Dream Tales and Prose Poems eBook

About the middle of the sixteenth century there were living in Ferrara (it was at that time flourishing under the sceptre of its magnificent archdukes, the patrons of the arts and poetry) two young men, named Fabio and Muzzio.  They were of the same age, and of near kinship, and were scarcely ever apart; the warmest affection had united them from early childhood ...

the similarity of their positions strengthened the bond.  Both belonged to old families; both were rich, independent, and without family ties; tastes and inclinations were alike in both.  Muzzio was devoted to music, Fabio to painting.  They were looked upon with pride by the whole of Ferrara, as ornaments of the court, society, and town.  In appearance, however, they were not alike, though both were distinguished by a graceful, youthful beauty.  Fabio was taller, fair of face and flaxen of hair, and he had blue eyes.  Muzzio, on the other hand, had a swarthy face and black hair, and in his dark brown eyes there was not the merry light, nor on his lips the genial smile of Fabio; his thick eyebrows overhung narrow eyelids, while Fabio’s golden eyebrows formed delicate half-circles on his pure, smooth brow.  In conversation, too, Muzzio was less animated.  For all that, the two friends were both alike looked on with favour by ladies, as well they might be, being models of chivalrous courtliness and generosity.

At the same time there was living in Ferrara a girl named Valeria.  She was considered one of the greatest beauties in the town, though it was very seldom possible to see her, as she led a retired life, and never went out except to church, and on great holidays for a walk.  She lived with her mother, a widow of noble family, though of small fortune, who had no other children.  In every one whom Valeria met she inspired a sensation of involuntary admiration, and an equally involuntary tenderness and respect, so modest was her mien, so little, it seemed, was she aware of all the power of her own charms.  Some, it is true, found her a little pale; her eyes, almost always downcast, expressed a certain shyness, even timidity; her lips rarely smiled, and then only faintly; her voice scarcely any one had heard.  But the rumour went that it was most beautiful, and that, shut up in her own room, in the early morning when everything still slumbered in the town, she loved to sing old songs to the sound of the lute, on which she used to play herself.  In spite of her pallor, Valeria was blooming with health; and even old people, as they gazed on her, could not but think, ’Oh, how happy the youth for whom that pure maiden bud, still enfolded in its petals, will one day open into full flower!’

II