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ISABELLA ORSINI.
[Illustration: Engraved by F. Halpin from a pencil Drawing by
Frasdieri.
_Isabella Orsini_
RUDD & CARLETON, NEW YORK.]
ISABELLA ORSINI:
A Historical Novel of the Fifteenth Century.
by
F. D. GUERRAZZI,
Author of "Beatrice Cenci."
TRanslated from the Italian, by Luigi Monti, A.M.,
Instructor in Italian at Harvard University, Cambridge.
[Illustration]
New York:
Rudd & Carleton, 310 Broadway.
MDCCCLIX.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by
Rudd & Carleton,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.
R. Craighead,
Printer, Stereotyper, and Electrotyper,
Caxton Building,
81, 83, and 85 Centre Street.
TO
CORNELIUS C. FELTON, LL.D.,
ELIOT PROFESSOR OF GREEK LITERATURE
AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY,
As a mark of gratitude for his kind advice,
urbanity, and friendship,
THIS TRANSLATION IS DEDICATED.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
Guilt, 15
CHAPTER II.
Love, 26
CHAPTER III.
The Knight Lionardo Salviati, 49
CHAPTER IV.
Homicide, 84
CHAPTER V.
Pasquino, 106
CHAPTER VI.
The Son, 147
CHAPTER VII.
Jealousy, 172
CHAPTER VIII.
The Confession, 206
CHAPTER IX.
Death, 253
LETTER.
GENOA, June 30th, 1858.
MY DEAR SIR,
In reply to your letter dated May 27th, I send you a portrait of
ISABELLA ORSINI. You could not have been successful in obtaining it
from any one except myself, for notwithstanding the many researches
made for it, I procured it only after great difficulty. I went to
the very palace wherein she was murdered by the wretched hands of
Orsini; I was even on the point of having the coffin wherein she was
buried opened, but several reasons deterred me, the principal one
being that the body, after so long a time, must have become ashes. At
last, while I was in prison, the Marquis * * * died: his heirs (three
Marquises) immediately sold books, pictures, furniture, and every
family relic. Among these, a friend of mine found a bronze medal of
ISABELLA ORSINI, a copy of which I send you. On the reverse of the
medal is a bush with flowers, fruits, and the inscription FLORES.
SIMUL. ET. FRUCTUS.
A photograph of it did not succeed well. I would willingly send you
the medal itself, but fear that it may be lost, and thus the _only_
portrait of that unfortunate woman be for ever destroyed, deters me.
I have, however, caused a drawing to be executed by one of our best
artists, CHEVALIER FRASCHERI, Professor of Painting in the Ligurian
Academy, which I think will please you.
Yours very affectionately,
F. D. GUERRAZZI.
TO SIG. LUIGI MONTI,
_Boston, Mass._
ISABELLA ORSINI.
CHAPTER I.
GUILT.
But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground,
as though he heard them not.
So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said
unto them: 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast
a stone at her.' * * * *
And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee; go and sin
no more.
--ST. JOHN viii.
"AVE MARIA! O being, at whose sight the Eternal One was persuaded to
offer himself as an expiatory victim to the irrevocable justice of
his laws, for the race of which thou wast born; O Virgin! into whose
bosom God penetrated like the purest ray into clear water; O Mother!
who in thy bosom, better than in the Holy Ark, barest Divinity, have
mercy upon me.
"_Ave Maria!_ Queen of Heaven: God has surrounded thee with the most
loving angels that he ever created in the exultation of his glory.
God has chosen from the fields of the firmament the most brilliant
stars to form thy crown; beneath thy feet has he placed the sun
and moon. Christ reposes on thy arm as on a high throne to govern
creation. Thou that canst do all things, have mercy upon me.
"_Ave Maria!_ God shed his own blood in observance of the decrees of
his law. Thou conquerest even those decrees, for when loving appeals
failed, thou didst remove the eternal from thy holy arm, and didst
kneel before him, to win by thy prayers what thy request had failed
to obtain; for what man or God could see his mother prostrate at his
feet and disdainfully spurn her? God is above, not against nature.
Mercy then, oh, have mercy upon me!
"_Ave Maria!_ If thou but turnest one look of kindness upon the
soul of the parricide, lo, it will become as pure as that of the
babe newly baptized. Thou that hast a tear for every sorrow, thou
that from misery hast learned to relieve the unfortunate, thou that
bringest a balm for every wound, good counsel for every fallen one,
help for every fault, protection from every crime, wilt thou be deaf
to me alone?
"Does the contemplation of thy heavenly glories dissuade thee from
casting down thine eyes upon this vale of tears? Have the praises of
the angels caused the groans of thy servants to become wearisome?
Mother of thy Creator, hast thou forgotten thy earthly origin? Is it
in heaven above, as in this world below!
"Ah, unhappy me! Most miserable! My mind reels and staggers like a
drunken man. I am beyond measure inebriated with grief, and my rash
words flow from my mouth like the wind of a tempest.
"Holy Mary, pardon! Thou knowest that even when a child, leaving
my warm bed to bathe my feet in the dewy grass, I went to gather
the flowers that drank the first rays of the morning sun for thee.
Thou knowest that I have watched like a vestal, so that the light
consecrated to thee on the domestic altar should not be extinguished;
and if I committed any act not worthy of thy holy sight, I first
veiled thy face, and afterwards implored thy pardon. In thee alone I
trust.
"My blood is inflamed, and the very marrow of my bones consumed by a
love....
"Who called it love? Did I say love? Ah, in pity let no one know
it--let no one hear it--let my ears not listen to the words from my
own lips! Madness! Ah, what matter if I have hell in my heart? Yes,
an infamous love burns within me; a love to make even the angels
weep. O holy Mary, do not look into my soul! All the saints in
Paradise, even thou, immaculate Virgin! would'st blush for shame to
behold my secret heart.
"And yet this passion burns so secretly, that no one, looking on my
pale face, could say: 'Behold an adulteress!' Who among the living
can tell whether guilt or grief consumes me? As a sepulchral lamp
burns, lighting up human skeletons without diffusing its rays abroad,
so my love lives within my soul, shining upon the miserable relics of
my contaminated virtue.
"But in this fierce battle every vital spark has failed. Already the
hour approaches when the abyss will open, within which will fall
the woman's shame, the husband's honor, family pride, the mother's
love,--all in short, and the soul's safety with them!
"The soul's safety! Everlasting perdition! And should I, hopeless of
overcoming the current, allow myself to be subdued by the waters?
Should I, with a soul borne down by grief, dare to fly from the sad
prison of the body? Should I, unsummoned, give wings to my life, and
take shelter under the cloak of God's pardon? Will the arms of God
open to receive or to repulse me? And am I not indeed wholly wicked?
O God, dost thou not penetrate into our hearts, and see how sin has
corroded them? In this bitter contest I defend that part of me which
will turn to dust; the other, which has immortal life, is forever
lost. Whether I remain or fly, whether I give up or resist, Isabella,
thou art lost--lost forever!
"Where or who is he that has decreed this most wicked law? If I
cannot break, I can at least rail at this iron decree. Have I not
struggled, and struggled incessantly? Where is my guilt, if I cannot
overcome? In what have I sinned, if a serpent while I slept has
crept into my heart, has made there its nest, and has there revealed
itself more fearful than the Medusa's head? How have I sinned, if
my strength is insufficient to bear this cross? The fallen should
not be laughed at nor condemned, but aided. Well, since the guilt
contemplated is equal to the guilt consummated, and both incur the
same punishment, let me descend wholly into the abyss of crime and
die."
These and other words were partly spoken, partly murmured by a young
and handsome woman, before a painting of the Madonna, the divine
work of Fra Angelico. And this face, symbol of celestial modesty and
chaste thoughts, seemed as if frightened at such prayers, for, less
even by the words than by the manner in which they were spoken, they
seemed almost impious. The woman was not in a reverential posture,
but standing erect, with haughty aspect, her eyes sparkling, her
breast heaving, her lips trembling, her nostrils dilated, her hands
clenched, her feet restless--in short, a lioness rather than a woman,
much less a suppliant woman.
Was she right?
The Greeks, investigating diligently the nature of our hearts,
discovered vice to be so inherent in human beings, that neither
strength united with will, nor laws, nor customs, nor religion
itself, could overcome it; but with that wonderful talent which the
heavens granted to them alone, they rendered vice amiable, and made
it contribute to the good of the republic. Instead of awaiting what
they could not prevent, they went to meet it, like Mithridates,
who, having to drink poison, took away its power of doing him harm,
by habituating himself to its use. They dared even more; they made
the gods the accomplices of the errors of men; powerless to raise
their dust to heaven, they brought heaven down to the dust, and the
guilty became objects, not of hate but of compassion, for they had
yielded to the omnipotent power of fate, to which even Jupiter was
subject--fate which guides the willing and drags the reluctant.
This idea, extended to every action, they applied especially to the
affairs of love. Anacreon, whose hair, so often crowned with leaves
of the merry ivy and vine, was becoming grey, was seated one gloomy
winter's night alone before the fire. Boreas raged over land and
sea, and a hurricane of hailstones rattled upon the poet's house. He
remembers no more the rays which the sun of spring sheds upon the
flowers and the tresses of lovely women; nor the soft grass scarcely
pressed by the flying feet of the dancers, nor the breezes pregnant
with life, that seem to murmur in his ears, "love--love;" his
thoughts turn upon the transitory nature of our lives here below; he
sees life rolling on more swiftly than the wheels of the conqueror's
car in the Olympic games, our days dissolving more speedily than the
shadow on the wall; the roses of his fancy withered at the thought
of death. Suddenly a knock is heard at the poet's door, accompanied
by a tearful voice. How can the poet help feeling pity, since pity
is one of the most harmonious chords of his heavenly lyre? Anacreon
opens the door, and a child appears, wet with the rain and pale
with sorrow: poor child! his fine hair hangs dripping round his
cheeks, his lips are livid, his limbs stiffened with cold. "What evil
fortune, my pretty child, forces thee to wander on such a night,
sacred to the infernal deities?" And without awaiting a reply, he
presses the ice from his hair, removes his dress, dries him, and
revives him by the heat of the fire; nor is that enough, he puts the
child's hands into his own breast to warm them gently with the mild
heat of his own blood. When the color returns to his lip, and the
tremulous light to his eyes, the child smilingly says: "Now let me
see if the rain has spoiled my bow;" and fitting an arrow, he draws
the string. Anacreon is suddenly wounded, before he can perceive
that Love, mocking, has left his house. It was the vengeance of
Apollo which caused Myrrha to burn with unholy passion for Cinyras;
of Venus, which caused the love of Pasiphaë for the bull; of Phædra
for Hippolytus; and the will of Juno and Minerva which caused the
cruel affection of Medea for Jason. Few or no crimes were committed
which were not attributed to the influence of some god; and in this
way, tragedians, availing themselves of the universal faith in fate,
represented upon the stage the horrible deeds that under different
aspects would not have been tolerated. And there certainly lives, or
rather there sometimes seems to live in us, something more powerful
than ourselves; nor does our belief, generally so different from the
doctrine of the ancients, entirely oppose it. Do we not believe
that our first mother was tempted by the serpent? And since that
time, the ears of women have been readily open to the flatteries of
the tempter. Perhaps the tempter does not stand without, but within
the woman, and dwells in her pure blood, in the fine texture of her
veins, in the pores of her delicate skin, in her imaginative brain,
and in her more imaginative heart: and when thus, the tempter appears
strongest and most inevitable. But do women alone yield to the
persuasions of a devil, that comes tempting them, now with hate, now
with pleasure, now with love, now with the abundance of wealth, and
(for we will not stop to enumerate them all) with as many passions
as are powerful to stir the human heart? Alas! with few is there
fortitude enough to withstand pleasure and gold, the most cruel of
all the tyrants of our souls. Renowned heroes of ancient and modern
history, men august and venerated, while life lasted, either resisted
such passions, or too often yielded to them; and if repentance was
raised to the dignity of a sacrament among us, it seems the most
evident proof that God himself never expected that we should keep
ourselves innocent; no, he did not expect it, since he commanded
Simon Peter to forgive, not only seven times, but even seventy times
seven.--Poor Isabella! Let him who is without sin first cast a stone
at her....
Was she wrong?
The first draught never intoxicates, and whoever wishes, can put down
the cup and say, "Enough!" For that Love, hardly born, shaking his
head and his great bow, enthrones himself king of the spirit, and
cries, "I will it, and I wish to reign alone,"--so sing the fanciful
poets,--but this is not the truth. Love every moment makes his wings
of sweet thoughts and ardent desires, and his darts grow harder, as
the heart at which he aims becomes softened. Delia did not become
blind merely by once looking at the sun; and whosoever wishes to
escape the Sirens must imitate the example of Ulysses, and stop his
ears with wax. We trust too much or too little to ourselves. When
the flame of a glance, or the allurement of a voice fascinates us,
and Providence with an innate conscience admonishes us, we take no
heed of the warning, but say: "Not even this love shall trespass;
when it would go beyond bounds, we shall be sufficient for the
defence." When afterwards we feel it conquering, we defer the remedy
from day to day; at last, overcome, we accuse the destiny which we
have woven with our own hands. Thus, having the power, the will
fails, and having the will, the power fails. We are caught in our
own nets. Among the laws of fate, man can be subjected to those that
are outside; the others that are within him have no power; the body
can be subdued, not the soul. And if God gives us a mind able to use
its power even against His immortal throne, why or how can we accuse
Him, if, like cowards, we throw down the shield at the beginning of
the battle, or if we refuse to use the sword which He has put into
our hands? Querulous and unjust atoms, we wish the Creator to break
through the eternal order of things, and to bend down every moment
from the heavens to repair our faults, and to quiet the tempest of
the heart which we have excited. He, the Creator, who whirls through
infinite space the fragments of shattered orbs, and wakes in its
dreadful sublimity the tempest of the ocean! Even guilt knows a
kind of dignity; let us dare to possess it. Lucifer, exiled from
celestial thrones, accused no one, nor did he reproach himself with
his want of success; and Lucifer, in his dark grandeur, appears such,
that although we cannot wish him a better destiny, yet we cannot
abstain from cursing the ill-omened moment in which he drew down upon
his head the wrath of God. But we are far inferior either in good or
evil to angelic natures. In order to persuade ourselves that we are
worth something, we presume to do ourselves the honor of believing
that Satan has tempted us. If Satan could turn upon us his fiery
glances, he would not tempt, but laugh at us. Can there be a worse
tempter than our own evil inclinations, and the full power of our
will in nursing and fostering them? I certainly do not wish to take
away or to diminish the compassion of men, or the mercy of God for
the poor soul of Isabella, but only to prove that the miserable death
to which she was brought was the just recompense of her merits, or
rather her demerits.
While Isabella was uttering the strange prayer which is partly given
above, a knight of haughty aspect and bold presence advanced from the
other end of the hall, and stood listening to her words; then softly
approaching, said, "Isabella!"
The woman started at this sudden voice, her face grew paler, her
lips moved without making a sound, her heavy eyelids fell, whilst
the swelling of the veins produced a dark shade around her eyes. She
would have fallen had not the knight hastened to support her. After a
short silence he spoke:
"Isabella, you have something on your heart which you desire to
conceal from me. Why is this, Isabella? Am I then so poor a friend
that you do not deem me worthy to share your innocent secrets? Or do
you believe me so eager for my own happiness, that I know not how
to prefer, although with intense anguish, your peace and wishes to
my own? Speak: I am ready to do anything for your love--give me but
a word. Ah, miserable me! What need is there, Isabella, for you to
speak? I have heard too much. Do you not believe in my courage? Let
me prove it to you. You pray for my death, and I can, yes, I will
unite my petition to yours; I will recall to my lips the sweetest
prayer that my mother ever taught me. Isabella, kneel; I, you see, am
kneeling."
And she, hardly knowing what she did, knelt; and both prayed.
These were no pure and peaceful prayers, such as ascend to Heaven
like incense from innocent hearts, which the angels love to bear on
their shining wings to the throne of the Eternal, received by God as
celestial guests, and consoled, as if they were the troubled sons of
His love. These prayers mounted from panting bosoms, disconnected and
hurried, like delirious thrills of pleasure; they were wafted through
the air, thick, like clouds arising from dark earthly sources; nor
did they reach the threshold of Heaven, but fell repulsed, like
the smoke from the offering of the first murderer, to increase the
passion of the guilty ones.
It was right; for these prayers did not come sincerely from the
heart, for he who offered them feared lest they might be heard,
and scarcely were they spoken, ere he would have wished to revoke
them. Oh, mortal mind, how unstable in the desire of good! Then the
glowing cheeks touched, the convulsed hands sought and clasped each
other, and the prayers ended in oaths to love each other for ever, in
spite of sacred bonds, of family honor, of death, or hell. Indeed,
so regardless of them were they, that they called as a witness to
the wicked vow, our divine Mother, to whom they had intended to
pray for safety; and the Mother of Mercy did not turn aside her
face, convinced that if their prayers were then false, in the day of
repentance she must listen, when they would be only too sincere.
Meanwhile justice registered the guilt in that book, where nothing is
cancelled, except by blood.