Part 4

Mark knew little of what was going on. He occupied himself mostly with his young pupils; but the conversation he had had with the Princess Isoline had troubled his mind, and a sense of perplexity and of approaching evil weighed upon his spirits and affected his health. He, who had never known sickness in his peasant life, now, when confined to a life so unnatural and artificial, so out of harmony with his mind and soul, became listless and weak in body, and haunted by fitful terrors and failings of consciousness. He knew that some extraordinary preparations were being made; but he was not spoken to upon the subject, and paid little attention to what was going on. Indeed, had he been in the least of a suspicious nature, the entire absence of solicitation or interference might have led him to suspect some secret machination against his simplicity and peace, some contrived treachery at work; but no such idea crossed his mind, he occupied himself with his own melancholy thoughts and with the histories and parables which he related to his pupils.

On the morning of the day fixed for the performance, then, things being in this condition, Mark rose early. He had been informed that it was necessary that he should wear his best court-suit, which we have seen was of black silk with white bands and ruffles. He gave his pupils a short lesson, but their thoughts were so much occupied by the expectation of the coming festivity that he soon released them and wandered out into the gardens alone. The performance of the play had been fixed for noon.

The day was bright and serene. The gardens were brilliant with colour and sweet with the perfume of flowers and herbs. Strains of mysterious harmony from secret music startled the wanderer along the paths.

Mark strayed listlessly through the more distant groves. He was distressed and dissatisfied with himself. His spirit seemed to have lost its happy elasticity, his mind its active joyousness. The things which formerly delighted him no longer seemed to please, even the loveliness of nature was unable to arouse him. He found himself envying those others who took so much real delight, or seemed to him to do so, in fantastic and frivolous music and jest and comic sport. He began to wonder what this new surprising play--these elaborately prepared harmonies--these swells and runs and shakes--might prove to be. Then he hated himself for this envy--for this curiosity. He wished to return to his old innocence--his old simplicity.

But he felt that this could never be. As the Princess had told him, whatever in after years he might become, never would he taste this delight of his child's nature again. He was inexpressibly sad and depressed.

As he wandered on, not knowing where he went, and growing almost stupid, and indifferent even to pain, he found himself suddenly surrounded by a throng of dancing and laughing girls. It was easy, in this magic garden, to steal unobserved upon any one amid the bosky hedges and arcades; but to surprise one so abstracted as the dreamy and listless boy required no effort at all. With hands clasped and mocking laughter they surrounded the unhappy Mark. They were masqued, with delicate bits of fringed silk across the eyes, but had they not been so he was too confused to have recognised them. He tried in vain to escape. Then he was lifted from the ground by a score of hands and borne rapidly away.

The stories of swan-maidens and winged fairies of his old histories crossed his mind, and he seemed to be flying through the air; suddenly this strange flight came to an end; he was on his feet again, and, as he looked confusedly around, he found that he was alone.

He was standing on a circular space of lawn, surrounded by the lofty wood. In the centre was an antique statue of a faun playing upon a flute. He seemed to recognise the scene, but could not in his confusion recall in what part of the vast garden it lay.

As he stood, lost in wonder and expectation, a fairy-like figure was suddenly present before him, from whence coming he could not tell. The slim and delicate form was dressed in a gossamer robe, through which the lovely limbs might be seen. She held a light masque in her hand, and laughed at him with her dancing eyes and rosy mouth. It was the little Princess, his pupil.

Even now no thought of plot or treachery entered the boy's mind; he gazed at her in wondering amaze.

"You must come with me," said the girl-princess, holding out her hand; "I am sent to fetch you to the under world."

Behind them as they stood, and facing the statue of the faun, was a cave or hollow in the wood, half concealed by the pendant tendrils of creeping and flowering plants. It seemed the opening of a subterranean passage. The child pushed aside the hanging blossoms and drew Mark, still dazed and unresisting, after her. They went down into the dark cave.

* * * * *

Meanwhile from early dawn the palace had been noisy with pattering feet. For its bizarre population was augmented from many sources, and the great performance of the day taxed the exertions of all. As the morning advanced visitors began to arrive, and were marshalled to certain parts of the gardens where positions were allotted them, and refreshments served in tents. They were mostly masqued. Then strange groups began to form themselves before the garden front of the palace, and on the terraces. These were all masqued, and dressed in variety of incongruous and fantastic costumes, for though the play was supposed to be classical, yet the necessity of entertaining the Princess with something startling and lively was more exacting than artistic congruity. As we have seen, the Prince had always inclined more to the fairy and masqued comedy than to the serious opera, and on this occasion the result was more original and fantastic than had ever before been achieved.

As the morning went on, there gradually arranged itself, as if by fortuitous incident, as strange a medley of fairy mediaeval legend and of classic lore as eye ever looked upon. As the Prince and Princess, surrounded by their principal guests, all masqued and attired in every shade of colour and diversity of form, stood upon the steps before the palace, the wide gardens seemed full of groups equally varied and equally brilliant with their own. From behind the green screens of the hedges, and from beneath the arcades, figures were constantly emerging and passing again out of sight, apparently accidentally, but in fact with a carefully-devised plan. Strains of delicate music filled the air.

Then a group of girls in misty drapery, and masqued across the eyes, the same indeed that had carried off Mark, appeared suddenly before the princely group. They had discovered in the deepest dell of their native mountain a deserted babe--the offspring doubtless of the loves of some wandering god. They were become its nurses, and fed it upon sacred honey and consecrated bread. Of immortal birth themselves, and untouched by the passing years, the boy became, as he grew up, the plaything, and finally the beloved of his beautiful friends. But the boy himself is indifferent to their attractions, and careless or averse to their caresses. He is often lost to them, and wanders in the mountain fastnesses with the fawns and kids.

All this and more was told in action, in song, and recitative, upon the palace lawns before this strange audience, themselves partly actors in the pastoral drama. Rural dances, and games and sacrifices were presented with delicately-conceived grouping and pictorial effect. Then the main action of the drama developed itself. The most lovely of the nymphs, the queen and leader of the rest, inspires a devoted passion in the heart of the priest of Apollo, before whose altar they offer sacrifice, and listen for guiding and response. She rejects his love with cruel contempt, pining always for the coy and errant boy-god, who thinks of nothing but the distant mountain summits and the divine whispers of the rustling woods. The priest, insulted and enraged, invokes the aid of his divinity, and a change comes over the gay and magic scene. A terrible pestilence strikes down the inhabitants of these sylvan lawns, and gloomy funerals, and the pathetic strains of dirges take the place of dances and lively songs.

The terrified people throw themselves before the altar of the incensed Apollo, and the god speaks again. His anger can be appeased only by the sacrifice of the contemptuous nymph who has insulted his priest, or of some one who is willing to perish in her place. Proclamation is made across the sunny lawns, inviting a victim who will earn the wreath of self-sacrifice and of immortal consciousness of a great deed, but there is no response.

The fatal day draws on; the altar of sacrifice is prepared; but there spreads a rumour among the crowd--fanned probably by hope--that at the last moment a god will interfere. Some even speak of the wandering boy, if he could only be found. Surely he--so removed from earthly and selfish loves, so strange in his simplicity, in his purity--surely he would lay down his guileless life without a pang. Could he only be found! or would he appear!

The herald's voice had died away for the third time amid a fanfare of trumpets. At the foot of the steps of the long terrace, by the Roman fountain, a delicate and lovely form stood on the grassy verge before the altar, by the leaping and rushing water's side; a little to the left, whence the road from Hades was supposed to come, stood the divine messenger, the lofty herald--clad in white, with a white wand; behind the altar stood the wretched priest, on whom the fearful task devolved, the passion of terror, of pity, and of love, traced upon his face; all sound of music had died away; a hush as of death itself fell upon the expectant crowd; from green arch and trellised walk the throng of masques, actors and spectators alike, pressed forward upon the lawn before the altar.... The priest tore the fillet from his brow and threw down his knife.

* * * * *

The darkness of the cave gave place to a burst of dazzling sunlight as Mark and the little Princess, who in the darkness had resumed her masque, came out suddenly from the unseen opening upon one of the great stone bases by the side of the steps. To the boy's wonderstruck sense the flaring light, the mystic and awful forms, the thronged masques, the shock of surprise and terror, fell with a stunning force. He uttered a sharp cry like that of a snared and harmless creature of the woods. He pressed his hands before his face to shut out the bewildering scene, and, stepping suddenly backward in his surprise, fell from the edge of the stone platform some eight feet to the ground. A cry of natural terror broke from the victim, in place of the death-song she was expected to utter, and she left her place and sprang forward towards the steps. The crowd of masques which surrounded the Prince came forward tumultuously, and a hurried movement and cry ran through the people, half of whom were uncertain whether the settled order of the play was interrupted or not.

Mark lay quite still on the grass, his eyes closed, the Signorina bending over him; but the herald, who was in fact director of the play, waved his wand imperiously before the masques, and they fell back.

"Resume your place, Signorina," he said, "this part of the play has, apparently, failed. You will sing your death-song, and the priest will offer himself in your stead."

But the girl rose, and, forcing her way to where the Prince stood, threw herself upon his arm.

"Oh, stop it, Highness, stop it!" she cried, amid a passion of sobs; "he is dying, do you not see!"

The Prince removed his masque; those around him, following the signal, also unmasqued, and the play was stopped.

PART SECOND.

I.

THERE was no change in the bright sunlight or in the festive colours of the gay crowd. The grass was as green, the sky as blue, the rushing leaping water sparkled as before, nevertheless a sudden change and deadness fell upon the garden and its throng of guests. The hush that had preceded Mark's appearance was of a far different kind. That had been a silence of awe, of expectation, of excitement, and of life; this was the scared silence of dismay. Those who were most distant from the Prince, and who could do so with decency, began to scatter like frightened children, and were lost in the arcaded hedges and walks. The Prince remained standing, his masque in his hand, the Signorina still weeping on his arm; she was too excited to admit of comfort, he stroked her hand kindly, as he would that of a child. The Herald, who was evidently exceedingly disgusted at the turn things had taken, and the quite unnecessary stop that had been put to the play, had retired a few paces, and was in conference with Carricchio, who was apparently trying to console him. The Princess, scared and startled, was drawing the Count after her to leave the scene, when a tall and beautiful woman emerged from a trellised walk and, through the respectful crowd that fell back to give her passage, advanced towards the Prince.

"You may resume your play, Ferdinand," she said, and her voice was very sad but without a touch of scorn; "you may resume your play. It is not you who have killed this child; it is I."

Then, stooping over the lifeless body, she raised it in her arms, and, in the midst of a yet more perfect stillness, as in the presence of a being of a holier and a loftier world, the Princess Isoline disappeared with her burden into the forest depths.

She followed the path under the narrow avenue, where she had once walked with Mark, till she reached her quiet and melancholy house; and, entering at once into the hall, she deposited her burden upon the long table, where the household was wont to dine. She laid it with the feet at one end of the board, and, straightening the stiffening limbs, she knelt down before it and buried her face in her hands.

"_The good are not happy, and the happy are not good_"--was she then good because she was so miserable? Ah no! Or was this wretchedness a wicked thing? Again, surely not!

As she lay thus, crushed and beaten down, her form contorted with sobs, a quiet footstep roused her, and, raising her eyes, she saw the Prince through her blinding tears. He was standing by the table, near the head of the child. His face was very pale, and the eyes had lost the habitual languor of their expression, and were full of an earnest tender grief. The Princess rose, and they looked each other straight in the eyes. Through the mist of tears the Prince's form became refined and purified, and he stood there with a beauty hitherto altogether unknown, even to her.

"I told this child, Isoline," he said; "I told this child that I had done well to send for him."

"Ferdinand," she said again, "it is not you who have done this; it is I." She stopped for a moment to recover control, and went on more passionately--"I, who pretended to the devoted life! in which alone he could breathe; I, to whom he looked for help and strength; I, who deserted him and gave a false report of the promised land."

The Prince looked at her with eyes full of compassion, but did not reply.

"You did what you could," continued his sister; "your effort was surely a noble one. More, in fact; you came to the help of his faith against evil. It is always so! The children of the world act always better than the children of light!"

In her self-abasement and despair the Princess did not remember Mark's words, that the greatest trial of his faith had been the Prince: a tolerance which is kindly and even appreciative, and yet, as with a clearness of a farther insight stands indifferently aside, must always be the great trial of simple faith.

"It is easier, Isoline," said her brother at last, "to maintain a low standard than a high. It seems to me that we have both been wrong, but yours is the nobler fault. You attempted an impossible flight--a flight which human nature has no wings strong enough to achieve. As for me, this has been a terrible shock--more than I could have thought possible, I who fancied myself so secure and so serene. That such a terrible chance could happen shows how unstable are the most finished schemes of life. I fancied that my life was an art, and I dreamed that it might be perfected--as a religious art. Fool that I was! How can life or religion be an art when the merest accident can dissolve the entire fabric at a blow? No art can exist in the presence of an impalpable mystery, of an unknown, inappeasable, implacable Force."

"No," said the Princess; "art is not enough!--morality, virtue, love even, is not enough. None of these can pierce the veil. Nothing profits, save the Divine Humanity, which, through the mystery of Sacrifice, has entered the unseen. You know, Ferdinand," and she looked up through her tears with a sad smile, "in your art there was always in old times a mystery."

She rose as she said this, and stood more lovely than ever in her grief and in her faith; and the Prince moved a step forward, and put his hand upon the breast of the child. As they stood, looking each other full in the eyes, in the notorious beauty of their order and of their race, it might have seemed to a sanguine fancy that, over the piteous victim of earth's failure, art and religion for the moment were at one.

II.

THE pleasure Palace was deserted. Mark was buried in a shadowy graveyard behind the old manor-house, where was a ruined chapel that had been a canonry. The Princess Isoline gave up her house, and dissolved her family. They were scattered to their several homes. She said that her place was by her brother's side. It would seem that none were sorry for some excuse. The Prince could no longer endure the place; he said that he had neglected his princely cities, and must visit them for a time. The Signorina was inconsolable, but her singing improved day by day. The Maestro began to have hopes of her. He wrote to Vienna concerning an engagement for her at the Imperial Theatre there, without even consulting the Prince, who for the moment was disgusted with the very name of art. Old Carricchio said that the northern sunshine was more intolerable than ever, and that he should return to Italy, but would take Vienna in his way. It might be supposed that this old man would have been much distressed, but, if this were the case, he concealed his feelings with his usual humorous eccentricity. He spent most of his time listening to Tina's singing. Even the Maestro and the pages seemed to miss Mark more.

In the general disorganisation and confusion the Princess even was not entirely unaffected. She was continually speaking of Mark, whose singular personality had struck her fancy, and whose sudden and pathetic death had touched her with pity. She appeared unusually affectionate to her husband and to his sister, and she despatched the Count to secure a residence in Vienna, where she expressed her intention of taking the entire family as soon as the Prince had satisfied his newly-awakened conscience by a sight of Wertheim. The children were delighted with the thought, and were apparently consoled for the absence of their tutor. Perhaps already his tales had begun to tire.

The Maestro and Carricchio were walking side by side upon the terrace where Mark was used to sit.

"I shall make a sensation at Vienna," said the Maestro; "that little girl is growing into an impassioned actress with a marvellous voice. I have an idea. I have already arranged the score. I shall throw this story into the form of opera--a serious opera, not one of your farcical things. It is a charming story, most pathetic, and will make people cry. That boy's character was exquisite: 'Ah,' they will say, 'that lovely child!'"

"I don't understand your pathos," said Carricchio crossly,--"the pathos of composers and writers and imaginative men. It is all ideal. You talk of farce, I prefer the jester's farce. I never knew any of you to weep over any real misery--any starving people, any loathsome, sordid poor!"

"I should think not," said the Maestro; "there is nothing delightful in real misery--it is loathsome, as you say; it is horrible, it is disagreeable even! Art never contemplates the disagreeable; it would cease to be true art if it did. But when you are happy yourself, when you are surrounded by comfort and luxury--_then_ to contemplate misery, sorrow, woe! Ah! this is the height of luxury: this is art! Yes, true art!"

"It seems selfish, to me," said the Arlecchino surlily.

"Selfish!" exclaimed the Maestro; "of course it is selfish! Unless it is selfish it cannot be art. Art has an end, an aim, an intention--if it deserts this aim it ceases to be art. It must be selfish."

There was a slight pause, then the Maestro, who seemed to be in great spirits, went on:

"I always thought the Prince a poor creature, now I am sure of it. He is neither one thing nor the other. He will never be an artist, in the true sense."

"He is very sorry for that poor child," said Carricchio.

"Sorry!" exclaimed the Maestro. "Sorry! I tell you when the canary died I was delighted, but I am still more delighted now. I predict to you a great future for the Signorina. She will be a great actress and singer. The death of this child is everything to us; it was just what was required to give her power, to stir the depths of her nature. _Mio caro_," he continued caressingly, putting his hand on Carricchio's arm, "believe me, _this_ is life, and _this_ is art!"

"He is a cold-blooded old devil," muttered Carricchio savagely, as he turned away, "with his infernal talk of art. I would not go to Vienna with him but for the Signorina. I will see her once upon the stage there. Then the old worn-out Arlecchino will go back into the sunshine, and die, and go to Mark."

III.

THE Maestro's romantic opera was a success. He was at least so far a genius that he knew where he was strong and where he was weak.