Astraea [antikvár]

10 February 1639A woman is sitting in a great chair under a cloth of estate, in a room hung with black velvet. She is dumpy, deep-bosomed and straight-backed as a trooper. Her cheeks are doughy with adversity and time, but her hazel eyes are clear. Dusk is falling outside in the Voorhout, and in the dim, candle-lit velvet cavern of the presence chamber her face, breast and hands shine dimly pale against the black behind her and the black of her dress. Of the tall man standing before her, clad in scholar's black broadcloth, nothing can be seen but the chaste, starched-linen gleam of his collar and cuffs. The hand which holds his black beaver hat is invisible: as she peers into the gloom, she can barely discern his face, let alone his expression. Only a sudden liquid shifting in the gloom makes her realise, with a sudden qualm, that she has been staring straight into his eyes. She turns her head away, settling the black silk scarf around her shoulders against the creeping chill of the Dutch winter, adjusting her rings.'Tell me a story,' she says, her eyes downcast. Her voice is a strangely youthful one to come from so still and matronly a figure."What story do you wish, your majesty?' he responds. His voice is deep and resonant, but husky, like the sound of a bell made of wood.Still she does not look at him, and when she speaks her tone is wistful. 'Are there truly men in Africa whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders?''I have not seen one,' he says gravely.'Oh, I hoped it might be true. There is a phrase, is there not - "ex Africa semper aliquid novi"?''It was Pliny, I believe, who said that. And perhaps it is true. There3