JEALOUSY.
Che dolce più, che più giocondo stato
Saria di quel di un amoroso core?
Che viver più felice, e più beato,
Che ritrovarsi in servitù di Amore?
Se non fosse l'uom' sempre stimolato
Da quel sospetto rio, da quel timore,
Da quel martir, da quella frenesia,
Da quella rabbia detta gelosia.
* * * * *
Questa è la cruda, e avvelenata piaga
A cuí non val liquor, non vale impiastro,
Nè murmure, nè imagine di saga.
ARIOSTO, XXXI.
Man no state more blissful knows
Than what Love on life bestows;
Then our happiest hours we prove
When we are the slaves of love.
But alas! how brief our bliss!
Still suspicion's serpents hiss
Round our heart, and that curs'd fear--
Frenzy--martyrdom--is near,--
Rage--that fires the heart and eye,
Called by mortals Jealousy.
* * * * *
This, that cruel, poisoned wound
For whose cure no herb is found;
If that fatal dart we feel,
Art nor charm nor skill can heal.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of
heaven." These are the words of Christ, and although I do not doubt
that they have been understood according to the deep wisdom with
which they were uttered, yet I will discourse a little, not upon
them, for they have no need of comment, but after their instruction.
Man should avoid those studies which make him doubt. He should love
himself first, but in a just manner, then his family, then his
country. There have been, and perhaps there still are, men who love
their country more than themselves; but an acute observer will easily
understand that sacrificing one's life (compared to which, everything
else seems but of little value) is generally induced by a great
love of praise and an uncontrollable thirst for fame; and that in
truth they love renown better than life. The soul should be neither
a Menade nor a Bacchante through the fields of knowledge; science
has its fatal orgies, more than dissipation; the waters do not
always flow clear, fresh, and sweet from its urn; they are sometimes
poisoned. The tree of knowledge is not only, not the tree of life,
but the Lord said to man:--"But of the tree of the knowledge of good
and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest
thereof thou shalt surely die." The man who has seen too much, like
Delia contemplating the sun, has become blind with too much light;
his heart has turned to ashes, he is not exalted by anything, has
faith in nothing; virtue and crime, morality and vice, sound the same
to him, they are like sweet fruits in one country, and poisonous ones
in another, the fault of the earth or the climate: the soul is to him
a breath which ceases with death, home the place where he shelters
his head from the storm: God a name.
Man should be satisfied to stop short at the _quia_:[44] for if he
trusts himself to travel thus at random through the regions of
knowledge, the evils resulting from this restless wandering would
be equal to those which are the consequence of continual travelling
throughout the physical world. The latter takes away his family,
friends, and home: the former his faith and affections. Job truly
compares too much knowledge to a heap of ashes, for it is in truth
the most unhappy remains of a fire which will never burn again. I
have already said the Creator should have suspended truth as the
only luminary from the firmament: for then no one could have doubted
its beneficial light and heat, as perhaps some have done of the Sun:
and I say _perhaps_, since there have been men who doubted whether
the sun was a mass of fire, believing it to be rather a mass of ice
causing a rotary motion in the molecules of the air:--which is a
German idea. Ahasuerus, the wandering Jew, represents the symbol of
this insatiable desire of knowledge: he travels and travels over
desert shores, over burning sands, over snowy fields: he has seen
the cupola of St. Peter's, the mosques of Constantinople, and the
temples of Brahma and Buddha: he has seen dogs, oxen, crocodiles, and
serpents worshipped: even onions raised to the dignity of Gods!
Porrum et cepe nefas violare, ac frangere morsu.
O sanctas gentes, quibus haec nascuntur in hortis
Numina!--JUVENAL, _Satire_ 15.
He has seen bloodless sacrifices, sacrifices of blood and human
victims; he has seen everything: he has forgotten all he knew, and
all that he has learned is not sufficient to appease the feverish
craving of his intellect: all that he wishes to know in order to
satisfy his burning thirst, is inclosed within the urn of destiny:
he hates to return home, for no one expects him there: his relatives
are dead, generations have forgotten his name: he loves no one, and
no one loves him: he refuses friends, rejects affections, and avoids
binding ties which he MUST unbind to-morrow. Perhaps in that
great day when God will reveal his eternal face to the vast multitude
of created things, his agony will be appeased, and God will give him
rest, not for having loved much, but because he suffered much.[45]
[44] The wherefore.
[45] Ahasuerus is said to be a Jew, who, while Christ was
ascending Golgotha, denied Him water to quench his thirst, and
would not let him rest beneath the shadow of his house; he was
therefore condemned to wander, for ever cursed and despised.
This legend, very common in Germany, is only a fable, as any
one may see. Edgar Quinet composed a drama on this subject, the
personages represented being sphinxes, winds, trophies of arms,
ruins, rivers, and even the ocean. It cannot be denied, however,
that among so many and so strange fancies, this drama contains
some noble passages of splendid poetry.
_Be contented, race of man, at the quia_:--
State contente umane genti al quia,
Che se potuto aveste veder tutto,
Mestier non era partorir Maria.--DANTE.
else you will feel the earth tremble beneath your feet, and the
heavens fall upon your heads. You grow up educated in the supreme
idea of a Being who animates with the breath of his immortal mouth
all that has life in the universe; who breaks the oppressor like a
fragile reed, and shelters the oppressed under his mighty wing; but
in travelling you will find people who neither know God nor worship
Him; but make to themselves a God of dogs, serpents, oxen, elephants,
and onions, and often of a monster hideous to look upon, but much
more hideous in his bloody rites. It is piety in you to watch over
your old infirm father, to comfort him in his last moments with
loving cares, and close his eyes in peace; and yet there were and
still are people, who esteem it filial piety to drag their parents
from their suffering beds, and hanging them to the branches of trees,
light beneath them great fires, crying in their giddy dance around
them:--"when the fruit is ripe, it must fall,"--until the body falls
and is consumed in the fire. And you, fathers in our beloved country,
what sufferings would you not undergo, in order not to see your
beloved children torn from your arms, or murdered?
In China, they offer children as food to dogs, or throw them into
the river. In Africa they sell them; and Clapperton tells of a negro
woman, who offered her children for sale to him, and because he
would not buy them, cursed and beat them because they did not please
the white man. We deem it sacred to bury our beloved dead within
splendid monuments or tombs; elsewhere it is sacred to feed on their
limbs. Remorse and public hate await him who can and does not save a
drowning man: in China remorse and reproach are his reward who saves
the shipwrecked sailor. We have laws and sentences against robbery,
and the more skill and cunning do the thieves show, the more are they
punished. The Spartans rewarded thieves, and the more skill they
displayed the greater was the reward.
Nor is it to be supposed that the people among whom such horrible
customs are practised cannot give a reason, good or bad, for it. They
do not believe in God, because they do not understand Him; they are
not able to conceive other ideas save those that present themselves
to their senses, hence they refuse them. Foolish men! They presume
that God should be demonstrated like a problem of Euclid upon a
slate: for religion they want algebra, for an altar arithmetic,
for a votive offering a well summed up account, for a minister an
accountant. Others deem it a pity to cut short a life which has
now become an irremediable grief; others deem their own bosoms a
more suitable grave than earth or marble; others that it is a bold
attempt to oppose the designs of nature; others that citizens early
accustomed to subtle cunning are useful to the Republic. Travel and
learn; and while you are urged by a strong desire to gather flowers
from all the universe and rejoice in their delightful fragrance,
behold the evil worm of doubt creeps insidiously into your heart and
gnaws it. The sceptical heart is dead, but as the mind lives, we seem
like people who have outlived ourselves: keepers almost of our own
tombs.
Verily I advise you to be satisfied at the _quia_. Love much, read
little, and let that be poetry, the purest wine of the soul, a
precious ambrosia gushing from celestial fountains. And mark, I speak
of lofty poetry, the offspring of the mind inflamed by the heart, for
that poetry which comes from the intellect only, engenders doubt. Who
would have been more fortunate than Byron? Did Nature ever create
more powerful wings to soar to an immeasurable height? Who had a
better heart, a clearer mind? But he wished to see and know too
much, to scrutinize too minutely the genesis of the affections: a
new Acteon, he received the penalty of his bold investigations: his
own faithful hounds pursued him and tore him in pieces. As if for
sport he wished to add the chord of doubt to his lyre; he thought
it would increase the number of its varied sounds, but he deceived
himself: this chord cut his fingers worse than a dagger's edge. The
advice of Ephorus was most wise; he broke with an axe the new chord
added to the Argive lyre. The lyres of Olympus and Terpander, when
they accompanied the songs of gods and men, had but three chords:
twelve were those of the lyre of Timotheus when he sang at the
banquet of Alexander and Thais (from whence he who had acquired the
name of Great derived his infamy), and at the burning of the ancient
Persepolis: and three should be the chords of any lyre, that intends
to lead mankind through all that is honorable and great upon the
earth, to the eternal home of heaven; and these chords should be,
_Love_, _Faith_, and _Hope_.
But what has all this to do with my story? You will see that it has a
great deal to do with it, for, continuing, it will be shown how poor
people, with the fear of God, and firm in the precepts of Christian
charity, can give examples of virtue which might be sought in vain
among men gifted with greater talents and more liberal instruction.
Duke Bracciano, in company with Cecchino and Titta, turned with slow
steps towards the Casino St. Marco. The two servants now thought they
might refresh themselves with food and drink, and give some repose
to their wearied limbs: but they were deceived. The Duke, as soon
as he entered, fell upon the first seat he saw, and remained there
some time with his eyes closed: he lifted his hand to his head, and
pressing it as if afraid it might burst, said: "Here everything
poisons me! Here I breathe an atmosphere of crime! They have poured
a hell into my soul! Arouse, Titta and Cecchino; you must now show
your fidelity, courage, and discretion. Go to my palace, present
yourselves to my Lady the Duchess: warn her ... but no ... wait.
Bring me writing materials."
The landlord of the Casino brought promptly what he desired. The Duke
tried to write, but his trembling hand denied its office: he could
not hasten, but was obliged to wait. At last more calm, he wrote a
short note, which he sealed, and gave to Titta, and then continued
his interrupted orders:
"Do not warn her of anything: but give her this letter, and say you
precede me by one or two days. _Remember I am not in Florence._
Observe attentively every act, note every word, and when it is
spoken, or if she say anything, although it may seem of little
importance, come cautiously and tell me. I shall not leave here.--Go,
be faithful, do not fail in your duty to your master: you may shortly
know ... know what you never should have known ... and what ...
indeed! What I never should have told you."
And he dismissed them with a motion of his hand. The servants bowed
obsequiously and left.
After walking about a dozen steps, Titta began thus: "I hope Fortune
will, in the end, give us leave to sup; we have suffered more
ill-luck in our supper than ever befell the Emperor Charles in his
kingdom."
"I have been thinking, and have just decided, to leave the service of
the Duke, and go to my own house near by."
"God help you, have you lost your wits? It sometimes happens when we
travel in this season of the year beneath a hot sun."
"I have not lost my wits, Titta; no, I have not lost them. You see,
when I engaged myself as man-at-arms for my Lord Duke, it was for
a reason which I will tell you. My father lived in the time of the
Republic, and gave me a bad inheritance, for instead of educating me
to the times, he was always talking to me of Signor Giovanni of the
black bands, of Giacomino, Ferruccio, and other like men, so that a
fever took hold of me to follow in their footsteps, for I felt as if
nature had endowed me with something: but I did not see in what way
I could follow this inclination: the war with Siena was over, and
yet I would have cut my hand off before I would have leagued with
the assassins of those noble citizens. I married in order to quiet
this wild disposition: it was all nonsense. I did not know how to
settle myself to a mechanic's trade; thanks to Lady Isabella, who was
foster-sister to my wife, I took service with my Lord Duke, trusting
that he being made General by the Pope or Venetians, I might at least
bear arms against the enemies of Christ, those ugly Turkish dogs whom
God confound. But I have wasted the best years of my life in Rome
without drawing even a spider from his hole, and my sword has rusted
in its scabbard."
"Ah, yes! Death is so slow that it is really worth while to go and
meet it. Is it not so much life found? Have you not got your wages?
What can you do in this world better than to eat and sleep?"
"Why so? Were not the men whose fame sounds upon the lips of the
people flesh and blood like us? Did they not bask in the same rays
of light? Did not winter chill them, and summer warm them? Did they
not weep and laugh? Were they not mortals like us?"
"Hear me, Cecchino; there are men who grow up like pines, others like
grass: the latter is born every year, and every year is cut down with
the scythe; it is left to dry upon the fields, and then is given to
cattle. We are of the second species. The hay might say: I wish to be
a pine! Just so one of us might presume to become duke, prince, or I
know not what. When you shall have left one eye in Africa, one arm
in America, one leg in Hungary, to the remaining trunk of your body,
within which your immortal soul is sheltered like a garrison in the
fortress of a castle, they will give the title of sergeant, and a
couple of ducats for pay. Once, in republics, we had a chance to come
out something: but nowadays glory is for great lords: it is our duty
to be killed; so the best thing is to draw our pay, and preserve our
health as well as we can. If life is an evil, death is a worse one.
We call this world a valley of tears; but it would seem as if men
liked to weep, for no one would ever leave it unless expelled from
it."
"And supposing you are right, I never will eat bread gained through
baseness and crime; it would break out my teeth, and turn to poison
in my stomach. I wish to live in peace with myself."
"God help you! What do you want your master to do with your virtue?
You remind me of Diogenes, who cried when brought to the market-place
to be sold: 'Who wants to buy a master?' Virtue is a sail with which
we make but little progress over the sea of life; in these times
virtue is as useful as a warming-pan in August. Watchfulness over
our master's safety, obedience to his commands, a German patience
to wait in a corner, promptness to give a stab in the dark that
despatches without giving time for a Jesu Maria, and a mystery in not
having it discovered, will procure us all the fame that is granted us
to acquire, and bread for ourselves and families...."
"No, never will I do this; no, by St. John the Baptist my protector;
I pray him to give me an evil death first. Go, spy and tell. I would
rather bite my tongue out than play the spy. Titta, do you not
smell blood here? One of these days we must give an account of this
bloodshed. And what pretext, what excuse can we give for it? Can we
say: 'ask the account of our master?'"
"Indeed, you make me have some scruple; not for the blood, for this
is part of our trade. They have really bought us soul and dagger, and
to use it in a different way certainly than the Emperor Domitian; but
the name of spy sticks in my throat ... besides, the Duke debases us
without necessity. What need is there (for I see plain enough that
here is the knot) for spies to know if a wife is unfaithful? Do you
not think so, Cecchino? Would he be the first husband to find out
that all is not gold that glitters? As it has been said: women are
all of the same stamp!..."
"That is not true; I would swear now, you are saying what you do not
believe, Was not your mother a woman?"
"Ah, yes! my mother was a woman; but I was not speaking, nor thinking
of her just then; I said it of the others...."
"And do you not believe a woman can love?" ...
"I believe it, although it sometimes seems the contrary. Place
yourself at the mouth of a cave, and utter a cry within it; the
echo will repeat it six or seven times. But is the cry yours, or
the cave's? Yours. It seems as if other voices replied to you, but
you are deceived, for all these voices are one and the same thing
as your own voice. So when you say to a woman:--I love you,--she
will reply:--I love you, love you, love you;--but woe to you if you
believe she said it by herself; it was the echo of your own voice,
and woe to you if you fall in love with your own voice as Narcissus
did with his own face...."
"Listen, Titta, I am young and of little experience; but I can see
that your heart bleeds, perhaps from some deserved wound: you have
not been loved, or have been betrayed; but have you ever loved?"
"I speak philosophically, without reference to myself. What I tell
you is natural, and cannot be otherwise. Inconstancy is a fruit of
youth like the fragrant red strawberry of spring; constancy is a
fruit of mature age like the medlar of autumn;--therefore in woman
virtue may be called the medlar of life! All beautiful things seem
splendid in variety. Look at the rainbow, look at the dove's neck
in the sunlight, look at the peacock's tail. Why do bees make sweet
honey and wax? Because they fly from flower to flower. Women are
moved by the same impulse as the bees. We are stupid creatures, to
think of taking a soul and shutting it up in a cage like a bird, or
nailing it down as a money changer does a ducat on his counter; even
more cruel than stupid, after we are dead, we thrust a bony arm from
the grave and presume to hold a poor woman by the hair. If she will
keep herself a good widow,--the will says,--she shall have so much;
if not, nothing;--very bad ideas in bad words; because we are dead,
shall not others enjoy life?"
"All this would be very well, if life was a book, that we close on
coming to the conclusion, and put away to see no more; but as we must
think to meet again in the valley of Jehosaphat, if one's wife has
had another husband, or even two, which will she have? With which
shall she live to all eternity?"
"With the one she likes best; and there is no use to fret about that,
since all shall have their turn; all shall be satisfied, if you only
think of the length of eternity in women, which I have been assured
by people worthy of belief, lasts all one week and sometimes a little
over the next Monday."
"Go, go, you will die despairing, since you deny love.--Love, the
sweetest union of spirits, two souls joined in one, redoubling
strength and help, nourished by mutual sacrifices like the violet on
dew."
"Nonsense, my boy, nonsense; love is an instinct of rapine, the agony
of power, and the tenacity of possession. The love for a woman is
like the love of property. Time was, but a time very, very distant,
according to all accounts even before Adam, in which _mine_ and
_thine_ meant nothing on the tongues of men; a traveller seeing a
ripe fruit hanging from a tree, plucked and ate it. But one night
certain envious men met together, and digging a pit around some land
more fertile than the rest, said in the morning: no one shall pass
beyond this pit, for the land here is our property.--People did not
care though, and did the same as before. Then these envious men
planted a stone on the limits, and threatened evil to whomsoever
should dare to pass it. 'Twas of no more use than before; the
excluded men looked upon it as a joke. Finally they put an axe upon
the stone, and said: Whosoever passes beyond now, shall die.--But the
excluded men laughed still more at this buffoonery and passed over;
the others, however, lay in ambush, took them, and murdered them.
Then the women wept, children cried, and property entered into the
minds of men because they had cut off the heads of others."
"Pardon me, but where did you find all this nonsense? However bad it
may be, it is not flour from your bag."
"Indeed it is not: if you could only have been so fortunate as to
have heard it as I did from the lips of that great philosopher, that
divine...."
"What divine?"
"Pietro Aretino."
"Ah! I do not want to hear any more. All have called him, and still
do call him divine; which title, if it does not give testimony of his
divinity, certainly bears witness to the extreme cowardice of the men
who conferred it on him, or consented to it."
"You slander him; he was firm in his friendship, and had great
affection for Sir Giovanni dei Medici of the black band, and followed
him through hardship and danger in his most daring exploits...."
"This friendship spoils the fame of that renowned man. I know very
well that while Sir Giovanni was fighting, he was dallying with the
women of the camp...."
"That is not true, for he received some wounds."
"What of that? When did the receiving of a wound ever signify
prowess? Even Achille della Volta stabbed him, and he received the
wounds weeping and begging for life? And what reply did he make to
Tintoretto when he measured him with a cutlass? He was smooth as oil.
And when Piero Strozzi threatened to kill him in his bed, did he not
shut himself up in his house, nailing doors and windows for fear of
air?"[46]
[46] Achille della Volta stabbed severely the satirical poet
Pietro Aretino in Rome, and on this account his arm was lame
daring his lifetime. Tintoretto, the painter, hearing that
Aretino spoke very badly of him, meeting him one day near his
studio, invited him very courteously to walk in, and look at
his pictures. Aretino went, and Tintoretto, after bolting the
door, without saying a word went to a closet and took out a
cutlass, and advanced with threatening aspect towards Aretino.
"Alas! Tonio," exclaimed Pietro, trembling, "what do you mean
to do? Do not allow yourself to be tempted by the devil! Would
you kill me without sacrament, like a dog?" Tintoretto quietly
approached him, who was trembling from head to foot, and measured
him with the cutlass, and seeing he was almost ready to die with
fright, said: "Fear not, Sir Pietro; for taking a fancy to paint
your portrait, I wanted to measure you: you can go now; you are
exactly three cutlasses and a half high!" and opening the door
he dismissed him. Aretino always spoke well of Tintoretto after
that. Aretino having been very intimate with John dei Medici
of the black-bands, continued his attachment to the Grand Duke
Cosimo his son, from whom he received many presents, as shown by
his letters; therefore, adverse to Piero Strozzi at the time of
the war with Siena, he wrote a humorous sonnet upon him, which
began thus:
E, Piero Strozzi arma virumque cano, etc.
Piero, after that, warned him to carry the extreme unction in his
pocket, for he would cause him to be murdered even were he in his
own bed. Aretino, frightened, dared not go out of his house for a
year or more. I cannot conclude this note without recording the
epitaphs or _epigrams_, in the true meaning of the word (since
the ancients meant by epigrams those funeral inscriptions, full
of contumelies, written for men yet living), which Paolo Giovio
and Pietro Aretino exchanged.
Giovio said:
Qui giace l'Aretin, poeta Tosco:
Di tutti disse mal, fuorchè di Cristo,
Scusandosi col dir: non lo conosco.
Here Aretino lies, in many a poem
Who railed at all mankind save Jesus Christ,
And this was his excuse: I do not know him.
And Aretino replied with this:
Qui giace il Giovio, storicone altissimo,
Di tutti disse mal, fuorchè dell' asino,
Scusandosi col dur, egli è mio prossimo.
Here Giovio lies, historian widely known,
All he defamed, except the Ass alone;
And when his friends, astonished, asked him why?
He is my next of kin, was his reply.
"What can one do against people who take one unarmed and
unawares? And if Piero made Duke Cosimo fear him, what wonder if
the divine tried to guard himself from him? But what devotion
he showed towards his children Austria and Adria? You should
have seen how much he thought of them, and how careful he was to
assure them a dowry in the hands of the Duke of Urbino, and how
he recommended them to all his friends!"
"He loved them to sell them----"
"_Per Dio!_ Do not say so----!"
"Do not say so? I will say so while I have breath enough. What,
do you think the shameful rumor of the death of this bad,
villanous dog, never reached me? Did he not die with bursting
into infamous laughter on hearing of some disgraceful stories of
his sisters in Venice? Go, you are corrupt to the very bone. Go,
eat the bread of blood: I swear to die of hunger first: go, keep
your faith, and I mine. When your last hour comes you will see
at your pillow the devil, who will erase the baptismal mark from
your brow: I hope to see my virtuous and beloved wife, my good
children, and the peace of angels. Let us part; you go alone to
the Orsini palace."
"You see, I should get into a passion with you, and let you know
that Titta never suffers an insult; but I also learnt this from
the Divine, fortunate are they who proclaim the truth, if they
do not get stoned. I will say at the palace, you are ill, or
something else; I will frame an excuse to leave you time to give
rest to your brain, and return to-morrow to your usual post."
"Thanks; I do not mean to return, and shall not. Titta! come
here. Look, that is my house: I was born and brought up in it.
Titta! do you not see a light in the window? Tell me; my eyes are
full of tears, and do not see clearly. Holy Virgin! Is there not
a woman in the balcony? Do I see right or wrong, Titta?"
"You see right; there certainly is a woman there."
"Oh, it is my Mary! Poor woman, she is waiting for me! Who knows
how many nights she has passed at that window! Oh, what joy to
see my dear kind Mary again!"
Thus exclaiming, he set out at such a rate that a wild goat could
not have kept pace with him. Titta tried to recall him in vain,
crying, "Cecchino, stop; Cecchino, hear!"
But he ran faster than ever. Weary and hot, Cecchino reached the
door of his house, and scarcely had he called in a breathless
voice, Mary!--before the woman replied,--Cecchino!--and with a
cry of joy disappeared from the balcony and descended the stairs.
In a few moments the street door opened, and these two beings
rushed into each other's arms, mingling tears, kisses, and sobs,
with such unrestrained passion, as to have caused deep emotion to
any spectator.
Titta came up soon after, but found the door shut and bolted; he
thought he would knock, but refrained, saying:
"I might as well knock at the door of a churchyard, and wait
until our first father, Adam, came to open to me. _Requiem
æternam dona eis, Domine._ Cecchino has certainly shown himself a
fool. There is no use in getting anything out of him. God knows
if I've not tried to do the best I could for him, as if he were
my own son, and even tried to make a scholar of him. See now how
a woman has upset the whole. It is useless! until the women are
taken out of it, and men are not grafted like plum trees, the
world will go on from bad to worse. But he is young; and young
blood must have its way; to-morrow he will come back, a little
cast down perhaps, but he will soon come back. Now, I must see to
everything alone; but I will eat first, and then go to bed, and
sleep as long as I please. And will my Lord Paolo Giordano wait?
Certainly he must wait! I have no need of him: these masters
expect us to be good and bad; amiable and quarrelsome; faithful
and traitors; stupid and wise; angels and devils; then, never to
eat, never to dress, and never to ask questions: in short, if a
servant possessed half the qualities a master asks in him, there
never would be so poor a one that did not deserve to have for
servant a Marquis at least. Besides, what use is it to watch?
Julia must be in the house. In less than five minutes I shall
know more than I can remember or repeat; and even without so much
loss of breath, if I choose to play the lover to her, who will
dispute it? Certainly not she; our bond is lasting and strong;
not limited, nor barren; we, instead of the individual, love
the whole race: she, all the men; I, all the women; in this way
there is no distance, no absence for us; we are always present,
always in love; we are like pearls of the same necklace; we
make a garland of every flower and crown our life with it. One
flower does not make Spring; love is not comprised in one single
affection." With these ideas revolving in his mind, Titta turned
from Cecchino's house, delaying no longer his arrival at the
palace.
I return more willingly now to Cecchino and Mary. Embracing each
other and happy, they mounted, or rather flew, up the staircase,
resembling two doves, hastening with outspread wings to their
sweet nest. On reaching the room above they renewed their tender
greetings: one questioned the other, and the other in reply
questioned in turn; and not waiting for replies they poured forth
a torrent of words burning with curiosity and passion. But this
singular colloquy at last ceased, and laughing heartily, they
exchanged kisses again. Mary, with sparkling eyes and blushing
cheeks, first spoke: "Come, you are covered with dust and
perspiration; let me bring water to wash your hands and face."
And she brought a basin of water; singing as happily as if
it were a sunny noon, and not midnight; she then opened a
chest-of-drawers, bringing out a towel of cleanest linen,
fragrant with cassia flowers, assisting him in drying his face
and hands upon it. Nor did her attention stop here, for a good
wife is the dearest joy of a man's heart; but she sat down,
and taking Cecchino's head in her lap, combed his hair nicely,
freeing it of the dust, and arranging it smoothly around his
neck. Then raising his head with both hands, looked smilingly
in his face, exulting as a good and virtuous wife should, in a
valiant, handsome husband, saying truly from her heart, as she
kissed his brow:
"You look to me like an angel." ...
"But this angel," replied Cecchino, "not being as yet divested of
its earthly clothing, is as hungry as one of Adam's children even
can be."
"Indeed? I did not know you wanted anything. Why did you not say
so before? Do not think you take me unprovided. You may find but
little in your house, but enough to satisfy your wants."
"What could I do? We have travelled more than fifty miles without
stopping. We arrived to-night, and never until we got here did we
stop long enough to wet our lips."
"But did you not come with the Duke?"
"Yes, but it is not to be known. He did not stop at the palace.
But more of this by-and-by."
"Yes, my dear, by-and-by."
She then set the table in the twinkling of an eye, not on account
of the few dishes and little food she put upon it, but because of
the great haste she made. The Florentines then had the reputation
of being beyond measure frugal and parsimonious, well becoming
all those who live honestly; and they still have it. Certainly
they once were so; but it is not to be believed they suffered
from it; and even by the laws called financial, often renewed,
and strenuously enforced, we learn that civil parsimony did not
spring up spontaneously, but in consequence of continual laws:
we learn also that the statute allowed for dinner two viands
alone, the roast and boiled, but the Florentines eluded it very
easily by using various kinds of boiled and roasted meats, for
the only boiled and roasted one prescribed by the statute. As to
dress, Franco Sacchetti has recorded in his very pleasing novel,
the great cunning shown by the ladies, by which the judges could
never catch them transgressing, or even succeed in applying the
laws to them. And when persons of high rank came to Florence,
the citizens who entertained them paid the fine and displayed
royal magnificence. The records of that time describe the manner
Lorenzo the Magnificent entertained Franceschetto Cibo and his
Court, when he came to marry his daughter; and this description
serves to show how old is the fashion in all those who attempt
to destroy the liberty of their country, in studiously observing
appearances, in order to sharpen the axe to cut the substance.
But then the chests were full of golden florins, the commerce
great, industry wonderful, enterprises prodigious; and in those
times designs were conceived and executed, that nowadays astonish
us only to look at. Unjust then is the reputation that now exists
of Florentine avarice; a recent testimony to it, we find in the
satires of D'Elci, where he says:
----a te torno, o mia frugal Firenze,
Dove avarizia ha splendide apparenze.
Many confirm this, but, as is often the case, rather upon the
assertion of others than from real observation. The demon of
luxury and idleness rules the Florentines at the present time:
like all the other nations of Europe, I will not say that they do
not believe, but they trust little to a celestial Paradise; they
have built a new terrestrial one without the tree of knowledge.
It matters little, if they pluck flowers of a day and let them
wither; as long as they are renewed, it is enough; whatever
endures, wearies; to live and enjoy comprises the extreme limit
of their wishes. Once the age doubted between good and evil;
and this was surely a great labor for both heart and brain, yet
the labor itself gave a proof of life: now the age believes,
yes, believes, but its belief is not in the good. We all live
as if the physician had given us over; and it would seem as if
we feared that to-morrow the heavens might not cover the earth:
no more pyramids, no more obelisks; the longest work we dare to
undertake is making a garland of flowers: the spider's web seems
too secular a thing, we form ourselves into a number of beings
born to devour the wheat. Let us then adorn the brows of our
heroes with poppies, let sleep be the Epic of our age, yawning
its history. Greater life awaits us in the grave than on this
earth, at least during the period of putrefaction. No one can
give us reasonable reproof: we are for the age, the age for us:
the niche and the saint harmonize wonderfully. Why wear ourselves
out in procuring a fame we hate? Why attend to studies which make
us doubt an existence, which we with all kinds of violence try to
steep in oblivion? Our children will grow up worse or better than
ourselves: if worse, every argument will be in vain; if better
they will be ashamed of our miseries. Better then to sleep, be
silent, enjoy, and die. This is truly the triumph of death!
Two plates were placed opposite each other upon the table. All
was ready, and yet Cecchino seemed to have no desire to taste the
food he had craved; he kept his face turned towards the head of
the table, and all at once a tear trickled down his cheek, and he
gave vent to a deep sigh.
His wife, seeing this sudden despondency, said anxiously:
"Holy Virgin! What is the matter? What troubles you, my dear?
Tell me quickly, do not keep anything from your poor wife...."
"Ah! Mary, do you not remember when last seated at this table we
were three?"
A long silence succeeded these words; Mary was the first to break
it:
"Mother Laudomia has certainly gone to heaven. With how much joy
did she see her last hour approach? How she talked with saints,
who seemed near her, to assist in her soul's transition. This
life had become a burden to her; the sweet light of day no longer
cheered her loving eyes; and your mother, Cecchino, would never
have seen your face again. She died as a bride going to her
nuptials, and happy in knowing you so well trained in the way of
the Lord, that nothing would ever cause you to forsake it. Her
last thought was God's, her last but one yours. Tell him--she
enjoined upon me in her last words--tell him I bless him, tell
him his children shall honor him, because he was kind to his
mother; and at last, when weary of life, his mother shall await
him in heaven. Therefore be comforted, and do not give way to
sorrow...."
"Certainly the good woman was old, and is now a dweller in a
heavenly home; but it would have been a great comfort to me if I
could have seen her again...."
"And how do we know but while we are talking she is near us? If,
as we believe, we are soul and body, and that the soul feels
love, may not God grant it to return and visit persons and places
that were dear to it in this world? Console yourself, Cecchino;
for time passes, and it is not always the worst thing to die,
sometimes it is to live...."
Cecchino at last began to eat, but the desire for food had
passed, so that the repast was soon finished; perhaps he drank,
however, more than he meant. His wife, partly through curiosity,
and partly to distract his sad thoughts, turned the conversation
upon the Duke.
"The Duke has arrived, then?"
"He has; but I must look out for employment elsewhere?"
"Why; has he sent you away?"
"No, I left on my own account.... But you shall hear: although I
know it is best not to trust secrets to women's ears, yet having
always found you faithful and discreet, I will hide nothing from
you. The Duke has come, and, as I believe, with bad intentions.
We entered Florence mysteriously, and silently, by night; he
talked a long time with his brother-in-law, and went cautiously
afterwards to some rooms in the Casino of St. Marco; he remained
there alone, sending me with another follower to tell Lady
Isabella that to-morrow, or the day after, he would arrive:
meanwhile we were to watch every word and deed, then come and
report it carefully to him...."
"For what reason?"
"The reason is plain enough," replied Cecchino, lowering his
voice; "the rumor of Lady Isabella's way of life has reached as
far as Rome; I firmly believe that he has come to avenge his
honor in the blood of his wife; and I would not give a ducat for
the Duchess's life from this time."
"But is there no way of saving this unfortunate lady?"
"None; for it seems her brothers want to punish her more than
her husband; besides, she should receive the penalty due to
her crime; and if I, instead of going to spy her actions, thus
becoming a participator in her death, staining my hands with her
blood, have chosen to take voluntary leave of the Duke, I do not
for that feel disposed to run any danger for one who does not
deserve it."
"Oh, how can you talk so? Then the fair name of a noble lady
may be in the power of the first low fellow who chooses to
contaminate it? Do you think that merely the slanderous charge of
so grievous a crime must be revenged by so cruel a punishment?"
"Conviction has no need of witnesses or instruments: and when
the people speak, God has spoken: if it is not a wolf, it is the
shadow of one."
"And supposing I allow, although against my will, that she is
guilty, tell me, who has given the Duke a right upon the life
of his wife? Has this judge a clear conscience? Is the accuser
himself innocent? Has this priest pure hands? And if he is not
innocent, why dares he to judge and condemn in others the guilt
he has himself committed?"
"Oh! it is a far different thing in a man than in a woman. She
brings children into the family that should never be there,
divides property among persons with whom it should never be
shared: the suspected illegitimate child is shunned by all; they
scorn him, and he hates them; and we have too often seen that
these bad buds bring forth in families bloody fruits."
"That is not so; for do you ever see a man who bringing forth
children out of a house, abandons them? And if he does, the world
blames him, and his conscience reproves him for it; and if he
provides for them, does he not unjustly diminish the property of
his legitimate children? No; equal are the duties, equal is the
crime, and equal should be the pardon or the punishment."
"Yet it is not so, and I do not believe as you say. There must be
a reason for it, although I do not know one...."
"Listen, you cannot find one, because there is none; if there
was, it would come into your mind spontaneously. Thinking
within myself I have seen that the world rests upon certain
principles, called truths: some of them you can see and touch;
and great scholars as well as fools agree to them, and say--it
is right;--others, though, are not understood, they seem like
alchemy, and we must distil our brains over them to make them
comprehensible. The first seem to me lawful money, the second
spurious; the first comes from nature, the second from artifice."
"Ah! good women should not reason so skilfully, but obey the laws
men make for them...."
"A violent law, an unjust judge, a wicked punishment."
"In God's truth, you have become such a reasoner, that I am
afraid. Who put such immodest words into your mouth?"
"Reason...."
"Or perhaps the necessity of defending your own evil deeds?" And
maddened by anger, Cecchino took a knife from the table, and
passing it through the tablecloth, stuck it nearly an inch into
the table. Poor Mary, excited in favor of her mistress, took no
notice of this; but with obstinate petulance continued:--"What
deeds are you imagining? I tell you there should not be two
weights and two measures, and there are not...."
"It is well. Although I have no other proof of your own baseness,
and the Duchess's also, than your present boldness, it would be
enough for me, perhaps too much. Were these the joys, these the
greetings and the kisses, I looked for? Alas, miserable man!..."
Mary, struck by the changed aspect of her husband, asked what
sudden thought had troubled him; but he paid not attention to
her, and, like a man bewildered, he murmured threateningly:
"Ah! Titta, your words were true as gospel.--And I was going with
so much joy to meet a beloved wife! Better for me if I had broken
my legs; were husbands watch-dogs they never could be able to
guard their wives:--the thieves would enter by the roof. I will
kill myself: everything in the world is over for me. But you need
not rejoice in my death, Mary;--No, I vow to God my curse shall
cleave to you like marrow in the bone. You have betrayed me, you
shall be betrayed; unhappy days, a dark life and bitter death
await you...."
In the midst of these laments, which passion drew from him,
the noise of a child crying was heard in the next room, and an
infantile voice called:--
"Mama!--Mama!"
Cecchino's hair stood upright on his head like the quills of a
porcupine, his face was pale as a sheet, and then turned as red
as fire; his lips trembled convulsively, his eyes gleamed with
evil passion, and overcome by a brutal rage he seized Mary by
the arm, and dragged her into the next room. Scarcely had they
passed the threshold than a little child on the bed sat up, and
stretching its little hands joyfully towards Mary, cried again:
"Mama!--Mama!"
Cecchino, pale with rage, pushed Mary with so much force from him
that she fell against the bed, and upon the child.
Overcome by surprise, anger, fear, and by the turn of affairs,
she could not utter a word: but her anger soon gave place
to pity. Her heart was almost broken by so many conflicting
emotions: she glided from the bed, and knelt down, crossing her
hands humbly, before her angry husband. But he, becoming more
enraged at this act, muttered:
"No ... you must die ... we must all die ... there is no pity ...
I want none for myself ... think then if you deserve it ... or
this viper...."
Mary sobbed:
"Cecchino!... Cecchino!... hear me,"--but could say no more.
"Prepare to die ... you have one hour ... half an hour; ... no,
... only five minutes of life...."
"Hear me, ... let me speak...."
"Make your peace with God; ... but it is useless; traitors cannot
enter heaven...."
"I cannot...."
"Have you finished?"
Mary, in agony, unable to utter a single word, made a sign of
denial with her hand; and its expression was indescribable.
Ineffable sorrow oppressed her to think that a few words might
calm this tempest, soothe the anger, save so many dear lives, and
yet she could not utter a word. Cecchino, as if possessed with a
devil, impatient of delay, his passions becoming more cruel in
the thought of bloodshed, could hardly wait, so anxious was he to
stain his hands with her blood. Poor woman!
"If you are not anxious to end this, know that I am eager to
begin...."
Unsheathing his dagger, he stretched out his hand to grasp her.
Mary, uttering a cry, fell senseless to the ground. Cecchino,
his heart closed to pity, did not wait; he bent down to plunge
his dagger in her bosom, and tearing her clothes aside, saw
with wonder a letter drop from them: fancying it might be from
the hated betrayer of his happiness, he was glad to think that
now his revenge might reach even him. Taking up the letter and
drawing nearer to the light, he read on the outside:
"To Her most Christian Majesty, Catherine, Queen of France."
He thought he dreamed: he looked again; it was the same as
before. He then opened the letter, and read:
"Most Honored as a Mother:--Considering the heinousness of my
sins, and the punishment that may befall me on this earth,
striving to obtain through God's infinite mercy that pardon
which I humbly beg with all my mind, I have decided not to
avoid the fate, whatever it may be, which Providence prepares
for me. But in following this decision, which my guardian angel
seems to have awakened within me, I cannot, nor ought I to
include in my ruin an innocent being, and one most worthy of
commiseration. I therefore confide this child of my sorrow to
your pity: remember that its cradle is girded by serpents, and
its life is like the life of a wild beast of the woods, which
every man thinks he has a right and a reason to pursue. No less
than the prudence and authority of a wise and powerful Queen
like yourself is necessary to save this miserable being: except
that I have good cause to hope in the woman to whom I trust
this child: she leaves country, home, and kindred, to console
me with brief comfort, in order to consign him to your Royal
Highness's care, as his surest haven of safety. This woman is
my foster sister: born and educated in the way of the Lord, I
cast her off in my hour of sin, and she returns voluntarily to
me in that of misfortune. The urgency of the case not admitting
of delay, she sets out alone by my eager request; but I will
strive to have her dear husband join her shortly. Both young and
faithful, deserving of the kindness of your Royal Highness, I
pray you to give them the greatest favors which your royal heart
is so ready to bestow on all, and especially to those who in the
service of your kindred and royal family assume a responsibility
in manifest danger of their own property and lives. I have
no more to say, except to beg your Highness, for the love of
Jesus Christ our Saviour, to take under your protection this
miserable being. God will give you that reward which I cannot.
Look upon these words, your Majesty, as on the dying ones of
a relative;--this is my testament;--and with this faith to
die resigned and contrite, who would else have ended her life
despairing and blaspheming. When your Highness shall have
received the news of my death, which I foresee is inevitable, be
pleased to remember me in your prayers, and aid my soul. I wish
you in this world all that happiness which your glorious mind
and magnanimous heart knows so well how to create; and kissing
your hands I sign myself a most unworthy, but yet affectionate
child of your Majesty,
"ISABELLA, DUCHESS OF BRACCIANO."
Cecchino perceived his error before coming to the end of this
epistle, his anger departed, and his heart, having experienced so
many passions, gave way in a burst of tears. He put the letter aside;
he had already thrown his dagger away, and turning with tearful eyes
towards Mary, raised her head, calling her by a thousand endearing
names. But the poor woman gave no sign of life, and in her fall had
struck so heavily that she had bruised the skin behind her ear,
causing it to bleed. It seemed for a moment as if Cecchino was
about to faint: but the thought of providing for his wife's safety
sustained him: he carefully bound up the wound, placed her upon the
bed, and tried to restore her with water, vinegar, burnt feathers,
and all such means; but she did not revive. He then broke forth in
laments; sighed and raised his eyes beseechingly towards heaven.
Desperate at last he lay down by her side, embracing her, and bathing
her with tears, covering her face with kisses, and exclaiming between
his sobs:
"Oh, God, let me die by her side!"
But God intended him no such misfortune, and scarcely had he
proffered these words, before Mary, uttering a deep sigh, opened her
eyes, forgetful of what had occurred. Cecchino knelt before her, not
daring to open his mouth; and Mary, by degrees, began to recollect
past events, sat up, and seeing the letter, guarded so jealously by
her, open, turned towards Cecchino, and, smiling languidly, said:
"Of little faith, why did you doubt?"
Then looking towards the window, and seeing the stars, added:
"Cecchino, we have no time to lose. They will come for us in a few
moments. While I dress the child you must pack your own clothes, and
sew the gold and jewels of the Duchess among them: all the rest is
provided."
Cecchino, having no will of his own, passively obeyed her orders:
so many, so various, and so deep had been the passions he had
experienced in such a short time, that he felt almost annihilated;
but whatever faculty of thinking and wishing still remained to
him, would not have been opposed to the desires of his wife, who,
animated by the spirit of charity, sacrifice, and love, appeared to
him a being more akin to angels than mortals. He loved and worshipped
her as something holy. Of such, and so sudden transitions is the mind
capable in this world! Miserable intellects in the power of passion,
like a fragile skiff agitated by the tempestuous ocean, we weep, we
laugh, and, but this is more important, we pass on to deeds, which as
they take from us the dignity of men, and peace of mind, also render
us in this life deserving of the scorn of men, and in the next of
God's disdain.
Mary was not deceived; for a short time had scarcely elapsed before
two men appeared at the house door, knocking cautiously, and saying
in a low voice to Cecchino, who opened the window, to come down, for
all was ready. Mary went first with the child; Cecchino followed with
a chest containing a few clothes. Taking the first step out of the
door he turned back, sighing:
"I leave you, never to see you again!"
When they had all descended, Mary, wondering not to see Cecchino by
her side, called him, and was about to go back, when he came hastily,
and said in a low tone:
"I remembered my mother's rosary at the head of the bed, and went
back for it. If it had belonged to your mother you would not have
forgotten it."
Mary pressed his hand, for she knew she had no defence, but the
accusation pleased her.
They walked some distance in silence, and found a carriage waiting
for them near the corner of the Giglio, behind St. Lorenzo; they
entered it, and drove towards the gate San Frediano. As they drew
near it, one of the men descended, and calling the gatekeeper,
exchanged a few words with him, whereupon he opened the gate. Then,
turning back, told his companion to descend, adding:
"You can go on now--pleasant journey--God be with you."
Mary had already guessed, and the dawn which began to appear
confirmed her supposition, this man was the Knight Lionardo Salviati;
she, therefore, took courage to call to him, saying:
"Do me the favor of listening one moment, Sir?"
And the Knight stopped to listen.
"Sir Lionardo," she murmured in his ear, "when you see her, assure
her that the child is safe: tell her also my husband is with me, and
she need trouble herself no more about it. Save her, if you can,
for her death without your aid is certain. The property I have left
behind me, please tell your friend Don Silvano to sell, and use it
all in masses for the dead and ... for the dead, according to my
desire."
"It shall be done."
Sir Lionardo then closing the door, ordered the driver to proceed.
Mary, in speaking of the dead, meant Isabella! But there still
remaining to her a very faint ray of hope, she did not wish to
destroy it with this sad commission: but she believed in her heart
that having given it for her beloved dead, she included among them
the soul of poor Isabella.