“I have lived a solitary8 hermitess, and have become an enthusiast9 for all beauty. Being alone, I have not feared to give the reins10 to my feelings; I have lived happily within the universe of my own mind, and have often given reality to that which others call a dream. I have had few hopes, and few fears; but every passing sentiment has been an event; and I have marked the birth of a new idea with the joy that others derive11 from what they call change and fortune. What is the world, except that which we feel? Love, and hope, and delight, or sorrow and tears; these are our lives, our realities, to which we give the names of power, possession, misfortune, and death.
“You smile at my strange words. I now feel livelier emotions arise; and, as is my custom, I try to define and understand them. Love, when nurtured12 by sympathy, is a stronger feeling, than those breathless emotions which arise from the contemplation of what is commonly called inanimate nature, and of the wondrous13 and eternal changes of the universe; and, feeling as I do, that if I give it place in my heart, it must bear my whole being away with it, as the tempest bears the rack along the sky, wonder not, dear friend, that I have paused, and even shuddered14, when I thought that an unknown power was about to dwell in my soul, which might make it blind to its former delights, and deaf to the deep voice of that nature, whose child and nursling I call myself. But now I doubt no more; I am yours, Castruccio; be my fortune tearful or smiling, it shall be one that will bring with it human sympathy, and I resign that savage15 liberty of which I was ere while jealous.
“You have asked me to relate the events of my life; I may say that it is a blank, if you would not hear the history of many a strange idea, many an exalted16 feeling, and reverie of wondrous change. You left me at Florence the favourite daughter of a father I adored: I was ever near him reading and conversing17 with him; and if I have put order in my day dreams, and culled18 the fruit of virtue19 and some slight wisdom from my meditations20, it is to his lessons that I owe this good. It is he who taught me to fathom21 my sensations, and discipline my mind; to understand what my feelings were, and whether they arose from a good or evil source. He taught me to look on my own faults fearlessly; humbly22 as a weak being — yet not with mock humility23, but with a modest, yet firm courage, that led me to know what indeed I might become. He explained to me the lessons of our divine master; which our priests corrupt24 to satisfy the most grovelling25 desires; and he taught me to seek in self-approbation, and in a repentance26, which was that of virtuous27 action, and not of weeping, for the absolution of which they make a revenue.
“Do I speak with vanity? I hope that you do not so far mistake me. I have been a solitary being; and, conversing with my own heart, I have been so accustomed to use the frank language of a knowledge drawn28 from fixed29 principles, and to weigh my actions and thoughts in those scales which my reason and my religion afforded me, that my words may sound vain, when they are only true. I do not think then that I could speak with vanity; for I was enumerating30 the benefits that I received from my father. I read with him the literature of ancient Rome; and my whole soul was filled with the beauty of action, and the poetic31 sentiment of these writers. At first I complained that no men lived now, who bore affinity32 to these far shining beacons33 of the earth: but my father convinced me, that the world was shaking off her barbaric lethargy, and that Florence, in her struggle for freedom, had awakened the noblest energies of the human mind. Once, when we attended a court in Lombardy, a minstrel sang some of the Cantos of Dante’s Divina Comedia, and I can never forget the enthusiastic joy I experienced, in finding that I was the contemporary of its illustrious author.
“I endeavour to mark in this little history of myself the use of the various feelings that rule all my actions; and I must date my enthusiasm for the liberties of my country, and the political welfare of Italy, from the repetition of these Cantos of Dante’s poem. The Romans, whose writings I adored, were free; a Greek who once visited us, had related to us what treasures of poetry and wisdom existed in his language, and these were the productions of freemen: the mental history of the rest of the world who are slaves, was a blank, and thus I was irresistibly34 forced to connect wisdom and liberty together; and, as I worshipped wisdom as the pure emanation of the Deity35, the divine light of the world, so did I adore liberty as its parent, its sister, the half of its being. Florence was free, and Dante was a Florentine; none but a freeman could have poured forth36 the poetry and eloquence37 to which I listened: what though he were banished38 from his native city, and had espoused39 a party that seemed to support tyranny; the essence of freedom is that clash and struggle which awaken6 the energies of our nature, and that operation of the elements of our mind, which as it were gives us the force and power that hinder us from degenerating40, as they say all things earthly do when not regenerated41 by change.
“What is man without wisdom? And what would not this world become, if every man might learn from its institutions the true principles of life, and become as the few which have as yet shone as stars amidst the night of ages? If time had not shaken the light of poetry and of genius from his wings, all the past would be dark and trackless: now we have a track — the glorious foot-marks of the children of liberty; let us imitate them, and like them we may serve as marks in the desert, to attract future passengers to the fountains of life. Already we have begun to do so; and Dante is the pledge of a glorious race, which tells us that, in clinging to the freedom which gave birth to his genius, we may awake the fallen hopes of the world. These sentiments, nurtured and directed by my father, have caused the growth of an enthusiasm in my soul, which can only die when I die.
“I was at this time but sixteen; and at that age, unless I had been guided by the lessons of my father, my meditations would have been sufficiently42 fruitless. But he, whether he taught me to consider the world and the community of man, or to study the little universe of my own mind, was wisdom’s self, pouring out accents that commanded attention and obedience43. At first I believed, that my heart was good, and that by following its dictates44 I should not do wrong; I was proud, and loved not to constrain45 my will, though I myself were the mistress; but he told me, that either my judgement or passions must rule me, and that my future happiness and usefulness depended on the choice I made between these two laws. I learned from him to look upon events as being of consequence only through the feelings which they excited, and to believe that content of mind, love, and benevolent46 feeling ought to be the elements of our existence; while those accidents of fortune or fame, which to the majority make up the sum of their existence, were as the dust of the balance.
“Well; these were the lessons of my father, a honey of wisdom on which I fed until I attained47 my eighteenth year; and then he died. What I felt, my grief and despair, I will not relate; few sorrows surpass that of a child, who loses a beloved parent before she has formed new ties which have weakened the first and the most religious.
“Do you remember my mother? She was a lady with a kind heart, and a humanity and equanimity48 of temper few could surpass. She was a Guelph, a violent partizan, and, heart and soul, was taken up with treaties of peace, acquisitions in war, the conduct of allies, and the fortune of her enemies: while she talked to you, you would have thought that the whole globe of the earth was merely an appendage49 to the county of Valperga. She was acquainted with all the magistrates50 of Florence, the probabilities of elections, the state of the troops, the receipt of imposts, and every circumstance of the republic. She was interested in the most lively manner in the fall of Corso Donati, the war with Pistoia, the taking of that town, and the deaths and elections of the various Popes. She was present at every court held by the Guelph lords of Lombardy; and her poor subjects were sometimes rather hardly taxed, that we might appear with suitable dignity on these occasions. The marriage of her children was her next care; but she could never come to a decisive resolve as to which alliance would be the most advantageous51 to her family, and at the same time most promote the cause of the Guelphs in Italy.
“When my father died, she sent for my eldest52 brother from Naples; and for several months her mind was occupied by his accession, and the dignity that the houses of Adimari and Valperga would acquire by having a young warrior53 at their head, instead of a woman and a blind philosopher. My brother was a soldier, a brave man, full of ambition and party spirit; and a new field was opened to my mother’s politics by him, when he detailed54 the intrigues55 of the Neapolitan court; she was for ever occupied in sending messengers, receiving dispatches, calculating imposts, and all the pygmy acts of a petty state.
“When I was nineteen years of age, we heard that my younger brother had fallen ill at Rome, and desired to see some one of his family. My uncle, the abbot of St. Maurice, was on the point of going to Rome; and I obtained my mother’s leave to accompany him. Oh, what long draughts56 of joy I drank in on that journey! I did not think that my brother’s illness was dangerous, and indeed considered that circumstance more as the pretext57, than the object of my journey; so I fearlessly gave myself up to the enthusiasm that deluged58 my soul. Expression lags, as then my own spirit flagged, beneath the influence of these thoughts: it was to Rome I journeyed, to see the vestiges59 of the mistress of the world, within whose walls all I could conceive of great, and good, and wise, had breathed and acted: I should draw in the sacred air which had vivified the heroes of Rome; their shades would surround me; and the very stones that I should tread were marked by their footsteps. Can you conceive what I felt? You have not studied the histories of ancient times, and perhaps know not the life that breathes in them; a soul of beauty and wisdom which had penetrated60 my heart of hearts. When I descended61 the hills of the Abruzzi, and first saw the Tiber rolling its tranquil62 waters glistening63 under the morning sun; I wept; — why did not Cato live? — why was I not going to see her consuls65, her heroes, and her poets? Alas66! I was about to approach the shadow of Rome, the inanimate corse, the broken image of what was once great beyond all power of speech to express. My enthusiasm again changed; and I felt a kind of sacred horror run through my veins67. Thou, oh! Tiber, ever rollest, ever and for ever the same! yet are not thy waters those which flowed here when the Scipios and the Fabii lived on thy shores; the grass and the herbage which adorn68 thy banks have many thousand times been renewed since it was pressed on by their feet; all is changed, even thou art not the same!
“It was night when we entered Rome; I dared hardly breathe; the stars shone bright in the deep azure69 of heaven, and with their twinkling beams illuminated70 the dark towers which were black and silent, seeming like animated71 beings asleep. A procession of monks72 passed by chaunting in a sweet and solemn tone, in that language which once awoke the pauses of this Roman air with words of fire. Methought they sang their city’s requiem73; methought I was following to their last narrow home all that had existed of great and good in this god-inhabited city.
“I remained in Rome three months; when I arrived, my brother was considerably74 better, and we entertained every hope of his recovery. I spent my life among the ruins of Rome; and I felt, as I was told that I appeared to be, rather a wandering shade of the ancient times, than a modern Italian. In my wild enthusiasm I called on the shadows of the departed to converse2 with me, and to prophesy75 the fortunes of awakening76 Italy. I can never forget one evening that I visited the Pantheon by moonlight: the soft beams of the planet streamed through its open roof, and its tall pillars glimmered77 around. It seemed as if the spirit of beauty descended on my soul, as I sat there in mute ecstasy78; never had I before so felt the universal graspings of my own mind, or the sure tokens of other spiritual existences, as at that moment. Oh! could I even now pour forth in words the sentiments of love, and virtue, and divinest wisdom, that then burst in upon my soul, in a rich torrent79 — such as was the light of the moon to the dark temple in which I stood — the whole world would stand and listen: but fainter than the moon-beams and more evanescent are those deep thoughts; my eyes glisten64, my cheeks glow, but words are denied me. I feel as it were my own soul at work within me, and surely, if I could disclose its secret operations, and lay bare the vitals of my being, in that moment, which would be one of overwhelming ecstasy — in that moment I should die.
“Well; to return to the events that sealed my residence in Rome, and by shedding the softness of affectionate sorrow over my feelings, added to their deep holiness. The last month of my residence there, I was a constant attendant on the sick bed of my dying brother: he did not suffer pain; his illness was lethargic80; and I watched with breathless anxiety the change from life to death. Sometimes, when the Ave Maria had sounded, and the heats of the day had subsided81, I stole out into the air to refresh my wearied spirits. There is no sky so blue as that of Rome; it is deep, penetrating82, and dazzling: but at this hour it had faded, and its soft airs, that made wild and thrilling music among the solitudes84 of its hills and ruins, cooled my fevered cheeks, and soothed85 me in spite of sorrow. I then enjoyed grief; I may now say so, although I then felt anguish86 alone; truly I wept, and bitterly over the illness of my brother: but, when the soul is active, it brings a certain consolation87 along with it: I was never so much alive as then, when my wanderings, which seldom exceeded one or at most two hours, seemed to be lengthened88 into days and weeks. I loved to wander by the banks of the Tiber, which were solitary, and, if the scirocco blew, to mark the clouds as they sped over St. Peter’s and the many towers of Rome: sometimes I walked on the Quirinal or Pincian mounts which overlook the city, and gazed, until my soul was elevated by poetic transport. Beautiful city, thy towers were illuminated by the orange tints89 of the fast-departing sunset, and the ghosts of lovely memories floated with the night breeze, among thy ruins; I became calm; amidst a dead race, and an extinguished empire, what individual sorrow would dare raise its voice? subdued90, trembling, and overcome, I crept back to the sick bed of my brother.
“He died; and I left this city of my soul. I know not whether I shall ever again breathe its air; but its memory is a burning cloud of sunset in the deep azure of the sky: it is that passage in my life since my father’s death, on which my intellectual eye rests with emotion, pleasurable now, although I then endured poignant91 sorrow.
“The passenger that carried the intelligence of my younger brother’s death to my mother, was crossed on the road by one who came to inform me that the eldest also was no more. He was killed in an assault on Pistoia. Thus death quickly mowed92 down the ranks of our family; and at last I have become a solitary scion93 of the stock.
“I returned home by very slow journeys, and in my way was detained a fortnight at Perugia. When I arrived, I was met by my mother at our palace in Florence; she burst into tears as she folded me in her arms, and wept for some time, lamenting94 with bitter grief her sad losses. I mingled95 my tears with hers, and alas! I soon shed them alone; doubly an orphan96 through her death, I mourned over the last of my family. So many losses, following swift one upon the other, astounded97 me; and I passed many months, as one who had wandered from the true path, and had no guide to set her right. I retreated to my castle, and the solitude83 frightened me; I returned to Florence; but the gaieties of that city only told me more plainly that I was alone, since I sympathized with none there. But time has healed these wounds, leaving only a tinge98 of melancholy99 in my character which had not belonged to it till now.”
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1
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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3
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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5
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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7
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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11
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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12
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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13
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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14
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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enumerating
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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beacons
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| 灯塔( beacon的名词复数 )； 烽火； 指路明灯； 无线电台或发射台 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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degenerating
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的现在分词 ) | |
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regenerated
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| v.新生，再生( regenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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43
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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44
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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45
constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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46
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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47
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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48
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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49
appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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50
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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51
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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52
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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53
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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54
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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55
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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56
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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57
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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58
deluged
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| v.使淹没( deluge的过去式和过去分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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59
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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61
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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62
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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63
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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consuls
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| 领事( consul的名词复数 )； （古罗马共和国时期）执政官 （古罗马共和国及其军队的最高首长，同时共有两位，每年选举一次） | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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