“It is grave—but also jolly,” she said. “It is done. I now declare thee, my good and faithful minister Chrobius, ‘Master of the Jewel.’ It shall henceforth be your sole duty to guard by night and by day, in peace and war, in foul weather and fair, the welfare of the Great Countess Triana Diamond. You shall be well rewarded for your service.”
Chrobius did not quiver an eyebrow. “Yes, milady Countess.” He bowed and stepped backward into his place behind our trio.
“You too shall be fitly rewarded, Master Astolfo. You have but to name your fee, be it not too burdensome to our treasury.”
He made one of his unhurried, elegant bows. “The service was too trifling, milady, and I am still embarrassed by the perfidy of my once-apprentice, this verminlike Falco. I could expect no reward.”
“You should. You must.”
“If it please you, milady—no. But I shall return from time to time to see if all is in order, that no other gem has been brought to proximity with the diamond, that it is kept in a bright, bare place all its own, and that no shadow is stealing into its heart like some arrant villain crawling into a secret cave in Clamorgra.”
This second mention of Clamorga would be, I thought, Astolfo’s repeated warning to Chrobius that that his alliance with the countess’s third husband was foreknown and that we were alert to any threat from that quarter.
“Well then,” she said, “I fear not that I shall find some way to recompense your good effort. And now, as his last duty before he attendeth only to the jewel continually, Chrobius shall lead you the way out.”
“Milady.” Astolfo bowed once more and we departed, with the wretched, battered, peevish Falco shuffling along in chains and devising in his furious mind many little revenges upon his friend Mutano.
Chrobius preceded us through the great salon, through the corridors where the shadows no longer whispered ominous threats, to the wide hall at the front doors of the palace. Here he stopped, turned, and gave each of us a level, uninformative gaze, signaled to the footmen to open for us, then turned and padded his way to his task of nursemaiding to the end of his days that immense diamond.
Outside, we climbed into the carriage provided by the countess and set off toward Astolfo’s manse. I slouched in the corner of the vehicle, weary and resentful, yet pleased withal. Master and colleague sat across from me in high good humor.
“A stout piece of work, methinks,” said Astolfo. “We need no gold in our pouch for’t. We stand to flourish in the countess’s favor and gratitudinous goodwill. We have the treacherous Chrobius in our power. A happy day’s labor, eh, Falco? And none so onerous, either.”
“Easier,” I said, “much easier for you than for me.” I clashed together my shackles.
Astolfo and Mutano grinned at each other. “Ah, lad,” said the shadow master, “when I consider how far you are from proper attainment, how much you have yet to learn, there swims into my brain a vision of the wide and starry sky.”
I received this cheerful insult with the best grace I could muster. If my mental instruction and physical training kept on at the rate they were now progressing, I should one sudden day become as wise as any sage and as strong as the swiftest stallion. These were attainments to enjoy, for the time being, in rosy prospect.
III
Dance of Shadows
The array of the knowledge of jewels—their kinds, conditions, styles, and histories—that the maestro brought to bear in the matter of protecting the Countess Triana and the renewal of her diamond did not surprise me. Our trade is often an ancillary one, our business to design, produce, and provide qualities that are added to objects of value. To a stiff canvas fabric we might add an almost unnoticeable shade of gray that will increase, when the artist renders his subject upon it, both definition and subtlety. For a woman whose face has been marred by accident or intentional violence, a mixture of shades and tints of certain gradations can cause the flaw to seem to disappear. When a diplomatic letter must be dispatched that is intended to convey a paucity of substance and a plenitude of ambiguity, we can admix several umbrae to the ink with which it is written, producing a sort of locutionary fog over the meanings of the phrases.
To these instances Astolfo brings his practical knowledge of painting and drawing, of cosmetics and fashion, of the chemistries of writing fluids of every sort. Underlying all these particular sciences and the many others that are related is a confident grasp of the nature and properties of light.
I have often wondered if the ancient sages who penned the crammed volumes I was required to read knew even half as much as my master who compelled me to read them.
It is no marvel then that Astolfo is sought out by collectors of all kinds of valuables to judge, appraise, estimate damages, suggest repairs, and so forth. Indeed, a good half of our custom was in dealing with wealthy collectors.
But the maestro had affected to disdain what he called the vice of collecting.
“For it is a vice, you know,” he said, and looked at me with that gray-eyed gaze that so rarely gave away the true cast of his humor. “I have known many a man to waste his substance upon trifles. He may bestow a fortune upon a heap of essence-bottle stopples, upon elegant sword-hilt pommels, upon coins of fabled cities in fabled ages past. Then these connoisseurs expire and their descendants scatter those spurious treasures to the round of the compass for a fraction of the amount expended. This collecting, Falco, is a costly vanity.”
“I take it that you make an exception for the collectors of shadows.”
“Shadow collectors may be the worst of the lot,” he replied. “For not only do the objects themselves extort fat prices, but a discriminating taste for them is expensive to acquire. And then there are the further costs of proper care and storage and restoration when that is necessary and possible.”
“Yet you derive some large part of your income from collectors.”
“Ah.” He sighed and blinked. “I lead a superfluous existence. I cannot fathom why you feel attracted to such an inutile way of life.”
I might have talked at length of the fascination that the trade of shadows held for me, why it stood in my mind as one of the subtlest, cleverest, most demanding methods of maintaining oneself. But I knew better than to give my lash-tongued mentor reason to ply me with sarcasm. I only inquired what he thought he might occupy himself with otherwise.
“Why, I should retire from commerce,” said he, “and devote myself to the close study of the ancient mages. I would delve into the unexplored hinterlands of reality. I would strive to achieve equanimity of mind and equability of temper. I would exercise to be always cheerful in this world of futile strife. And I seek always one particular object, a thing that embodies within it a complete purity of spirit.”
“I cannot imagine what that thing might be,” I said, “but most who know you would say that you have already arrived at the other goals you aim at. You are equable and balanced, hardly a melancholy man.”
“A long face discourages custom,” he declared. “If my clients see me downcast, they may suspect I fret over an unsound business and carry their trade elsewhere.”
“So then, your talk is not pure philosophical disquisition. We have a venture in hand?”
“We do.” He had not objected to my use of the plural pronoun.
“And it has to do with the pursuit of shadow-collecting?”
“As soon as you have made your appearance presentable to polished company, we shall go to the house of Ser Plermio Rutilius,” Astolfo said. “I shall tell you about him as we travel.”
“Will Mutano accompany us?” I asked. If Astolfo felt the need of our colleague so fierce in combat, we might be entering a situation of some danger.
“No,” he replied. “If our host saw the three of us together he might doubt of my capacities. You shall answer well enough as a diverting companion, and no more than that. He will see that you are harmless; Mutano does not readily present that aspect.”
I agreed.
* *
*
Our travel was accomplished in handsome style, for Ser Rutilius had sent a well-appointed coach-and-two to Astolfo’s mansion to fetch us the two leagues to his château. As we rolled smoothly through the green springtime countryside, Astolfo informed me that our host was the scion of an ancient race of warriors who had hired out to duchies, principalities, and great estates to protect them from marauders, enemies and friends alike. Since our province of Tlemia had very recently blundered into peaceful times only occasionally troubled by rumors of pirates, there had been naught to occupy the hereditary skills and services of Rutilius. And so, as a young man, he had entertained himself with dissipation, gathering from cellars their sumptuous wines, from tailors their most costly and elaborate cloaks and doublets, and from respected families their comeliest, most complaisant females.
“In short,” said Astolfo, “he led such an existence as you have dreamed of leading, Falco, a life of idle pleasures following upon one another like raindrops in a springtime shower. And do you not dream of it still?”
I would not reply, but my thought was that such an existence would not be wasted upon me. Youth, strength, and high spirits would guide me through the vale of rainbow temptations.
“But Rutilius is an intelligent young noble and in due season he found these pastimes to pall. He has educated himself in the sciences and the arts. He raised the farming practices of his lands to extraordinary levels; he has renewed and refined his martial skills; he has become a knowledgeable connoisseur of painting and tapestry, statuary and architecture. His senses and apprehensions having become so acute, it was perhaps inevitable that he should come to pursue shadow-collecting, for no other cultivated attainment is so difficult to achieve. But, as it is the most expensive of such follies, so is it the most rewarding, for, as you have discovered, umbrae are infinite in interest and delight.”
I would assent to this latter assertion while envying the fact that one in Rutilius’s station could become an adept of shadows without enduring the physical discomforts the discipline was inflicting upon me.
Astolfo seemed to have overheard my thought. “You must not think him some soft-handed, sweet-scented dilettante. He is an expert swordsman, an avid huntsman, a canny and alert man of affairs, and a fearless pugilist. Of his prowess with women I have heard nothing. Perhaps one of your town wenches has whispered to you thereof.”
I shook my head.
“Well then, we understand that whatever commission he may propose to us must be a tangled one, because the man himself is so very able and has such deep resources to command.”
“Yes,” I said, “and from these resources he can well afford whatever toplofty fee you may ask.”
“It is for that reason we have come,” Astolfo said, “for I am past the age when mere difficulty itself is an attraction.… And so, here are we.”
The carriage rolled to a stop, the driver opened the door and assisted us down the gilt steps he had deployed, and we stood in a pleasant greensward before the great oaken doors of the château.
* * *
We were brought into the presence of Rutilius in a foyer almost immediately inside the doors. The foyer spread large, with a high, arched ceiling of cedar wood, and enclosed a circular area three steps below the main floor. This sunken space contained a small pool lined with blue tile in which red and silver carp wafted long, gossamer tails. Flowers and trailing vines spilled from the mouths of sand-cast urns. From an adjoining room a lute not visible to us was being played with gentle and pensive hand.
I had thought that the mansion of Astolfo, where it stood with its gardens and lawn and stable near the center of the port city of Tardocco, must be close to the apex of luxury. Now I knew that however large the fortune Astolfo had amassed, it was to the fortune of Rutilius as a sower’s handful of seed is to a granary.
Rutilius showed himself, however, as no pompous or overbearing sort. A slender, sandy-haired man in his late thirties with a manner easy and open, he seemed sincerely pleased to acquaint himself with us, though he did not offer his hand. Yet his ease in his bearing was so confident that this oversight bore no hint of arrogance. A footman approached to offer the customary welcoming glass of wine, as fine as any I have tasted since.
The preliminary conversation consisted of our host and Master Astolfo trading reminiscences and guarded confidences about mutual friends and acquaintances. Ser Rutilius was sounding out Astolfo for his society connections, inquiring about the health of Princess A and the new foal in the stable of Count Z. The shadow master bantered his way through this testing, showing familiarity with the persons and affairs of one and all, but without giving impression that he gossiped.
Rutilius broke off these preliminaries. “Have you some inkling why I desired to meet you?”
“I have supposed that you wished to acquire my services.”
“Do you know in what regard? You must answer this question truthfully.”
“I have no slightest notion,” Astolfo replied mildly.
An expression of relief passed over the face of the baron. “I am pleased to hear you say so. I have feared that my comportment of late has given me away. There are those unfriendly who observe me closely for any sign of weakness.”
“Ah then,” said Astolfo, “now I shall suppose it is some affair of the affections. I must tell you straightway, Ser Rutilius, that I am no mender of broken hearts. Nor, come to that, am I a broker of mended hearts.”
“In neither case could I use your skills,” Rutilius said. “But come along with me to another room. Let me fill your glasses once more and you shall fetch them with you.”
“Thank you. It is a inspiriting vintage,” Astolfo said.
Rutilius led us from the foyer down a long, tapestry-hung gallery and brought us into a small salon. Intricate carpets smothered large areas of the parquetry floor, ensuring a sleepy degree of quiet. Large windows admitted southern light and gave an impression of openness to the room. But it was the walls that we had come to see. Paintings and drawings covered them in close profusion. Some paintings were life-size portraits; some drawings were not much larger than the leopard’s-head belt buckle that clasped Astolfo’s broad belt.
I marveled at them. Portraiture of shadows is one of the most demanding and delicate of the pictorial arts and the most skillful of artists might labor an arduous season to produce even a mediocre rendering. Here every example was a masterpiece. One or two I recognized from engraved reproductions in books, but all the others were new to my eyes and this first impression of them all together made the hairs stand up on my wrists.
Astolfo, though his constant watchword was nil mirari, gave over to rapt admiration, going from one frame to another, stepping forward and back, cocking his head to one side, and shading his eyes with his left hand. I had never before seen him so avidly engaged and wondered if this display might be partly a show of manners, a way of complimenting Rutilius on his taste.
I also noted that the baron observed Astolfo attentively and seemed gratified when the shadow master kept returning to one drawing. Among the other, more imposing pictures, this one at first looked none so remarkable. It was no larger than a sheet of foolscap, a rendering of the shadow of a female in graphite and chalk. But the more I looked at it, the more it unfolded not only its artistic beauties but also an ineffable, intimately personal charm that must have derived from its subject.
In spite of all the instruction Astolfo had set me to—the examination of scores of paintings and drawings in the collections of his clients, the volumes of prints and engravings, the crabbed treatises on the pictorial art—I have not sufficient knowledge to speak with any wisdom. I believe anyhow that pictures speak for themselves and much that is said in their presence by ink-smeared daubers and chalky schoolmasters is so much vain bleating. I would rather hear a goat fart than to listen to doddering know-alls speak of composition, impasto, contrapposto, and the other drivel.
From Astolfo’s scattered remarks, however, I learned some goo
d, practical sense, especially in regard to the picturing of shadows. First, he told me, your shadow artist must learn how to show volume, the dimensions of bodies in space. It is a childish error to see shadows flat, as unlit two-dimensional strips adhering to surfaces. The first task is to see that for all their seeming insubstantiality, shadows have volume and extend round in three dimensions, to which—unlike solid bodies such as stones and trees—they add another surface borrowed from the ultra-mundane source to which they are allied. At the time, I could not see what he was asking me to see, but to this simple-seeming drawing his words fitly applied. The contours of the figure seemed to rise from the sheet on which they were limned. The shadow was modeled on paper as if it were a study for a sculpture in bronze or glass.
Astolfo spoke to Rutilius in a voice even milder than usual. “I take it that these works represent properties in your possession.”
“All but a few are renderings of shadows I have gathered,” Rutilius replied. “There are one or two works I acquired for their excellence as art. Some of those are quite old.”
“Indeed,” Astolfo said, “for I see that some were signed by the artists. There is a Manoni by the door and in the painting next to it the little salamander scrawled into the corner of the canvas is the sign of the celebrated Proximo. But the newer ones are unsigned.”
“Shadow artists discovered that noising their names abroad was unsafe practice,” Rutilius said. “They are bound not to disclose the identities of their models, but some viewers who become obsessed with one image or another would not scruple to extort this knowledge by violence, even by torture.”
“Yet there are some so skilled, so deep-thoughted, so individual that their work speaks their names. For instance, that drawing of the young female’s shadow must have come from the hand of Petrinius. He is our contemporary genius of shadows, and his touch is unmistakable.”
“You are correct.”
A Shadow All of Light Page 8