in my generous heart to forgive her. And I knew how she worshiped Flaminio, how it would irk her to think that Flaminio had lost his vitality because of Vittoria and Isabella, two other women. So that was the thesis I postulated.

  And I suppose that is the way with great geniuses like myself—sometimes, we can predict the future, we can speak the truth without even being aware of it.

  For it was not until much later that I realized: Flaminio was indeed terrified of Isabella. In fact, it was not until I, Dottore Graziano, the most rational and logical man on earth, had begun to stand somewhat in awe of her myself.

  It happened slowly, I can assure you. Men like myself are not so easily led astray from the path of reason. Nevertheless, it happened.

  Gradually, very gradually, I began to develop a peculiar attachment to my melancholy young patient. Often, I found myself cogitating about her. At night, when she’d depart for Andreini’s tent, I found myself wondering what he did in bed with that sad girl.

  In the beginning, when she had sat in my tent, I’d hardly paid attention to her; I’d viewed her as another patient, whose case was only slightly more interesting than that of the typical melancholiac. But gradually, I found myself becoming constantly aware of her presence, examining her frequently, wondering what she was thinking about when she stared so longingly at the distant moon.

  As you know, I am more than a doctor—I am also an eminent man of advanced and respectable age. Despite the foolish, scorned, cuckolded clown which I occasionally play on stage, Dottore Graziano is in fact not the sort of man who falls in love with eighteen-year-old girls.

  Certainly, I might have grown quite confused about my odd fascination with Isabella, had I not been able to diagnose my problem at once: I was not stricken with love, but with an attack of lust. It was the sort of thing which often overtakes men of my years, particularly older doctors with beautiful and helpless young patients.

  So I knew what I must do. “Physician,” I decided, “heal thyself.” And I knew that the only efficacious remedy would be the satiation of my desire.

  I did what I knew best. Slowly, subtly, I began to dose Isabella with small amounts of the same aphrodisiacs I had given Flaminio Scala. I fed them to her with her other medicines, so that she would not notice. And I waited patiently for them to take effect.

  Six months later, on the trip home from our triumph in France, I at last decided that my potions must have had sufficient time to do their amorous work. Besides, the company was so joyous then, so wealthy, so certain of success that I suspected that their gaiety might even have affected Isabella.

  And so, one night, as we camped just west of the Italian border, I resolved to press my advantage.

  Isabella was sitting silently in my tent, staring out the opening in the canvas at the dark sky. In short, everything was just as usual. But, on that night, I began to fancy that she too was stealing sidelong glances in my direction.

  So I went and sat very close to her on the narrow bed.

  “Isabella,” I said, gently taking her hand, “I have something to discuss with you.”

  She nodded, without moving away; for, as her physician, I often touched her in that affectionate, solicitous way.

  On that evening, however, I went beyond the bounds of professional care, and began to run my fingers up the inside of her arm. “Isabella,” I said, in my most seductive tone, “has anyone ever told you that you are a beautiful girl?”

  As she turned to look at me, there was no expression on her face. Or, more precisely, there was that vague, distant expression, as if she were staring straight through me at the moon.

  “My dear,” I continued, “from the first moment I saw you, I knew that you were a real woman.”

  Isabella kept on staring, in such a way that, if I had not had utmost confidence in the power of my medications, I might have been discouraged from continuing. But I was unshakeable in my faith.

  “The only thing that troubles me, my sweet,” I went on, moving my hand up to that soft hollow at the base of her neck, “is the fact that you always seem to be so sad. As your doctor and your friend, I have begun to think that there is only one thing which might really restore you to health and happiness.

  “Yes, Isabella, it is just as we play it on stage. It is my final medical judgment that only the power of love can awaken the joyous young girl who lives in secret, deep within your soul. And, as your physician and your admirer, I am prepared, this very evening, to volunteer my own body for the performance of that necessary yet pleasant task.”

  For a long while, Isabella gazed at me so blankly that I wondered if she had heard, or understood. Then, all of a sudden, she began to laugh.

  Even now, the memory of it pains me like an attack of acute gastric distress. But, in the interests of science and history, I feel I must describe Isabella’s laughter.

  It was rich and full. It filled the tent, and seemed to make the canvas walls bend and sway. It was not a hysterical laugh; I, as a doctor, could most certainly recognize the fact that it was not a hysterical laugh. Still, it did not stop for almost five minutes.

  Then, Isabella spoke. Not in the flat, melancholy tone she had used during those long months under my care but, rather, in the bright, confident voice of a healthy young woman.

  “Doctor,” she said, sputtering and choking with laughter, “I would have to be crazy to sleep with you!” And she began to giggle again.

  For several moments, I sat there, gasping with amazement, unable to move. Then, I jumped up, grabbed Isabella by the hand, and dragged her out of my tent.

  I shouted at the top of my lungs, until all the other actors were awake, and had gathered in the courtyard between the tents.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of The Glorious Ones!” I cried. “I, Dottore Graziano, physician and surgeon, graduate of fifteen universiti
es etcetera etcetera, have effected a most miraculous cure. Isabella Andreini is sane again, as sane as the sanest of you. It is all due to my medicine, to my marvelous command of the science of pharmacology and toxology.

  “And now, we have no more need of this woman. The play of the Moon Woman is done, finished, it can no longer be the same. And we need no longer have Isabella in our troupe.”

  But gradually, I noticed that none of them were looking at me. They were all staring at Isabella, who was smiling sweetly, bowing, greeting each one of them in turn.

  “Beloved friends,” she said, in a voice so musical and yet so commanding that it brought tears to their eyes. “The play of the Moon Woman is indeed over. We have taken it as far as we can. Tomorrow morning, we will begin rehearsing a new drama, which I have just finished writing.”

  The thespians were smiling as blissfully as if an angel had come down and kissed them on their foreheads. I stood on the sidelines, clenching and unclenching my fists, unable to forget how she had laughed at me in my tent.

  But, after the others had gone back to their beds, Isabella leaned towards me and whispered something in my ear which made all that old desire return. Despite myself, Isabella had reclaimed her place in my heart. I knew I could never be her lover; but, at that moment, I felt myself becoming her servant.

  “Dottore,” she whispered. “You were absolutely right. It was indeed the power of your love which restored me.”

  The tone of her voice confused me. Even I, with all my knowledge of medicine, philosophy, and logic, even I, with all my degrees and certificates, even I was thoroughly confused. Because, to this very day, I have never been able to tell whether or not she was serious.

  VI Columbina

  “SHE’S NOT CRAZY,” I SAID to myself, the first time I saw Isabella Andreini. “She’s driving all the others crazy. They’re the ones who are crazy!”