But I have no right to cast the unbroken shadow of my skepticism upon
the reader, and so I tell him a story about Ferrara which I actually
believe. He must know that in Ferrara the streets are marvelous long
and straight. On the corners formed by the crossing of two of the
longest and straightest of these streets stand four palaces, in only
one of which we have a present interest. This palace my guide took
me to see, after our visit to Tasso's prison, and, standing in its
shadow, he related to me the occurrence which has given it a sad
celebrity. It was, in the time of the gifted toxicologist, the
residence of Lucrezia Borgia, who used to make poisonous little
suppers there, and ask the best families of Italy to partake of them.
It happened on one occasion that Lucrezia Borgia was thrust out of
a ball-room at Venice as a disreputable character, and treated with
peculiar indignity. She determined to make the Venetians repent their
unwonted accession of virtue, and she therefore allowed the occurrence
to be forgotten till the proper moment of her revenge arrived,
when she gave a supper, and invited to her board eighteen young and
handsome Venetian nobles. Upon the preparation of this repast she
bestowed all the resources of her skillful and exquisite knowledge;
and the result was, the Venetians were so felicitously poisoned
that they had just time to listen to a speech from the charming and
ingenious lady of the house before expiring. In this address she
reminded her guests of the occurrence in the Venetian ball-room, and
perhaps exulted a little tediously in her present vengeance. She was
surprised and pained when one of the guests interrupted her, and,
justifying the treatment she had received at Venice, declared himself
her natural son. The lady instantly recognized him, and in the sudden
revulsion of maternal feeling, begged him to take an antidote. This he
not only refused to do, but continued his dying reproaches, till his
mother, losing her self-command, drew her poniard and plunged it into
his heart.
The blood of her son fell upon the table-cloth, and this being hung
out of the window to dry, the wall received a stain, which neither
the sun nor rain of centuries sufficed to efface, and which was only
removed with the masonry, when it became necessary to restore the
wall under that window, a few months before the time of my visit to
Ferrara. Accordingly, the blood-stain has now disappeared; but the
conscientious artist who painted the new wall has faithfully restored
the tragic spot, by bestowing upon the stucco a bloody dash of
Venetian red.