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 March 2007
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ASTOLFO, SOMETIMES grudgingly admired as preeminent master of the shadow trade, is avidly sought out by collectors. His attraction is his genius, for he is not physically prepossessing. He will say to me, "Falco, must you loom your bulk over me so lubbardly?" Yet I am but half a head taller than the plumpish, sparse-haired, nimble man and my weight, at about fifteen stone, cannot be much greater than his. It is my office to take all such comments, including the many others more acerbic, in good part, for after all, it was my own conceit to apprentice to him. Four long seasons I had been trying to learn the skill, craft, and finally the art of shadows and if I were to advance in my ambition, Astolfo must be the one to teach me. I felt now almost as muddled as at first, when I broke into his mansion to prostrate myself before his tolerance and be taken into his service. He once spoke a little in general about the vice of collecting. He seemed to be talking at idle random, but I found out early that he never spoke desultorily. "For it is a vice, you know," he said and looked at me with that gray-eyed gaze that so rarely gave away the cast of his humor. "I have known many a man to waste his substance upon trifles. He may bestow a fortune upon a trove of essence-bottle stoppers, upon elegant sword-hilt pommels, upon coins of fabled nations in fabled ages past. Then these connoisseurs expire in mortal fashion and their impoverished descendants scatter those spurious treasures to the round of the compass for a fraction of the true worth. This collecting, Falco, is a costly vanity." "I take it that you make an exception for the collectors of shadows." "Shadow collectors may be the worst of the lot," he replied. "For not only do the objects themselves extort fat prices, but a discriminating taste for them is difficult and expensive to acquire. And then there are the further costs of proper care and storage and restoration when that is necessary and possible." "Yet you derive some large part of your income from collectors." "Ah." He sighed and blinked. "I lead a superfluous existence. And I cannot fathom why you feel attracted to such an inutile way of life." I might have talked at length of the fascination that the business of shadows held for me, why it stood in my mind as the subtlest, cleverest, most demanding method of maintaining oneself. But I also knew better than to give my sharp-tongued mentor reason to ply me with sarcasm. I only inquired what he thought he might occupy himself with otherwise. "Why, I should retire entirely from commerce," said he, "and devote myself to the close study of the ancient mages. I would strive to achieve equanimity of mind and equability of temper. I would exercise to be always cheerful in this world of futile strife." "Most who know you would say that you have already arrived at the goals you aim at. You are hardly a melancholy man." "A long face discourages custom," he declared. "If my clients see me downcast, they may suspect I fret over an unsound business and carry their trade elsewhere." "So then, your talk is not pure philosophical disquisition. We have a venture in hand, do we?" "We do." He had not objected to the plural pronoun. "And it has to do with the pursuit of shadow collecting?" "As soon as you have made your appearance presentable to polished company, we shall go to the house of Ser Plermio Rutilius," Astolfo said. "I shall tell you about him as we travel." "Will Mutano accompany us?" I asked. If Astolfo felt the need of his mute, large manservant so fierce in combat, we might be entering a situation of some danger. "No," he replied. "If our host saw the three of us together he might doubt of my capacities. You shall answer well enough as a diverting companion and no more than that. He will see that you are harmless; Mutano does not readily present that aspect." I bowed acquiescence, hoping he would note that my ironic grimace expressed disagreement. Our travel was accomplished in handsome style, for Ser Rutilius had sent a well appointed coach-and-two to Astolfo's mansion to fetch us the two leagues to his chateau. As we rolled smoothly through the green springtime countryside, Astolfo informed me that our host was the scion of an ancient race of warriors who hired out to duchies, principalities, and kingdoms to protect them from marauders, enemies and friends alike. Since our province of Tlemia had blundered into peaceful times, there had been naught to occupy the hereditary skills and services of Rutilius. And so, as a young man, he had entertained himself with dissipation, gathering from cellars their sumptuous wines, from tailors their most costly and elaborate cloaks and doublets, and from noble families their comeliest, most complaisant females. "In short," said Astolfo, "he led such a life as you have dreamed of leading, Falco—idle pleasures following upon one another like raindrops in a sweet shower. And do you not dream of it still?" I did not respond. "But Rutilius is an intelligent young noble and in due season found these devices to pall. He educated himself in the sciences and the arts. He raised the farming practices of his estates to extraordinary levels; he has renewed and refined his martial skills; he has become a knowledgeable connoisseur of painting and tapestry, statuary and architecture. His senses and apprehensions having become so acute, it was perhaps inevitable that he should come to pursue shadow collecting, for no other cultivated attainment is so difficult to achieve. But, as it is the most expensive of such follies, so is it the most rewarding, for, as you have discovered, it is infinite in interest and delight." I would assent to this latter assertion while envying the fact that one in Rutilius's station could become an adept of shadows without enduring the physical discomforts the discipline was inflicting upon me. Astolfo seemed to have overheard my thought. "You must not think him some soft-handed, sweet-scented dilettante. He is an expert swordsman, an avid huntsman, a canny and alert man of business, and a fearless pugilist. Of his prowess with women I have heard nothing. Perhaps one of your town wenches has whispered to you whereof." I shook my head. "Well then, we understand that whatever commission he may propose to us must be a tangled one because the man himself is so very able and has such deep resources to command." "Yes," I said, "and from these resources he can well afford whatever toplofty fee you may ask." "It is for that reason we have come," Astolfo said, "for I am well past the age when mere difficulty itself is an attraction.… And so, here are we." The carriage rolled to a stop, the driver opened the door and assisted us down the gilt steps he had deployed, and we stood in a pleasant greensward before the great oaken doors of the chateau. WE WERE BROUGHT to the presence of Rutilius in a foyer almost immediately inside the doors. The foyer spread large, with a high, arched ceiling of cedarwood, and enclosed a circular area three steps below the main floor. This sunken space contained a small pool lined with blue tile in which red and silver carp wafted long, filmy tails. Flowers and trailing vines spilled from the mouths of sand-cast urns. From an adjoining room a lute not visible to us was being played with gentle and pensive hand. I had thought that the mansion of Astolfo, where it stood with its gardens and lawn and stable near the center of the port city of Tardocco, must be close to the apex of luxury. Now I knew that however large the fortune Astolfo had amassed, it was to the fortune of Rutilius as a ploughman's handful of seed is to a granary. But Rutilius showed himself, however, as no pompous or overbearing sort. A slender, sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties with a manner easy and open, he seemed sincerely pleased to acquaint himself with us, though I noticed that he did not offer his hand. Yet his ease in his station was so confident that this oversight bore no hint of arrogance. He did offer the customary welcoming glass of wine, as fine as any I have tasted since. The preliminary conversation consisted of our host and Master Astolfo trading reminiscences and guarded confidences about mutual friends and acquaintances. Ser Rutilius was sounding out Astolfo for his society connections, inquiring about the health of Princess A and the new foal in the stable of Count Z. The shadow master bantered his way through this testing, showing familiarity with the persons and affairs of one and all, but without giving impression he gossiped. Rutilius broke off these preliminaries sharply. "Have you some inkling why I desired to meet you?" "I have supposed you wished to acquire my services." "Do you know in what regard? You must answer this question truthfully." "I have no slightest notion," Astolfo replied mildly. An expression of relief passed over the face of the baron. "I am pleased to hear you say so. I have feared that my comportment of late has given me away. There are those who observe me closely for any sign of weakness." "Ah then," said Astolfo, "now I shall suppose it is some affair of the affections. I must tell you straightway, Ser Rutilius, that I am no mender of broken hearts. Nor, come to that, am I a broker of mended hearts." "In neither case could I use your skills," Rutilius said. "But come along with me to another room. Let me fill your glasses once more and you shall fetch them with you." "Thank you. It is a inspiriting vintage," Astolfo said. Having regenerated our drink, Rutilius led us from the foyer down a long, tapestry-hung gallery and brought us into a small salon. Intricate carpets smothered large areas of the parquetry floor, ensuring a sleepy degree of quiet. Large windows admitted southern light and gave an impression of openness to the room. But it was the walls that we had come to see. Paintings and drawings covered them in close profusion. Some paintings were life-size portraits; some drawings were not much larger than Astolfo's leopard's-head belt buckle. I marveled at them. The portraiture of shadows is the most demanding and delicate of the pictorial arts and the most skillful of artists might labor an arduous season to produce even a mediocre rendering. Here every example was a masterpiece. One or two I recognized from engraved reproductions in books, but all the others were new to my eyes and this first impression of them all together made the hairs stand up on my wrists. Astolfo, whose constant watchword was nil mirari, gave over to rapt admiration, going from one frame to another, stepping forward and back, cocking his head to one side, shading his eyes with his left hand. I had never before seen him so avidly engaged and wondered if this display might be partly a show of manners, a way of complimenting Rutilius on his taste. I also noted that the baron observed Astolfo attentively and seemed gratified when the shadow master kept returning to one drawing. Among the other, more imposing pictures, this one at first looked none so remarkable. It was no larger than a sheet of foolscap, a rendering of the shadow of a female in graphite and chalk. But the more I looked at it, the more it unfolded not only its artistic beauties but also an ineffable, closely personal charm that must have derived from its subject. In spite of all the instruction Astolfo has set me to, the examination of scores of paintings and drawings in the collections of his clients, the volumes of prints and engravings, the crabbed treatises on the pictorial art, I have not sufficient knowledge to speak with any wisdom. I believe anyhow that pictures speak for themselves and much that is said in their presence by ink-smeared daubers and chalky schoolmasters is so much vain bleating. I would rather hear a goat fart than to listen to doddering know-alls speak of composition, impasto, contrapposto, and the other drivel. From Astolfo's scattered remarks, however, I learned some good, practical sense, especially in regard to the picturing of shadows. First, he told me, your shadow artist must learn how to show volume, the dimensions of bodies in space. It is a childish error to see shadows flat, as unlit two-dimensional strips pasted to surfaces. The first task is to see that for all their seeming insubstantiality shadows have volume and extend round in three dimensions, to which—unlike solid bodies such as stones and trees—they add another surface borrowed from the ultramundane source to which they are allied. At the time, I could not see what he was asking me to see, but to this simple-seeming drawing his words fitly applied. The contours of the figure seemed to rise from the sheet on which they were limned. The shadow was modeled on paper as if it were a study for a sculpture in bronze or glass. Astolfo spoke to Rutilius in a voice even milder than usual. "I take it that these works represent properties in your possession." "All but a few are renderings of shadows I have gathered," Rutilius replied. "There are one or two works I acquired for their excellence as art. Some of those are quite old." "Indeed," Astolfo said, "for I see that some were signed by the artists. There is a Manoni by the door and in the painting next to it the little salamander scrawled into the corner of the canvas is the sign of the celebrated Proximo. But the newer ones are unsigned." "Shadow artists discovered that noising their names abroad was unsafe practice," Rutilius said. "Yet there are some so skilled, so deep-thoughted, so individual that their work speaks their names. For instance, that drawing of the young female's shadow must have come from the hand of Petrinius. He is our contemporary genius of shadows and his touch is unmistakable." "You are correct." "I see too that this drawing is fresh. You must have come by it recently." "He completed it only a sennight past." "And the shadow itself is in your possession?" "It is." "I congratulate you. That shadow is a treasure to make any collector proud." "Proud, perhaps. But not entirely happy." "The reason?" "I have a great, an overweening, desire to know what woman cast this shadow and where she is." "Did not your purveyor tell you these things?" "He did not know, for the one he got it from did not. It is possible that it passed through many hands before it came into mine." Astolfo stepped forward and leaned for a closer view of the drawing. "Perhaps. It is difficult to tell from a drawing. If I were to see the original—" Rutilius said, "Before I chance showing the property I shall need to know if you accept my commission and what your terms may be." "You wish me to find out about the person who cast the shadow?" "I want you to find her, the woman herself, and tell me who and what and where she is." "I can accept your tender only provisionally," Astolfo said, "because I cannot foresee what may be involved. A tedious, long search might be necessary and might prove fruitless." "True enough. Yet you are the most experienced hound in the kennel to set upon the trace. Your renown must have been well earned. And you should be fitly rewarded." "Provisionally, then—yes. Let us see the original. Then I may say more." In this other smaller salon that opened off the collection room, I could discern that Astolfo admired the way in which Rutilius tended his shadows. Some collectors and dealers believe that shadows should be put away in secret recesses—closets, armoires, cellars—so that the surrounding darkness might keep them fresh. But darkness drains them of vitality, gradually absorbing a little of their natural vigor. A dim light is best, light that is not a steady glow but a fluctuating or flickering convergence of beams. These varying conditions keep the shades exercised, furnish them tone, and lend them suppleness. Their odors keep cleaner in a light like unto that of an overcast day and their edges are less likely to lose definition than if they are stored away in some dank hole. For his most dearly prized shadow Ser Rutilius had ordered the construction of a special cabinet. It was a hand taller than myself and its glass sides enclosed an array of lightly smoked and unsmoked mirrors where the shadow floated among them in an ever-changing, vague light. These mirrors revolved slowly by means of a clockwork mechanism attached to the side of the cabinet. The shadow hung amid their surfaces like those carp wafting in the tiled pool in the foyer. Astolfo walked three times round this cabinet, leaning this way and that to see the different angles. I could tell that he was considering how he might construct such a machine himself. I noted too that his gaze often left the glass box and its shadow to take in Ser Rutilius. The baron must have looked upon this sight some thousand times and more, yet now he stood transfixed, again devouring it with his eyes. He had hooked his thumbs into his brocaded linen sash and his fingers played restlessly, hungrily, upon the band of cloth. Well, it drifted there in ineffable beauty. There was about it such refinement and grace, such a lilting freedom, that it lightened the heart. Astolfo has described some of the most beautiful of shadows as being music, and, to speak in that vein, this one was a cool, clear soprano aria of purest tone. I was not so deeply enamored of it as our host; my taste is for the darker shade, the more satin-like texture, the deeper fabric. But for those who prefer the shadow that verges on the edge of disappearance, an image that is but the whisper-echo of an image, this shade was paragon. And it required some time well after Astolfo had finished his examination before our host was able to tear himself away. "Any collector," Astolfo began, "of the greatest wealth or noblest blood, would consider this shadow his crown jewel." "And so for me it is—and more than that," Rutilius replied. "Your love for the object has persuaded me," Astolfo said. "I will accept the commission, as long as I am not bound to guarantee favorable result." "And your fee?" "I cannot tell that yet, but it will not discommode you." In the coach as we rode back to our manse, Astolfo said, "This is to be a delicate business. We must tread gently. We shall have to require from Ser Rutilius a bond for our safety from his hand." "Why should he wish to harm us?" I asked. "Because lovers are madmen and may do violence in a passion. Did you not see how he looked upon the thing? He is in love." "With a shadow?" "In his mind he sees beyond the shadow." "How so?" "He has imagined the woman who spilled upon the air so graceful, so lissome, so lyrical a shade and this picture he has imagined has fastened upon his heart like a kestrel taking a minnow." "You make him out a blushing virgin," I said, "but someone of his position—" "A man who has had his fill of women in the flesh, who has tired of their jangle in his ear, their depletion of his purse, their weight upon his loins, may perhaps seek a different and higher experience with a shadow-woman." "The caster is no shadow. She is flesh and bone like the rest of us." "Flesh and bone, yes—but not like you and me." "How do you mean?" "What sort of person will cast so delicate a shadow?" I pondered. "Some saintly lass, maybe. An ascetic student or a devoted temple maiden." Astolfo nodded, but his expression was dubious. "A prophetess—except that those figures rarely attain to gracefulness and when they do, their grace is in a strongly individual, eccentric mode. The movements of this shadow have a high degree of finesse unavailable to the temperament of the hermit." "You speak as if you have formed conclusions as to the identity of this female." "A thin conjecture, no more. Let us try to lure the artist who drew the shadow to our dinner table for tomorrow eve." "Petrinius? He will not come. He is said to disdain all company but his own." "And even with that he is none too pleased. Yet I think he might make an exception for our invitation. At any rate, we shall send it round."
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