Дэймон Найт - Orbit 12

As I breathed deep of the air, an ancient musty odour came to me as of something being singed. Lise clutched my arm tighter, and I saw Chloe snuggle nearer to Lambant. We were moving toward two magicians and would have to pass them by to enter the portal.

The day favoured them in their cloaks and tall hats, directing one of its first rays onto them, so that they were lit almost as artificially as characters in some old painting, appearing dramatically from the bitumen of night. On two huge and ungainly blocks of stone, fallen from some long-forgotten variant of the city’s geometry, they had built a smouldering fire; beside it, they proceeded on their arcana, their eyes squint as a cat’s, their faces square and malign. I turned away my head abruptly, not to see the serpent burning on the altar. It gave off a blue smoke which hung at heart level. None of us said a word.

The magicians moved their archaic bodies stiffly. Beyond the first arcades, daylight was still scarce, but people were moving in the shadows. We passed in under the gate of the city, the four of us, where torchlight was.

The gardens of Count Rinaldo had been laid out in a fanciful way and decorated with pleasant pavilions. It was toward one of these pavilions that my friend Caylus and I now made our way, following the path that led among the glades of aspen and tall cypress. Since he was distantly related to the Count, we were permitted into this paradise.

Now and again a statue peeped from the foliage, generally in the form of a goddess, or a chained animal lolled in the sunshine. We passed by a splendid mandrill, imported from Africa, squatting on a low branch and observing us down its gaudily striped cheeks.

“It wears its fantastic mask,” said Caylus lightly, “and one cannot tell from the beast’s scrutiny what sort of face lies underneath —a savage’s, clown’s, lover’s, or an old grey scholar’s.”

“That reminds me, Caylus. Now we are so close, I must go to see my father. I hear he has been unwell lately.” The mandrill shook his silver chain at us as Caylus began to move off.

“Fathers are generally unwell, in my experience. We’ll go and lunch with Gersaint, unless any sport more enticing presents itself.”

“I’d better to my father instead.”

“Think of Gersaint’s board, postpone your decision—preferably for a week or two—and let’s eye some pictures or whatever comes.”

We had never been far distant from the music of water, for the Count had employed a great engineer, Argenteuil, to design fountains and streams and waterfalls in his grounds. To these pleasant noises was now added the note of strings as we climbed a flight of marble steps leading to the art pavilion.

At the top of the steps, among the putti and alabaster Pans, stood two women with musical instruments, a girl with a mandoline, an older woman with a viol. They rendered a furlana of earlier times. A velvet-clad man in saffron hose leaned against a column, idly listening. He wore a plumed hat and animal mask, and idly tapped his foot to the music.

One of the women was well in the toils of time, her hair white and her skin flecked with brown. Although her hands on the strings were firm, her wattle hung like a lizard’s and her mouth had begun to recede towards her throat

Her companion was of greater interest. She was scarcely more than a girl, but well built for all that, with golden hair piled at the top of her head—though there may have been some artifice in its colour, for to her cheeks and brow she had added rouge and powder which, in the bright sunshine, looked, I thought, the least pleasing thing about her. She would be, I supposed, one of the Count’s young ladies, to judge by her manner and her dress. She eyed us direct as we came abreast of her, though she did not cease her playing. She wore a gown of shimmering white silk, slightly soiled about its hem, from under which one softy shod foot looked out. About her throat was a lace collar, and a low-buttoning russet jacket adorned her elegant bosom. This was not day attire, even in these elegantly overdressed circles; I dismissed her for all her beauty, turning instead to the paintings under the low colonnade. Caylus paused to eye her and take in her melody, so I went ahead of him.

The Count had collected many elegant and exotic things on his travels, the most treasured of which adorned his palace, the least treasured of which decorated his pavilions. The company to which I belonged was due to perform the comedy of Fabio and Albrizzi at the wedding of my friend Lambant’s sister. I was playing the role of Albrizzi and needed a costume for the part. My hope was that I should find an idea for one among the Counts pictures.

Light and grace had been in the mind of the genius who built the art pavilion, perched on its artificial hill. He had so contrived the perspectives of his columns and little courtyards that one vista looked toward the steps where the women played, and the pastoral scenes beyond them, while the other vista took in at once the ruin of an old palace, with ferns sprouting from its crumbling pediments, and the baroque splendours of the Counts residence; so that, with these two contrasting reminders of nature and art, one turned readily to their echoes in the canvases ornamenting the walls.

Caylus caught up with me, humming the air plucked out by the mandoline, gazing without exertion at the pictures.

“A pretty little painted creature down there, and no mistake . . . With sweeter music to make than comes from wooden instruments. She looked boldly at me. Who’s the fellow, I wonder, hiding under his wolf-mask? A favourite of Rinaldo’s, I suppose. What’s she to him?”

“What do you think of this Landscape in Arcadia, Caylus? What a perfect little background behind the huntresses ...” I indicated the mythical scene before me, but he scarcely gave it a glance.

“Too misty for my taste! If I could get her to one side . . . my rooms are near. She’d surely need no persuasion, once that fop has disappeared. A man has a duty to pay his tribute to Venus every day.”

“My duty to my father...”

“Come, Prian, we’ll stroll upstairs, where the older pictures are. Tell me not about your precious father again.”

The keeper of the place lolled on the stairs, feeding titbits to his little dog. He jumped up and bowed to us as we passed. On the small upper floor, the paintings were fewer, and the views all round even finer than those below. I was feeling out of sorts that day, although the paintings pleased me. Caylus, my most highborn friend, was less easy to please.

He loitered at a low casement, looking down. “Come and see this depiction of an outdoor concert,” I called to him. “By a forgotten artist. How poignant the stances of the musicians as they hold an hour’s attention! And what words could describe that tender colour—though it’s faded—and the mistiness so perfectly expressing a dream of youth and happiness...the freshness of the clouds in the background, the blond clarity of the foreground with its grouped figures . . .”

“Mmmmm . . .”

“True to nature, yet more true . . . the tableau living still, its creator long since dust . . . Only relegated to this pavilion by a stain in one corner. Who executed such a sweet design? How long ago, and in which country? The fashions are not of Malacia . . . This gallant here, Caylus, in the grand green coat . . .”

I ceased. Here was the costume I needed: unfamiliar yet not unfashionable, stylish yet without too much pretension, and not without its humour, as befitted the character of Albrizzi.

The gallant in the picture wore a white wig, although his features were youthful. His coat was of damask with silver buttons. The coat was long, shaped in at the waist and then ample, with ample pockets, terminating just below the knee, to reveal elegant hose from which ribbons hung. It had wide cuffs and was embellished deeply with silver braid. Beneath the coat, a waistcoat of brocade, decorated with landscapes done in—I surmised—petit point. A white tie tight to the throat completed the ensemble. That was it!—Albrizzi to the life! I would send the tailor to copy it.