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BOOK II - THE NEW LIGHT: CHAPTER 8
It was something of a disappointment to Odo, on entering the Signorina
Miranda's room, to find that she was not alone. Engaged in feeding her
pet monkey with sugar-plums was the young man who had given her his arm
in the Piazza. This gentleman, whom she introduced to Odo as her cousin
and travelling companion, the Count of Castelrovinato, had the same air
of tarnished elegance as his richly-laced coat and discoloured ruffles.
He seemed, however, of a lively and obliging humour, and Mirandolina
observed with a smile that she could give no better notion of his
amiability than by mentioning that he was known among her friends as the
Cavaliere Frattanto. This praise, Odo thought, seemed scarcely to the
cousin's liking; but he carried it off with the philosophic remark that
it is the mortar between the bricks that holds the building together.
"At present," said Mirandolina laughing, "he is engaged in propping up a
ruin; for he has fallen desperately in love with our prima amorosa, a
lady who lost her virtue under the Pharaohs, but whom, for his sake, I
have been obliged to include in our little supper."
This, it was clear, was merely a way of palliating the Count's
infatuation for herself; but he took the second thrust as good-naturedly
as the first, remarking that he had been bred for an archeologist and
had never lost his taste for the antique.
Odo's servants now appearing with a pasty of beccafichi, some bottles of
old Malaga and a tray of ices and fruits, the three seated themselves at
the table, which Mirandolina had decorated with a number of wax candles
stuck in the cut-glass bottles of the Count's dressing-case. Here they
were speedily joined by the actress's monkey and parrot, who had soon
spread devastation among the dishes. While Miranda was restoring order
by boxing the monkey's ears and feeding the shrieking bird from her
lips, the door opened to admit the prima amorosa, a lady whose mature
charms and mellifluous manner suggested a fine fruit preserved in syrup.
The newcomer was clearly engrossed in captivating the Count, and the
latter amply justified his nick-name by the cynical complaisance with
which he cleared the way for Odo by responding to her advances.
The tete-a-tete thus established, Miranda at once began to excuse
herself for the means she had taken to attract Odo's attention at the
theatre. She had heard from the innkeeper that the Duke of Pianura's
cousin, the Cavaliere Valsecca, was expected that day in Vercelli; and
seeing in the Piazza a young gentleman in travelling-dress and French
toupet, had at once guessed him to be the distinguished stranger from
Turin. At the theatre she had been much amused by the air of
apprehension with which Odo had appeared to seek, among the dowdy or
vulgar inmates of the boxes, the sender of the mysterious billet; and
the contrast between the elegant gentleman in embroidered coat and
gold-hilted sword, and the sleepy bewildered little boy of the midnight
feast at Chivasso, had seized her with such comic effect that she could
not resist a playful allusion to their former meeting. All this was set
forth with so sprightly an air of mock-contrition that, had Odo felt the
least resentment, it must instantly have vanished. He was, however, in
the humour to be pleased by whatever took his mind off his own affairs,
and none could be more skilled than Mirandolina in profiting by such a
mood.
He pressed her to tell him something of what had befallen her since they
had met, but she replied by questioning him about his own experiences,
and on learning that he had been called to Pianura on account of the
heir's ill-health she declared it was notorious that the little prince
had not long to live, and that the Duke could not hope for another son.
"The Duke's life, however," said Odo, "is as good as mine, and in truth
I am far less moved by my remote hopes of the succession than by the
near prospect of visiting so many famous cities and seeing so much that
is novel and entertaining."
Miranda shrugged her pretty shoulders. "Why, as to the Duke's life,"
said she, "there are some that would not give a counterfeit penny for
it; but indeed his Highness lives so secluded from the world, and is
surrounded by persons so jealous to conceal his true condition even from
the court, that the reports of his health are no more to be trusted than
the other strange rumours about him. I was told in Pianura that but four
persons are admitted to his familiarity: his confessor, his mistress,
Count Trescorre, who is already comptroller of finance and will soon be
prime-minister, and a strange German doctor or astrologer that is lately
come to the court. As to the Duchess, she never sees him; and were it
not for Trescorre, who has had the wit to stand well with both sides, I
doubt if she would know more of what goes on about her husband than any
scullion in the ducal kitchens."
She spoke with the air of one well-acquainted with the subject, and Odo,
curious to learn more, asked her how she came to have such an insight
into the intrigues of the court.
"Why," said she, "in the oddest way imaginable--by being the guest of
his lordship the Bishop of Pianura; and since you asked me just now to
tell you something of my adventures, I will, if you please, begin by
relating the occurrences that procured me this extraordinary honour. But
first," she added with a smile, "would it not be well to open another
bottle of Malaga?"
MIRANDOLINA'S STORY.
You must know, she continued, when Odo had complied with her request,
that soon after our parting at Chivasso the company with which I was
travelling came to grief through the dishonesty of the Harlequin, who
ran away with the Capo Comico's wife, carrying with him, besides the
lady, the far more irretrievable treasure of our modest earnings. This
brought us to destitution, and the troop was disbanded. I had nothing
but the spangled frock on my back, and thinking to make some use of my
sole possession I set out as a dancer with the flute-player of the
company, a good-natured fellow that had a performing marmozet from the
Indies. We three wandered from one town to another, spreading our carpet
wherever there was a fair or a cattle-market, going hungry in bad
seasons, and in our luckier days attaching ourselves to some band of
strolling posture-makers or comedians.
One day, after about a year of this life, I had the good fortune, in the
market-place of Parma, to attract the notice of a rich English nobleman
who was engaged in writing a book on the dances of the ancients. This
gentleman, though no longer young, and afflicted with that strange
English malady that obliges a man to wrap his feet in swaddling-clothes
like a new-born infant, was of a generous and paternal disposition, and
offered, if I would accompany him to Florence, to give me a home and a
genteel education. I remained with him about two years, during which
time he had me carefully instructed in music, French and the art of the
needle. In return for this, my principal duties were to perform in
antique dances before the friends of my benefactor--whose name I could
never learn to pronounce--and to read aloud to him the works of the
modern historians and philosophers.
We lived in a large palace with exceedingly high-ceilinged rooms, which
my friend would never have warmed on account of his plethoric habit, and
as I had to dance at all seasons in the light draperies worn by the
classical goddesses, I suffered terribly from chilblains and contracted
a cruel cough. To this, however, I might have resigned myself; but when
I learned from a young abate who frequented the house that the books I
was compelled to read were condemned by the Church, and could not be
perused without deadly peril to the soul, I at once resolved to fly from
such contaminating influences. Knowing that his lordship would not
consent to my leaving him, I took the matter out of his hands by
slipping out one day during the carnival, carrying with me from that
accursed house nothing but the few jewels that my benefactor had
expressed the intention of leaving me in his will. At the nearest church
I confessed my involuntary sin in reading the prohibited books, and
having received absolution and the sacrament, I joined my friend the
abate at Cafaggiolo, whence we travelled to Modena, where he was
acquainted with a theatrical manager just then in search of a Columbine.
My dancing and posturing at Florence had given me something of a name
among the dilettanti, and I was at once engaged by the manager, who took
me to Venice, where I subsequently joined the company of the excellent
Tartaglia with whom I am now acting. Since then I have been attended by
continued success, which I cannot but ascribe to my virtuous resolve to
face poverty and distress rather than profit a moment longer by the
beneficence of an atheist.
All this I have related to show you how the poor ignorant girl you met
at Chivasso was able to acquire something of the arts and usages of good
company; but I will now pass on to the incident of my visit to Pianura.
Our manager, then, had engaged some time since to give a series of
performances at Pianura during the last carnival. The Bishop's nephew,
Don Serafino, who has a pronounced taste for the theatre, had been
instrumental in making the arrangement; but at the last moment he wrote
us that, owing to the influence of the Duke's confessor, the Bishop had
been obliged to prohibit the appearance of women on the stage of
Pianura. This was a cruel blow, as we had prepared a number of comedies
in which I was to act the leading part; and Don Serafino was equally
vexed, since he did me the honour of regarding me as the chief ornament
of the company. At length it was agreed that, to overcome the
difficulty, it should be given out that the celebrated Tartaglia of
Rimini would present himself at Pianura with his company of comedians,
among whom was the popular favourite, Mirandolino of Chioggia, twin
brother of the Signorina Miranda Malmocco, and trained by that actress
to play in all her principal parts.
This satisfied the scruples and interests of all concerned, and soon
afterward I made my first appearance in Pianura. My success was greater
than we had foreseen; for I threw myself into the part with such zest
that every one was taken in, and even Don Serafino required the most
categorical demonstration to convince him that I was not my own brother.
The illusion I produced was, however, not without its inconveniences;
for, among the ladies who thronged to see the young Mirandolino, were
several who desired a closer acquaintance with him; and one of these, as
it happened, was the Duke's mistress, the Countess Belverde. You will
see the embarrassment of my situation. If I failed to respond to her
advances, her influence was sufficient to drive us from the town at the
opening of a prosperous season; if I discovered my sex to her, she might
more cruelly avenge herself by throwing the whole company into prison,
to be dealt with by the Holy Office. Under these circumstances, I
decided to appeal to the Bishop, but without, of course, revealing to
him that I was, so to speak, my own sister. His lordship, who is never
sorry to do the Belverde a bad turn, received me with the utmost
indulgence, and declared that, to protect my innocence from the designs
of this new Potiphar's wife, he would not only give me a lodging in the
Episcopal palace, but confer on me the additional protection of the
minor orders. This was rather more than I had bargained for, but he that
wants the melon is a fool to refuse the rind, and I thanked the Bishop
for his kindness and allowed him to give out that, my heart having been
touched by grace, I had resolved, at the end of the season, to withdraw
from the stage and prepare to enter the Church.
I now fancied myself safe; for I knew the Countess could not attempt my
removal without risk of having her passion denounced to the Duke. I
spent several days very agreeably in the Episcopal palace, entertained
at his lordship's own table, and favoured with private conversations
during which he told me many curious and interesting things about the
Duke and the court, and delicately abstained from all allusion to my
coming change of vocation. The Countess, however, had not been idle. One
day I received notice that the Holy Office disapproved of the appearance
on the stage of a young man about to enter the Church, and requested me
to withdraw at once to the Barnabite monastery, where I was to remain
till I received the minor orders. Now the Abbot of the Barnabites was
the Belverde's brother, and I saw at once that to obey his order would
place me in that lady's power. I again addressed myself to the Bishop,
but to my despair he declared himself unable to aid me farther, saying
that he dared not offend the Holy Office, and that he had already run
considerable risk in protecting me from the Countess.
I was accordingly transferred to the monastery, in spite of my own
entreaties and those of the good Tartaglia, who moved heaven and earth
to save his Columbine from sequestration. You may imagine my despair. My
fear of doing Tartaglia an injury kept me from revealing my sex, and for
twenty-four hours I languished in my cell, refusing food and air, and
resisting the repeated attempts of the good monks to alleviate my
distress. At length however I bethought me that the Countess would soon
appear; and it flashed across me that the one person who could protect
me from her was her brother. I at once sought an interview with the
Abbot, who received me with great indulgence. I explained to him that
the distress I suffered was occasioned by the loss that my sequestration
was causing my excellent manager, and begged him to use his influence to
have me released from the monastery. The Abbot listened attentively, and
after a pause replied that there was but one person who could arrange
the matter, and that was his sister the Countess Belverde, whose
well-known piety gave her considerable influence in such matters. I now
saw that no alternative remained but to confess the truth; and with
tears of agitation I avowed my sex, and threw myself on his mercy.
I was not disappointed in the result. The Abbot listened with the
greatest benevolence to all the details of my adventure. He laughed
heartily at his sister's delusion, but said I had done right in not
undeceiving her, as her dread of ridicule might have led to unpleasant
reprisals. He declared that for the present he could not on any account
consent to let me out of his protection; but he promised if I submitted
myself implicitly to his guidance, not only to preserve me from the
Belverde's machinations, but to ensure my reappearing on the stage
within two days at the latest. Knowing him to be a very powerful
personage I thought it best to accept these conditions, which in any
case it would have been difficult to resist; and the next day he
informed me that the Holy Office had consented to the Signorina Miranda
Malmocco's appearing on the stage of Pianura during the remainder of the
season, in consideration of the financial injury caused to the manager
of the company by the edifying conversion of her twin-brother.
"In this way," the Abbot was pleased to explain, "you will be quite safe
from my sister, who is a woman of the most unexceptionable morals, and
at the same time you will not expose our excellent Bishop to the charge
of having been a party to a grave infraction of ecclesiastical
discipline.--My only condition," he added with a truly paternal smile,
"is that, after the Signorina Miranda's performance at the theatre her
twin-brother the Signor Mirandolino shall return every evening to the
monastery: a condition which seems necessary to the preservation of our
secret, and which I trust you will not regard as too onerous, in view of
the service I have been happy enough to render you."
It would have ill become me to dispute the excellent ecclesiastic's
wishes, and Tartaglia and the rest of the company having been sworn to
secrecy, I reappeared that very evening in one of my favourite parts,
and was afterward carried back to the monastery in the most private
manner. The Signorina Malmocco's successes soon repaired the loss
occasioned by her brother's withdrawal, and if any suspected their
identity all were interested to conceal their suspicions.
Thus it came about that my visit to Pianura, having begun under the roof
of a Bishop, ended in a monastery of Barnabites--nor have I any cause to
complain of the hospitality of either of my hosts...
***
Odo, charmed by the vivacity with which this artless narrative was
related, pressed Miranda to continue the history of her adventures. The
actress laughingly protested that she must first refresh herself with
one of the ices he had so handsomely provided; and meanwhile she begged
the Count to favour them with a song.
This gentleman, who seemed glad of any pretext for detaching himself
from his elderly flame, rescued Mirandolina's lute from the inquisitive
fingering of the monkey, and striking a few melancholy chords, sang the
following words, which he said he had learned from a peasant of the
Abruzzi:--
Flower of the thyme!
She draws me as your fragrance draws the bees,
She draws me as the cold moon draws the seas,
And summer winter-time.
Flower of the broom!
Like you she blossoms over dark abysses,
And close to ruin bloom her sweetest kisses,
And on the brink of doom.
Flower of the rue!
She wore you on her breast when first we met.
I begged your blossom and I wear it yet--
Flower of regret!
The song ended, the prima amorosa, overcome by what she visibly deemed
an appeal to her feelings, declared with some agitation that the hour
was late and she must withdraw. Miranda wished the actress an
affectionate goodnight and asked the Count to light her to her room,
which was on the farther side of the gallery surrounding the courtyard
of the inn. Castelrovinato complied with his usual air of resignation,
and the door closing on the couple, Odo and Miranda found themselves
alone.
"And now," said the good-natured girl, placing herself on the sofa and
turning to her guest with a smile, "if you will take a seat at my side I
will gladly continue the history of my adventures"...
Content of BOOK II - THE NEW LIGHT: CHAPTER 8 [Edith Wharton's novel: The Valley Of Decision]
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