Part 4

It is not to be supposed that a youth so favoured should escape the notice of my sex; but though he showed the greatest gratitude for all the favours they did him, his would-be adorers found always an impassable barrier to any tender advances: and yet, so courteous and charming was he withal, even in his coldness, that he never made an enemy. The state with which I was surrounded, and semi-seclusion in which all the upper classes of Italian women are kept, so unlike, as I am given to understand, to the way in which your country-women are brought up, prevented me from seeing any of the pages excepting at a distance, but I should have been more than human; let alone more than a daughter of Eve, had I not noticed and unconsciously liked the face of Baptisto dei Stracci. Perhaps I should have thought no more about him, but my father was never tired of praising him, comparing him with the other pages, recalling his father’s memory, and predicting a brilliant future for him. How can I be blamed, therefore, for allowing my thoughts sometimes to dwell upon this paragon; watching him to see if I could detect any of those virtues; and detecting, ah! how quickly, his eyes fixed on me in respectful admiration almost as often as I lifted my eyes to his. My interest once aroused, I could not fail to note how every one spoke well of him: how one would extol his bravery, another his courtesy, and another his good looks. I now listened to, and indeed, encouraged my tiring women when they spoke in his praise, and I felt I know not what secret joy when they complained of his coldness to all womenkind. It was his sole fault, from what I gathered, and it made me look all the more curiously upon him. I thought he did not look cold; nay, once or twice I caught his eye so ardently fixed upon me that he almost made me afraid. But I was soon to resolve the riddle: for one evening when all the inmates of the palace had retired to rest, feeling sleepless, I opened the casement and gazed out upon the garden. It looked so quiet and peaceful in the brilliant moonshine, the quaint forms of the trees cut into all sorts of shapes were clearly shown, the birds and beasts and allegorical monsters. I fancied them conversing with each other until my senses became confused and I dropped asleep with my head resting upon my hands. I could not have slept long, however, before I was awakened by some low and sweet sounds as of a mandoline or some such instrument. It was a sad air, the strings seemed to weep and sigh, but presently combining in a more measured strain they were accompanied by a pleasant voice that sang the following:--

Unlock those eyelids, and look out on me, And give me courage to confess, That more than words can tell I do love thee, My sweet mistress. Ah no, Not so, Thou wilt not give me e’en a look, and I Can only die.

Didst thou look forth, the shining moon would fade, And every star pale out of sight; Thy glorious beams would drive away night’s shade: Than suns more bright! Ah no, Not so, Thou wilt not gild me with a look, and I Can only die.

The sun on all impartially doth shine, Be they of low or high degree; Wilt thou not then from thy great height incline Thy heart to me? Ah no, Not so, Too high, I fear, I’ve dared to look, and I Can only die.

’Tis said the wind, e’en though it hath no heart, Is tempered to the lamb that’s shorn; And thou wilt not, that all sweet kindness art, Hold me in scorn. Ah no, Not so, Thou wouldst not be unkind to me, or I Would surely die.

The angry billows in their dreadful ire Do not all trusting them devour; And thou wouldst not one tear from me desire To prove thy power. Ah no, Not so, For if thou didst but frown upon me, I Must straightway die.

O Love! who art all-powerful, I implore Thee shoot one arrow in her heart! Yet let it not prove painful to her or Cause too great smart! Ah no, Not so, For if it hurt her any whit, then I For dole must die!

Merely to repeat the words to you can give but a faint idea of the sweetness of the music and the pathos of the voice. I thought that I recognised it, but I could not be sure, for I had never heard Baptisto sing. Could it be he? Whom could it be meant for? And though I thought of all my women one by one, yet none lodged anywhere near upon that side of the palace, nor would any seem to fit to the song. I was tormented as to the meaning and in doubt as to the singer, for though I cautiously looked all around I could see no one. I closed my casement and retired to my couch, but not to sleep, and soon I found my pillow grow wet with tears. In the morning I sallied forth in my mask with my governess and a retinue of servants to take the air; and as I was passing through the great courtyard there were, as usual, numbers of my father’s retainers scattered about, some polishing their arms, some lying lazily in the sun, some talking or playing at cards or dice. I caught the sound of a mandoline: it was the strain I had heard the night before, and looking furtively round I saw Baptisto, who immediately changed the melody as I went out, to a wild plaintive air full of sadness. I cannot describe what my thoughts were at this discovery. Two things were certain: first that the singer of last night was none other than I had suspected; and secondly, that if it was intended for the ears of anyone, it was intended for mine. No other woman was with me then but my governess. Was I intended to hear it? If not, why did he repeat the air again as I passed by? Forsooth it may have been chance, nevertheless the allusion in the song to the difference of rank convinced me that he could mean no other than myself. I felt pleased and flattered, and the more I thought over it, as I could not help thinking, and considered that I, I to whom he had hardly spoken a word, was the object of his adoration, that I had conquered the unconquerable, my heart swelled with pride and delight, and I forgot for the time that difference in degree between us. Whether it was that I hoped to hear that sweet voice again, or that my thoughts were in too great a turmoil, when night came I found it impossible to sleep. I again opened my casement and looked out, wondering if, and (shall I confess it?) wishing that he would come again. Nor was I disappointed, for hardly had I been there for a few moments when, as if he had been awaiting me, I heard the notes of the mandoline, and after a short prelude he sang the following song, into which he put a depth of feeling no words of mine can express:

Oh give me back my heart again, The heart that thou didst steal from me: Oh, let me not beseech in vain! I would not be so cruel to thee.

When I first saw thy face, ’twas as The sun shone forth from leaden skies: I looked, I loved, and now, alas! I cannot breathe for choking sighs.

Before I saw thee, I was gay And free and blithe and debonnaire; But thou didst steal my heart away, And now dost leave me to despair.

Oh, can a form divinely rare; As thine, enclose a heart of stone? It cannot be that one so fair Unmoved can listen to my moan!

Thine eyes are grey, and like unto The colour that in steel we see; Oh, they’re not hard as steel, but true As steel, and they will melt for me!

Thy brow is like a marble shrine That thy sweet mind within doth guard; Oh, let that mind to me incline, And not be like to marble hard!

About thy head, thy golden hair A saintly aureole is; oh, bless With a kind word thy worshipper, And leave him not in his distress!

Thy cheeks are soft, and red and white, And blush with every virgin thought; To blush a greeting at the sight Of me, oh let them then be taught!

Thy ruddy lips harmoniously Are tuned alone to speak what’s truth; Oh, let the words they utter be: Upon thy misery I have ruth!

Oh, give me back my heart again! Or, since that it is from me fled, I will not have it back; oh, deign To give me thy heart in its stead!

As he sung, I listened as one entranced, and sighed deeply as he finished. Perhaps he heard me, perhaps he was over bold, but in a minute he was on the balcony at my feet, having climbed up a cypress tree that grew close by. I would have scolded and driven him away, but my agitation was so great that no words were at my command, and before I could control myself he had poured out his soul before me and I had confessed my love. The hours seemed to fly as minutes, and it seemed as though we had had hardly time to say a word before the dawn came on apace. I begged him to leave me, and with great reluctance he went, but not before he had ravished a kiss. A kiss! He had ravished my whole soul! and I knew that I should never more know what peace of mind was while he, my lord, my God almost, was absent. What was this that had come over me? I seemed to be another being; to be born again with new aims and a forgotten past. I lived in the future, I was a woman, and my girlish years seemed to fade away in the remote distance as if they had been but a dry and insipid dream. How I recalled every gesture and every tone! How I dwelt upon them, and turned them in every light! Once, for a moment, I looked into the future, and saw an angry father who cast me out from him; yet life seemed to me so lovely that I could not believe it, but took back my thoughts to the sweet moments that had passed all too quickly. The next day I saw nothing of my love. The day passed more slowly than I could have believed possible, and I almost thought that another Joshua had commanded the sun to stand still. I could scarcely contain myself as night fell; and pleading a migraine, I retired early, dismissed my women as soon as I decently could, and anxiously awaited Baptisto. Another night was passed in delicious converse with him, and at last we began to talk about our future, when he told me that he was bound in honour to tell my father of our love, and to ask his permission to win my hand: nevertheless, we both of us felt that this was tantamount to separation for ever, and our hearts were heavy. How unlike the ecstasy of the night before! As we took leave of each other, and felt, too surely, that we had taken leave for long, perhaps for years, we renewed our vows of unalterable affection, come what might. The next day Baptisto sought an interview with my father, which was readily accorded, for he always saw him with pleasure. On other occasions he had modestly tendered suggestions on military matters, and my father, who had no pride on such a subject, had always found his remarks so sensible and so obviously advantageous, that his more mature experience had seldom prevented him from entertaining them. On this occasion he was to receive a cruel wound, for he loved Baptisto as a son, both for his own and for his father’s sake, and yet you know how great is the pride of us Italians in everything that concerns our family: how their dearest passions are sacrificed to their pride of race, and how they would rather condemn themselves to life-long misery than allow people for whom they care nought to be able to say that their blood has been defiled by a mismarriage. My father could scarcely hear Baptisto out with patience; the idea of an alliance with a house so long impoverished and forgotten was insupportable to him; and he told Baptisto to think no more about it, that he would overlook his presumption in consideration of his friendship towards him, his youth, and the noble house from which he was descended; but that he was to give him his word of honour to forget all about me, otherwise he would have to dismiss him from his service and never see him more. My noble Baptisto in all humbleness acknowledged the difference in rank and riches, and the great kindness that my father had always shown to him; and falling on his knee, said that the great obligations that my father had put him under were almost more than a father would have done for a son. ‘But,’ he added, ‘love is stronger than man, I love your daughter, and I have reason to believe that she returns my affection. Could I have known that I was drifting into love, and that the feeling I felt growing upon me was something different from increasing respect and gratitude for you reflected in one that belonged to you, that respect would have induced me to fly from temptation and to leave you; but, alas, to see your daughter is to love her, and once in love all volition is gone. I loved her, and even then I did not realise that love would demand a closer relationship than respectful admiration. Now, indeed, I am wiser, but I cannot renounce my love, and though my birth is not unworthy of the highest in the land, yet I feel that I have abused the hospitality that you have extended to me; kill me therefore, for I cannot live without her!’ Then, baring his breast, he presented his sword, saying that death at his hands would be more merciful than expulsion. My father was softened at this, and after a moment or two of silence spoke as follows: ‘You are a man of honour, and I grieve right truly that it is impossible for me to give you my daughter. I tell thee, Baptisto, that there is no one that I would rather have as a son than thou, and I had hoped to be able to supply the loss of thy father to thee. Since, however, thy dream cannot be fulfilled, thou must leave me. I will give thee letters for the Duke of Milan, with whom thou mayest take service; once there, thou wilt see many fair women of thy own degree, and thou wilt forget my daughter. When she is married, return to me, and we will be as before.’ Poor Baptisto seized his hand and kissing it with the tears running down his cheeks said that he would go since he had no choice, but that he was sure that he would never love anybody else; and my father, more moved than he cared to show, dismissed him.

Baptisto did not seek another interview with me, but wrote a general account of what had passed between him and my father; his letter concluded as follows: ‘Farewell, I can never love anyone but thee. I wish thee happiness. Whatever be my fate, as long as we both live, I will watch over thee.’ I had expected an end of this kind to my short dream of happiness. And yet the blow was very hard to bear. In your country, perchance, a lady would have written to her cavalier: for I understand that there they choose for themselves, and, unless they are heiresses, marry whom they please. Happy country! But I felt that that was not for me to do, and I verily believe that Baptisto himself would not have been pleased had I done so. As for my father, he said little to me: he blamed me for my want of pride in loving Baptisto, but said nothing more until one terrible day he informed me that Prince Mazzapiglio had formally asked for my hand in marriage, and had been accepted; and that he would that day appear to pay his respects to me. I retired to my apartment as soon as I was permitted, in a very whirl of grief and confusion, no thought would stay a moment together in my brain, and I could not frame any course of conduct. The prince, Baptisto, marriage, and a thousand other thoughts, mingled with ideas of a nunnery or death, chased each other through my mind until I thought that I was going mad. I began a letter to Baptisto, but I could not write coherently, nor did I know where to find him. I sat there, apparently in a stupor, until I was summoned to meet the prince, and I was thankful when I entered the saloon that he was not yet there. He was soon announced, however, and I just managed to rise and make my courtesy, and note that he was a man old enough to be my father, when I lost consciousness and fell on the floor, the blood gushing out of my mouth and nostrils. There was great confusion, and I was carried to my chamber; a physician was summoned, who ordained that I should keep my bed, and warned my parents that they were not to talk to me of marriage at the present; for if I were to break another bloodvessel, I should certainly die. Upon this my parents treated me with the utmost tenderness, and nothing more was said in my hearing of Prince Mazzapiglio, so that after I had kept my bed for the space of about a fortnight and commenced to mend, I began to hope that all that it seemed to me that I had experienced in the last few days was but a dream of an evil spirit. I soon became convalescent, and was permitted for the first time since my seizure to walk in the garden of the palace. My governess was but a few steps before me, talking to my waiting woman, who was the only other person with me, when suddenly the bushes parted at my side, and a boy appeared who, laying his finger on his lips, thrust a note into my hand, and without a sound vanished. So weak was I that I was startled and gave a scream, and my governess and woman turning back, just caught me as I swooned. Fortunately, however, my hand unconsciously closed upon the note, and when I had collected my thoughts, I hid it in my bosom, so that they did not perceive it. Then, with the fair excuse that I did not feel strong enough to remain out any longer, I got back to my apartments, and dismissing the women, tore open the letter, which was, as my heart had told me, from my dear Baptisto. In it he informed me that he had heard of my promised marriage with the Prince Mazzapiglio, who, since he was in high favour at court, and immensely wealthy, might, from a worldly point of view, be considered a far more desirable husband for me than he could be himself. ‘I need not tell you,’ he went on, ‘the agonies that I suffered, but I would not seem to influence you; for I would rather see you happy in a father’s love and well to do in the world, than dragged down to poverty by me with your father’s curse upon us both. But when I heard (for I take care to learn all that goes on), when I heard how grievously you took it, I wrote to your father, saying that I could no longer remain quiet, and that since I was now convinced that your happiness was bound up with mine, I would henceforward do all in my power to make you my wife. I will not write, even to you, where I am, lest this missive fall into the wrong hands, and I should be seized at the instance of your father; but rest assured that I am always near you.’ My joy at receiving this from my dear Baptisto was more than I can tell you; for besides the pleasure of hearing from him, I now felt that he was actively engaged in watching over me, and would not give me up to the hateful prince. The roses returned to my cheeks, my strength waxed, insomuch that in a few days my parents again began cautiously to speak to me about the marriage; and seeing that the talk did not affect me so much as before, they were persuaded that I had overcome my former repugnance, or that at least I had become reconciled to my fate. Although the prince did not yet himself venture to see me, yet scarce a day passed without some reminder from him, such as magnificent jewels and posies, and he even ventured to send me verses. Many of the latter I recognised as old friends; for he doubtlessly thought that I was as ignorant as most of us girls are, and knew not, and still less cared, that besides reading the best authors of my own country, I was mistress of the Latin and French tongues, and had read some of our ancient literature as well as some of the French poets. Some he may have composed himself, or at least have had composed for him; and I will give you an example which is perhaps better than most of his pieces, though it is hardly likely to please a young girl, or to displace a favoured lover:

Why would thy May not wed with my September? Is it my head is silver-streaked with time? Though I be near my Autumn, yet remember A woman’s Autumn falleth in man’s prime.

Youth hath its charms to take a maiden’s fancy: There’s naught behind it, it is all outside, ’Tis but appearance, subtle necromancy, A mirror picture that may not abide.

In youth thou never shalt find constancy: A day he’ll love thee, ever after hate; He’ll sip thy nectar, like a butterfly, And then he’ll leave thee, all disconsolate.

Contemn not Autumn, it is calm and fair, Not hot and stormy as your Summers be; No fickleness or jealousy is there, But loving peace and gentle constancy.

Do not by glozing youth deceived be: He’ll be thy master, thou his servitor; But give thy sweet and tender heart to me, That will it keep and cherish evermore!