others which were assembled at a rendezvous agreed before, near to
Tunis, where, having tallowed our vessels, with all celerity we set
forth on a great expedition of destruction for the Italian shores. We
soon descried four Christian galleys which nimbly got from us, and
giving warning to the coast, we found everywhere the people had fled
inland, driving their cattle before them and leaving their crops and
houses and impotent or aged people to our mercy. We landed a party at
Ocootra, a city of Calabria, who destroyed everything that they came
across, leaving nothing behind them but wasted vineyards, burnt crops,
and ruined houses; and this we did at divers other places, insomuch
that it was disliked of by some of the graver Turks themselves. In
this way we came at length to Naples, where there is a mighty burning
mountain, or volcano as it is called, which some wise men say is
hollow within, and through which is a passage to the depths of hell:
for there the groans of the damned are plainly to be heard. Here the
people, as soon as they had notice of our coming, were in great fear:
some of their ships of war which lay in the port were deserted of
their men, who all ran ashore, and we took and set fire to them. The
castle fired upon us, but their shot were so ill directed that they did
us no damage; and the Turks laughing at them passed on, everywhere
getting information from Christian spies of the richest and weakest
places to attack. And, indeed, it is lamentable to see how ready the
Christians are to discover their most hidden secrets to these, their
greatest scourges, though it be to the ruin of their own country. I
have known three of them who, casting off all grace, have piloted the
Turks to the place where they were born, and have been instruments in
the captivating of their own fathers and mothers and all their kin,
afterwards turning renegadoes and receiving their part of the price
for which their parents were sold in the market. One of these piloted
our fleet to a small place called Quirico, which lies a little south
of Leghorn, whence most of the people who were able fled with all that
they could hastily take with them when they saw the Turks landing, who,
nevertheless, brought away 215 persons, besides having slain many that
were too old or that had offended them. Of these one was the Bishop
of San Miniato that chanced to be there at the time, thirty-one were
nuns, and the remainder were women and children and a few brave men
that had stayed to defend the place. What weeping and wailing there
was among these, and how the men wished that they had all slain each
other rather than allow themselves to be taken. They were all divided
among the different galleys, and among those that were brought on
board ours I noticed a girl aged about seventeen or eighteen years, so
beautiful that our rais or captain designed her as a present to the Dey
himself. She was accordingly treated with honour by them, and allowed
more freedom than the rest. Now, as this was the first place that had
offered any serious resistance, so was it the first fight in which
we had many wounded; and I, wishing to soften my hard lot and gain
a little respite from my intolerable labours, offered to bind their
wounds, which they allowed of; and when they saw that I did it as one
that had knowledge, they released me from my heaviest chains, and I
was appointed assistant chirurgeon to a renegade that held the chief
office. Whether it was that my face inspired confidence, or whether,
knowing that I was no renegade, this fair creature had the more hope
from me, I know not; but one evening when it was already dark, I heard
a gentle ‘hist’ in my ear. I started, and a fair hand on my shoulder
motioned me not to move. ‘I am one of the captives,’ said the voice;
‘she, alas! who is destined to worse than slavery; art thou willing to
assist me?’ She spoke in Italian, a language which I read before I had
left England, and which I had talked to some of the other captives; I
could therefore answer her in her own tongue, and assured her that any
man who had once seen her would willingly die in her service. ‘A truce
to compliments,’ she answered, ‘but listen to my story, and you will
then see whether it is possible to assist me.’ With many sighs she then
related her story as follows.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_THE STORY OF GABRIELLA DI CAPELLINI_
My name is Gabriella, and I belong to the princely house of the
Capellini who hold vast possessions in the neighbourhood of Siena.
My father is a distinguished general in the service of the Duke of
Florence, and in the winter time, when there is little stirring, we
inhabited one of the finest palazzos in Florence. I am an only child,
and consequently a great heiress; for which reason, and also on account
of the high position of my father, you may readily imagine that we
did not want for the best society that the town could afford. In the
division of troops commanded by my father was an old officer whom he
greatly respected for his prudence, courage, and military capacity,
whose name was Girolamo dei Stracci, of the noble family of that name;
but who belonging to the younger branch, had nothing but a small farm
which barely served to supply his wife and only son with sufficient
polenta for their daily food, and an occasional piece of goatsflesh for
feast days. One day he begged permission from my father to place his
son among his pages, saying that he wished to bring him up to be at
least a gentleman, if a poor one; and that, though he had trained him
as well as he was able, yet his frequent absences, and the difficulty
of finding proper companions for him, made him unwilling to let him
remain any longer on his farm, and he would esteem it a favour if he
would allow him to be placed among his retinue where he would meet
with companions who were his equals in rank, and learn all that was
necessary for a gentleman and a soldier, until he was old enough to
join him with the army. This my father very readily accorded; the young
gentleman was enrolled among his pages; and not long afterwards his
father died, leaving him but his farm, his sword, and an untarnished
name.
Baptisto dei Stracci at this time was only eighteen or nineteen years
of age; notwithstanding which, it was difficult to say whether nature
had been more bountiful to him in body or in mind. He was tall, slight
in figure, as was natural at his age, though well made, and with
strikingly handsome and noble features. I would liken him to an Apollo,
but I have never seen any cold and lifeless statue so beautiful as he.
Added to this, he had so just an understanding, such charm of manner,
such perfect courtesy, and spoke so well on every subject under the
sun, that he soon became a favourite among his companions and arbiter
in all their disputes. Moreover he attracted my father’s notice by his
skill in the use of arms and management of the great horse, which,
indeed, he sat like a god, and seemed to make obey his every desire
merely by the pressure of his knee. Soon after being taken to the wars,
he showed such proofs of courage, combined with a certain amount of
prudence, as was very unusual in one of his age.
It is not to be supposed that a youth so favoured should escape the
notice of my sex; but though he showed the greatest gratitude for
all the favours they did him, his would-be adorers found always an
impassable barrier to any tender advances: and yet, so courteous and
charming was he withal, even in his coldness, that he never made an
enemy. The state with which I was surrounded, and semi-seclusion in
which all the upper classes of Italian women are kept, so unlike, as
I am given to understand, to the way in which your country-women are
brought up, prevented me from seeing any of the pages excepting at a
distance, but I should have been more than human; let alone more than a
daughter of Eve, had I not noticed and unconsciously liked the face of
Baptisto dei Stracci. Perhaps I should have thought no more about him,
but my father was never tired of praising him, comparing him with the
other pages, recalling his father’s memory, and predicting a brilliant
future for him. How can I be blamed, therefore, for allowing my
thoughts sometimes to dwell upon this paragon; watching him to see if I
could detect any of those virtues; and detecting, ah! how quickly, his
eyes fixed on me in respectful admiration almost as often as I lifted
my eyes to his. My interest once aroused, I could not fail to note how
every one spoke well of him: how one would extol his bravery, another
his courtesy, and another his good looks. I now listened to, and
indeed, encouraged my tiring women when they spoke in his praise, and
I felt I know not what secret joy when they complained of his coldness
to all womenkind. It was his sole fault, from what I gathered, and it
made me look all the more curiously upon him. I thought he did not
look cold; nay, once or twice I caught his eye so ardently fixed upon
me that he almost made me afraid. But I was soon to resolve the riddle:
for one evening when all the inmates of the palace had retired to rest,
feeling sleepless, I opened the casement and gazed out upon the garden.
It looked so quiet and peaceful in the brilliant moonshine, the quaint
forms of the trees cut into all sorts of shapes were clearly shown, the
birds and beasts and allegorical monsters. I fancied them conversing
with each other until my senses became confused and I dropped asleep
with my head resting upon my hands. I could not have slept long,
however, before I was awakened by some low and sweet sounds as of a
mandoline or some such instrument. It was a sad air, the strings seemed
to weep and sigh, but presently combining in a more measured strain
they were accompanied by a pleasant voice that sang the following:--
Unlock those eyelids, and look out on me,
And give me courage to confess,
That more than words can tell I do love thee,
My sweet mistress.
Ah no,
Not so,
Thou wilt not give me e’en a look, and I
Can only die.
Didst thou look forth, the shining moon would fade,
And every star pale out of sight;
Thy glorious beams would drive away night’s shade:
Than suns more bright!
Ah no,
Not so,
Thou wilt not gild me with a look, and I
Can only die.
The sun on all impartially doth shine,
Be they of low or high degree;
Wilt thou not then from thy great height incline
Thy heart to me?
Ah no,
Not so,
Too high, I fear, I’ve dared to look, and I
Can only die.
’Tis said the wind, e’en though it hath no heart,
Is tempered to the lamb that’s shorn;
And thou wilt not, that all sweet kindness art,
Hold me in scorn.
Ah no,
Not so,
Thou wouldst not be unkind to me, or I
Would surely die.
The angry billows in their dreadful ire
Do not all trusting them devour;
And thou wouldst not one tear from me desire
To prove thy power.
Ah no,
Not so,
For if thou didst but frown upon me, I
Must straightway die.
O Love! who art all-powerful, I implore
Thee shoot one arrow in her heart!
Yet let it not prove painful to her or
Cause too great smart!
Ah no,
Not so,
For if it hurt her any whit, then I
For dole must die!
Merely to repeat the words to you can give but a faint idea of the
sweetness of the music and the pathos of the voice. I thought that
I recognised it, but I could not be sure, for I had never heard
Baptisto sing. Could it be he? Whom could it be meant for? And though
I thought of all my women one by one, yet none lodged anywhere near
upon that side of the palace, nor would any seem to fit to the song.
I was tormented as to the meaning and in doubt as to the singer, for
though I cautiously looked all around I could see no one. I closed my
casement and retired to my couch, but not to sleep, and soon I found
my pillow grow wet with tears. In the morning I sallied forth in my
mask with my governess and a retinue of servants to take the air; and
as I was passing through the great courtyard there were, as usual,
numbers of my father’s retainers scattered about, some polishing their
arms, some lying lazily in the sun, some talking or playing at cards
or dice. I caught the sound of a mandoline: it was the strain I had
heard the night before, and looking furtively round I saw Baptisto,
who immediately changed the melody as I went out, to a wild plaintive
air full of sadness. I cannot describe what my thoughts were at this
discovery. Two things were certain: first that the singer of last
night was none other than I had suspected; and secondly, that if it
was intended for the ears of anyone, it was intended for mine. No
other woman was with me then but my governess. Was I intended to hear
it? If not, why did he repeat the air again as I passed by? Forsooth
it may have been chance, nevertheless the allusion in the song to
the difference of rank convinced me that he could mean no other than
myself. I felt pleased and flattered, and the more I thought over it,
as I could not help thinking, and considered that I, I to whom he had
hardly spoken a word, was the object of his adoration, that I had
conquered the unconquerable, my heart swelled with pride and delight,
and I forgot for the time that difference in degree between us. Whether
it was that I hoped to hear that sweet voice again, or that my thoughts
were in too great a turmoil, when night came I found it impossible to
sleep. I again opened my casement and looked out, wondering if, and
(shall I confess it?) wishing that he would come again. Nor was I
disappointed, for hardly had I been there for a few moments when, as if
he had been awaiting me, I heard the notes of the mandoline, and after
a short prelude he sang the following song, into which he put a depth
of feeling no words of mine can express:
Oh give me back my heart again,
The heart that thou didst steal from me:
Oh, let me not beseech in vain!
I would not be so cruel to thee.
When I first saw thy face, ’twas as
The sun shone forth from leaden skies:
I looked, I loved, and now, alas!
I cannot breathe for choking sighs.
Before I saw thee, I was gay
And free and blithe and debonnaire;
But thou didst steal my heart away,
And now dost leave me to despair.
Oh, can a form divinely rare;
As thine, enclose a heart of stone?
It cannot be that one so fair
Unmoved can listen to my moan!
Thine eyes are grey, and like unto
The colour that in steel we see;
Oh, they’re not hard as steel, but true
As steel, and they will melt for me!
Thy brow is like a marble shrine
That thy sweet mind within doth guard;
Oh, let that mind to me incline,
And not be like to marble hard!
About thy head, thy golden hair
A saintly aureole is; oh, bless
With a kind word thy worshipper,
And leave him not in his distress!
Thy cheeks are soft, and red and white,
And blush with every virgin thought;
To blush a greeting at the sight
Of me, oh let them then be taught!
Thy ruddy lips harmoniously
Are tuned alone to speak what’s truth;
Oh, let the words they utter be:
Upon thy misery I have ruth!
Oh, give me back my heart again!
Or, since that it is from me fled,
I will not have it back; oh, deign
To give me thy heart in its stead!
As he sung, I listened as one entranced, and sighed deeply as he
finished. Perhaps he heard me, perhaps he was over bold, but in a
minute he was on the balcony at my feet, having climbed up a cypress
tree that grew close by. I would have scolded and driven him away, but
my agitation was so great that no words were at my command, and before
I could control myself he had poured out his soul before me and I had
confessed my love. The hours seemed to fly as minutes, and it seemed
as though we had had hardly time to say a word before the dawn came on
apace. I begged him to leave me, and with great reluctance he went,
but not before he had ravished a kiss. A kiss! He had ravished my whole
soul! and I knew that I should never more know what peace of mind was
while he, my lord, my God almost, was absent. What was this that had
come over me? I seemed to be another being; to be born again with new
aims and a forgotten past. I lived in the future, I was a woman, and
my girlish years seemed to fade away in the remote distance as if they
had been but a dry and insipid dream. How I recalled every gesture and
every tone! How I dwelt upon them, and turned them in every light!
Once, for a moment, I looked into the future, and saw an angry father
who cast me out from him; yet life seemed to me so lovely that I could
not believe it, but took back my thoughts to the sweet moments that
had passed all too quickly. The next day I saw nothing of my love.
The day passed more slowly than I could have believed possible, and
I almost thought that another Joshua had commanded the sun to stand
still. I could scarcely contain myself as night fell; and pleading a
migraine, I retired early, dismissed my women as soon as I decently
could, and anxiously awaited Baptisto. Another night was passed in
delicious converse with him, and at last we began to talk about our
future, when he told me that he was bound in honour to tell my father
of our love, and to ask his permission to win my hand: nevertheless, we
both of us felt that this was tantamount to separation for ever, and
our hearts were heavy. How unlike the ecstasy of the night before! As
we took leave of each other, and felt, too surely, that we had taken
leave for long, perhaps for years, we renewed our vows of unalterable
affection, come what might. The next day Baptisto sought an interview
with my father, which was readily accorded, for he always saw him with
pleasure. On other occasions he had modestly tendered suggestions
on military matters, and my father, who had no pride on such a
subject, had always found his remarks so sensible and so obviously
advantageous, that his more mature experience had seldom prevented him
from entertaining them. On this occasion he was to receive a cruel
wound, for he loved Baptisto as a son, both for his own and for his
father’s sake, and yet you know how great is the pride of us Italians
in everything that concerns our family: how their dearest passions are
sacrificed to their pride of race, and how they would rather condemn
themselves to life-long misery than allow people for whom they care
nought to be able to say that their blood has been defiled by a
mismarriage. My father could scarcely hear Baptisto out with patience;
the idea of an alliance with a house so long impoverished and forgotten
was insupportable to him; and he told Baptisto to think no more about
it, that he would overlook his presumption in consideration of his
friendship towards him, his youth, and the noble house from which
he was descended; but that he was to give him his word of honour to
forget all about me, otherwise he would have to dismiss him from his
service and never see him more. My noble Baptisto in all humbleness
acknowledged the difference in rank and riches, and the great kindness
that my father had always shown to him; and falling on his knee, said
that the great obligations that my father had put him under were
almost more than a father would have done for a son. ‘But,’ he added,
‘love is stronger than man, I love your daughter, and I have reason
to believe that she returns my affection. Could I have known that I
was drifting into love, and that the feeling I felt growing upon me
was something different from increasing respect and gratitude for you
reflected in one that belonged to you, that respect would have induced
me to fly from temptation and to leave you; but, alas, to see your
daughter is to love her, and once in love all volition is gone. I loved
her, and even then I did not realise that love would demand a closer
relationship than respectful admiration. Now, indeed, I am wiser, but
I cannot renounce my love, and though my birth is not unworthy of the
highest in the land, yet I feel that I have abused the hospitality that
you have extended to me; kill me therefore, for I cannot live without
her!’ Then, baring his breast, he presented his sword, saying that
death at his hands would be more merciful than expulsion. My father
was softened at this, and after a moment or two of silence spoke as
follows: ‘You are a man of honour, and I grieve right truly that it
is impossible for me to give you my daughter. I tell thee, Baptisto,
that there is no one that I would rather have as a son than thou, and I
had hoped to be able to supply the loss of thy father to thee. Since,
however, thy dream cannot be fulfilled, thou must leave me. I will give
thee letters for the Duke of Milan, with whom thou mayest take service;
once there, thou wilt see many fair women of thy own degree, and thou
wilt forget my daughter. When she is married, return to me, and we will
be as before.’ Poor Baptisto seized his hand and kissing it with the
tears running down his cheeks said that he would go since he had no
choice, but that he was sure that he would never love anybody else; and
my father, more moved than he cared to show, dismissed him.