From a high mountain you can see the sea
I often look, me, your daughter Isabella,
if any wood smeared in that appears
that of you, father, give me news
Isabella is standing and looking out the window, scanning the landscape. The view from that rugged fortress crosses stones, hills, valleys and is lost to the sea. But there is no trace of the father. Her beloved father who had initiated her into poetry from an early age had gone into exile. He leaved her alone in that castle which has now become a prison. She hears a shout coming from the courtyard, her brothers are returning from hunting. She sighs but she doesn't move. She doesn't want to meet them, they are so different from her, rough, aggressive, without any finesse of soul.
Of irrational people, lacking in talent,
where without support
I am forced to lead my life,
here placed by each in blind oblivion
The days follow one after the other equally sad and empty. Isabella continues to write, the poem slightly alleviates her discomfort. Then the unexpected encounter with Diego Sandoval di Castro, her neighbor and poet, a member of the prestigious Accademia Fiorentina. Letter after letter and her days no longer seem so bleak and the castle comes alive with dreams and rhymes. Three knocks on the thick wooden door of her bedroom and her heart begins to beat faster. She gets up and quickly goes to open. It is her faithful pedagogue Torquato. He pulls a letter out of his jacket. She grabs it with voracity, for days she had been waiting for that paper full of poetry. Diego's existence warms her heart, she is no longer alone.
Gird my neck with a beautiful golden lace
Of your dearest and most humble subjects,
than to serve you alone I procure
Isabella is standing in her room by the window. She is waiting one more time for Torquato, the messenger. The mere thought that after a while she will be able to hold that paper in her hands makes her smile. But from under the walls comes the loud shouting of her brothers, a shiver runs down her spine. On alert, she looks out of the window and she hears cries for help. It is Torquato and his brothers are killing him. She has to run away, get away from those madmen. She quickly picks up a cape, hurries down the narrow steps and runs across the weapons room. The large chestnut door at the back of the room opens violently and her brothers move inexorably towards her. Isabella backs away, trips over the fabric of her own dress and falls to the ground. They look at her scornfully, they cover her with insults, the most terrible ones. Then one of them, Isabella no longer distinguish them, raises her hand with the dagger and pierces her in the chest, abdomen, neck.
Here I don't feel my state as a woman
What a sweet life death will be for me
It is said that on moonlit nights the girl still wanders around the battlements of the castle waiting in vain for Diego's letters. Carried away by the rustle of the wind, light whispers can be heard. These are the beautiful verses of Isabella that have crossed history surviving for five hundred years.
Sylvie Freddi
I am a writer of short stories and novels with my hands in the earth and my head in the stories. I live in the Roman countryside where I hoe and write. I have published for Stampa Alternativa Caffè Paszkowsky and Q502; for Ensemble editions La Madre e il meteorite.
D'un alto monte onde si scorge il mare / miro sovente io, tua figlia Isabella, / s'alcun legno spalmato in quello appare, / che di te, padre, a me doni favella