Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “On a more practical level, she can sew, and make lace,” said da San-Germain. “She can follow maps. She can drive a wagon. With Urbain leaving soon, and perhaps Michau as well, you may find her skill in handling a team useful. Lothaire will be glad of having an extra driver when his shoulder pains him.”

  “You can follow maps,” Photine pointed out. “And you drive a cart; no doubt you can drive a wagon as well.”

  “So I do; but it might help to have two of us with the ability to use maps, in case there is something that separates some of our numbers from the rest. We should agree on places we can meet later if such a thing should happen.” He looked steadily at Photine; she was almost as tall as he, and she knew how to use her height with most men; she realized that da San-Germain was not impressed by her efforts, and was about to make a new attempt at demonstrating her command, when he went on with unruffled calm, “You have nothing to fear from her, Photine.”

  “No, of course not. Only that she could get us all killed if she’s discovered,” said Photine with a disapproving sniff to restore her dignity as she laid her hand on da San-Germain’s arm in a conciliatory gesture, her demeanor a careful blend of affronted pride and apology. “But never mind that now. We’ll deal with that if we have to.”

  Enee came over to his mother, and without looking directly at her, asked, “Heurer and Crepin want to know if we’re going to rehearse after supper?”

  “It would be fitting, I suppose; better to do it here than where we have Revolutionary Guards watching us,” said Photine, a last, critical glance directed at da San-Germain before she went back to the fire and cooking.

  “She may yet be a problem,” said Roger in Russian, watching Photine.

  “She may,” da San-Germain agreed in the same tongue.

  “It’s jealousy,” said Roger. “The same as Heurer has. And Enee.”

  “I am cognizant of it,” said da San-Germain, sounding world-weary. “Which is one of the reasons I’ll spend part of tomorrow night with Photine. Her anxiety isn’t for herself alone, old friend: she is afraid that once we have Madelaine safely across the frontier, I’ll abandon the troupe, and her, though I have assured her that I won’t. Photine is worried for all her company, thinking that Madelaine will leave us all exposed to official retribution, and she’s not without grounds for such anxiety. But I have more immediate matters occupying my mind in her regard: what troubles me is that tomorrow night will be her fifth time with me, and I need to make sure she understands the risk she runs if we continue to a sixth time.”

  “Or a seventh, or eighth,” said Roger.

  “Yes, or more.”

  “I thought you’d explained the hazards before we left Padova,” said Roger, unable to conceal his surprise.

  “I did. But I don’t know whether or not she believed me; she has told me she understands what she can become, and that it’s of little consequence to her, which may mean that the thought of becoming a vampire has no dread for her, or that she doesn’t believe that it can happen. She may think that my cautions are an eccentricity of mine, a kind illusion in which I indulge, or a way to account for my impotence. Ordinarily I can sense the difference with those I love, but not with her—she is often so caught up in the dramatic that I can’t determine if she is giving me a true response or a fine performance.” He stood still, watching Photine turning the spit while the ducks’ skin crackled and spat hot fat into the fire, noticing how every gesture was practiced and skilled. “She may understand what I’ve told her, but she may not, or she may believe it as she believes she is Phaedre when she is performing Racine. Her performance would make it seem she is Phaedre, but she knows she is speaking memorized words and is recreating a tale that is many centuries old.”

  “Do you imagine you can convince her that the risk she runs is genuine?” Roger frowned slightly, trying to conceal his concern.

  “I would like to think so,” said da San-Germain, and added in French, “It is for her benefit that she understands me, and knows what will become of her after her life is over if she changes to one of my blood.”

  Roger nodded, and shook his head as Lothaire burst into song, recounting the story of what the widow found in the bird’s nest that pleased her so much; the others laughed and applauded as he carried on. “Shall I broach another half-barrel of wine? We have enough to spare a cask of the Tuscan red.”

  “You might as well. They’ll be glad of it, and, as you say, so far, we have ample,” said da San-Germain.

  Roger nodded and went to the rear of the larger cart to pull out the cask, shouting as he did, “To make supper heartier.”

  This was greeted with a ragged cheer and whoops of approval as the troupers scrambled to find their cups. Aloys brought out a pair of small hurdles and set them up so that the cask could stand upon the plank he laid between them.

  “You can have as much as your leader allows you,” Roger announced as he set the cask on the hurdle. “Just remember, we travel early in the morning, and you will need to be alert.”

  “We can appear alert,” called out Pascal. “We’ve all done it before.” He added a ripe chuckle.

  “You’ll be driving in the morning,” Photine reminded him sharply. “You will have to be clear-headed.”

  Pascal threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Very well. Two cups and I’ll go to my bunk.”

  Roger knocked the wax seal off the spigot on the barrel. “Line up with your cups.”

  Enee shoved himself to the front, glaring at Roger as if to dare him to refuse to pour him a cup. “The Conte is a generous master.”

  “Ragoczy,” Feo corrected him. “No titles in France.”

  “Remember, tomorrow night, we sleep in France, and we’ll all be equals, free from oppression,” Constance exclaimed as Enee took his wine and moved away; she beamed as she had her cup filled with wine. “To the glorious Revolution. May none of us die because of it.” She gave a little curtsy as her toast met with hollars of approval.

  “So you must tell me,” said Feo, stepping up as Constance went back to her place at the side of the wagon where a lowered side served as a dinner table, “have you and Madame settled on a route out of France yet?”

  “Not fixedly, no. We will have to see how things stand once we reach Montalia,” said Roger.

  “A wise precaution,” Feo remarked with a slow smile. “We don’t know yet what we’ll find, do we?”

  Roger motioned him on, and began to fill Crepin’s cup.

  By the time the troupe had all got wine, Enee had come back for more, while the rest of the company took up their bowls for the vegetable stew and slices of duck, to be accompanied by wedges of firm white cheese that Tereson was cutting out of the substantial wheel.

  Theron was sitting on the step on the rear of the smaller cart, apart from the actors, his dinner-bowl in his hands, his cup of wine balanced next to him within reach on the step. His eyes were distant and he dawdled over his food, putting his attention on the revised scenarios he had been working on for the last five days; occasionally he nodded to himself, or frowned. He was clearly fatigued, his shoulders drooping, his clothing still in disorder from their long hours on the road. He half-rose as da San-Germain came up to him, then sagged back onto the step. “I haven’t managed to work out the first transition yet, or even the best way to present it, if that’s what’s on your mind,” he said.

  “It isn’t, but tell me why the First Corpse’s appearance is so difficult; there must be a change you could make to … to ease it. Your other transitions seem to go well enough.” Da San-Germain leaned against the cart, hoping to make the young man feel more comfortable than he seemed to be.

  “I haven’t thought of why the First Corpse should appear at all: what brings him forth? Why is it evoked, and by whom? The later ones are easy—they are the dead from the previous scenes, but the first one: where does it come from? Who is it? What is its purpose in coming? Does it seek to warn, or does it symbolize death itself? I can’t work
it out.” He shook his head and spooned out a chunk of squash, blew on it, and began to eat.

  “Perhaps the First Corpse is allegorical?” da San-Germain suggested.

  “It’s possible, but an allegory for what?” Theron asked, frustration in every lineament of his body.

  “A figure representing the Old Regime?”

  “That is one hypothesis,” said Theron dully. “The stew’s not bad.”

  “Tell Photine,” da San-Germain recommended.

  He shook his head. “She’ll claim I’m trying to flatter her.”

  “Tell her anyway,” da San-Germain said.

  Theron cast him a scathing glance. “And have her mock my good manners? no thank you.”

  “Are you certain she will mock you?”

  “Very certain,” he said heavily. He ate more, scowling. When he had finished the wine in his cup, he said, “That First Corpse. It will haunt me until I can determine what its purpose is in the scenario. And Madame wants the scene ready tonight.”

  “So that is why you’re wrestling with the meaning of the First Corpse,” said da San-Germain.

  “In part,” Theron responded, going on reluctantly, “The First Corpse has bothered me from the first, though I know it has to be there to start the parade of them that develops in the scenario. But I need to have some way to explain what it is.”

  “Do you suppose that the figure might open the whole? Be a kind of prelude?”

  Theron shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

  “For Commedia della Morte, the figure could be a representation of the troupe itself, a personification of the play and the players, the nature of the plays performed, a symbol for the difference between the moribund and the transition Revolution has brought about.” Da San-Germain took a few steps back from Theron, knowing that the poet would need time to mull the possibilities over before arriving at any new decisions.

  After the meal was over, Photine ordered the troupe to assemble around the fire, which she built up again so that it blazed, warm and brilliant in the vastness of the mountain night. “We will go through the progression of the scenes. Those of you who becomes Corpses will need to work on your stiff-legged walk in your winding-sheets, so that you can do it in unison without tripping. Remember you will be wearing masks, as well, so your speech will have to be very clear or no one will hear your lines.” She asked Lothaire and Aloys to mark out a playing area, ordered Valence and Hariot to make torches for the standing spiral supports that would provide them light for their rehearsal. “Since we haven’t a final script yet”—she flicked a disapproving glance in Theron’s direction—“we must improvise our lines for a few more days, in the old commedia tradition.”

  “If we have to perform for the border guards?” Constance asked. “We won’t be able to do the whole piece.”

  “We can do the two scenes we do have finished, with the lines set. That should be sufficient for half a dozen bored guards, especially if we ask them for their opinion so that we can improve our performance—every audience likes to make suggestions, and none more than men who are bored,” said Photine, nodding in agreement with the sprinkle of laughter that greeted her observation. “So let us begin. Have your sides in hand, Pascal, Sibelle; take your places as soon as Aloys and Ragoczy have set up the chairs and the bower for you.” She held up her hand to demand the attention of her actors. “Remember, not too sweet; this only looks like a romance. We don’t want to create too much sympathy for Cleante and Desiree or their ending will be too sad.”

  Da San-Germain pulled a rehearsal chair out of the larger cart and carried it to where Aloys was waiting. “Do you know where we’re to put these down?”

  “One next to those three pebbles,” Aloys said, pointing. “I’ll put this one in its place.” He seemed amused to have the troupe’s patron serving as a stagehand; his blood-hound face lit up in a sarcastic smile.

  As soon as the stage was ready, Photine took the script in hand, then summoned Pascal and Sibelle to take their places and begin. “Remember, not too sweet, perhaps just a little touch of foppishness, Pascal, and a flightiness, Sibelle.” She leaned against the wagon, giving the actors her complete attention.

  Cleante: Oh, my rapturous Desiree, what can we do to resolve the enmity that exists between our fathers, so that you and I may wed?

  Desiree: (sighing) I have tried every means of persuasion I can to soften my father’s heart to your family, but he cannot be made to see that my only happiness lies with you.

  Cleante: Then we must consider an elopement. We must leave this place and find a haven where we can be together without fear.

  Desiree: Without money?

  Cleante: Each of us can bring our jewels and such possessions as will let us live as people of quality require. I have an inheritance from my grandmother that would buy us a house and land in America.

  Desiree: But your father would disown you—

  “Heurer!” Photine called out. “You should be here with us.” She motioned to Sibelle. “Continue.”

  Desiree: But your father would disown you, and mine would order me to a convent if we were to do anything so reprehensible. Any hope of a life together would end, my most dear one.

  Cleante: No, that would happen only if we were caught. There are new laws that would prevent your father from sending you to a convent.

  Desiree: He could kill me, my beloved. The law still permits that.

  Cleante: I would die with you, if he did. (They kiss.) How could he bear to kill anything so lovely as you?

  Photine stepped forward to stop the scene. “I know we’re supposed to be making fun of the aristocrats, but this is either too stilted, or not stilted enough, and that makes for confusion.” She swung around to face Theron as he emerged from the shadows, a box of paper in one hand, a half-eaten apple in the other; he took a last bite and tossed the core away. “You must lighten this, Heurer. As it is, there isn’t enough humor in it, or satire, or anything else that we can—”

  “But these lovers don’t see themselves as funny,” said Theron. “They fear they may be tragic.”

  “Most characters in a good comedy don’t see themselves as funny—that’s what makes them amusing,” Photine reminded him. “As to Cleante and Desiree, we need them to be just as absorbed in their problems as the characters in high drama are, but the tone has to be less … earnest.” She pointed to Pascal. “What do you think?”

  “I agree,” said the handsome young actor, folding his arms and staring into the distance. “It has to be lighter or broader if we want to amuse the audience. As it stands, it won’t make anyone laugh.”

  “There. You see?” Photine demanded of Theron.

  Theron bristled, his brow darkening. “You don’t understand what is happening in the scene.”

  “Well, if we can’t understand it, how will the audience?” Photine challenged. “I admit I am baffled.”

  “Isn’t it your craft to understand it?” Theron countered. “Aren’t you supposed to find the elements that make for humor?”

  “They have to be there to be found,” said Pascal, his face impish. He looked over at Photine.

  “Yes, that’s our task,” said Photine, surprising Theron. “But bear in mind, anyone may have an experience and not understand it, but to act an experience, the actor must understand what it is, what its meaning is. I’m pleased you grasp that.” She assumed her most patient demeanor. “Your words may be amusing when read on the page, but the stage isn’t the same thing as a book: what we play must be understandable and consistent in its presentation, which this is not. We want an abrupt contrast between this interlude and the appearance of the Corpses.” She held out the pages to him. “You wrote this scene and we have done our best to play it, but, as you see, we don’t know what the intent is. You must make it clearer.”

  Theron scowled. “You want more changes?”

  “I fear we must have them, and have them by morning, or we won’t have time enough to have the lines memorized b
efore we reach the border-crossing; we will need to be ready by then,” said Photine, softening her words with a winsome smile. “If you like, Sibelle, Pascal, and I will help you. We can read the words aloud and try to find a better way of making your purpose more apparent.”

  Valence stepped up to Photine. “If you don’t need me, I’d like to have a wash and go to bed.”

  “Of course. All of you but Pascal, Sibelle, and Heurer may follow your example,” Photine announced to the troupe at large. “This will take some time; make the most of your chance to sleep. The night-watch will begin shortly. Tonight it is Aloys and Urbain, then Feo and Ragoczy. Once the clean-up from supper is done, the rest of you may retire.”

  While most of the troupe moved off in the direction of the various wagons, Lothaire and Tereson poured the last of the stew into a large bowl, Sibelle glanced at Theron. “I think Desiree needs to be more of a coquette, feather-brained without being silly. When Cleante speaks of America, she could reveal her ignorance by saying something about the place that everyone knows is wrong.”

  “So this is more than the changing of a few sentences,” said Theron, his face blank.

  “If you cannot provide what we need, then we will have to improvise this scene, which wouldn’t be a good decision dramatically,” said Photine.

  Standing off to the side with Aloys, da San-Germain said softly, “Best break out the lanthorns. They’re going to need light for some hours yet.”

  “And be sulky as spring bears in the morning,” Aloys agreed before raising his voice. “Madame, do you want the chairs and the rest put away?”

  “No. Leave them. We may yet have to rehearse new lines tonight.” She turned to Theron. “It is for you to write, but we must memorize and set action to your words.”

  “So you tell me,” said Theron, covering his eyes with one hand. “Well. We had better get to it.”

  Photine beamed at him. “Very good, poet. I begin to hope there is promise in your plays.”