In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  “Lie down, Marie,” said Charles reassuringly, with a soothing gesture. “Lie down. Forgive me for visiting you at such an unusual hour, but you have not left your room for days now. And I would like to speak calmly with you for once, ma mie. Allow me to sit at the foot of the bed. Could you perhaps get those creatures to quiet down? I fear we will not be able to hear our own words if they go on like this.”

  Marie clapped her hands; the dogs sprang onto the bed and settled themselves near her on the coverlet. Charles sat down carefully and gave his wife a friendly smile to put her at ease. But Marie remained nervous and fearful; the flush of terror did not leave her face. Charles sighed and ran his hands over his eyes for a moment.

  “Do I frighten you so much, child?” he asked, shaking his head with a certain irony. “Surely you must know that I think only of your welfare. I have never desired what you did not wish to give me freely. You know me, Marie.”

  Marie hung her head, abashed, but did not answer. Charles went on, looking away from her.

  “I know that I am a tedious old man, hardly attractive company for someone like you, ma mie. God is my witness that in my heart I have been bitterly sorry for you since the day that you had to accept me as your husband. I have reproached myself incessantly for not declining the marriage with you while it was still possible. We are a very unequal pair, child. I am fully conscious of the fact that I cannot make you happy.”

  He remained silent for a moment, staring with averted face out the window at the evening sky, tinged with yellow and as clear as crystal. “But look, that is the way things are now—we are bound to each other for life. For your sake, ma mie, I hope it will not be too long before you are free. Until that time we must try and live together. I know only too well what it means to have young, restless blood and be unable to allay your desires. Believe me, Marie, I know what you are going through. Because I lacked self-discipline, and because I was in despair and filled with impotent rage, I sinned during my exile; I was tempted when I was wretched, I desired what was not mine, and I took it. I forgot the dignity worthy of my rank and the honor of my House. Experience, bitter experience, has taught me that honor gives the deepest satisfaction after all. It seems meager solace and harsh advice, but unsuspected strength comes from the realization that one lives according to noble laws. The diamond is broken and cut so that it can sparkle as brightly as possible. Do I tire you, do you wish to go to sleep now?” he asked suddenly and gently, for Marie was leaning back against the pillows with her eyes closed. She shook her head in denial.

  “Don’t think that I came here to scold you, Marie,” said Charles, attempting a jocular tone. “That would ill become me, I am not good enough to do it. But I have thought long and earnestly about how I could make your life easier, how I could provide amusement for you, how I could help you find a meaning and a purpose for your days. What we both greatly need here is a child to care for; therefore I have asked my worthy cousin of Bourbon to permit us to bring up his youngest son as though he were our own child. I hear that he is a pleasant, handsome lad, five or six years old. Tell me what you think of this, ma mie?”

  Tears appeared under Marie’s closed eyelids; she raised her hand quickly and wiped them away.

  “Do you think that you would have enough to do if you looked after the little boy?” Charles asked, watching her with tired concern. Marie’s lips began to tremble; she nodded.

  “Then there are still all sorts of other things which could bring peace and forgetfulness,” Charles went on cautiously; he leaned against the bedpost and fixed his eyes on a small star which sparkled in the still-light sky. “Here in Blois we have a hidden treasure of books, ma mie, for which great scholars envy us. You told me once that you can read Latin too—so a world lies open to you in which you can travel at will. There are so many landscapes and vistas to admire that one entire lifetime is not enough to see everything and understand everything. I don’t know if I have spoken to you about my mother—but you know her story? For many long years she lived in loneliness and anxiety; it is only now that I understand how deep the sorrow was which she had to bear. But in adversity her nobility of character appeared. She did not complain, but she set an example for everyone. My mother sought and found solace in reading what wise men and great poets had written to direct us to a path in the impenetrable forest which life is. It is an image which was familiar to me when I was a child. My mother said once: Life is a long awaiting of God’s peace. And I know that my father considered himself to be one who had irretrievably lost his way in the forest of long awaiting. We too seek a path in the wilderness, ma mie. Perhaps we shall wander inaccessible to each other, each in a different place. But shouldn’t we try to find each other? Trust and sharing of views, these could bring us together.”

  Again he was quiet and turned his face toward her. Marie raised her eyes to meet his.

  “Perhaps one day we shall reach the end together, the way out of the forest, where the meaning of our wandering will become clear to us. I know that the journey which I propose to you is fraught with hardship and danger. Perhaps I am demanding too much courage from you. Think about it, but believe that everything that concerns you touches my heart deeply.”

  Charles rose and nodded to his wife. “Rest well, ma mie.” Marie did not answer; she lay motionless, gazing at the embroidery on the tester. Quietly, Charles left the room.

  As soon as he returned from exile, Charles had sent messengers to his cousin, Filippo Visconti, Duke of Milan, inviting him to discussions concerning the domain of Asti which had been under Filippo’s protection since 1428. According to Dunois, the agreement had been made on the condition that the rights of the protector would expire as soon as the legal heir and owner of Asti was in a position to exercise the rule himself. After a long delay, Filippo Visconti had informed Charles’ messengers that he would return the domain in his own good time; but in spite of warnings, petitions and verbal demands, he had not kept his promises and the taxes went, year in and year out, to Milan.

  Charles considered the possibility of selling Asti and its environs to his cousin, but Dunois emphatically pointed out to him the value to France of retaining such a strategic point on the other side of the Alps. The King of France still carried the title of Lord of Genoa, so if he should ever again wish to assert his authority there, the possession of Asti was of inestimable importance.

  After Charles had returned to Blois, Dunois visited him almost daily. He too had left Châlons; the summer fetes had come to a tragic end with the sudden death of Margaret of Scotland, the young wife of the Dauphin.

  “I don’t know if I should mourn for her,” said Dunois with a shrug. “She had a sad life. The Dauphin made no secret of his dislike for her; we were constant witnesses to the way he tormented her. The poor girl will have peace in her grave anyway. Now a violent quarrel has broken out between the King and Burgundy—or I should say that Burgundy is angry; the King always keeps himself aloof and lets things drift. He sees that in Burgundy’s power lie the seeds of his own destruction. That Kingdom will surely crumble now that all that holds it together is one man’s ambition.

  “I believe that six or seven languages are spoken within the borders of Burgundy’s territories; furthermore, all the Dutch and Flemish cities have their own law and privileges which they will protect with tooth and nail. Already deputations of burghers are coming to ask the King for help; the ones from Ghent have visited Chalons many times. Believe me, the King is on the right road, the only road, to cure Burgundy’s arrogance. By waiting to see how Burgundy’s powers are dissolved through domestic uprisings and turmoil, the King will accomplish far more than he could through taking any stronger measures.”

  Finally, the matter of Asti came up for discussion. Dunois believed that it was time now for Charles to press energetically for the return of that territory; if necessary, the King should send representatives to Milan to make it clear that their patience was exhausted. Charles named his brother governor of Asti and em
powered him to take whatever measures he deemed necessary for its restoration. Dunois had wanted nothing more than this; he decided to cross the Alps as rapidly as possible. However, before he could leave Blois for his own domain where he would make his preparations, there appeared—this happened in the last days of August—couriers from Asti with alarming news.

  Filippo Visconti had died childless in Milan; on his deathbed he had named as his sole heir and successor his kinsman, the King of Naples, despite the fact that the latter had considerably less right to the succession than Charles, the son of Valentine Visconti.

  It was immediately clear to Charles that he, by himself, was not equal to this flood of complications. He would have to give up his claims on Milan. If he wished to save Asti—the inhabitants of the domain, fearful of new unrest and violence, implored him not to abandon them to their fate—he would have to employ force to defend his rights, to protect his territory. He himself had no money to raise an army, and in any case because of the King’s purges, there were no mercenaries to be found. In all probability the few remaining bands existed only on the other side of the Alps in the service of Sforza and other condottieri.

  Nevertheless Charles had reason to believe that he would surely be aided by those who had more power at their disposal than he; Dunois had already gone to discuss the matter with the King, and a courier had arrived posthaste from Flanders to inform him that the Duke of Burgundy was acquainted with the situation and was not disinclined to grant assistance to his worthy cousin of Orléans. Charles understood perfectly well that for this offer he had to thank Burgundy’s desire to thwart the King rather than any friendly solicitude.

  So Charles quit Blois once more with a heavy heart. He hurried to Dijon where the Burgundian companies waited. For the first time in more than thirty years he rode again at the head of an army. He did not look forward to sitting on horseback wearing armor for the better part of a day. But the people of Asti were incessantly sending messengers, urging him to prepare the defense of his realm as rapidly as possible; they said that they considered him to be the lawful heir of Milan. While he rode on at the head of his troops, along the roads which led from Lyon to Tarascon—they would cross the mountains at the extreme southern point—Charles weighed over and over what the Lordship of Milan was really worth to him.

  His grandfather’s duchy was a valuable but extremely perilous possession; it would perhaps give him temporary power and wealth, but it would also force him to spend the rest of his life in disquiet and great anxiety. On the other hand, he knew that his brothers, his sister, his daughter Jeanne’s children and his kinsmen in the House of Orléans expected that the assertion of his claim would increase their substance, honor the memory of his parents and preserve his mother’s inheritance for her legitimate descendants. Their obligations had to weigh more heavily than his own desires.

  After an extremely tiring journey in scorching heat, Charles finally reached Asti. He found the city—with its white and yellow-tinted houses set high amid hilly vineyards with a background of blue mountains—to be as beautiful as a vision. Bubbling streams flowed over crags and stony precipices to the fertile plateau which ringed the city; to honor Charles, banners in the colors of Orléans fluttered from the rooftops against the azure sky. But the delegations of burghers who came, wrapped in festive white garments, to meet the Duke outside the city gates exhibited a pleasure that was obviously forced. Inside Asti were couriers who had arrived a few hours earlier, bringing news of the defeat of the French troops at Bosco. Charles’ captains, on learning this, decided that it would now be senseless and foolhardy to march against Sforza; they refused to spill the blood of their men in the massacre which would undoubtedly result from such recklessness.

  Charles consulted with the city administration of Asti; not long afterward he sent three groups of lawyers and orators, each group with strongly armed escorts, to Milan, to the court of the French King and to Burgundy’s court in Flanders. Those who went to Milan had been charged to draw the populace toward loyalty to Orléans; the messengers to France and Flanders would request reinforcements.

  The Duke waited in Asti in the house of a notary. In a cool chamber, shaded by an awning, he passed the time playing chess with the physician Cailleau or with his chaplain, when he was not dictating letters or edicts to the secretary whom he had just taken into his service. This was a young man named Antonio who had a beautiful handwriting and spoke and wrote fluent Latin. He had attracted Charles’ attention during the welcoming ceremonies when he paid tribute to the Duke by loudly reciting stately Alexandrine rhymes which he had written himself, and in which he compared the Duke with Aeneas because of his respect for the memory of past generations, with Cato because of his grave dignity, with Job because of his patience, with Ulysses because of his constancy in adversity, and which he concluded by wishing the Duke the military glory of an Alexander, the long life of a Nestor, the abundant offspring of a Piramus and the wealth of a Xerxes. Charles had listened to all this flowery praise and blessing with the necessary self-mockery, but he was amused by the young man’s enthusiasm and imaginative energy. When, in addition, Antonio proved to be a zealous and capable clerk, Charles took him into his service and promised him that later in Blois he would appoint him to the post of secretary.

  From France and Flanders came no encouraging responses; the unfolding of events in Lombardy, Sforza’s victories, did not dispose the King or Burgundy to interfere in the Milanese affair in the near future. Charles realized that the vague promises they had made were tantamount to refusal. He disbanded his troops, since he could no longer pay them, and sent them back to their homelands. He too left Asti; not, however, without promising the people and the officials that he would make every effort to persuade the King of France or some other powerful prince to furnish him the means to assemble an army which could defend Asti against the menacing “protection” of Sforza.

  Charles kept his promise; he did what he could. Instead of returning to Blois, he travelled with a retinue of trusted friends to see anyone who might be able to give some help in this affair. Although the roads in northern and central France were barely passable because of rain and snow, Charles crossed the country without allowing himself any rest. While he visited his friends and kinsmen and applied for help to the King and Burgundy, his secretary Antonio wrote letter after letter to his fellow countrymen in Asti, urging them in the name of his lord to be patient and have courage. Charles’ efforts were futile: Burgundy made promises but did not keep them, and the King, wholly absorbed by a fresh dispute with the Dauphin, had no interest or inclination to attend to his cousin’s problems. When, after a final interview with the King, Charles returned to his temporary quarters in the city of Tours, he had an attack of dizziness. Cailleau, who was nearby as usual, considered that he had the right this time to be seriously annoyed; Monseigneur made too many demands upon himself and refused to heed the warnings of his physicians. Nature was not to be trifled with; Monseigneur would now learn this for himself.

  Charles, lying in bed with his left hand on his painful, irregularly beating heart, agreed silently with everything his physician said. He did not protest when Cailleau gave instructions to prepare for a return journey which would be covered in small stages. So Charles finally made his entry into Blois, to remain there at least for the time being. He who had ridden forth at the head of an army had to be brought back home in a litter, an object of curiosity and pity to the people along the road.

  For the secretary Antonio, surnamed Astesano, the years of service to the Duke of Orléans slip by with the careless lightning-speed of the leaping, singing waters which flow through the city of Blois. Antonio is almost as fond of Blois as he is of his native city in the Italian Alps; in one respect, he thinks, Blois wins the laurel: in the little old houses in its narrow streets dwell more beautiful maidens than the easily inflammable clerk has seen anywhere else. The longer he lives there, the more impressive the castle seems to him; he cannot praise the broad
shining Loire enough, and not only to please his lord, who can sit hour after hour lost in thought, gazing at that silver-blue or green-black shining water which hurries, hurries to the sea.

  As far as life in Blois goes, Antonio is of the opinion that he could not have been able to strike it luckier. In Blois the atmosphere is one of a perpetual holiday. People are lighthearted, always ready to laugh and joke and (a fortunate discovery for one who, like Antonio Astesano, wishes to gather literary laurels!) everyone is interested in poetry. More wonderful still, everyone writes poetry, although often with the aid of a rhyming dictionary. For poetry contests are the order of the day in the castle of Blois; they are, it is said with amusement, the Duke’s only weakness. Nothing pleases him more than to gather guests, officials and servants around him after the evening meal when work is done, and propose a theme to them which they must then work into the form of a ballad or a rondel. After that, silence prevails for hours: there are knit brows everywhere, lips moving without sound, eyes staring vacantly into space.

  When at last wine and refreshments are brought in, the competition begins: those who have successfully composed a verse step before the Duke and the judges—who change every week—and recite their work loudly. The Duke is all ears, he sits at ease on his bench, his black mantle thrown comfortably around him, tapping his forefinger softly against his lips, or toying with his spectacles. Beneath his snow-white hair, his dark eyes seem exceptionally large and lively in his faded, wrinkled face as he glances from one to the other. They look, to everyone who sees him thus, like the eyes of a young man.

  Usually these poetry contests in Blois are extremely informal: the physician competes with the chancellor, the chief auditor with a chamberlain; the Duchess rhymes hard against a page or clerk, and the Duke has more than once extended the laurel wreath to his valet or to the chaplain of the castle chapel. But occasionally the great hall becomes more solemn, when Monseigneur receives high-born guests, or when a famous scholar or poet visits Blois; then the decorations and the preparation of refreshments receive more than ordinary care. Life in Blois is frugal, although the costs of maintenance are not insignificant, but when guests arrive no effort is spared. The finest fish, the best fruit, the noblest wine are brought and passed around and the Duchess orders her few really valuable pieces of tableware to be polished and displayed on the sideboards.