And so saying, and with another ironical obeisance, Bartolomeo wheeled his party round and went off by the way he had come. He left Sanazarro’s head pretty busy; it was plain that La Scala understood the meaning of his own random answer better than he did himself; and as he thought the thing over, it became plain also that the occasion of this expected miracle, whether new medicine or old and holy relic, was on the way that night from Venice, and it was to intercept it that La Scala scoured the roads at evening with his horsemen. Sanazarro did not love the Duke, as I have said; but neither did he altogether hate him. He was a troubled recollection to him, as of a man sick and captious, but not without moments of graceful complaisance, and instinct with an exquisite sensibility to art, such as the true artist might imagine in a patron whilst he dreamed. So far, the scale lay in favour of Orsino. But there was another consideration as the reader knows, there was more perilous stuff in the cauldron...
Sanazarro went back to the palace in a humour of lowering doubt; and meeting Ippolita’s maid on the stair, he wrote a few lines on a tablet and gave it to her to take to her mistress. She came to him where he waited, in the anteroom, and gave him her hand simply. His heart was in his mouth, and he dared scarcely trust himself to take the hand she offered. Her eyes told him plainly that she still loved. They stood thus for a few seconds, looking on each other sadly. Then Ippolita withdrew her hand.
‘Dear friend,’ she said, ‘we must be brave and faithful. What would you have of me?’
He told her all that he had seen and heard, and what had been his own conclusion.
‘You have guessed aright,’ she said. ‘There must be treachery in the house, since La Scala knows so much.’
‘Where there are so many priests, there must be some treason,’ replied Sanazarro. ‘Let that rest. Time presses. What is to be done?’
‘There are few men in the house,’ she answered. ‘Cosmo has gone westward with a great party to divert attention; that was thought more politic than an escort. The Major Domo must go to meet the messenger with as strong a following as he can raise; and as he is a weak man and not wise, you will go with him.’
‘Death of my body, Signora, you must think me very good!’ he cried.
‘I know you are very good,’ she answered simply.
Sanazarro put his hat on, which was of course against all etiquette, and held his hand out to her with a smile.
‘You are right, good angel,’ he said. ‘I shall go; I do not wish his death, God knows; and he shall have the medicine if I can get it for him.’
‘It is not medicine,’ she replied; ‘it is water from the holy Jordan.’ Sanazarro laughed outright; he felt more pleasure in the mission after that.
Ippolita put her hand on his shoulder with a caress that went all through him. ‘Dear friend, pardon me,’ she said. ‘You must uncover before I call the Major Domo.’
The blood flew into Sanazarro’s face, as he obeyed.
‘Nay, dear,’ she said appealingly, ‘it is not of my will, it is what must be between us. God knows to which of us it is most hard.’
‘I do not complain,’ he said (but his voice was not his own voice). ‘I am a poor artist only, although I come of no mean blood. Your Grace—’
‘You are not generous, Sanazarro.’ And she put her hand to her heart. Sanazarro’s conscience smote him, but before he could command himself enough to speak, she had summoned the Major Domo and their privacy was at an end.
There was such a devil of remorse and irritation in Sanazarro’s heart that night, that he could have fought with his born brother. The small body of troopers, led by the Major Domo and himself, met the messenger coming leisurely down the road about the stroke of midnight, some fifteen miles from town. They made him quicken his pace; poor fellow, he could scarcely command his horse for terror, for he was noways martial and did not relish the idea of bare swords. About a mile on that side of the town, La Scala fell suddenly upon them in the darkness. The two troops went together at full gallop with a shout. But the Orsini were of the lighter metal, and went down before the others. The old Major Domo was cut to the saddle by Bartolomeo. Sanazarro felt his horse fall, and then a storm of hoofs go over him, — and then no more. The rest of the party was broken up and scattered like chaff; they were pursued far down the road, till they were glad to throw themselves from their horses and take to the brush like hares. Young La Scala, Gian Pietro the beautiful, as people called him for his fair body, dismounted and went about the road on foot, despatching such of the wounded as still showed signs of life. One man, whom he detected crawling away towards the roadside, wailed most piteously for quarter. ‘I have what you want,’ he cried (for it was the messenger himself); ‘I can give you the bottle, good gentleman. Spare my life, and you shall have the bottle.’ Gian Pietro was delighted; he got the bottle first and then passed his sword through the poor messenger’s body. The party was called back from the pursuit by the sound of a trumpet, and then returned in great exaltation of spirit towards the town.
Meantime Orsino was preparing himself against the miracle of the morning. He had fasted faithfully all that day, and he now sat up talking earnestly with his spiritual director. By the order of his physician, he had just swallowed a little wine. His eyes shone with a singular lustre; the skin of his face was stretched tightly over his prominent cheekbones and high forehead; there was a drawing round about his lips, moreover, that had the effect from a little distance of a permanent smile, and gave him a crafty, treacherous look that was well enough in harmony with his past career. For the Duke had been a man of single wickedness; there was much blood upon his hands; he had been faithless, cruel, dissolute, and rapacious. It was no wonder that he professed himself doubtful of a miracle in his behalf, laying one thin hand, as he spoke, on his director’s arm.
‘When I look back on my past life,’ he said, ‘it seems to me impious, father, and in a manner a sacrilege, to give the water of this blessed river to so vile a sinner. But God reads the heart, father — God knows the inmost thought. And if I desire to be restored, it is that I may undo some of the ill I have wrought. There is my wife...
‘I shall make her amends in the future for all she has suffered from me in the past; she shall have one of my castles and a fourth portion of my revenue. She shall keep a court, if she will.’
‘This is nothing to the purpose, son. You must be a good husband to her.’
‘I will be a good husband to her,’ returned the Duke submissively. ‘And then,’ he continued, ‘there is Bartolomeo. I have injured him grievously, and in so doing, I have hurt my own family and wronged the interest of the town. There must be peace between us.’
‘There must be peace, my son,’ echoed the director solemnly. ‘There shall be, father,’ said the Duke decisively. ‘And then there are the lands I took from the Cafarelli.’
‘ — And the pictures you took from the convent of Santa Felice.’ And my brother’s son whom I have hitherto defrauded.’
‘ — And the heretics whom hitherto you have not persecuted with godly zeal.’
And the heretics, father; they shall not be tolerated one day longer.’
‘I suspect Sanazarro,’ said the director.
‘He is an artist,’ replied the Duke.
‘Nevertheless,’ continued the priest, ‘my conscience will not be easy until, with your Grace’s permission, I have examined him a little on the rack.’
‘Passion of God!’ cried the Duke, ‘he shall finish my tomb first!’ The director held up his hand, and regarded his penitent with a terrible severity of countenance. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘my son, you are beside yourself.’ The Duke clasped his hands and asked forgiveness audibly through the intercession of a score of saints and the blessed Virgin. ‘You shall have the racking of him when you will,’ he said; ‘and you may burn him afterwards, if so the Church desires. Fear not, father, I shall do my duty, all carnal affections set aside.’
Just about this time (for it was now late, or rather early
) a fugitive found his way back from the rout of the Major Domo’s expedition, and was brought up with a white face to where the Duchess sat waiting impatiently for news. When she heard what the man had to say, she became as white as he.
‘And Sanazarro?’ she asked.
‘Dead, Signora,’ said the man. ‘I was the only one who escaped. They are devils incarnate — they would let none of us away.’
‘This will be a great pain to the Duke,’ she said. ‘His tomb cannot be finished by the same hand.’ And she laughed a little with rather a terrifying laugh. Then she gave orders that every man in the Palazzo capable of bearing arms, should go forth and bring in the wounded; and no sooner was she alone than she fell against the wall and fainted.
Some rumour of this conversation came into the Duke’s room and disturbed his repentant ecstasies. The director opened the door by his command, and called out to know if anything were amiss; but as there was no one in the antechamber but the Duchess, and she was already insensible, he concluded their alarm had been vain; and priest and penitent fell once more to their exercises.
‘Beyond question,’ said Orsino, ‘nothing can fall out but with God’s will.’
‘He holds the earth, my son, in the hollow of His hand — blessed be the name of the Lord.’ And the priest crossed himself devoutly.
‘He will not refuse a repentant sinner?’ asked Orsino.
‘Not if he repent truly,’ answered the priest.
‘And what are the signs of a true repentance? If it be enough to abhor vehemently all our former sins, and thirst after a renewal of life, not for further occasion of pleasure, but that we may undo the evil we have already brought about, then am I truly repentant.’
‘You must do more than that, my son. You must redeem the past by suitable penance.’
‘Father, I will become a monk and beg my bread from door to door, with a cord about my waist.’
‘You forget, my son; you are married,’ objected the priest.
‘I will become a monk as soon as my wife dies, then,’ returned the Duke.
The confessor blew his nose; it was somewhat difficult to know what to say to this amended proposition; so he blew his nose as I say, and took up another subject.
‘You must become veritably reconciled to the Lord La Scala.’
‘Indeed, there is nothing I desire more fervently,’ replied the Duke. ‘I would fain leave this town in possession of quiet and plenty. I, who have so often carried war through its streets, I would fain show to all men the example of placability and Christian comeliness of behaviour. I will lead in La Scala by the hand, and ask pardon for all my injuries on my knees in the public market-place. I would be wept by the people when I come to die, and be called “the good Duke” for years and years thereafter. O father, it changes all a man’s fancies, let him but once see death in the face; there is a look in that white countenance that sobers him of all vanities and notions. I would sooner have a good conscience, as God sees me, than the most beautiful of statues, or the rarest manuscript, or ten strong towns. Father, my penitence is real, is it not? Let us pray that it is.’
While they were both praying, there came a knock at the door, and a valet came in with a bottle and a folded letter.
‘You will read it for me, father,’ said Orsino.
The priest glanced his eye over the paper, and then crossed himself. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘the way is paven for your reconciliation. God is willing to spare you, being truly penitent, all needless humbling; and has moved my Lord Bartolomeo to take the first step. For listen how he writes: “My Lord, certain of my men have overthrown certain of yours this evening, in fair fight. From one of those who fell, they took a bottle, which, upon my learning that it contained water from the Jordan for the healing of your disease, I herewith return to its rightful owner. I do not make war upon sick men.” Let us give thanks to God,’ added the priest.
But Orsino was in no humour to thank God. ‘Who brought this pasquil, Lippo?’ he demanded angrily of the valet.
‘My lord, it was my lord Gian Pietro with his own hand,’ replied the servant.
‘Perdition on his head! Over the window with it. Passion of God, do you hear me, priest? Over the window with the thing!’
‘My lord, this water from the holy river—’
‘Water from the accursed bottom of Hell!’
‘My lord Duke!’ expostulated the priest.
‘My lord Devilry!’ retorted Orsino. ‘Give the flask to me.’
‘Nay, my lord, not so: it is an holy relic.’
‘An holy relic of Saint-Gian-Pietro! I will lay my living soul, it is five parts poison.’
‘My lord, you wrong yourself in judging so hardly of others. I will drink one half of it gladly to set your evil phantasy at rest. Is this all your penitence? It seems somewhat short of breath.’
Orsino was smitten with remorse at these words, and fell industriously to praying and beating his bosom; and as in the course of these improving exercises, he came somewhat to himself, he was astonished to find that, in the heat of his passion, he had turned round in bed and was now sitting with his feet hanging over the edge and his back unsupported. For near a month, he had been too much paralysed to make so great a movement.
‘Good father,’ he cried — he had fallen back again into his whining vein— ‘Good father, how can this be? I have moved myself in bed — I am half out of it. Christ be merciful to me a sinner! — What should this portend? For the love of God, father, lift me back into my place.’
‘It is a sign to you, my son,’ said the confessor, ‘what you may hope through the blessed instrumentality of this water. If even its presence in the room with you has had this potently restorative influence, what you may not hope when you partake of it, fasting from bread and with a clean conscience!’
‘I should desire, nevertheless,’ said the Duke, leaning back again in his former attitude, and closing his eyes with a look of luxurious wiliness, not unlike a cat’s, ‘I should desire, nevertheless, that you should do as you suggested, and drink the half of it this evening. My life is precious; I have a duty to the world, were it only to right the wrongs that I have done. I could then drink the other half, with a clear conscience as you say, tomorrow.’
The ecclesiastic uncorked the bottle and poured the half of it into a glass.
‘Nay, nay,’ said Orsino, ‘put that back again a moment and shake it up. The poison might be precipitated to the bottom,’ he added knowingly.
The priest did as he was told, and drank off the water without fear. He made a wry face. ‘It is bitter indeed in the mouth,’ he said; ‘but after it is down, sweeter than honey.’
Orsino watched him sharply for a moment or so, and then gave a sigh of relief. At least it was not immediately fatal. ‘And now, father, I shall go to sleep,’ he said: ‘We are never more sinless than when we slumber. You will watch and pray for me in the oratory there. And keep the curtain looped — I would not willingly feel myself alone, when I am awake.’
Sanazarro made a rare escape. He was stunned and badly bruised, but had not a broken bone in his whole body; and the surgeon who examined him did not know whether to marvel more at the slightness of the injuries, considering how they had been got, or at the easy way in which the sculptor bore them, as grave as they were. But Sanazarro’s body was of iron; the man who did such great work when he was in his seventh decade was not like to fever or sicken of a few bruises at six-and twenty. You may imagine how glad Ippolita was to hear this news, and how earnestly she longed to visit Sanazarro’s bedside. Two or three more wounded had been found still alive; and she went to the bedside of each of these and sat a little while and gave them cordials and good words. She was very glad, as she drew near Sanazarro’s chamber door, that she had ever made it her habit to go about freely amongst those who had been wounded in her husband’s service. It had been heretofore an irksome and distasteful duty with her; but now virtue was recompensed, and she could go to Sanazarro without fear of sca
ndal. He turned round in bed and began to ask pardon eagerly for his cruel behaviour of the night before; but she stopped him at once, telling him not to spoil their few quiet moments by such inharmonious comments, and sitting down beside him, took his hand in one of hers and began to stroke it with the other. Tears began to gather in the sculptor’s eyes and follow each other down his cheeks.
‘Why do you weep?’ she asked.
‘Do you think I am unhappy, my soul?’ he answered.
She stooped over and kissed his forehead as he lay.
‘That is for your virtue of last night,’ she said, with a smile; ‘that is because you risked your life to save Orsino’s.’ And she sat beside him holding his hand in silence, until they heard her woman coming with a cordial for which she had been sent; then Ippolita stood up and began to question him about the skirmish, as she might have questioned any other of those who had escaped.
All that day, Orsino narrowly scrutinised the countenance of his confessor, and as evening drew on and there was still no sign of any ill effect, began to prepare himself for the reception of the miraculous water. His physician had judged it best that it should be taken at night along with a powerful opiate, and that Orsino should not try to move until after he had slept off the one and given the other time to visit all parts of his body with its healing influence; and though the confessor had objected to this, as it was a sort of practical infidelity in God’s miraculous power, and an error in reasoning, besides, so to judge of a remedy that was purely supernatural as if it were a natural drug; still Orsino, out of a desire to make assurance doubly sure, had determined to combine the practical wisdom of the leech with the sanctity of the water. As the moment drew near, he grew more and more solicitous as to his spiritual disposition. He and the confessor were very weary of comparing notes, as to the exact degree of faith necessary in the recipient of miraculous grace, and the exact degree to which this signal penitent had yet attained. Thus, the hours passed, in prayer, in doctrinal disquisition, and in the preparation and signature of papers about property, of which the Duke had wrongfully possessed himself, and which he now promised to restore, if the miracle fell out according to expectation. There was but one difference between the pair. The ecclesiastic tried to convince Orsino that he should restore the property at once, in token of his zealous purpose to amend and make the future abundantly redeem the past. But the Duke would not hear of this; there must be a quid pro quo in the transaction, he averred; he would only humiliate himself before the world and become the mark of men’s pointing fingers, he explained, if he restored all that he had won through a rough, arduous life, and the miracle were not forthcoming in the end. And so the priest desisted with a sigh, lest he should lose what he had already gained by trying for too much more.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 382
