CHAPTER III.
VITTORIA MALASPINA.
"Ed il modo ancor m'offende."—Francesca di Rimini.
I had become acquainted in Bastia with a gentleman of Balagna, Signor Mutius Malaspina. He is a descendant of the Tuscan Malaspinas, who governed Corsica in the eleventh century. Through his wife he became connected with the Paoli family, for Vittoria Malaspina was a great-granddaughter of Hyacinth Paoli, and descended from the renowned Clemens. Her father, Giovanni Pietri, Councillor of State, is one of the most meritorious public men in Corsica, and universally beloved.
Signor Malaspina had offered me hospitality in his house at Monticello, a paese in the hills a few miles above Isola Rossa, and I had gladly consented to be a guest in a house where Pasquale had once lived, and from which he has dated so many of his letters. Malaspina gave me a letter to present at his house, which, he said, I should not fail to find open, even though he himself might not have yet returned.
I had accordingly come to Isola Rossa with the intention of going up to Monticello, and spending some days there. I learned, however, on my journey, what I had been totally ignorant of, and what Malaspina had concealed from me—the fearful misfortune, namely, which, less than three years previously, had there befallen his family; so that I now did not know which to be most astonished at, the unparalleled nature of the catastrophe, or the character of the Corsican, who, notwithstanding what had happened, offered hospitality to an unknown stranger. I could no longer prevail upon myself to accept of it in a house where it had been murdered, but I went up to Monticello, to honour misfortune with human sympathy.
The house of the Malaspina family lies at the entrance of the paese, on the plateau of a rock hung with verdure; it is a large old mansion of the earliest times, stern, strong, and castle-like. Dark cypresses mourn round its terraces. Even from a distance they announce to the wanderer the tragedy that was enacted beside them. A neglected little esplanade lies at the entrance of the house. There is a little chapel on it encircled by young plane-trees; it covers the family burial-vault.
Passing under the arched doorway of the mansion, I ascended a narrow and gloomy stone staircase, and looked round for the inhabitants. The house seemed utterly forsaken and desolate. I walked through large dreary rooms, which the genius of comfort had deserted. At length I found the housekeeper, an old lady in mourning, and along with her, a girl eight years old, the youngest daughter. It cost me a great deal of trouble to gain any approach to a welcome from the ancient dame, but she gradually laid aside her distrust.
I put no questions. But the little Felicina asked me of her own accord to come and see her mother's room, and in her innocence said a great deal more than enough.
The old Marcantonia sat down beside me, and told me the story; and what she related I shall faithfully repeat, withholding only the unhappy man's surname, and the name of his native city.