Note 19 — GABRIELE ROSSETTI

All that I relate here and in the following Canto is strict matter of fact. The Prince Royal of Denmark, who was afterwards King [Christian VIII., who came to the throne in 1839—W.], and is now dead, was enrolled in the Società Sebezia as an honorary member; and on that evening when the bust of Torquato Tasso was inaugurated—a fine work by Signor Solari of Naples,—he was seated, along with all the other Academicians, beside General Naselli, the honorary President. He was so impressed by my composition (which formed the close of the stately proceedings) that he said, embracing me, “May I ask a favour of you? I should like to have a copy of your poem to present to the Princess, who, owing to indisposition, was not able to come this evening.”—“I shall attend to it immediately, and to-morrow you shall receive it.” That royal couple was held in the highest esteem by all. The Prince, a man of masculine and imposing presence, had fought with signal courage against the French, especially in the forests of Norway. The Princess, a lady of extreme grace and beauty, was universally admired and praised. Next morning I rose early and copied out the poem; and hardly had I completed the work (rather a long one, 54 octaves) when I received a note from Baron Jubar, the Prince’s majordomo, to remind me of my promise, and invite me to dine with the royal couple the following day. At table were all the foreign ambassadors, and other diplomatists. This occurred, so far as I recollect, towards the beginning of 1820. The Prince invited me various times; and about the end of that year—when the revolution and the King’s departure had already occurred—one evening after dinner he called me aside, and said: “As it is our intention to pass the rest of the winter in several cities of North Italy, would not you come with us, to instruct the Princess in your beautiful language?”—“But, your Highness, I am here employed.”—“I have already spoken to the Minister of the Interior, who will grant you leave for six months.” A fierce lightning-flash seemed to strike my mind, and I comprehended that the King was betraying us. The Prince, cautioned through some diplomatic channel to quit Naples (as in fact he did), wished to withdraw me from that political danger in which he perceived me to be greatly entangled. With these sinister thoughts, I replied thanking him for an offer which highly honoured me, and saying that I would soon apprise him of my decision. On the following day I wrote to him that, in the peril to which my country would soon be exposed, I should be stained with cowardice if I left it; and that I therefore felt compelled to decline accompanying him in the proposed tour, an honour which in any other conditions I would gladly have welcomed. Nor do I repent of what I then did.