A Tale of the Passions
AFTER the death of Manfred,[2] King of Naples, the Ghibel-
lines[3] lost their ascendency throughout Italy. The exiled
Guelphs[4] returned to their native cities; and not contented
with resuming the reins of government, they prosecuted
their triumph until the Ghibellines in their turn were obliged
to fly, and to mourn in banishment over the violent party
spirit which had before occasioned their bloody victories, and
now their irretrievable defeat. After an obstinate contest
the Florentine Ghibellines were forced to quit their native
town; their estates were confiscated; their attempts to rein-
state themselves frustrated; and receding from castle to castle,
they at length took refuge in Lucca, and awaited with impa-
tience the arrival of Corradino[5] from Germany, through
whose influence they hoped again to establish the Imperial
supremacy.
The first of May[6] was ever a day of rejoicing and festivity
at Florence. The youth of both sexes, of the highest rank,
paraded the streets, crowned with flowers, and singing the
canzonets[7] of the day. In the evening they assembled in the
Piazza del Duomo,[8] and spent the hours in dancing. The Car-
roccio[9] was led through the principal streets, the ringing of
its bell drowned in the peals that rang from every belfry in
the city, and in the music of fifes and drums which made a
part of the procession that followed it. The triumph of the
reigning party in Florence caused them to celebrate the
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anniversary of the first of May, 1268, with peculiar splendour.
They had indeed hoped that Charles d’Anjou,[10] King of Naples,
the head of the Guelphs in Italy, and then Vicare[11] of their
republic, would have been there to adorn the festival by his
presence. But the expectation of Corradino had caused the
greater part of his newly conquered and oppressed kingdom
to revolt, and he had hastily quitted Tuscany to secure by
his presence those conquests of which his avarice and cruelty
endangered the loss. But although Charles somewhat feared
the approaching contest with Corradino, the Florentine
Guelphs, newly reinstated in their city and possessions, did
not permit a fear to cloud their triumph. The principal
families vied with each other in the display of their magnifi-
cence during the festival. The knights followed the Carroc-
cio on horseback, and the windows were filled with ladies
who leant upon gold-inwoven carpets, while their own
dresses, at once simple and elegant, their only ornaments
flowers, contrasted with the glittering tapestry and the bril-
liant colours of the flags of the various communities. The
whole population of Florence poured into the principal
streets, and none were left at home, except the decrepid and
sick, unless it were some discontented Ghibelline, whose fear,
poverty, or avarice, had caused him to conceal his party,
when it had been banished from the city.
It was not the feeling of discontent which prevented
Monna[12] Gegia de’ Becari[13] from being among the first of the
revellers; and she looked angrily on what she called her
“Ghibelline leg,” which fixed her to her chair on such a day
of triumph. The sun shone in all its glory in an unclouded
sky, and caused the fair Florentines to draw their fazioles[14]
over their dark eyes, and to bereave the youth of those
beams more vivifying than the sun’s rays. The same sun
poured its full light into the lonely apartment of Monna
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Gegia, and almost extinguished the fire which was lighted
in the middle of the room, over which hung the pot of mi-
nestra,[15] the dinner of the dame and her husband. But she
had deserted the fire and was seated by her window, holding
her beads in her hand, while every now and then she peeped
from her lattice (five stories high) into the narrow lane be-
low,—but no creature passed. She looked at the opposite
window; a cat slept there beside a pot of heliotrope, but no
human being was heard or seen;—they had all gone to the
Piazza del Duomo.
Monna Gegia was an old woman, and her dress of green
calrasio[16] shewed that she belonged to one of the Arti Minori.[17]
Her head was covered by a red kerchief, which, folded trian-
gularly, hung loosely over it; her grey hairs were combed
back from her high and wrinkled brow. The quickness of
her eye spoke the activity of her mind, and the slight irrita-
bility that lingered about the corners of her lips might be
occasioned by the continual war maintained between her
bodily and mental faculties.—“Now, by St. John!”[18] she said,
“I would give my gold cross to make one of them; though
by giving that I should appear on a festa[19] without that which
no festa yet ever found me wanting.”——And as she spoke
she looked with great complacency on a large but thin gold
cross which was tied round her withered neck by a ribbon,
once black, now of a rusty brown.——“Methinks this leg
of mine is bewitched; and it may well be that my Ghibelline
husband has used the black art to hinder me from following
the Carrocio[20] with the best of them.”——A slight sound as of
footsteps in the street far below interrupted the good woman’s
soliloquy.—“Perhaps it is Monna Lisabetta, or Messer[21]
Giani dei Agli,[22] the weaver, who mounted the breach first
when the castle of Pagibonzi[23] was taken.”—She looked down,
but could see no one, and was about to relapse into her old
U
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train of thoughts, when her attention was again attracted
by the sound of steps ascending the stairs: they were slow
and heavy, but she did not doubt who her visitant was when
a key was applied to the hole of the door; the latch was
lifted up, and a moment after, with an unassured mien and
downcast eyes, her husband entered.
He was a short stunted man, more than sixty years of
age; his shoulders were broad and high; his legs short;
his lank hair, though it grew now only on the back of his
head, was still coal-black; his brows were overhanging
and bushy; his eyes black and quick; his complexion
dark and weather-beaten: his lips as it were contra-
dicted the sternness of the upper part of his face, for their
gentle curve betokened even delicacy of sentiment, and his
smile was inexpressibly sweet, although a short, bushy, grey
beard somewhat spoiled the expression of his countenance.
His dress consisted of leather trowsers and a kind of short,
coarse, cloth tunic, confined at the waist by a leathern girdle.
He had on a low-crowned, red, cloth cap, which he drew
over his eyes, and seating himself on a low bench by the fire,
he heaved a deep sigh. He appeared disinclined to enter
into any conversation, but Monna Gegia, looking on him
with a smile of ineffable contempt, was resolved that he
should not enjoy his melancholy mood uninterrupted.—
“Have you been to mass, Cincolo?”—she asked; beginning
by a question sufficiently removed from the point she longed
to approach.—He shrugged his shoulders uneasily, but did not
reply.—“You are too early for your dinner,” continued Gegia;
“Do you not go out again?”—Cincolo answered, “No!”
in an accent that denoted his disinclination to further
questioning. But this very impatience only served to feed
the spirit of contention that was fermenting in the bosom of
Gegia.—“You are not used,” she said, “to pass your May
days under your chimney.”——No answer.—“Well,” she
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continued, “if you will not speak, I have done!”—meaning
that she intended to begin—“but by that lengthened face
of thine I see that some good news is stirring abroad, and I
bless the Virgin for it, whatever it may be. Come, if thou
be not too curst, tell me what happy tidings make thee so
woe-begone.”—
Cincolo remained silent for awhile, then turning half
round but not looking at his wife, he replied,—“What if
old Marzio the lion[24] be dead?”—Gegia turned pale at the
idea, but a smile that lurked in the good-natured mouth of
her husband reassured her. “Nay, St. John defend us!”
she began;—“but that is not true. Old Marzio’s death
would not drive you within these four walls, except it were to
triumph over your old wife. By the blessing of St. John, not
one of our lions have died since the eve of the battle of Monte
Aperto;[25] and I doubt not that they were poisoned; for
Mari, who fed them that night, was more than half a Ghibel-
line in his heart. Besides, the bells are still ringing, and the
drums still beating, and all would be silent enough if old
Marzio were to die. On the first of May too! Santa Repa-
rata[26] is too good to us to allow such ill luck;—and she has
more favour, I trust, in the seventh heaven than all the Ghi-
belline saints in your calendar. No, good Cincolo, Marzio
is not dead, nor the Holy Father, nor Messer Carlo of Naples;[27]
but I would bet my gold cross against the wealth of your
banished men, that Pisa[28] is taken—or Corradino—or—” —
“And I here! No, Gegia, old as I am, and much as you need
my help (and that last is why I am here at all) Pisa would
not be taken while this old body could stand in the breach;
or Corradino die, till this lazy blood were colder on the
ground than it is in my body. Ask no more questions, and
do not rouse me: there is no news, no good or ill luck, that
I know. But when I saw the Neri, the Pulci, the Buon-
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delmonti,[29] and the rest of them, ride like kings through the
streets, whose very hands are hardly dry from the blood of
my kindred; when I saw their daughter crowned with
flowers, and thought how the daughter of Arrigo dei Elisei
was mourning for her murdered father, with ashes on her
head, by the hearth of a stranger—my spirit must be more
dead than it is if such a sight did not make me wish to drive
among them; and methought I could scatter their pomp
with my awl for a sword. But I remembered thee, and am
here unstained with blood.”
“That thou wilt never be!” cried Monna Gegia, the
colour rising in her wrinkled cheeks:—“Since the battle of
Monte Aperto, thou hast never been well washed of that shed
by thee and thy confederates;—and how could ye? for the
Arno[30] has never since run clear of the blood then spilt.”—
“And if the sea were red with that blood, still while there
is any of the Guelphs’ to spill, I am ready to spill it, were it
not for thee. Thou dost well to mention Monte Aperto, and
thou wouldst do better to remember over whom its grass
now grows.”—“Peace, Cincolo; a mother’s heart has more
memory in it than thou thinkest; and I well recollect who
spurned me as I knelt, and dragged my only child, but six-
teen years of age, to die in the cause of that misbeliever
Manfred. Let us indeed speak no more. Woe was the day
when I married thee! but those were happy times when
there was neither Guelph nor Ghibelline;—they will never
return.”—“Never,—until, as thou sayest, the Arno run clear
of the blood shed on its banks;—never while I can pierce
the heart of a Guelph;—never till both parties are cold
under one bier.”—“And thou and I, Cincolo?—” “Are
two old fools, and shall be more at peace under ground than
above it. Rank Guelph as thou art, I married thee before
I was a Ghibelline; so now I must eat from the same platter
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with the enemy of Manfred, and make shoes for Guelphs,
instead of following the fortunes of Corradino, and sending
them, my battle-axe in my hand, to buy their shoes in Bo-
logna.”[31]—“Hush! hush! good man, talk not so loud of thy
party; hearest thou not that some one knocks?”—
Cincolo went to open the door with the air of a man who
thinks himself ill used at being interrupted in his discourse, and
is disposed to be angry with the intruder, however innocent
he might be of any intention of breaking in upon his eloquent
complaint. The appearance of his visitor calmed his indig-
nant feelings. He was a youth whose countenance and per-
son shewed that he could not be more than sixteen, but there
was a self-possession in his demeanour and a dignity in his
physiognomy that belonged to a more advanced age. His
figure though not tall was slight; and his countenance though
of wonderful beauty and regularity of feature, was pale as
monumental marble; the thick and curling locks of his ches-
nut hair clustered over his brow and round his fair throat;
his cap was drawn far down on his forehead. Cincolo was
about to usher him with deference into his humble room,
but the youth staid him with his hand, and uttered the words
“Swabia, Cavalieri!”[32] the words by which the Ghibellines
were accustomed to recognize each other. He continued in
a low and hurried tone: “Your wife is within?”—“She is.”
—“Enough; although I am a stranger to you, I come from
an old friend. Harbour me until nightfall; we will then go
out, and I will explain to you the motives of my intrusion.
Call me Ricciardo de’ Rossini of Milan, travelling to Rome.
I leave Florence this evening.”
Having said these words, without giving Cincolo time to
reply, he motioned that they should enter the room. Monna
Gegia had fixed her eyes on the door from the moment he
had opened it with a look of impatient curiosity; when she
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saw the youth enter she could not refrain from exclaiming
—“Gesu Maria!”[33]—so different was he from any one she
had expected to see.—“A friend from Milan,” said Cincolo.
—“More likely from Lucca,” replied his wife, gazing on her
visitant:—“You are doubtless one of the banished men, and
you are more daring than wise to enter this town: however,
if you be not a spy, you are safe with me.”—Ricciardo smiled
and thanked her in a low, sweet voice:—“If you do not
turn me out,” he said, “I shall remain under your roof
nearly all the time I remain in Florence, and I leave it soon
after dusk.”
Gegia again gazed on her guest, nor did Cincolo scrutinize
him with less curiosity. His black cloth tunic reached be-
low his knees and was confined by a black leather girdle at
the waist. He had on trowsers of coarse scarlet stuff, over
which were drawn short boots, such as are now seen on the
stage only: a cloak of common fox’s fur, unlined, hung from
his shoulder. But although his dress was thus simple, it was
such as was then worn by the young Florentine nobility. At
that time the Italians were simple in their private habits: the
French army led by Charles d’Anjou into Italy first introduced
luxury into the palaces of the Cisalpines.[34] Manfred was a
magnificent prince, but it was his saintly rival who was the
author of that trifling foppery of dress and ornaments, which
degrades a nation, and is a sure precursor of their downfall.
But of Ricciardo—his countenance had all the regularity of
a Grecian head; and his blue eyes, shaded by very long,
dark eyelashes, were soft, yet full of expression: when he
looked up, the heavy lids, as it were, unveiled the gentle
light beneath, and then again closed over them, as shading
what was too brilliant to behold. His lips expressed the
deepest sensibility, and something perhaps of timidity, had
not the placid confidence of his demeanour forbidden such
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an idea. His appearance was extraordinary, for he was
young and delicate of frame, while the decision of his man-
ner prevented the feeling of pity from arising in the spec-
tator’s mind: you might love him, but he rose above com-
passion.
His host and hostess were at first silent; but he asked
some natural questions about the buildings of their city, and
by degrees led them into discourse. When mid-day struck,
Cincolo looked towards his pot of minestra, and Ricciardo
following his look, asked if that was not the dinner. “You
must entertain me,” he said, “for I have not eaten to-day.”
A table was drawn near the window, and the minestra
poured out into one plate was placed in the middle of it, a
spoon was given to each, and a jug of wine filled from a
barrel. Ricciardo looked at the two old people, and seemed
somewhat to smile at the idea of eating from the same plate
with them; he ate, however, though sparingly, and drank
of the wine, though with still greater moderation. Cincolo,
however, under pretence of serving his guest, filled his jug
a second time, and was about to rise for the third measure,
when Ricciardo, placing his small white hand on his arm,
said, “Are you a German, my friend, that you cease not
after so many draughts? I have heard that you Florentines
were a sober people.”
Cincolo was not much pleased with this reproof; but he
felt that it was timely; so, conceding the point, he sat down
again, and somewhat heated with what he had already
drank, he asked his guest the news from Germany, and
what hopes for the good cause? Monna Gegia bridled at
these words, and Ricciardo replied, “Many reports are
abroad, and high hopes entertained, especially in the North
of Italy, for the success of our expedition. Corradino is
arrived at Genoa,[35] and it is hoped that, although the ranks
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of his army were much thinned by the desertion of his Ger-
man troops, that they will be quickly filled by Italians,
braver and truer than those foreigners, who, strangers to
our soil, could not fight for his cause with our ardour.”—
“And how does he bear himself?”—“As beseems one of
the house of Swabia, and the nephew of Manfred. He is
inexperienced and young, even to childishness. He is not
more than sixteen. His mother would hardly consent to
this expedition, but wept with agony at the fear of all he
might endure: for he has been bred in a palace, nursed in
every luxury, and habituated to all the flattering attentions of
courtiers, and the tender care of a woman, who, although she
be a princess, has waited on him with the anxious solicitude
of a cottager for her infant. But Corradino is of good heart;
docile, but courageous; obedient to his wiser friends, gentle
to his inferiors, but noble of soul, the spirit of Manfred
seems to animate his unfolding mind; and surely, if that
glorious prince now enjoys the reward of his surpassing
virtues, he looks down with joy and approbation on him
who is, I trust, destined to fill his throne.”
The enthusiasm with which Ricciardo spoke suffused his
pale countenance with a slight blush, while his eyes swam in
the lustre of the dew that filled them. Monna Gegia was little
pleased with his harangue, but curiosity kept her silent,
while her husband proceeded to question his guest. “You
seem to be well acquainted with Corradino?”—“I saw him
at Milan, and was closely connected with his most intimate
friend there. As I have said, he has arrived at Genoa, and
perhaps has even now landed at Pisa: he will find many
friends in that town?” “Every man there will be his
friend. But during his journey southward he will have to
contend with our Florentine army, commanded by the Mar-
shals of the usurper Charles, and assisted by his troops.
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Charles himself has left us, and is gone to Naples to prepare
for this war. But he is detested there, as a tyrant and a
robber, and Corradino will be received in the Regno[36] as a
saviour: so that if he once surmount the obstacles which
oppose his entrance, I do not doubt his success, and trust
that he will be crowned within a month at Rome, and the
week after sit on the throne of his ancestors in Naples.”
“And who will crown him?” cried Gegia, unable to con-
tain herself: “Italy contains no heretic base enough to do
such a deed, unless it be a Jew; or he send to Constanti-
nople[37] for a Greek, or to Egypt for a Mahometan.[38] Cursed
may the race of the Frederics[39] ever be! Thrice cursed one
who has affinity to that miscreant Manfred! And little do
you please me, young man, by holding such discourse in my
house.” Cincolo looked at Ricciardo, as if he feared that
so violent a partisan for the house of Swabia would be irri-
tated at his wife’s attack; but he was looking on the aged
woman with a regard of the most serene benignity; no con-
tempt even was mingled with the gentle smile that played
round his lips. “I will restrain myself,” he said; and turn-
ing to Cincolo, he conversed on more general subjects,
describing the various cities of Italy that he had visited;
discussing their modes of government, and relating anec-
dotes concerning their inhabitants, with an air of expe-
rience that, contrasted with his youthful appearance, greatly
impressed Cincolo, who looked on him at once with admira-
tion and respect. Evening came on. The sound of bells died
away after the Ave Maria[40] had ceased to ring; but the distant
sound of music was wafted to them by the night air, and its
quick time indicated that the music was already begun.
Ricciardo was about to address Cincolo, when a knocking
at the gate interrupted him. It was Buzeccha,[41] the Sara-
cen,[42] a famous chess-player, who was used to parade about
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under the colonnades of the Duomo,[43] and challenge the
young nobles to play; and sometimes much stress was laid
on these games, and the gain and loss became the talk of
Florence. Buzeccha was a tall ungainly man, with all that
good-natured consequence of manner, which the fame he
had acquired by his proficiency in so trifling a science, and
the familiarity with which he was permitted to treat those
superior to him in rank, who were pleased to measure their
forces with him, might well bestow. He was beginning
with, “Eh, Messere!” when perceiving Ricciardo, he cried,
“Who have we here?” “A friend to good men,” replied
Ricciardo, smiling. “Then, by Mahomet, thou art my
friend, my stripling.” “Thou shouldst be a Saracen, by
thy speech?” said Ricciardo. “And through the help of the
Prophet, so am I. One who in Manfred’s time——but no
more of that. We won’t talk of Manfred, eh, Monna Gegia?
I am Buzeccha, the chess-player, at your service, Messer lo
Forestiere.”
The introduction thus made, they began to talk of the
procession of the day. After a while, Buzeccha introduced
his favourite subject of chess-playing; he recounted some
wonderfully good strokes he had achieved, and related to
Ricciardo how before the Palagio del Popolo,[44] in the pre-
sence of Count Guido Novello de’ Giudi,[45] then Vicare of the
city, he had played an hour at three chess-boards with three
of the best chess-players in Florence, playing two by me-
mory, and one by sight; and out of three games which made
the board, he had won two.[46] This account was wound up
by a proposal to play with his host. “Thou art a hard-
headed fellow, Cincolo, and make better play than the
nobles. I would swear that thou thinkest of chess only as
thou cobblest thy shoes; every hole of your awl is a square
of the board, every stitch a move, and a finished pair, paid
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for, check-mate to your adversary; eh! Cincolo? Bring
out the field of battle, man.” Ricciardo interposed, “I
leave Florence in two hours, and before I go, Messer Cin-
colo promised to conduct me to the Piazza del Duomo.”
“Plenty of time, good youth,” cried Buzeccha, arranging
his men; “I only claim one game, and my games never
last more than a quarter of an hour; and then we will both
escort you, and you shall dance a set into the bargain with
a black-eyed Houri, all Nazarene as thou art. So stand
out of my light, good youth, and shut the window, if you
have heeding, that the torch flare not so.”
Ricciardo seemed amused by the authorative[47] tone of the
chess-player; he shut the window and trimmed the torch,
which, stuck against the wall, was the only light they had,
and stood by the table, over-looking the game. Monna
Gegia had replaced the pot for supper, and sat somewhat
uneasily, as if she were displeased that her guest did not
talk with her. Cincolo and Buzeccha were deeply intent
on their game, when a knock was heard at the door. Cin-
colo was about to rise and open it, but Ricciardo saying,
“Do not disturb yourself,” opened it himself, with the
manner of one who does humble offices as if ennobling
them, so that no one action can be more humble to them than
another. The visitant was welcomed by Gegia alone, with
“Ah! Messer Beppe, this is kind, on May-day night.”
Ricciardo glanced slightly on him, and then resumed his
stand by the players. There was little in Messer Beppe to
attract a favourable regard. He was short, thin, and dry;
his face long-drawn and liny; his eyes deep-set and scow-
ling; his lips straight, his nose hooked, and his head covered
by a close scull-cap, his hair cut close all round. He sat
down near Gegia, and began to discourse in a whining, ser-
vile voice, complimenting her on her good looks, launching
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forth into praise of the magnificence of certain Guelph Flo-
rentines, and concluded by declaring that he was hungry
and tired.—“Hungry, Beppe?” said Gegia, “that should
have been your first word, friend. Cincolo, wilt thou give
thy guest to eat? Cincolo, art thou deaf? Art thou blind?
Dost thou not hear? Wilt thou not see?—Here is Messer
Giuseppe de’ Bosticchi.”[48]
Cincolo slowly, his eyes still fixed on the board, was about
to rise. But the name of the visitant seemed to have the
effect of magic on Ricciardo. “Bosticchi!” he cried—
“Giuseppe Bosticchi! I did not expect to find that man
beneath thy roof, Cincolo, all Guelph as thy wife is—
for she also has eaten of the bread of the Elisei. Fare-
well! thou wilt find me in the street below; follow me
quickly.” He was about to go, but Bosticchi placed him-
self before the door, saying in a tone whose whine expressed
mingled rage and servility, “In what have I offended this
young gentleman? Will he not tell me my offence?”—
“Dare not to stop my way,” cried Ricciardo, passing his
hand before his eyes, “nor force me again to look on thee—
Begone!” Cincolo stopt him: “Thou art too hasty, and
far too passionate, my noble guest,” said he: “however this
man may have offended thee, thou art too violent.” “Vio-
lent!” cried Ricciardo, almost suffocated by passionate emo-
tion—“Aye, draw thy knife, and shew the blood of Arrigo
dei Elisei with which it is still stained.”
A dead silence followed. Bosticchi slunk out of the room;
Ricciardo hid his face in his hands and wept. But soon he
calmed his passion and said:—“This is indeed childish.
Pardon me; that man is gone; excuse and forget my vio-
lence. Resume thy game, Cincolo, but conclude it quickly,
for time gains on us—Hark! an hour of night sounds from
the Campanile.”[49] “The game is already concluded,” said
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Buzeccha, sorrowfully, “thy cloak overthrew the best
check-mate this head ever planned—so God forgive thee!”
“Check-mate!” cried the indignant Cincolo, “Check-mate!
and my queen mowing you down, rank and file!”—“Let
us begone,” exclaimed Ricciardo: “Messer Buzeccha, you
will play out your game with Monna Gezia.[50] Cincolo will
return ere long.” So taking his host by the arm, he drew
him out of the room, and descended the narrow high stairs
with the air of one to whom those stairs were not un-
known.
When in the street he slackened his pace, and first look-
ing round to assure himself that none overheard their con-
versation, he addressed Cincolo:—“Pardon me, my dear
friend; I am hasty, and the sight of that man made every
drop of my blood cry aloud in my veins. But I do not come
here to indulge in private sorrows or private revenge, and
my design ought alone to engross me. It is necessary for
me to see, speedily and secretly, Messer Guielmo Losten-
dardo,[51] the Neapolitan commander. I bear a message to him
from the Countess Elizabeth,[52] the mother of Corradino, and
I have some hope that its import may induce him to take at
least a neutral part during the impending conflict. I have
chosen you, Cincolo, to aid me in this, for not only you are
of that little note in your town that you may act for me
without attracting observation, but you are brave and true,
and I may confide to your known worth. Lostendardo re
sides[53] at the Palagio del Governo;[54] when I enter its doors I
am in the hands of my enemies, and its dungeons may alone
know the secret of my destiny. I hope better things. But
if after two hours I do not appear or let you hear of my wel-
fare, carry this packet to Corradino at Pisa: you will then
learn who I am, and if you feel any indignation at my fate,
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let that feeling attach you still more strongly to the cause for
which I live and die.”
As Ricciardo spoke he still walked on; and Cincolo ob-
served, that without his guidance he directed his steps
towards the Palagio del Governo. “I do not understand
this,” said the old man;—“by what argument, unless you
bring one from the other world, do you hope to induce
Messer Guielmo to aid Corradino? He is so bitter an enemy
of Manfred, that although that Prince is dead, yet when he
mentions his name he grasps the air as it were a dagger. I
have heard him with horrible imprecations curse the whole
house of Swabia.” A tremor shook the frame of Ricciardo,
but he replied, “Lostendardo was once the firmest support
of that house and the friend of Manfred. Strange circum-
stances gave birth in his mind to this unnatural hatred, and
he became a traitor. But perhaps now that Manfred is in
Paradise, the youth, the virtues, and the inexperience of Cor-
radino may inspire him with more generous feelings and re-
awaken his ancient faith. At least I must make this last
trial. This cause is too holy, too sacred, to admit of common
forms of reasoning or action. The nephew of Manfred must
sit upon the throne of his ancestors; and to achieve that I
will endure what I am about to endure.”
They entered the palace of government. Messer Guielmo
was carousing in the great hall. “Bear this ring to him,
good Cincolo, and say that I wait. Be speedy, that my cou-
rage, my life, do not desert me at the moment of trial.”—
Cincolo, casting one more inquisitive glance on his extraor-
dinary companion, obeyed his orders, while the youth leant
against one of the pillars of the court and passionately cast
up his eyes to the clear firmament. “Oh, ye stars!” he
cried in a smothered voice, “ye are eternal; let my purpose,
my will, be as constant as ye!” Then, more calm, he folded
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his arms in his cloak, and with strong inward struggle en-
deavoured to repress his emotion. Several servants ap-
proached him and bade him follow them. Again he looked
at the sky and said, “Manfred,” and then he walked on with
slow but firm steps. They led him through several halls
and corridors to a large apartment hung with tapestry, and
well lighted by numerous torches; the marble of the floor
reflected their glare, and the arched roof echoed the foot-
steps of one who paced the apartment as Ricciardo entered.
It was Lostendardo. He made a sign that the servants
should retire; the heavy door closed behind them, and Ric-
ciardo stood alone with Messer Guielmo; his countenance
pale but composed, his eyes cast down as in expectation,
not in fear; and but for the convulsive motion of his lips, you
would have guessed that every faculty was almost suspended
by intense agitation.
Lostendardo approached. He was a man in the prime of
life, tall and athletic; he seemed capable with a single exer-
tion to crush the frail being of Ricciardo. Every feature of
his countenance spoke of the struggle of passions, and the
terrible egotism of one who would sacrifice even himself to
the establishment of his will: his black eyebrows were scat-
tered, his grey eyes deep set and scowling, his look at once
stern and haggard. A smile seemed never to have disturbed
the settled scorn which his lips expressed; his high fore-
head, already becoming bald, was marked by a thousand con-
tradictory lines. His voice was studiously restrained as he
said: “Wherefore do you bring that ring?”—Ricciardo
looked up and met his eye, which glanced fire as he ex-
claimed—“Despina!” He seized her hand with a giant’s
grasp:—“I have prayed for this night and day, and thou
art now here! Nay, do not struggle; you are mine; for by
my salvation I swear that thou shalt never again escape me.”
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Despina replied calmly—“Thou mayst well believe that in
thus placing myself in thy power I do not dread any injury
thou canst inflict upon me,—or I were not here. I do not
fear thee, for I do not fear death. Loosen then thy hold, and
listen to me. I come in the name of those virtues that were
once thine; I come in the name of all noble sentiment, ge-
nerosity, and ancient faith; and I trust that in listening to me
your heroic nature will second my voice, and that Losten-
dardo will no longer rank with those whom the good and
great never name but to condemn.”
Lostendardo appeared to attend little to what she said.
He gazed on her with triumph and malignant pride; and if
he still held her, his motive appeared rather the delight he
felt in displaying his power over her, than any fear that she
would escape. You might read in her pale cheek and
glazed eye, that if she feared, it was herself alone that she
mistrusted; that her design lifted her above mortal dread,
and that she was as impassive as the marble she resembled to
any event that did not either advance or injure the object
for which she came. They were both silent, until Losten-
dardo leading her to a seat, and then standing opposite to
her, his arms folded, every feature dilated by triumph, and
his voice sharpened by agitation, he said: “Well, speak!
What wouldst thou with me?”—“I come to request, that if
you can not be induced to assist Prince Corradino in the
present struggle, you will at least stand neutral, and not op-
pose his advance to the kingdom of his ancestors.” Losten-
dardo laughed. The vaulted roof repeated the sound, but
the harsh echo, though it resembled the sharp cry of an ani-
mal of prey whose paw is on the heart of its enemy, was
not so discordant and dishuman as the laugh itself. “How,”
he asked, “dost thou pretend to induce me to comply? This
dagger,” and he touched the hilt of one, that was half con-
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cealed in his vesture, “is yet stained by the blood of Man-
fred; ere long it will be sheathed in the heart of that foolish
boy.”
Despina conquered the feeling of horror these words in-
spired, and replied: “Will you give me a few minutes’ pa-
tient hearing?”—“I will give you a few minutes’ hearing,
and if I be not so patient as in the Palagio Reale,[55] fair Des-
pina must excuse me. Forbearance is not a virtue to which
I aspire.”—“Yes, it was in the Palagio Reale at Naples, the
palace of Manfred, that you first saw me. You were then
the bosom friend of Manfred, selected by that choice speci-
men of humanity as his confidant and counsellor. Why did
you become a traitor? Start not at that word: if you could
hear the united voice of Italy, and even of those who call
themselves your friends, they would echo that name. Why
did you thus degrade and belie yourself? You call me the
cause, yet I am most innocent. You saw me at the court
of your master, an attendant on Queen Sibilla,[56] and one who
unknown to herself had already parted with her heart, her
soul, her will, her entire being, an involuntary sacrifice at
the shrine of all that is noble and divine in human nature.
My spirit worshipped Manfred as a saint, and my pulses
ceased to beat when his eye fell upon me. I felt this, but I
knew it not. You awoke me from my dream. You said
that you loved me, and you reflected in too faithful a mirror
my own emotions: I saw myself and shuddered. But the
profound and eternal nature of my passion saved me. I
loved Manfred. I loved the sun because it enlightened him;
I loved the air that fed him; I deified myself for that my
heart was the temple in which he resided. I devoted myself
to Sibilla, for she was his wife, and never in thought or
dream degraded the purity of my affection towards him.
For this you hated him. He was ignorant of my passion:
X
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my heart contained it as a treasure which you having dis-
covered came to rifle. You could more easily deprive me
of life than my devotion for your king, and therefore you
were a traitor.
“Manfred died, and you thought that I had then forgotten
him. But love would indeed be a mockery if death were
not the most barefaced cheat. How can he die who is im-
mortalized in my thoughts—my thoughts, that comprehend
the universe, and contain eternity in their graspings? What
though his earthly vesture is thrown as a despised weed be-
side the verde,[57] he lives in my soul as lovely, as noble, as
entire, as when his voice awoke the mute air: nay, his life
is more entire, more true. For before, that small shrine
that encased his spirit was all that existed of him; but now,
he is a part of all things; his spirit surrounds me, interpene-
trates; and divided from him during his life, his death has
united me to him for ever.”
The countenance of Lostendardo darkened fearfully.—
When she paused, he looked black as the sea before the hea-
vily charged thunder-clouds that canopy it dissolve them-
selves in rain. The tempest of passion that arose in his
heart seemed too mighty to admit of swift manifestation;
it came slowly up from the profoundest depths of his soul,
and emotion was piled upon emotion before the lightning
of his anger sped to its destination. “Your arguments, elo-
quent Despina,” he said, “are indeed unanswerable. They
work well for your purpose. Corradino is I hear at Pisa:
you have sharpened my dagger; and before the air of another
night rust it, I may by deeds have repaid your insulting
words.”
“How far do you mistake me! And is praise and love of
all heroic excellence insult to you? Lostendardo, when
you first knew me, I was an inexperienced girl; I loved
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but knew not what love was, and circumscribing my passion
in narrow bounds, I adored the being of Manfred as I
might love an effigy of stone, which, when broken, has no
longer an existence. I am now much altered. I might
before have treated you with disdain or anger, but now
these base feelings have expired in my heart. I am animated
but by one feeling—an aspiration to another life, another
state of being. All the good depart from this strange earth;
and I doubt not that when I am sufficiently elevated above
human weaknesses, it will also be my turn to leave this
scene of woe. I prepare myself for that moment alone; and
in endeavouring to fit myself for a union with all the brave,
generous, and wise, that once adorned humanity, and have
now passed from it, I consecrate myself to the service of
this most righteous cause. You wrong me, therefore, if
you think there is aught of disdain in what I say, or that
any degrading feelings are mingled with my devotion of
spirit when I come and voluntarily place myself in your
power. You can imprison me for ever in the dungeons of
this palace, as a returned Ghibelline and spy, and have
me executed as a criminal. But before you do this, pause
for your own sake; reflect on the choice of glory or igno-
miny that you are now about to make. Let your old senti-
ments of love for the house of Swabia have some sway in
your heart; reflect that as you are the despised enemy, so
you may become the chosen friend, of its last descendant,
and receive from every heart the praise of having restored
Corradino to the honours and power to which he was born.
“Compare this prince to the hypocritical, the bloody and
mean-spirited Charles. When Manfred died, I went to Ger-
many, and have resided at the court of the Countess Eliza-
beth; I have, therefore, been an hourly witness of the great
and good qualities of Corradino. The bravery of his spirit
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makes him rise above the weakness of youth and inexpe-
rience: he possesses all the nobility of spirit that belongs to
the family of Swabia, and, in addition, a purity and gentle-
ness that attracts the respect and love of the old and wary
courtiers of Frederic and Conrad.[58] You are brave, and
would be generous, did not the fury of your passions, like a
consuming fire, destroy in their violence every generous
sentiment: how then can you become the tool of Charles?
His scowling eyes and sneering lips betoken the selfishness
of his mind. Avarice, cruelty, meanness, and artifice, are
the qualities that characterise him, and render him unwor-
thy of the majesty he usurps. Let him return to Provence,
and reign with paltry despotism over the luxurious and
servile French; the free-born Italians require another Lord.
They are not fit to bow to one whose palace is the change-
house of money-lenders, whose generals are usurers, whose
courtiers are milliners or monks, and who basely vows alle-
giance to the enemy of freedom and virtue, Clement,[59] the mur-
derer of Manfred. Their king, like them, should be clothed
in the armour of valour and simplicity; his ornaments, his
shield and spear; his treasury, the possessions of his subjects;
his army, their unshaken loves. Charles will treat you as a
tool; Corradino as a friend—Charles will make you the de-
tested tyrant of a groaning province; Corradino the governor
of a prosperous and happy people.
“I cannot tell by your manner if what I have said has in
any degree altered your determination. I cannot forget the
scenes that passed between us at Naples. I might then
have been disdainful: I am not so now. Your execrations
of Manfred excited every angry feeling in my mind; but, as
I have said, all but the feeling of love expired in my heart
when Manfred died, and methinks that where love is, ex-
cellence must be its companion. You said you loved me;
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[Page 311]
and though, in other times, that love was twin-brother to
hate,—though then, poor prisoner in your heart, jealousy,
rage, contempt, and cruelty, were its handmaids,—yet if it
were love, methinks that its divinity must have purified
your heart from baser feelings; and now that I, the bride of
Death, am removed from your sphere, gentler feelings may
awaken in your bosom, and you may incline mildly to my
voice.
“If indeed you loved me, will you not now be my friend?
Shall we not hand in hand pursue the same career? Return
to your ancient faith; and now that death and religion have
placed the seal upon the past, let Manfred’s spirit, looking
down, behold his repentant friend the firm ally of his suc-
cessor, the best and last scion of the house of Swabia.”
She ceased; for the glare of savage triumph which, as a
rising fire at night time, enlightened with growing and fear-
ful radiance the face of Lostendardo, made her pause in her
appeal. He did not reply; but when she was silent he quit-
ted the attitude in which he had stood immoveably opposite
to her, and pacing the hall with measured steps, his head de-
clined, he seemed to ruminate on some project. Could it
be that he weighed her reasonings? If he hesitated, the side
of generosity and old fidelity would certainly prevail. Yet
she dared not hope; her heart beat fast; she would have
knelt, but she feared to move, lest any motion should disturb
his thoughts, and curb the flow of good feeling which she
fondly hoped had arisen within him: she looked up and
prayed silently as she sat. Notwithstanding the glare of the
torches, the beams of one small star struggled through the
dark window pane; her eye resting on it, her thoughts
were at once elevated to the eternity and space which that
star symbolized: it seemed to her the spirit of Manfred, and
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she inwardly worshipped it, as she prayed that it would shed
its benign influence on the soul of Lostendardo.
Some minutes elapsed in this fearful silence, and then he
approached her. “Despina, allow me to reflect on your
words; to-morrow I will answer you. You will remain in
this palace until the morning, and then you shall see and
judge of my repentance and returning faith.”—He spoke
with studious gentleness. Despina could not see his face, for
the lights shone behind him. When she looked up to reply,
the little star twinkled just above his head, and seemed with
its gentle lustre to reassure her. Our minds, when highly
wrought, are strangely given to superstition, and Despina
lived in a superstitious age. She thought that the star bade
her comply, and assured her of protection from heaven:—
from where else could she expect it? She said therefore,
“I consent. Only let me request that you acquaint the man
who gave you my ring that I am safe, or he will fear for me.”
—“I will do as you desire.”—“And I will confide myself to
your care. I cannot, dare not, fear you. If you would
betray me, still I trust in the heavenly saints that guard hu-
manity.”
Her countenance was so calm,—it beamed with so angelic
a self-devotion and a belief in good, that Lostendardo dared
not look on her. For one moment—as she, having ceased to
speak, gazed upon the star—he felt impelled to throw him-
self at her feet, to confess the diabolical scheme he had forged,
and to commit himself body and soul to her guidance, to obey,
to serve, to worship her. The impulse was momentary:
the feeling of revenge returned on him. From the moment
she had rejected him, the fire of rage had burned in his heart,
consuming all healthy feeling, all human sympathies and
gentleness of soul. He had sworn never to sleep on a bed,
or to drink aught but water, until his first cup of wine was
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mingled with the blood of Manfred. He had fulfilled this
vow. A strange alteration had worked within him from the
moment he had drained that unholy cup. The spirit, not
of a man, but of a devil, seemed to live within him, urging
him to crime, from which his long protracted hope of more
complete revenge had alone deterred him. But Despina was
now in his power, and it seemed to him as if fate had pre-
served him so long only that he might now wreak his full
rage upon her. When she spoke of love, he thought how
from that he might extract pain. He formed his plan; and
this slight human weakness now conquered, he bent his
thoughts to its completion. Yet he feared to stay longer
with her; so he quitted her, saying that he would send atten-
dants who would shew her an apartment where she might
repose. He left her, and several hours passed; but no one
came. The torches burnt low, and the stars of heaven could
now with twinkling beams conquer their feebler light.
One by one these torches went out, and the shadows of the
high windows of the hall, before invisible, were thrown
upon its marble pavement. Despina looked upon the shade,
at first unconsciously, until she found herself counting,
one, two, three, the shapes of the iron bars that lay so pla-
cidly on the stone. “Those grates are thick,” she said:
“this room would be a large but secure dungeon.” As by
inspiration, she now felt that she was a prisoner. No change,
no word, had intervened since she had walked fearlessly in
the room, believing herself free. But now no doubt of her
situation occurred to her mind; heavy chains seemed to fall
around her; the air to feel thick and heavy as that of a
prison; and the star-beams that had before cheered her, be-
came the dreary messengers of fearful danger to herself,
and of the utter defeat of all the hopes she had dared nourish
of success to her beloved cause.
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Cincolo waited, first with impatience, and then with anx-
iety, for the return of the youthful stranger. He paced up
and down before the gates of the palace; hour after hour
passed on; the stars arose and descended, and ever and anon
meteors shot along the sky. They were not more frequent
than they always are during a clear summer night in Italy;
but they appeared strangely numerous to Cincolo, and por-
tentous of change and calamity. Midnight struck, and
at that moment a procession of monks passed, bearing a
corpse and chaunting a solemn De Profundis.[60] Cincolo felt
a cold tremour shake his limbs when he reflected how ill an
augury this was for the strange adventurer he had guided to
that palace. The sombre cowls of the priests, their hollow
voices, and the dark burthen they carried, augmented his
agitation even to terror: without confessing the cowardice
to himself, he was possessed with fear lest he should be in-
cluded in the evil destiny that evidently awaited his com-
panion. Cincolo was a brave man; he had often been fore-
most in a perilous assault: but the most courageous among
us sometimes feel our hearts fail within us at the dread of
unknown and fated danger. He was struck with panic;—
he looked after the disappearing lights of the procession,
and listened to their fading voices: his knees shook, a cold
perspiration stood on his brow: until, unable to resist the im-
pulse, he began slowly to withdraw himself from the Palace
of Government, and to quit the circle of danger which
seemed to hedge him in if he remained on that spot.
He had hardly quitted his post by the gate of the palace,
when he saw lights issue from it, attendant on a company of
men, some of whom were armed, as appeared from the re-
flection their lances’ heads cast; and some of them carried a
litter hung with black and closely drawn. Cinculo[61] was
rooted to the spot. He could not render himself any reason
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for his belief, but he felt convinced that the stranger youth
was there, about to be carried out to death. Impelled by
curiosity and anxiety, he followed the party as they went
towards the Porta Romana:[62] they were challenged by the sen-
tinels at the gate; they gave the word and passed. Cincolo
dared not follow, but he was agitated by fear and compas-
sion. He remembered the packet confided to his care; he
dared not draw it from his bosom, lest any Guelph should be
near to overlook and discover that it was addressed to Cor-
radino; he could not read, but he wished to look at the arms
of the seal, to see whether they bore the imperial ensigns.
He returned back to the Palagio del Governo: all there was
dark and silent; he walked up and down before the gates,
looking up at the windows, but no sign of life appeared. He
could not tell why he was thus agitated, but he felt as if all
his future peace depended on the fate of this stranger youth.
He thought of Gegia, her helplessness and age; but he could
not resist the impulse that impelled him, and he resolved
that very night to commence his journey to Pisa, to deliver
the packet, to learn who the stranger was, and what hopes
he might entertain for his safety.
He returned home, that he might inform Gegia of his jour-
ney. This was a painful task, but he could not leave her in
doubt. He ascended his narrow stairs with trepidation. At
the head of them a lamp twinkled before a picture of the
Virgin. Evening after evening it burnt there, guarding
through its influence his little household from all earthly or
supernatural dangers. The sight of it inspired him with
courage; he said an Ave Maria before it; and then looking
around him to assure himself that no spy stood on the narrow
landing place, he drew the packet from his bosom and exa-
mined the seal. All Italians in those days were conversant in
heraldry, since from ensigns of the shields of the knights they
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[Page 316]
learned, better than from their faces or persons, to what
family and party they belonged. But it required no great
knowledge for Cincolo to decypher these arms; he had
known them from his childhood; they were those of the
Elisei, the family to whom he had been attached as a par-
tisan during all these civil contests. Arrigo de’ Elisei had
been his patron, and his wife had nursed his only daughter,
in those happy days when there was neither Guelph nor Ghi-
belline. The sight of these arms reawakened all his anxiety.
Could this youth belong to that house? The seal shewed that
he really did; and this discovery confirmed his determination
of making every exertion to save him, and inspired him with
sufficient courage to encounter the remonstrances and fears
of Monna Gegia.
He unlocked his door; the old dame was asleep in her
chair, but awoke as he entered. She had slept only to re-
fresh her curiosity, and she asked a thousand questions in a
breath, to which Cincolo did not reply: he stood with his
arms folded looking at the fire, irresolute how to break the
subject of his departure. Monna Gegia continued to talk:
“After you went, we held a consultation concerning this hot-
brained youth of this morning; I, Buzeccha, Beppe de’
Bosticchi who returned, and Monna Lissa from the Mercato
Nuovo.[63] We all agreed that he must be one of two persons;
and be it one or the other, if he have not quitted Florence,
the Stinchi*[64] will be his habitation by sun-rise. Eh! Cincolo,
man! you do not speak; where did you part with your
Prince?”—“Prince, Gegia! Are you mad?—what Prince?”
“Nay, he is either a Prince or a baker; either Corradino
himself, or Ricciardo the son of Messer Tommaso de’ Manelli;
he that lived o’th’ Arno, and baked for all that Sesto,[65] when
* The name of the common prison at Florence.
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Count Guido de Giudi was Vicario. By this token, that Messer
Tommaso went to Milan with Ubaldo de’ Gargalandi,[66] and
Ricciardo, who went with his father, must now be sixteen.
He had the fame of kneading with as light a hand as his
father, but he liked better to follow arms with the Garga-
landi: he was a fair, likely youth, they said; and so, to say the
truth, was our youngster of this morning. But Monna Lisa
will have it that it must be Corradino himself——”
Cincolo listened as if the gossip of two old women could
unravel his riddle. He even began to doubt whether the
last conjecture, extravagant as it was, had not hit the truth.
Every circumstance forbade such an idea; but he thought
of the youth and exceeding beauty of the stranger, and he
began to doubt. There was none among the Elisei who
answered to his appearance. The flower of their youth had
fallen at Monte Aperto; the eldest of the new generation
was but ten; the other males of that house were of a mature
age. Gegia continued to talk of the anger that Beppe de
Bosticchi evinced at being accused of the murder of Arrigo
dei Elisei. “If he had done that deed,” she cried, “never
more should he have stood on my hearth; but he swore his
innocence; and truly, poor man, it would be a sin not to
believe him.” Why, if the stranger were not an Elisei,
should he have shewn such horror on viewing the supposed
murderer of the head of that family?—Cincolo turned
from the fire; he examined whether his knife hung safely
in his girdle, and he exchanged his sandal-like shoes
for stronger boots of common undressed fur. This last
act attracted the attention of Gegia. “What are you about,
good man?” she cried. “This is no hour to change your
dress, but to come to bed. To-night you will not speak;
but to-morrow I hope to get it all out from you. What are
you about?” “I am about to leave you, my dear Gegia;
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[Page 318]
and heaven bless and take care of you! I am going to Pisa.”
Gegia uttered a shriek, and was about to remonstrate with
great volubility, while the tears rolled down her aged
cheeks. Tears also filled the eyes of Cincolo, as he said, “I
do not go for the cause you suspect. I do not go into the
army of Corradino, though my heart will be with it. I go
but to carry a letter, and will return without delay.” “You
will never return,” cried the old woman: “the Commune
will never let you enter the gates of this town again, if you
set foot in that traitorous Pisa. But you shall not go; I
will raise the neighbours; I will declare you mad——”—
“Gegia, no more of this! Here is all the money I have:
before I go, I will send your cousin ’Nunziata to you. I
must go. It is not the Ghibelline cause, or Corradino, that
obliges me to risk your ease and comforts; but the life of
one of the Elisei is at stake; and if I can save him, would
you have me rest here, and afterwards curse you and the
hour when I was born?” “What! is he——? But no;
there is none among the Elisei so young as he; and none
so lovely, except her whom these arms carried when an
infant—but she is a female. No, no; this is a tale trumped
up to deceive me and gain my consent; but you shall
never have it. Mind that! you will never have it; and I
prophecy that if you do go, your journey will be the death
of both of us.” She wept bitterly. Cincolo kissed her
aged cheek, and mingled his tears with hers; and then
recommending her to the care of the Virgin and the saints,
he quitted her, while grief choaked her utterance, and the
name of the Elisei had deprived her of all energy to resist
his purpose.
It was four in the morning before the gates of Florence
were opened and Cincolo could leave the city. At first he
availed himself of the carts of the contadini[67] to advance on his
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journey; but as he drew near Pisa, all modes of conveyance
ceased, and he was obliged to take by-roads, and act cau-
tiously, not to fall into the hands of the Florentine out-posts,
or of some fierce Ghibelline, who might suspect him, and
have him carried before the Podesta[68] of a village; for if once
suspected and searched, the packet addressed to Corradino
would convict him, and he would pay for his temerity with
his life. Having arrived at Vico Pisano,[69] he found a troop
of Pisan horse there on guard: he was known to many of
the soldiers, and he obtained a conveyance for Pisa; but it
was night before he arrived. He gave the Ghibelline
watch-word, and was admitted within the gates. He asked
for Prince Corradino: he was in the city, at the palace of
the Lanfranchi.[70] He crossed the Arno, and was admitted
into the palace by the soldiers who guarded the door. Cor-
radino had just returned from a successful skirmish in the
Lucchese[71] states, and was reposing; but when Count Ghe-
rardo Doneratico,[72] his principal attendant, saw the seal of
the packet, he immediately ushered the bearer into a small
room, where the Prince lay on a fox’s skin thrown upon the
pavement. The mind of Cincolo had been so bewildered by
the rapidity of the events of the preceding night, by fatigue
and want of sleep, that he had over-wrought himself to
believe that the stranger youth was indeed Corradino; and
when he had heard that that Prince was in Pisa, by a strange
disorder of ideas, he still imagined that he and Ricciardo
were the same; that the black litter was a phantom, and
his fears ungrounded. The first sight of Corradino, his fair
hair and round Saxon features, destroyed this idea: it was
replaced by a feeling of deep anguish, when Count Gherardo,
announcing him, said, “One who brings a letter from Ma-
donna Despina dei Elisei, waits upon your Highness.”
The old man sprang forward, uncontrolled by the respect
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he would otherwise have felt for one of so high lineage as
Corradino. “From Despina! Did you say from her? Oh!
unsay your words! Not from my beloved, lost, foster-
child.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks. Corradino, a youth of
fascinating gentleness, but, as Despina had said, “young,
even to childishness,” attempted to reassure him. “Oh!
my gracious Lord,” cried Cincolo, “open that packet, and
see if it be from my blessed child—if in the disguise of
Ricciardo I led her to destruction.” He wrung his hands.
Corradino, pale as death with fear for the destiny of his
lovely and adventurous friend, broke the seal. The packet
contained an inner envelope without any direction, and a
letter, which Corradino read, while horror convulsed every
feature. He gave it to Gherardo. “It is indeed from her.
She says, that the bearer can relate all that the world will
probably know of her fate. And you, old man, who weep
so bitterly, you to whom my best and lovely friend refers
me, tell me what you know of her.” Cincolo told his story
in broken accents. “May these eyes be for ever blinded!”
he cried, when he had concluded, “that knew not Despina in
those soft looks and heavenly smiles. Dotard that I am!
When my wife railed at your family and princely self,
and the sainted Manfred, why did I not read her secret in
her forbearance? Would she have forgiven those words in
any but her who had nursed her infancy, and been a mother
to her when Madonna Pia died? And when she taxed
Bosticchi with her father’s death, I, blind fool, did not see
the spirit of the Elisei in her eyes. My Lord, I have but
one favour to ask you. Let me hear her letter, that I may
judge from that what hopes remain:—but there are none—
none.” “Read it to him, my dear Count,” said the Prince;
“I will not fear as he fears. I dare not fear that one so
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lovely and beloved is sacrificed for my worthless cause.”
Gherardo read the letter.
“Cincolo de’ Becari, my foster father, will deliver this
letter into your hands, my respected and dear Corradino. The
Countess Elizabeth has urged me to my present undertaking;
I hope nothing from it—except to labour for your cause,
and perhaps through its event to quit somewhat earlier a
life which is but a grievous trial to my weak mind. I
go to endeavour to arouse the feelings of fidelity and gene-
rosity in the soul of the traitor Lostendardo: I go to place
myself in his hands, and I do not hope to escape from them
again. Corradino, my last prayer will be for your success.
Mourn not for one who goes home after a long and weary
exile. Burn the enclosed packet, without opening it. The
Mother of God protect thee! DESPINA.”
Corradino had wept as this epistle was reading, but then
starting up, he said—“To revenge or death! we may
yet save her!”——
A blight had fallen on the house of Swabia, and all their
enterprizes were blasted. Beloved by their subjects, noble,
and with every advantage of right on their side, except
those the church bestowed, they were defeated in every at-
tempt to defend themselves against a foreigner and a tyrant,
who ruled by force of arms, and those in the hands of a few
only, over an extensive and warlike territory. The young and
daring Corradino was also fated to perish in this contest.
Having overcome the troops of his adversary in Tuscany, he
advanced towards his kingdom with the highest hopes.
His arch enemy, Pope Clement IV, had shut himself up in
Viterbo,[73] and was guarded by a numerous garrison. Corra-
dino passed in triumph and hope before the town, and
proudly drew out his troops before it, to display to the Holy
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[Page 322]
Father his forces, and humiliate him by this show of success.
The Cardinals, who beheld the lengthened line and good
order of the army, hastened to the Papal palace.[74] Clement
was in his oratory, praying; the frightened monks, with
pale looks, related how the excommunicated heretic dared
to menace the town where the Holy Father himself resided;
adding, that if the insult were carried to the pitch of an
assault, it might prove dangerous warfare. The Pope
smiled contemptuously. “Do not fear,” he said; “the
projects of these men will dissipate in smoke.” He then
went on the ramparts, and saw Corradino and Frederic of
Austria,[75] who defiled the line of knights in the plain below.
He watched them for a time; then turning to his Cardinals,
he said, “They are victims, who permit themselves to be led
to sacrifice.”
His words were a prophecy. Notwithstanding the first
successes of Corradino, and the superior numbers of his
army, he was defeated by the artifice of Charles in a pitched
battle. He escaped from the field, and, with a few friends,
arrived at a tower called Asturi,[76] which belonged to the
family of Frangipani,[77] of Rome. Here he hired a vessel,
embarked, and put out to sea, directing his course for
Sicily, which, having rebelled against Charles, would, he
hoped, receive him with joy. They were already under
weigh, when one of the family of the Frangipani seeing a
vessel filled with Germans making all sail from shore,
suspected that they were fugitives from the battle of Tagli-
cozzo,[78] he followed them in other vessels, and took them all
prisoners. The person of Corradino was a rich prey for
him; he delivered him into the hands of his rival, and was
rewarded by the donation of a fief near Benevento.
The dastardly spirit of Charles instigated him to the
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[Page 323]
basest revenge; and the same tragedy was acted on those
shores which has been renewed in our days. A daring and
illustrious Prince was sacrificed with the mock forms of
justice, at the sanguinary altar of tyranny and hypocrisy.
Corradino was tried. One of his Judges alone, a Provençal,
dared condemn him, and he paid with his life the forfeit of
his baseness. For scarcely had he, solitary among his fel-
lows, pronounced the sentence of death against this Prince,
than Robert of Flanders,[79] the brother-in-law of Charles
himself, struck him on the breast with a staff, crying, “It
behoves not thee, wretch, to condemn to death so noble and
worthy a knight.” The judge fell dead in the presence of
the king, who dared not avenge his creature.
On the 26th of October, Corradino and his friends were
led out to die in the Market-place of Naples, by the sea-
side. Charles was present with all his court, and an
immense multitude surrounded the triumphant king, and
his more royal adversary, about to suffer an ignominious
death. The funereal procession approached its destination.
Corradino, agitated, but controlling his agitation, was
drawn in an open car. After him came a close litter, hung
with black, with no sign to tell who was within. The
Duke of Austria and several other illustrious victims fol-
lowed. The guard that conducted them to the scaffold was
headed by Lostendardo; a malicious triumph laughed in
his eyes, and he rode near the litter, looking from time to
time, first at it and then at Corradino, with the dark look
of a tormenting fiend. The procession stopped at the foot
of the scaffold, and Corradino looked at the flashing light
which every now and then arose from Vesuvius,[80] and threw
its reflection on the sea. The sun had not yet risen, but the
halo of its approach illuminated the bay of Naples, its moun-
tains, and its islands. The summits of the distant hills of
Y
[Page 324]
Baiæ gleamed with its first beams. Corradino thought,
“By the time those rays arrive here, and shadows are cast
from the persons of these men,—princes and peasants, around
me, my living spirit will be shadowless.” Then he turned
his eyes on the companions of his fate, and for the first time
he saw the silent and dark litter that accompanied them.
At first he thought, “It is my coffin.” But then he recol-
lected the disappearance of Despina, and would have sprung
towards it: his guards stopped him; he looked up, and
his glance met that of Lostendardo, who smiled—a smile
of dread: but the feeling of religion which had before
calmed him again descended on him; he thought that her
sufferings, as well as his, would soon be over.
They were already over. And the silence of the grave is
upon those events which had occurred since Cincolo beheld
her carried out of Florence, until now that she was led by
her fierce enemy to behold the death of the nephew of Man-
fred. She must have endured much; for when, as Corra-
dino advanced to the front of the scaffold, the litter being
placed opposite to it, Lostendardo ordered the curtains to
be withdrawn, the white hand that hung inanimate from
the side was thin as a winter leaf, and her fair face, pil-
lowed by the thick knots of her dark hair, was sunken and
ashy pale, while you could see the deep blue of her eyes
struggle through the closed eyelids. She was still in the
attire in which she had presented herself at the house of
Cincolo: perhaps her tormentor thought that her appearance
as a youth would attract less compassion than if a lovely
woman were thus dragged to so unnatural a scene.
Corradino was kneeling and praying when her form was
thus exposed. He saw her, and saw that she was dead!
About to die himself; about, pure and innocent, to die igno-
miniously, while his base conqueror, in pomp and glory,
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[Page 325]
was spectator of his death, he did not pity those who were
at peace; his compassion belonged to the living alone, and
as he rose from his prayer he exclaimed, “My beloved
mother, what profound sorrow will the news thou art about
to hear cause thee!” He looked upon the living multitude
around him, and saw that the hard-visaged partisans of the
usurper wept; he heard the sobs of his oppressed and con-
quered subjects; so he drew his glove from his hand and
threw it among the crowd, in token that he still held his
cause good, and submitted his head to the axe.
During many years after those events, Lostendardo enjoyed
wealth, rank, and honour. When suddenly, while at the
summit of glory and prosperity, he withdrew from the
world, took the vows of a severe order in a convent, in one
of the desolate and unhealthy plains by the sea-shore in
Calabria; and after having gained the character of a saint,
through a life of self-inflicted torture, he died murmuring
the names of Corradino, Manfred, and Despina.
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EDITORIAL NOTES
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EDITORIAL NOTES
[1] “A Tale of the Passions”, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1797-1851). Edited by Fabio Liberto.
[2] Manfred of Swabia (c. 1232-66, reigned 1258-66), king of Sicily, and son of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II Hohenstaufen (1194-1250, reigned 1220-50). After the death of his half-brother Conrad IV (1228-54, reigned 1237-54), Manfred became regent on behalf of his nephew Conradin and had himself crowned king of Sicily in 1258. During his reign, he tried to maintain the Hohenstaufen family’s control over Sicily and Italy, facing the opposition from the papacy and Charles d’Anjou (1226-85). Charles eventually defeated Manfred at the Battle of Benevento in 1266, becoming King of Naples and Sicily as Charles I.
[3] Ghibellines, members of one of the two main political factions in Italian communal history. They supported the Holy Roman Emperor’s intervention in local politics as opposed to the Pope’s. They supported Manfred’s, and later Conradin’s, claim to the throne.
[4] Guelphs, members of one of the two main political factions in Italian communal history. They supported the Pope and Charles d’Anjou against the Holy Roman Emperor.
[5] Conradin (1252-68), Duke of Swabia (1254-68) and Manfred’s nephew. When Manfred usurped his throne in 1258, he was compelled to return to Germany. After Manfred’s defeat at the Battle of Benevento (1266), the Ghibellines invited Conradin back into Italy to reclaim his right to the throne. He entered Italy in September 1267, acclaimed by the Italians, but was defeated by Charles d’Anjou at Tagliacozzo on 23 August 1268. He was sentenced to death and executed in Naples on 29 October 1268.
[6] May Day, festivity in Europe, usually celebrated on the first day of May, dedicated to the return of spring.
[7] canzonets: a borrowing from Italian (etym. canzonetta), a little or short song (OED).
[8] Piazza del Duomo, square in the heart of Florence, where the church of Santa Reparata stood until 1375.
[9] Carroccio (Italian): a large war chariot used in medieval Italy, bearing the standards of the communes engaged in battle. Also used as ceremonial chariot and displayed during processions and civic ceremonies.
[10] Charles d’Anjou (1226-85), king of Naples and Sicily as Charles I from 1266 to 1285 after the Battle of Benevento (1266).
[11] Vicare (Italian): erroneous spelling of the Italian word vicario (vicar).
[12] Monna (Italian): syncopated form of the Italian word Madonna, an honorific used in Medieval Italy before female nouns as a mark of courtesy or respect.
[13] Becari: possible misspelling of the Italian surname Beccai, deriving from beccaro or beccaio (butcher). In medieval Florence, the arte de’ beccai (Butchers’ Guild) was one of the arti minori (minor guilds). The guild is mentioned several times by Giovanni Villani in his Croniche (1537), a key historical account of Florentine history, which Mary Shelley read — along with the historical writings of J.-C.-L. Sismondi and L.A. Muratori — between 1820 and 1821.
[14] fazioles: erroneous spelling of the Italian word fazzuolo, a veil used to cover the heads of women. Shelley probably had in mind the lexical variant fazolus, a latinized form attested in Venice from the thirteenth century, since she uses the same term when describing Venetian women in her “Recollections of Italy” (1824): “the dark eyes and finely-shaped brows of the women peeping from beneath their fazioles”.
[15] minestra (Italian): a soup or thick stew usually served as first dish in a meal.
[16] calrasio: possibly Shelley’s misspelling of the late Latin word coloratio, the root of the modern Italian term colorazione (colouring).
[17] Arti Minori (Italian): the minor guilds. Together with the arti maggiori (major guilds), they formed the foundation of the economic and trade organization in medieval Florence. The arti minori were less prestigious and powerful than the major guilds and comprised various tradespeople, including craftsmen, artisans, merchants, and butchers (‘beccai’).
[18] St. John, patron saint of Florence. The Baptistry of St. John was erected in 1059 in front of the church of Santa Reparata.
[19] festa (Italian): celebration, festival.
[20] Misprint for Carroccio.
[21] Messer (Italian, obsolete): honorific used before male nouns as a mark of respect.
[22] The family name Agli was typical of the city of Florence. Its presence is documented in Villani’s Croniche.
[23] The Castle of Pogibonzi (Shelley’s misspelling in the text) was located in present-day Poggibonsi, Tuscan town near Siena. The castle was erected on the orders of Manfred in 1252 and became a Ghibelline stronghold. Shelley is referring to the Florentine Guelphs’ attack of Poggibonsi in 1267, as documented in Villani’s Croniche (1537, bk 7, ch. 21), and in J.-C.-L. Simonde de Sismondi’s Histoire des républiques italiennes du moyen âge (1809–18), (1818, bk 3, ch. 21:367-68).
[24] Possible reference to the heraldic lion (the marzocco) symbolizing the city of Florence and associated with the Guelph party.
[25] The battle of Montaperti (Shelley’s misspelling in the text), 4 September 1260, was fought near Siena between the Guelph army of Florence and the Ghibelline army of Siena.
[26] Santa Reparata, co-patron saint of the city of Florence.
[27] Messer Carlo of Naples, i.e. Charles d’Anjou.
[28] Pisa, Italian city in the region of Tuscany, and a Ghibelline stronghold at the time.
[29] The Nerli (Shelley’s misspelling in the text), the Pulci, and the Buondelmonti were prominent Guelph families mentioned in Villani’s Croniche.
[30] Arno, one of the most important rivers in central Italy and the principal river of Tuscany.
[31] Bologna, Italian city in the region of Emilia-Romagna, well known in medieval times as a centre for trade, craftsmanship, and leatherworking, including shoemaking.
[32] “Swabia, Cavalieri!” (Italian): “Swabia, Knights!”. Sismondi cites the expression “Souabe Chevaliers!” as a battlecry used in support of the Hohenstaufen dynasty (Sismondi 1818, bk 3, ch. 21:350).
[33] Gesu Maria!: Shelley’s misspelling of gesummaria, Italian colloquial interjection, variant of the expression Gesù e Maria! (Jesus and Mary!).
[34] Cisalpine, term used to indicate the regions in northern Italy, literally the territories “on this side of the Alps” from the perspective of Rome.
[35] Genoa, Italian city and seaport in the region of Liguria. In early 1268, Conradin passed through Genoa during his campaign to reclaim the kingdom of Sicily from Charles d’Anjou.
[36] Regno (Italian): kingdom.
[37] Constantinople, present-day Istanbul, Turkey. It was restored in 1261 as the capital of the Byzantine Empire.
[38] At the time, Jews, Greeks and Muslims were minority groups that suffered hostility and persecutions from both the Pope and Charles d’Anjou.
[39] Reference to the “Frederics” in the Hohenstaufen dynasty: Frederick I Barbarossa (1122-90), Holy Roman Emperor from 1155 to 1190; his son Frederick V of Hohenstaufen (1164-70), Duke of Swabia from 1167 until his death; Frederick II (1194-1250), king of Sicily from 1198 to 1250, and Holy Roman Emperor from 1220 to 1250; and Frederick I of Baden (1249-68), Duke of Austria from 1250 to 1268.
[40] Ave Maria (Italian): Hail Mary, traditional Catholic prayer in honour of the Virgin Mary.
[41] Buzeccha, historical character mentioned in Giovanni Villani’s Croniche (1537, bk 7, ch. 12).
[42] Saracen: term used in medieval Europe to refer to Muslims or people from the Islamic world.
[43] Duomo (Italian): cathedral.
[44] Palagio del Popolo (Italian): The Palace of the People (palagio: northern Italian variant and obsolete form of the word “palazzo”). Shelly is probably referring to present-day Palazzo del Bargello, which was erected in Florence between 1255 and 1261 to house the Captain of the People, an administrative figure in charge of public authority in medieval Italy. When the construction was concluded, the palace came to serve as the seat of the Podestà, the chief officer and executive of the city government.
[45] Count Guido Novello Guidi (1227-93) (Shelley’s misspelling of the surname in the text), Italian politician, member of one of the most prominent Ghibelline families in Florence in the second half of the thirteenth century. He was Manfred’s vicar in Tuscany and was forced to leave Florence after Manfred’s defeat in the Battle of Benevento.
[46] For this anecdote, Shelley closely draws from Giovanni Villani’s Croniche (1537, bk 7, ch. 12:66).
[47] Misprint for authoritative.
[48] Reference to the Guelph family of the Bostichi (Shelley’s misspelling in the text), mentioned in Giovanni Villani’s Croniche (1537, bk 6, ch. 33:48).
[49] Campanile (Italian): bell tower.
[50] Misprint for Gegia.
[51] Guillaume Étendard (1217-71), mentioned as “Guielmo lo Stendardo” by Giovanni Villani (1537, bk 7, ch. 4:63), was a French admiral and general who served Charles d’Anjou. He took part in the Battle of Benevento against Manfred and in the Battle of Tagliacozzo (1268) against Conradin.
[52] Elisabeth of Bavaria (c. 1227-73), Conradin’s mother and former wife to the Emperor Conrad IV. She supported Conradin in asserting his claim to the throne of Sicily.
[53] re sides: re-sides, hyphen not present (probably effaced) in the copy-text.
[54] Palagio del Governo (Italian): Palace of the Government. Shelley is likely referring to the Palazzo del Popolo, which served as the seat of the city government at the time.
[55] Palagio Reale (Italian): Royal Palace. Shelly is probably referring to Castel Capuano (Naples), royal residence in the second half of the thirteenth century.
[56] Queen Sibilla: Helena Doukaina (1242-71), daughter of Michael II, despot of Epirus (c. 1206-68, reigned 1230-68), and queen of Sicily as the second wife of Manfred from 1259 to 1266. While all of Shelley’s historical sources mention Manfred’s second wife, Shelley misnamed her as ‘Sibilla’ after Sismondi (1818, bk 3, ch. 21:352) and Muratori (1744, bk 7:371). Shelley also refers to Manfred’s second wife as Sibilla in her article “Giovanni Villani”, published in the fourth issue of The Liberal, p. 193.
[57] A reference to the river in purgatory, mentioned by the character of Manfred in Dante’s Divine Comedy: “l’ossa del corpo mio sarieno ancora | in co del ponte presso a Benevento, | […] Or le bagna la pioggia e move il vento | di fuor dal regno, quasi lungo ’l Verde, | dov’e’ le trasmutò a lume spento” (trans. “The bones of my body would still be | at the bridge, near Benevento, […] | Now the rain wets them, and the wind moves them | beyond the realm, almost beside the Verde, | where he transported them with extinguished light”), Purg. III.127-32.
[58] Frederick II and his son Conrad IV.
[59] Clement IV (c.1200-68; pope 1265-68). He continued the policy of Urban IV (c.1195-1264; pope 1261-64) by remaining faithful to the house d’Anjou. He confirmed the sentence of excommunication ordered by his predecessor against Manfred and invited Charles d’Anjou into Italy after Manfred had declared himself king. Clement’s support of Charles was decisive in the defeat and killing of Manfred in the battle of Benevento (1266).
[60] De Profundis (Latin): out of the depths. Opening words of the Latin version of Psalm 130, whose subject is repentance. The expression is commonly used in the Catholic funeral liturgy as a prayer for the dead.
[61] Misprint for Cincolo.
[62] Porta Romana, the southernmost gate in Florence’s city walls. The reference is anachronistic, as Porta Romana was constructed around 1326. Villani also mentions the gate in his Croniche (Villani 1537, bk 9, ch. 257:159-60).
[63] Mercato Nuovo (Italian): New Marketplace, area in Florence created to supplement the existing market, used in medieval times for trade and commercial activities.
[64] Carcere delle Stinche (Shelley’s misspelling in the text), medieval prison in Florence, located near the present-day Piazza della Repubblica. The reference to the prison is anachronistic, as its construction was authorised in 1297 (Wolfgang 1960, 155) and the first inmates were incarcerated in 1304 (Villani 1537, bk 8, ch. 74:116 [sic]).
[65] Sesto di Oltrarno, district covering the area south of the Arno River.
[66] Gangalandi (Shelley’s misspelling in the text) is both the name of a Ghibelline family mentioned by Villani (1537, bk 4, ch. 2:24) and Sismondi (1818, bk 2, ch. 17:329) and the name used to designate the lands owned by the Gangalandi family in Tuscany.
[67] contadini (Italian): farmers.
[68] Podesta (Italian): Shelley’s misspelling of Podestà, chief officer and executive of the city government in Italian communal history.
[69] Vicopisano (Shelley uses Villani’s spelling in the text), town in Tuscany, near Pisa.
[70] the palace of the Lanfranchi: the Lanfranchi were a Pisan Ghibelline family, mentioned by Villani (1537, bk 7, ch. 120:89). Shelley likely refers to one of the palaces owned by the family at the time, and not to present-day Palazzo Lanfranchi, which became the residence of the Lanfranchi family in 1539.
[71] Lucchese, area near Lucca, city in Tuscany.
[72] Count Gherardo Donoratico (Shelley uses Villani’s spelling of the surname in the text), Pisan aristocrat and supported of Conradin. According to the historical sources, he was beheaded in Naples after Conradin’s execution in 1268 (Villani 1537, bk 7, ch. 29:71; Muratori 1744, bk 7:385; Sismondi 1818, bk 3, ch. 21:389).
[73] Viterbo, city in central Italy, northwest of Rome, where Clement IV set his permanent residence in 1266.
[74] Palazzo dei Papi (the Palace of the Popes) in Viterbo, completed around 1266.
[75] Frederick I of Baden (1249-68), Duke of Austria from 1250 until his death in 1268. He supported his cousin Conradin during his Italian campaign and fought with him in the Battle of Tagliacozzo.
[76] Torre Astura (Shelley uses Villani’s spelling), fortified tower near Rome belonging to the Frangipane family.
[77] The Frangipane family (Shelley uses Sismondi’s and Muratori’s spelling of the name) was an aristocratic Roman family. According to historical accounts, Giovanni Frangipane captured Conradin at Torre Astura as he attempted to flee toward Rome, and handed him over to Charles d’Anjou (Sismondi 1818, bk 3, ch. 21:385; Muratori 1744, bk 7:384).
[78] The Battle of Tagliacozzo (Shelley’s misspelling in the text) was the final conflict in the Angevin-Hohenstaufen struggle for the control of Southern Italy. It was fought on 23 August 1268 on the plain of Tagliacozzo, east of Rome, between the armies of Charles d’Anjou and Conradin. The battle ended with the decisive defeat of Conradin’s forces.
[79] Robert of Béthune (1249-1322), count of Flanders from 1305 to 1322. In 1265, he married Blanche d’Anjou (?-1269), daughter of Charles d’Anjou.
[80] Vesuvius, volcano that rises above the Gulf of Naples.
Ultimo aggiornamento
27.08.2025