by Mary Shelley
Oh divinest prophetess, said she — how new & to me how strange are your lessons — If such be the end of our being how wayward a course did I pursue on earth — Diotima you know not how torn affections & misery incalculable misery — withers up the soul. How petty do the actions of our earthly life appear when the whole universe is opened to our gaze — yet there our passions are deep & irrisisbable [sic] and as we are floating hopless yet clinging to hope down the impetuous stream can we perceive the beauty of its banks which alas my soul was too turbid to reflect — If knowledge is the end of our being why are passions & feelings implanted in us that hurries [sic] us from wisdom to selfconcentrated misery & narrow selfish feeling? Is it as a trial? On earth I thought that I had well fulfilled my trial & my last moments became peaceful with the reflection that I deserved no blame — but you take from me that feeling — My passions were there my all to me and the hopeless misery that possessed me shut all love & all images of beauty from my soul — Nature was to me as the blackest night & if rays of loveliness ever strayed into my darkness it was only to draw bitter tears of hopeless anguish from my eyes — Oh on earth what consolation is there to misery?
Your heart I fear, replied Diotima, was broken by your sufferings — but if you had struggled — if when you found all hope of earthly happiness wither within you while desire of it scorched your soul — if you had near you a friend to have raised you to the contemplation of beauty & the search of knowledge you would have found perhaps not new hopes spring within you but a new life distinct from that of passion by which you had before existed — relate to me what this misery was that thus engroses you — tell me what were the vicissitudes of feeling that you endured on earth — after death our actions & worldly interest fade as nothing before us but the traces of our feelings exist & the memories of those are what furnish us here with eternal subject of meditation.
A blush spread over the cheek of the lovely girl — Alas, replied she what a tale must I relate what dark & phre[n]zied passions must I unfold — When you Diotima lived on earth your soul seemed to mingle in love only with its own essence & to be unknowing of the various tortures which that heart endures who if it has not sympathized with has been witness of the dreadful struggles of a soul enchained by dark deep passions which were its hell & yet from which it could not escape — Are there in the peaceful language used by the inhabitants of these regions — words burning enough to paint the tortures of the human heart — Can you understand them? or can you in any way sympathize with them — alas though dead I do and my tears flow as when I lived when my memory recalls the dreadful images of the past —
— As the lovely girl spoke my own eyes filled with bitter drops — the spirit of Fantasia seemed to fade from within me and when after placing my hand before my swimming eyes I withdrew it again I found myself under the trees on the banks of the Tiber — The sun was just setting & tinging with crimson the clouds that floated over St. Peters — all was still no human voice was heard — the very air was quiet I rose — & bewildered with the grief that I felt within me the recollection of what I had heard — I hastened to the city that I might see human beings not that I might forget my wandering recollections but that I might impress on my mind what was reality & what was either dream — or at least not of this earth — The Corso of Rome was filled with carriages and as I walked up the Trinita dei’ Montes I became disgusted with the crowd that I saw about me & the vacancy & want of beauty not to say deformity of the many beings who meaninglessly buzzed about me — I hastened to my room which overlooked the whole city which as night came on became tranquil — Silent lovely Rome I now gaze on thee — thy domes are illuminated by the moon — and the ghosts of lovely memories float with the night breeze among thy ruins — contemplating thy loveliness which half soothes my miserable heart I record what I have seen — Tomorrow I will again woo Fantasia to lead me to the same walks & invite her to visit me with her visions which I before neglected — Oh let me learn this lesson while yet it may be useful to me that to a mind hopeless & unhappy as mine — a moment of forgetfullness a moment [in] which it can pass out of itself is worth a life of painful recollection.
CHAP. 2
The next morning while sitting on the steps of the temple of Aesculapius in the Borghese gardens Fantasia again visited me & smilingly beckoned to me to follow her — My flight was at first heavy but the breezes commanded by the spirit to convoy me grew stronger as I advanced — a pleasing languour seized my senses & when I recovered I found my self by the Elysian fountain near Diotima — The beautiful female who[m] I had left on the point of narrating her earthly history seemed to have waited for my return and as soon as I appeared she spoke thus —
VALPERGA
Valperga is an historical novel that was printed for G and W.B Whittaker, and Ave-Maria-Lane in 1823 in three volumes and was published following Frankenstein. It was not reprinted after the first edition for more than 170 years, until after the bicentennial celebration of Mary Shelly’s birth in 1997. Shelley’s father William Godwin played an important role in the completion of the book, serving as editor and deciding on the title. The novel is set in 14th century Italy during the wars between the Republican Guelphs and the Ghibellines, who were sympathetic to the Holy Roman Empire. One of the central characters is the real life soldier Castruccio Castracani, Prince of Lucca (1281-1328), who lead the Ghibelline’s to victory in Tuscany. However, the novel really centres on the two women in Castracani’s life, the Countess Euthanasia and Beatrice of Ferrara and their relationship with him alongside their own beliefs and convictions.
Countess Euthanasia governs the fictional fortress of Valperga when it is comes under attack by Castracani who is also her suitor. The prophetess Beatrice is drawn into Castracani’s world, and the tale of his desire for power and immortal fame engulfs the two female characters. Like most historical novels, Valperga uses a past setting to illuminate contemporary society and Shelley’s tale, addressing the nature of the masculine power structure and the choice between autocracy, liberal democracy and progress, was applicable to the 14th and the 19th centuries and still remains relevant in the 21st century.
Castruccio Castracani, Prince of Lucca (1281-1328)
CONTENTS
PREFACE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
The title page, 1823
PREFACE
THE accounts of the Life of Castruccio known in England, are generally taken from Macchiavelli’s romance concerning this chief. The reader may find a detail of his real adventures in Sismondi’s delightful publication, Histoire des Republiques Italiennes de L’Age Moyen. In addition to this work, I have consulted Tegrino’s Life of Castruccio, and Giovanni Villani’s Florentine Annals.
The following is a translation from the article respecting him in Moreri.
“Castruccio Castracani, one of the most celebrated captains of his time, lived in the fourteenth century. He was of the family of the Antelminelli of Lucca; and, havin
g at a very early age borne arms in favour of the Ghibelines, he was exiled by the Guelphs. He served not long after in the armies of Philip king of France, who made war on the Flemings. In the sequel he repassed the Alps; and, having joined Uguccione Faggiuola, chief of the Ghibelines of Tuscany, he reduced Lucca, Pistoia, and several other towns. He became the ally of the emperor Louis of Bavaria, against pope John XXII, Robert king of Naples, and the Florentines. Louis of Bavaria gave him the investiture of Lucca under the denomination of Duke, together with the title of Senator of Rome. Nothing seemed able to oppose his courage and good fortune, when he was taken off by a premature death in 1330, in the forty-seventh year of his age.”
The dates here given are somewhat different from those adopted in the following narrative.
CHAPTER I
THE other nations of Europe were yet immersed in barbarism, when Italy, where the light of civilization had never been wholly eclipsed, began to emerge from the darkness of the ruin of the Western Empire, and to catch from the East the returning rays of literature and science. At the beginning of the fourteenth century Dante had already given a permanent form to the language which was the offspring of this revolution; he was personally engaged in those political struggles, in which the elements of the good and evil that have since assumed a more permanent form were contending; his disappointment and exile gave him leisure to meditate, and produced his Divina Comedia.
Lombardy and Tuscany, the most civilized districts of Italy, exhibited astonishing specimens of human genius; but at the same time they were torn to pieces by domestic faction, and almost destroyed by the fury of civil wars. The ancient quarrels of the Guelphs and the Ghibelines were started with renovated zeal, under the new distinctions of Bianchi and Neri. The Ghibelines and the Bianchi were the friends of the emperor, asserting the supremacy and universality of his sway over all other dominion, ecclesiastical or civil: the Guelphs and the Neri were the partizans of liberty. Florence was at the head of the Guelphs, and employed, as they were employed by it in their turn, the Papal power as a pretext and an instrument.
The distinctions of Bianchi and Neri took their rise in Pistoia, a town of some moment between Florence and Lucca. The Neri being expelled from Pistoia, the exiles fixed their residence in Lucca; where they so fortified and augmented their party, as to be able in the year 1301 to expel the Bianchi, among whom was Castruccio Castracani dei Antelminelli.
The family of the Antelminelli was one of the most distinguished in Lucca. They had followed the emperors in their Italian wars, and had received in recompense titles and reward. The father of Castruccio was the chief of his house; he had been a follower of the unfortunate Manfred, king of Naples, and his party feelings as a Ghibeline derived new fervour from the adoration with which he regarded his noble master. Manfred was the natural son of the last emperor of the house of Swabia; before the age of twenty he had performed the most brilliant exploits, and undergone the most romantic vicissitudes, in all of which the father of Castruccio had been his faithful page and companion. The unrelenting animosity with which the successive Popes pursued his royal master, gave rise in his bosom to a hatred, that was heightened by the contempt with which he regarded their cowardly and artful policy.
When therefore the quarrels of the Guelphs and Ghibelines were revived in Lucca under the names of Bianchi and Neri, Ruggieri dei Antelminelli was the chief opponent and principal victim of the machinations of the Papal party. Castruccio was then only eleven years of age; but his young imagination was deeply impressed by the scenes that passed around him. When the citizens of Lucca had assembled on the appointed day to choose their Podestà, or principal magistrate, the two parties dividing on the Piazza glared defiance at each other: the Guelphs had the majority in numbers; but the Ghibelines wishing, like Brennus, to throw the sword into the ascending scale, assailed the stronger party with arms in their hands. They were repulsed; and, flying before their enemies, the Guelphs remained in possession of the field, where, under the guidance of their chiefs, they voted the perpetual banishment of the Ghibelines; and the summons was read by a herald, which commanded all the districts of Lucca to range themselves the next morning under their respective banners, that they might attack and expel by force those of the contrary party who should refuse to obey the decree.
Ruggieri returned from the Piazza of the Podestà, accompanied by several of his principal friends. His wife, Madonna Dianora, was anxiously waiting his return; while the young Castruccio stood at the casement, and, divining by his mother’s countenance the cause of her inquietude, looked eagerly down the street that he might watch the approach of his father: he clapped his hands with joy, as he exclaimed, “They come!” Ruggieri entered; his wife observed him inquiringly and tenderly, but forbore to speak; yet her cheek became pale, when she heard her husband issue orders, that the palace should be barricadoed, and none permitted to enter, except those who brought the word which shewed that they belonged to the same party.
“Are we in danger?” — asked Madonna Dianora in a low voice of one of their most intimate friends. Her husband overheard her, and replied: “Keep up your courage, my best girl; trust me, as you have ever trusted. I would that I dared send you to a place of safety, but it were not well that you traversed the streets of Lucca; so you must share my fortunes, Dianora.”
“Have I not ever shared them?” replied his wife. His friends had retired to an adjoining hall, and she continued;—”There can be no dearer fate to me than to live or perish with you, Ruggieri; but cannot we save our son?”
Castruccio was sitting at the feet of his parents, and gazing on them with his soft, yet bright eyes. He had looked at his mother as she spoke; now he turned eagerly towards his father while he listened to his reply:—”We have been driven from the Piazza of the Podestà, and we can no longer entertain any hope of overcoming our enemies. The mildest fate that we may expect is confiscation and banishment; if they decree our death, the stones of this palace alone divide us from our fate. And Castruccio, — could any of our friends convey him hence, I should feel redoubled courage — but it is too much to risk.”
“Father,” said the boy, “I am only a child, and can do no good; but I pray you do not send me away from you: indeed, dear, dearest mother, I will not leave you.”
The trampling of horses was heard in the streets: Ruggieri started up; one of his friends entered:—”It is the guard going to the gates,” said he; “the assembly of the people is broken up.”
“And what is decreed?”
“No one ventures near to inquire out that; but courage, my noble lord.”
“That word to me, Ricciardo? — but it is well; my wife and child make a very woman of me.”
“Ave Maria is now ringing,” replied his companion; “soon night will set in, and, if you will trust me, I will endeavour to convey Madonna Dianora to some place of concealment.”
“Many thanks, my good Ricciardo,” answered the lady; “my safest post is at the side of Ruggieri. But our boy — save him, and a mother’s blessing, her warm, heartfelt thanks: all the treasure that I can give, shall be yours. You know ?”
“Yes, the castle of . Is the Countess there now?”
“She is, — and she is our friend; if my Castruccio were once within the walls of that castle, I were happy.”
While Madonna Dianora conversed thus with Ricciardo, Ruggieri held a consultation with his friends. The comfortable daylight had faded away, and night brought danger and double fear along with it. The companions of Ruggieri sat in the banqueting hall of his palace, debating their future conduct: they spoke in whispers, for they feared that a louder tone might overpower any sound in the streets; and they listened to every footfall, as if it were the tread of their coming destiny. Ricciardo joined them; and Madonna Dianora was left alone with her son: they were silent. Dianora wept, and held the hand of her child; while he tried to comfort her, and to shew that fortitude he had often heard his father praise; but his little bosom swelled in despite of his ma
stery, until, the big tears rolling down his cheeks, he threw himself into his mother’s arms, and sobbed aloud. At this moment some one knocked violently at the palace-gate. The assembled Ghibelines started up, and drew their swords as they rushed towards the staircase; and they stood in fearful silence, while they listened to the answers which the stranger gave to him who guarded the door.
Ruggieri had embraced his wife he feared for the last time. She did not then weep; her high wrought feelings were fixed on one object alone, the safety of her child.—”If you escape,” she cried, “ is your refuge; you well know the road that leads to it.”
The boy did not answer for a while; and then he whispered, while he clung round her neck,—”You, dear mother, shall shew it to me.”
The voice of the man who had disturbed them by his knocking, had reassured the imprisoned Ghibelines, and he was admitted. It was Marco, the servant of Messer Antonio dei Adimari. A Florentine by birth, and a Guelph, Antonio had retired from his native city while it continued under the jurisdiction of the opposite party, and had lived at the castle of , of which his wife was Countess and Castellana. He was bound to Ruggieri by the strongest ties of private friendship; and he now exerted himself to save his friend. Marco brought intelligence of the decree of the assembly of the people. “Our lives are then in safety,” — cried Dianora, with a wild look of joy,—”and all the rest is as the seared leaves of autumn; they fall off lightly, and make no noise.”
“The night wears apace,” said Marco, “and before sunrise you must depart; will you accompany me to ?”
