d.u.c.h.eSS

Great joy has made me heartless as well as foolish. I have hurt you, somehow. Forgive me, Signor Diego.

DIEGO

As you said, I am a courtier, Madam, and I know it is enough if we can serve our princes. We have no business with troubles of our own; but having them, we keep them to ourselves. His Highness awaits me at this hour for the usual song which happily unclouds his spirit. Has your Grace any message for him?

d.u.c.h.eSS

Stay. My son will wait a little while. I require you, Diego, for I have hurt you. Your words are terrible, but just. We princes are brought up--but many of us, alas, are princes in this matter!--to think that when we say "I thank you" we have done our duty; though our very satisfaction, our joy, may merely bring out by comparison the emptiness of heart, the secret soreness, of those we thank. We are not allowed to see the burdens of others, and merely load them with our own.

DIEGO

Is this not wisdom? Princes should not see those burdens which they cannot, which they must not, try to carry. And after all, princes or slaves, can others ever help us, save with their purse, with advice, with a concrete favour, or, say, with a song? Our troubles smart because they are _our_ troubles; our burdens weigh because on _our_ shoulders; they are part of us, and cannot be shifted. But G.o.d doubtless loves such kind thoughts as you have, even if, with your Grace's indulgence, they are useless.

d.u.c.h.eSS

If it were so, G.o.d would be no better than an earthly prince. But believe me, Diego, if He prefer what you call kindness--bare sense of brotherhood in suffering--'tis for its usefulness. We cannot carry each other's burden for a minute; true, and rightly so; but we can give each other added strength to bear it.

DIEGO

By what means, please your Grace?

d.u.c.h.eSS

By love, Diego.

DIEGO

Love! But that was surely never a source of strength, craving your Grace's pardon?

d.u.c.h.eSS

The love which I am speaking of--and it may surely bear the name, since 'tis the only sort of love that cannot turn to hatred. Love for who requires it because it is required--say love of any woman who has been a mother for any child left motherless. Nay, forgive my boldness: my grat.i.tude gives me rights on you, Diego. You are unhappy; you are still a child; and I imagine that you have no mother.

DIEGO

I am told I had one, gracious Madam. She was, saving your Grace's presence, only a light woman, and sold for a ducat to the Infidels. I cannot say I ever missed her. Forgive me, Madam. Although a courtier, the stock I come from is extremely base. I have no understanding of the words of n.o.ble women and saints like you. My vileness thinks them hollow; and my pretty manners are only, as your Grace has unluckily had occasion to see, a very thin and bad veneer. I thank your Grace, and once more crave permission to attend the Duke.

d.u.c.h.eSS

Nay. That is not true. Your soul is nowise base-born. I owe you everything, and, by some inadvertence, I have done nothing save stir up pain in you. I want--the words may seem presumptuous, yet carry a meaning which is humble--I want to be your friend; and to help you to a greater, better Friend. I will pray for you, Diego.

DIEGO

No, no. You are a pious and virtuous woman, and your pity and prayers must keep fit company.

d.u.c.h.eSS

The only fitting company for pity and prayers, for love, dear lad, is the company of those who need them. Am I over bold?

_The_ d.u.c.h.eSS _has risen, and shyly laid her hand on_ DIEGO'S _shoulder_. DIEGO _breaks loose and covers his face, exclaiming in a dry and husky voice_.

DIEGO

Oh the cruelty of loneliness, Madam! Save for two years which taught me by comparison its misery, I have lived in loneliness always in this lonely world; though never, alas, alone. Would it had always continued!

But as the wayfarer from out of the snow and wind feels his limbs numb and frozen in the hearth's warmth, so, having learned that one might speak, be understood, be comforted, that one might love and be beloved,--the misery of loneliness was revealed to me. And then to be driven back into it once more, shut in to it for ever! Oh, Madam, when one can no longer claim understanding and comfort; no longer say "I suffer: help me!"--because the creature one would say it to is the very same who hurts and spurns one!

d.u.c.h.eSS

How can a child like you already know such things? We women may, indeed.

I was as young as you, years ago, when I too learned it. And since I learned it, let my knowledge, my poor child, help you to bear it. I know how silence galls and wearies. If silence hurts you, speak,--not for me to answer, but understand and sorrow for you. I am old and simple and unlearned; but, G.o.d willing, I shall understand.

DIEGO

If anything could help me, 'tis the sense of kindness such as yours. I thank you for your gift; but acceptance of it would be theft; for it is not meant for what I really am. And though a living lie in many things; I am still, oddly enough, honest. Therefore, I pray you, Madam, farewell.

d.u.c.h.eSS

Do not believe it, Diego. Where it is needed, our poor loving kindness can never be stolen.

DIEGO

Do not tempt me, Madam! Oh G.o.d, I do not want your pity, your loving kindness! What are such things to me? And as to understanding my sorrows, no one can, save the very one who is inflicting them. Besides, you and I call different things by the same names. What you call _love_, to me means nothing: nonsense taught to children, priest's metaphysics.

What _I_ mean, you do not know. (_A pause_, DIEGO _walks up and down in agitation_.) But woe's me! You have awakened the power of breaking through this silence,--this silence which is starvation and deathly thirst and suffocation. And it so happens that if I speak to you all will be wrecked. (_A pause_.) But there remains nothing to wreck!

Understand me, Madam, I care not who you are. I know that once I have spoken, you _must_ become my enemy. But I am grateful to you; you have shown me the way to speaking; and, no matter now to whom, I now _must_ speak.

d.u.c.h.eSS

You shall speak to G.o.d, my friend, though you speak seemingly to me.

DIEGO

To G.o.d! To G.o.d! These are the icy generalities we strike upon under all pious warmth. No, gracious Madam, I will not speak to G.o.d; for G.o.d knows it already, and, knowing, looks on indifferent. I will speak to you. Not because you are kind and pitiful; for you will cease to be so. Not because you will understand; for you never will. I will speak to you because, although you are a saint, you are _his_ mother, have kept somewhat of his eyes and mien; because it will hurt you if I speak, as I would it might hurt _him_. I am a woman, Madam; a harlot; and I was the Duke your son's mistress while among the Infidels.

_A long silence. The_ d.u.c.h.eSS _remains seated. She barely starts, exclaiming_ "Ah!--" _and becomes suddenly absorbed in thought_. DIEGO _stands looking listlessly through the window at the lake and the willow_.

DIEGO

I await your Grace's orders. Will it please you that I call your maid-of-honour, or summon the gentleman outside? If it so please you, there need be no scandal. I shall give myself up to any one your Grace prefers.

_The_ d.u.c.h.eSS _pays no attention to_ DIEGO'S _last words, and remains reflecting_.

d.u.c.h.eSS

Then, it is he who, as you call it, spurns you? How so? For you are admitted to his close familiarity; nay, you have worked the miracle of curing him. I do not understand the situation. For, Diego,--I know not by what other name to call you--I feel your sorrow is a deep one. You are not the----woman who would despair and call G.o.d cruel for a mere lover's quarrel. You love my son; you have cured him,--cured him, do I guess rightly, through your love? But if it be so, what can my son have done to break your heart?

DIEGO