Glorious Ones by Francine Prose Page A

that it seemed that she was always seeing that ridiculous sight for the first time.
    Andreini was directing her; she did as he said. But they could never have succeeded without my competence, my true art. All through those weeks of rehearsal, I kept her supplied with opiates. Her outbursts ceased completely, and I carefully recorded my observations in the ledger. She took her medicine willingly, almost gratefully. And, when she was not on stage or asleep beneath her husband’s blankets, she passed her time in my tent, sitting on a corner of the mattress, staring at the ground.
    Often, I would talk with her, though the fact of the matter was that I did most of the talking, and she rarely answered. One afternoon, however, I decided that it would indeed be a rare plum for the annals of medical science if I could persuade Isabella to tell me the truth about the origins of her illness. And so, broaching the subject as delicately as possible, I at last posed the question which interested me so deeply.
    “Isabella,” I said, placing one hand gently on her forehead, “tell me, what is the cause of your terrible illness? Did it start in the convent? Did the evil spirits possess you during one of those long nights in the cold stone coffins? Or was it later—did this madness seize you only after your marriage to Andreini?”
    “I was married to God before I was married to Andreini,” she said, in that strange, cryptic way of hers.
    Suddenly, as I looked at her face in the darkened tent, it did indeed seem to be shining with a cold, melancholy light. It was as if the moon had come indoors, in the middle of the afternoon. And it was then that I knew our play of the Moon Woman would be a tremendous success.
    Naturally, my thesis proved correct. That first night we performed the drama, I peered into the crowd, and saw that our audience was transfixed. They stared at Isabella as if she had bewitched them, drawn them into her power. Brighella, the Captain, and I received a few grudging giggles; but, by and large, an awed hush hung over the plaza. And at last, when Isabella charmed them with her radiant smile, I saw men, women, and children mopping their eyes with their filthy sleeves.
    They continued weeping even during the curtain calls. When Isabella came forward to take her bow, even the most brutish of the inveterate ignoramuses could not help noticing that the sad, distracted expression was still on her face.
    They began to murmur with curiosity; as we passed among the crowd, holding out our caps, the people surrounded us, besieging us with questions.
    “Is it true?” they demanded. “Is that woman the finest actress in the world, or is she really just as unhappy as she pretends?”
    “She is indeed a fine actress,” we answered noncommittally. “Put a few more pennies in our caps, and we will discuss it further.”
    That night, our hats were heavier with gold than ever before.
    Soon, the audiences were demanding six, seven shows a night. We were invited into the homes of noblemen, rich scions of society. We gave command performances at elegant entertainments. Within a few months, we found ourselves being wooed by the titled aristocracy, as they vied among themselves, and frantically outbid each other for the honor of our presence at their courts.
    The success made us vertiginous. In three weeks, Columbina grew fatter than a horse. For the first time in our lives, Brighella, the Captain, and I were forced to exercise in order to ameliorate the deleterious effects of excess food and drink. The nobles plied us with money, tasty delicacies, and fine wine. And always, after the performances, they would declare their undying admiration for Isabella, and express their great desire to have her sit at their very own table.
    Usually, they addressed their requests to Flaminio, who was still—nominally, at least—the leader of The Glorious Ones.
    But Flaminio, who seemed to regard Isabella with some strange mixture of fear and