Orbit 12 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Knight

  “And what a world of never-never lies in that little word, However. . . “

  We skirted the closed booths of the fair, which looked tawdry in the dregs of night, and moved toward the portal of the city. A first watery ray of sun, piercing over the chilly meadows, lit the huddle of buildings beyond the wall. Its beam was thrown back by a window. Looking up, I perceived it was Master Bledlore’s casement, tight closed. He would be sleeping still, obsessed and stuffy, his lungs scarcely moving for fear of stirring dust in his studio.

  As I breathed deep of the air, an ancient musty odour came to me as of something being singed. Lise clutched my arm tighter, and I saw Chloe snuggle nearer to Lambant. We were moving toward two magicians and would have to pass them by to enter the portal.

  The day favoured them in their cloaks and tall hats, directing one of its first rays onto them, so that they were lit almost as artificially as characters in some old painting, appearing dramatically from the bitumen of night. On two huge and ungainly blocks of stone, fallen from some long-forgotten variant of the city’s geometry, they had built a smouldering fire; beside it, they proceeded on their arcana, their eyes squint as a cat’s, their faces square and malign. I turned away my head abruptly, not to see the serpent burning on the altar. It gave off a blue smoke which hung at heart level. None of us said a word.

  The magicians moved their archaic bodies stiffly. Beyond the first arcades, daylight was still scarce, but people were moving in the shadows. We passed in under the gate of the city, the four of us, where torchlight was.

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  * * * *

  WOMAN IN SUNLIGHT WITH MANDOLINE

  The gardens of Count Rinaldo had been laid out in a fanciful way and decorated with pleasant pavilions. It was toward one of these pavilions that my friend Caylus and I now made our way, following the path that led among the glades of aspen and tall cypress. Since he was distantly related to the Count, we were permitted into this paradise.

  Now and again a statue peeped from the foliage, generally in the form of a goddess, or a chained animal lolled in the sunshine. We passed by a splendid mandrill, imported from Africa, squatting on a low branch and observing us down its gaudily striped cheeks.

  “It wears its fantastic mask,” said Caylus lightly, “and one cannot tell from the beast’s scrutiny what sort of face lies underneath —a savage’s, clown’s, lover’s, or an old grey scholar’s.”

  “That reminds me, Caylus. Now we are so close, I must go to see my father. I hear he has been unwell lately.” The mandrill shook his silver chain at us as Caylus began to move off.

  “Fathers are generally unwell, in my experience. We’ll go and lunch with Gersaint, unless any sport more enticing presents itself.”

  “I’d better to my father instead.”

  “Think of Gersaint’s board, postpone your decision—preferably for a week or two—and let’s eye some pictures or whatever comes.”

  We had never been far distant from the music of water, for the Count had employed a great engineer, Argenteuil, to design fountains and streams and waterfalls in his grounds. To these pleasant noises was now added the note of strings as we climbed a flight of marble steps leading to the art pavilion.

  At the top of the steps, among theputti and alabaster Pans, stood two women with musical instruments, a girl with a mandoline, an older woman with a viol. They rendered a furlana of earlier times. A velvet-clad man in saffron hose leaned against a column, idly listening. He wore a plumed hat and animal mask, and idly tapped his foot to the music.

  One of the women was well in the toils of time, her hair white and her skin flecked with brown. Although her hands on the strings were firm, her wattle hung like a lizard’s and her mouth had begun to recede towards her throat

  Her companion was of greater interest. She was scarcely more than a girl, but well built for all that, with golden hair piled at the top of her head—though there may have been some artifice in its colour, for to her cheeks and brow she had added rouge and powder which, in the bright sunshine, looked, I thought, the least pleasing thing about her. She would be, I supposed, one of the Count’s young ladies, to judge by her manner and her dress. She eyed us direct as we came abreast of her, though she did not cease her playing. She wore a gown of shimmering white silk, slightly soiled about its hem, from under which one softy shod foot looked out. About her throat was a lace collar, and a low-buttoning russet jacket adorned her elegant bosom. This was not day attire, even in these elegantly overdressed circles; I dismissed her for all her beauty, turning instead to the paintings under the low colonnade. Caylus paused to eye her and take in her melody, so I went ahead of him.

  The Count had collected many elegant and exotic things on his travels, the most treasured of which adorned his palace, the least treasured of which decorated his pavilions. The company to which I belonged was due to perform the comedy of Fabio and Albrizzi at the wedding of my friend Lambant’s sister. I was playing the role of Albrizzi and needed a costume for the part. My hope was that I should find an idea for one among the Counts pictures.

  Light and grace had been in the mind of the genius who built the art pavilion, perched on its artificial hill. He had so contrived the perspectives of his columns and little courtyards that one vista looked toward the steps where the women played, and the pastoral scenes beyond them, while the other vista took in at once the ruin of an old palace, with ferns sprouting from its crumbling pediments, and the baroque splendours of the Counts residence; so that, with these two contrasting reminders of nature and art, one turned readily to their echoes in the canvases ornamenting the walls.

  Caylus caught up with me, humming the air plucked out by the mandoline, gazing without exertion at the pictures.

  “A pretty little painted creature down there, and no mistake . . . With sweeter music to make than comes from wooden instruments. She looked boldly at me. Who’s the fellow, I wonder, hiding under his wolf-mask? A favourite of Rinaldo’s, I suppose. What’s she to him?”

  “What do you think of this Landscape in Arcadia, Caylus? What a perfect little background behind the huntresses ...” I indicated the mythical scene before me, but he scarcely gave it a glance.

  “Too misty for my taste! If I could get her to one side . . . my rooms are near. She’d surely need no persuasion, once that fop has disappeared. A man has a duty to pay his tribute to Venus every day.”

  “My duty to my father...”

  “Come, Prian, we’ll stroll upstairs, where the older pictures are. Tell me not about your precious father again.”

  The keeper of the place lolled on the stairs, feeding titbits to his little dog. He jumped up and bowed to us as we passed. On the small upper floor, the paintings were fewer, and the views all round even finer than those below. I was feeling out of sorts that day, although the paintings pleased me. Caylus, my most highborn friend, was less easy to please.

  He loitered at a low casement, looking down. “Come and see this depiction of an outdoor concert,” I called to him. “By a forgotten artist. How poignant the stances of the musicians as they hold an hour’s attention! And what words could describe that tender colour—though it’s faded—and the mistiness so perfectly expressing a dream of youth and happiness...the freshness of the clouds in the background, the blond clarity of the foreground with its grouped figures . . .”

  “Mmmmm . . .”

  “True to nature, yet more true . . . the tableau living still, its creator long since dust . . . Only relegated to this pavilion by a stain in one corner. Who executed such a sweet design? How long ago, and in which country? The fashions are not of Malacia . . . This gallant here, Caylus, in the grand green coat . . .”

  I ceased. Here was the costume I needed: unfamiliar yet not unfashionable, stylish yet without too much pretension, and not without its humour, as befitted the character of Albrizzi.

  The gallant in the picture wore a white wig, although his features were youthful. His coat was of damask with silver buttons. T
he coat was long, shaped in at the waist and then ample, with ample pockets, terminating just below the knee, to reveal elegant hose from which ribbons hung. It had wide cuffs and was embellished deeply with silver braid. Beneath the coat, a waistcoat of brocade, decorated with landscapes done in—I surmised—petit point. A white tie tight to the throat completed the ensemble. That was it!—Albrizzi to the life! I would send the tailor to copy it.

  “See, Caylus, my morning’s labour bears fruit!” I said. There’s no calling this fine gentleman back to life to establish who he was, but his costume shall be restored in time for our festivities next month!”

  Caylus sprawled half out the window, unheeding. I gazed out over his shoulder. Below, the women still stood, still playing at their instruments. The girl with the golden hair was singing quietly. The favourite, if such he was, was making off down the steps.

  “She’s alone now,” said Caylus. “Look at her lovely hands!”

  Indeed, they were fine: so slender and supple that they seemed an integral part of the music, plucking out vibrant notes with a light tortoise-shell plectrum. From where we stood, I could note the unusual design of the plectrum, with two little horns to one side, as if it were fashioned in the likeness of a satyr. This touch seemed characteristic of the girl, about whom I felt somewhat dubious.

  “Prian, I’m going down to her before another rival appears!” said Caylus, standing and regarding me, smiling as he pulled at his little beard. “I declare I’m out of my mind about her already!”

  “Caylus—” I wished to say to him that my feelings told me the girl was someone to beware of; and yet, why should my distrust of her be important to him? And what did I know against her, save that she allowed herself to parade in sunlight with a painted face? He misinterpreted my hesitation.

  “Don’t say it! You’re going to visit your father in any case...” Still smiling, he turned and started down the stairs. As he went, he called over a shoulder, “I’ll be in my rooms this afternoon. Come to me when you’re ready, and we’ll go together to the rehearsal—unless I have good fortune now!”

  For a while I stood at the top of the stairs and chewed my lips.

  Glancing out of the window, I saw the girl with mandoline turn and look at Caylus approaching, although I could not see him. I noted again her brazen glance and her fingers unfalteringly holding the plectrum. Then I also went downstairs and out at the opposite door.

  Beyond Count Rinaldo’s palace, the grand way with its lines of trees quickly petered out in a maze of alleys, through which I picked my course, avoiding the rubbish in the middle gutters. At this hour of the morning, there were few people about, though I could glimpse women working in the rooms close on either side of me. From the nearby canalside, I heard a barrel organ; the tune it played, “This Sweet Perspective,” was one familiar to me from my childhood; its notes brought me a vivid picture of a fellow in ragged uniform who pushed the organ, and the monkey that used to dance upon it.

  At length, I came out on a wider avenue and, beyond that, the street of the goldsmiths. At the far end stood my fathers house, behind its tall tiled walls.

  Beppolo, the old servant, let me in and closed the gates behind me. Doves took wing and clattered away to the streets. Familiar scents and corners of the mansion surrounded me immediately. I walked through the side courtyard, cool in shadow, noticing how overgrown it had become, and how shaggy were the bushes of laurel on either hand, once so neatly clipped. The stable was empty; no hounds frisked here as in bygone years. The windows of the house, those not shuttered, looked down featurelessly on the scene.

  At the other end of the court the green door stood open. When I went in, it was to be enfolded by the silence of the house. I looked in at what we had called the Garden Room as I passed; the light through the jalousie revealed it only in monochrome, its informal furniture pushed to one side as if awaiting sale.

  My father would be in his study at this hour—or at any other hour, for that matter. I hesitated for a moment, studying the cabalistic signs painted on the panels, listening for a sound from within. Then I tapped upon the door and entered.

  So recently had I come from the sunlit outer world that I failed to see him standing in the shadow of an alcove, poring over an ancient manuscript. He turned so slowly and raptly to me that what my perceptions first gave me was only an old grey scholar and then, faintly under that, the lineaments of my father. I went to him and took his hand in my hands.

  “It’s a long time since you came to see me, my boy. It’s so dark in here! Didn’t you know I have been unwell with the colic?”

  “When I heard, Father, I came at once. You are better now?”

  “If it isn’t the colic, it’s the stone. If it isn’t the stone, it’s the spleen, or the ague. You know I am never better. I can eat nothing. At least I am not afflicted by the plague, which I hear gathers strength in the markets of the saddlers. Malacia has its share of earthly woes, to be sure.”

  “Plague is always there, and in the tanneries—it is part of the nature of those trades, just as darkness seems part of yours. Let me open a shutter! How can you see to read in this twilight?”

  He went before me, spreading his hands to bar my way.

  “Whether horseflesh doesn’t spread the plague is a question some scholar should look into. How can I think when the light is hurting my eyes? And what’s all this about the tanneries? Why aren’t you working?”

  “I have worked all morning, Father.”

  “And what have you to show for it? So you came at once, did you? . . . Do you know what I have found out this very morning?” He extended an arm with one grand faltering gesture towards his shelves and towards the folios of Pythagoras, Solomon, and Hermes lying there, as well as many ancient histories. “I have at last discovered what a maati is, beloved of Philip of Macedon.”

  “Father, leave your books and let’s eat together at Truna’s as we were used to do—you look starved.” Indeed, as he leaned against his table by the window, I noticed how thin he had become.

  “Do you attend me? A maati is not just any delicacy but a specific one, first introduced in Athens at the time of the Macedonian Empire. Philip was assassinated during a wedding feast, you know. I have unearthed reference to a treatise on it, which claims it was a dish beloved of the Thessalians. As you know, the Thessalians have a reputation for being the most sumptuous of all the Greek peoples.”

  “I suppose you’d come with me to Truna’s if we could eat a maati there?”

  “Do you mark what I say? All you think about’s food! I have made a contribution to learning this day, and you just want to eat at Truna’s. You won’t always be young, you know! You won’t always be able to dine at Truna’s.” He looked angry. His hands shook, and he wiped his brow with the hem of his cloak. For an instant he closed his eyes tightly, as if in pain.

  I saw how pale his skin was, and glistening. Going over to him, I placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “You need a cup of wine, Father. Sit down. Let me ring for the housekeeper.”

  “No, no, I’ll not disturb the woman—she may be busy. So you worked all morning, did you? And what did you achieve?” He brushed his hair back shakily from his forehead.

  “I was intending to tell you. Lambant’s sister, Marana, is to marry, and we are to perform a comedy for the nuptials. I shall play the chief role of Albrizzi, and, this morning, after days of search, I discovered—”

  “Truna’s? Why do you mention him? Old Truna is dead this twelvemonth, and his tavern sold. That shows how often you come to visit your father. You prattle on about performing comedies and all the time Truna is one with historic personages!”

  “Father, Philip of the Macedonians is dead, yet people are still marrying. Come out down the street with me and enjoy the bustle of humanity about you, as you used to do—it may set your mind on more cheerful things.”

  “They’re still playing Albrizzi, are they? By the caduceus of Mercury, that farce was old thirty years ago, when
I first saw it! And they had good actors in those days. Why do you think I should enjoy to be jostled in the alleys, I with my calculus troubling me?”

  I moved over to the shuttered window and peered into a neglected inner court, where the ornamental Triton no longer blew a fountain from his conch.

  “We shall insert topical matter, Father, as no doubt they did in your young day. If not the tavern and not the street, then at least take a turn in the garden with me. The air’s so stale in here.”

  “No, no, the air’s pure in here, guaranteed so. All sorts of illnesses lurk outside. I don’t even let Beppolo enter here now, for fear he contaminates the place. When you get old, you have to take care of yourself.”

  “Did you hear that Lambant’s sister is to be wed to a gentleman from Vamonal, Father? He comes of the military house of Orini.”

  “Beppolo says the well’s run dry. I’ve never heard of the Orinis. If he’s not lying its the first time that ever happened— in your mother’s time, we had water in plenty. Everything seems to go wrong. Who are the Orinis, I’d like to know!”