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Chapter Text

There is not much left of my life as I feel his kind gaze boring into my core, calling me to his perennial world, as he’d already done so once, just a couple of months before. However, this time it is not only in my imagination; it is not a great travelling through the three empires from the comfort of my room anymore.
 
Now, the Lord really sent him, one of His most precious angels, to guide me to the purest of the skies where only the sinless are granted access. I may have gotten lost in the dark wood and tripped many times, but my eyes never ceased to stare at the stars, knowing that one day I would join them and the choirs of angels. But I know that all of this wouldn’t sound quite as wonderful if he wasn’t there for me to contemplate for eternity.
 
As my last words, I say: Incipit vita nova.
 
Here begins the new life.

Chapter Text

Here I am, writing the true story of the one who inspired my poems and all of my work. The one person who made me the man I am, even though they had no idea about it, the one person who ruled most of my thoughts and who reigned over my heart. The one person who, with a single gaze, crushed my old, meaningless world, but at the same time, made me build one where they became its master.
 
It was on a fine afternoon in my ninth year of life that the miracle happened. I was studying with Signore Latini, a masterpiece of one of the ancient Greek poets, when a servant entered the room and said that Padre ordered us to stop for the day as our family was expected to appear at one of our neighbours’ houses. We did so, although I must confess that reluctantly, because I was enjoying every hour spent learning new things about our world.
 
The servant dressed me and I waited for my parents in the hall, repeating some verses in my mind. I heard muffled voices coming from outside and I rushed to the window. I completely forgot that it was May Day and people were singing in the streets and having a good time.
 
“Dominic, are you ready?”
 
It was Mamma, but her voice sounded so weak and her face showed signs of pain. She was wearing an elegant, emerald dress, completed by gold jewels that enhanced the green of her eyes. She was beautiful. Father joined her and they descended the stairs hand in hand. As was my custom, I ran towards them and took their hands in mine so I was in the middle.
 
I couldn’t help but hear their conversation. At the time, I didn’t pay much attention, and I couldn’t have understood it with my child’s mind.
 
“Bella, is something hurting you?”
 
“My head, the pain hasn’t ceased for three days. Please, could Dominic and I come home earlier?”
 
“Certainly, the carriage will be there for you. I’m truly sorry, but I have to stay there and discuss business matters with Signore Bellamy.”
 
Therefore, we went to see the Bellamy family, who had the biggest palazzo at the corner of the street. I’d never been to see them before, because children under ten were frowned upon, but I made great progress with my studies, so Padre allowed me this pleasure. He knew I liked to watch people, to blend in the cavalcade of colourful clothes and listen to the news from our little Tuscany, as well as from other countries.
 
Two servants opened the gates and I had to narrow my eyes as a consequence of the blinding light seeping out of the palazzo. The light of hundreds of candles and the crystal chandelier coated everything with soft gold, like sunrays do on the brightest summer afternoon. My father was soon approached by Signore Bellamy, a not-so-tall man, but with features that demanded respect and somewhat fear too. After all, he was one of Florence’s most powerful citizens. Mamma met one of her close friends and they started having a conversation as well, leaving me on my own.
 
I wandered around the ballroom, sometimes stopping to watch couples dancing, but I soon grew bored and went back to the hallway where men were talking about politics. I leaned against a wall and listened to Signor Martino trying to convince a group that the adverse party would surely attack our city.
 
Then, out of nowhere, a small figure appeared at the top of the stairs and looked upon the crowd below. I swear, even the sun stopped for a moment as I laid my eyes on this celestial being. He, who was called Matthew (the gift of God), by those who did not know what it meant to so name him. He was almost nine years old by this time. Matthew was dressed in the noblest colour, one that suited his pale complexion oh so well – in crimson, which also accentuated his sapphire eyes.
 
In that moment something changed irrevocably in me. The spirit of life, which dwells in the most secret chamber of the heart, began to tremble so violently that I heard, between the pulsations, it uttering the following: “Here is a deity stronger than I; who, coming, shall rule over me.”
 
As the young Bellamy was coming down the stairs, I realised that from that moment, Amor would govern my soul completely, and I would be the most humble of its servants. I could not take my eyes off the graceful boy and vigilantly watched his every move, wondering how the Lord could do without one of his most beauteous angels.
 
My train of thought was, unfortunately, interrupted by Mamma, who looked very pale and quickly ushered me to the carriage. I kept looking behind my shoulder to preserve his image in my mind forever. I can honestly declare that it still is one of the dearest and most powerful memories of my childhood. The other one is somewhat related to this May Day memory.
 
As I said previously, Amor had full control over my heart; the first command he gave to me was to seek, if I could, the youngest of the angels. Thus I, in my boyhood, often went in search of him and found him so noble and praiseworthy that he reminded me of Homer’s words: “He seemed not to be the son of a mortal man, but of God.”
 
After one of these searching expeditions I returned to a dreadfully silent house. I had a bad feeling and it was soon confirmed when Maria, my mother’s maid, appeared weeping ruefully. She glanced at me for a second and dragged me to my mother’s room. I knew that she didn’t feel well, but I had no idea that she was so weak. Everybody hid the ugly truth from me: the headaches were just one of many awful symptoms. I was scared and I started crying as I sat on Mamma’s bed.
 
She slowly opened her eyes and searched for my hand, which was as cold as hers, but for a different reason: I was terrified, while Mamma was about to leave this earthly shell for a better place. She struggled and succeeded in the end to tell me her last message:
 
“You must be strong, Dominic. Listen to your father and be a good boy. This world is cruel, but I know that you have the power to change it. I’ll be watching out for you, my sweet boy. Always…”
 
I placed my head on the pillow beside her and wept hot tears until the last breath left her body. I don’t know how long I lay there, but it felt like hours. I just didn’t want to say goodbye, I didn’t want to accept that I had no mother anymore. Mamma… was always there for me, always gifting me with her brightest smile. I wiped away my last tear and pressed a kiss to her forehead. I was determined to live up to her expectations, not exactly having a plan yet, but the thought that she had faith in me was enough.
 
Then I went to my room and heard Padre’s painful scream before everything turned black.

Chapter Text

After the lapse of so many days that nine years were completed since Mamma’s death, my life changed so dramatically that not even in my dreams could have I imagined it this way. I would say that these were changes for the worse, but I fear that God would punish me for my foolish thoughts. Padre was so imbibed with suffering, that I’d never see a smile on his face anymore. I know he cared for me and did everything that was in his power to raise me well, but he could never replace Mamma.
 
Then three years ago, when I was fifteen, Padre followed my mother to the world of the ever happy. I became an orphan. I was all alone. Luckily, Signore Latini was kind enough and assumed my upbringing by becoming my official guardian. He was so good to do this and I will never be able to pay back his enormous efforts, but I hope to make him immortal by laying down his memory here.
 
Signore Latini was a busy political man and an excellent philosopher, yet he still had time for my education. He taught me French, philosophy and most importantly, the art of poetry. I looked up to him; he was a genius among men. Everywhere he went, he would be surrounded by respect. However, I sometimes heard accusatory words thrown at him, but I didn’t understand their meaning. I often desired to tell him of Matthew and how the sight of him shook my world, but I was afraid that he would laugh at me, or even worse, despise me.
 
That was until one night of my seventeenth year when sleep didn’t want to come. I got out of my bed and thought about sneaking into the library. There were noises, odd noises coming from Signore Latini’s room, and I, driven by curiousity, tiptoed to his room whose door was left ajar. What I’d seen was the reason of the insults my guardian got. To put it simply, he was in the arms of another man. I ran back to my room with my heart beating fast in my throat.
 
Naturally, I didn’t sleep at all that night; I paced to and fro in my chamber, coming to wise conclusions when dawn was breaking. I must admit that I often felt as if I sinned by loving a man, but seeing that Signore Latini did the same, yet he was the most intelligent and kindest man on earth, put my mind at ease. It just hurt that he had to do it in secret; that meant that I had to keep my love for Matthew secret as well.
 
But, I deviate from the highlight of my eighteenth year. It was a bright morning and I was sat on the balustrade of the Ponte Vecchio, watching the dark waters of the Arno River absentmindedly. In the next moment I saw Matthew Bellamy, dressed in pure white and accompanied by two older men. He turned his eyes to where I stood sorely abashed: and by his unspeakable courtesy, he saluted me with so virtuous a bearing that I seemed then and there to behold the very limits of blessedness.
 
It was the first time that any words from him reached my ears and I came into such sweetness that I parted from that place as one intoxicated.  Locking myself to the loneliness of my own room, I began thinking of this most courteous sir, thinking of whom I was overtaken by a pleasant slumber, in which a marvellous vision was presented to me.  For there, a mist the colour of fire appeared to me in my room, within which I discerned the figure of a lord of terrible aspect. He said many things, but I only understood him declaring to be my lord, Amor.
 
In his arms, it seemed to me that a person was sleeping, covered only with a blood-coloured cloth; when I looked very attentively upon him, I knew that it was the sir of my fantasy. He also held in his hand a thing that was burning in flames, and he said to me: “Behold your heart.” I thought that the lord was about to awaken he who slept, after which he made the man in his arms eat that thing which flamed in his hand and he ate as one fearing. After a while, it seemed to me that the mysterious figure went with him up towards heaven; whereby such a great anguish came upon me that my light slumber could not endure through it, but was suddenly broken. Then, musing on what I had seen, I decided to put into words my vision. That’s how my first sonnet was born.
 

From that night forth, the natural functions of my body began to be vexed and impeded, for I was given up wholly to thinking of this most gracious creature. I’d changed so dramatically that some of my friends avoided even looking at me, while others queried what was that I wished to conceal. I told them how it was Love himself who had thus dealt with me, which roused curiosity in them, but when they went on to ask: “And by whose help has love done this?” I looked in their faces, and, smiling, spoke no word in return.
 

 
One day it happened that this most gracious sir was sitting in the church and I was in a place where my eyes could behold his beatitude: and between him and me, in a direct line, there sat Signorina Beatrice, the sister of Matthew, who looked around at me many times, marvelling at my continued gaze which seemed to have her for its object. It was not only her who perceived that, because when departing from that place, I heard someone whispering behind me: “Have you seen how he stared at that lady?” and in saying this, they named her who had been midway between the most gentle Matthew and my eyes. Therefore, I was reassured and knew that for that day my secret had not become manifest.
 
Then immediately it came into my mind that I might make use of Beatrice as a screen to the truth, and so well did I play my part that the most of those who had hitherto watched and wondered at me now imagined they had found me out. By her means I kept my secret concealed till some years were gone over; for better security, I even composed some poems in her honour.
 
Once when I returned from a journey, Matthew, who was the destroyer of all evil and the king of all good, coming where I was, denied me his sweetest salutation, in which alone was my blessedness. Words couldn’t describe my miserable state; I became possessed with such grief that parting myself from others, I went into a lonely place to bathe the ground with the most bitter tears. Then I went home, slouched on my bed and fell asleep. Amor appeared in my dream and he seemed abandoned of all hope. I complained to him about the matter of my grief and after I’d questioned him about the cause, he said the following:
 
“Our Matthew has noticed that his sister is troubled and he found out that Beatrice is sorely disquieted by your solicitations. Therefore, this most gracious creature, who is the enemy of all disquiet, being fearful of such troubles, refused to salute you. Albeit, in very truth, your secret must have become known to him by familiar observation. For this reason, it is my will that you write a poem in which you shall set forth how strong a mastership I have obtained over you, through him, and how you were his even from your childhood.”
 
After I woke up, I wrote a ditty as my master commanded.
 
Certainly the Lordship of Amor is evil, seeing that the more homage his servants pay to him, the more grievous and painful are the torments wherewith he torments them.
 
At this point I had absolutely no idea of what torments were to follow.

Chapter Text

After battling with many thoughts, it chanced on a day after three years of that salutation that my most gracious sir was with a gathering of gentlemen and ladies in a certain place. I was conducted to this place by a friend of mine, he thinking to do me a great pleasure by showing me the beauty of so many women. Then I, hardly knowing where he brought me, but trusting in him, asked: “For what purpose have we come among these ladies?” He answered: “For the purpose that they may be worthily served.”

They were assembled around a gentlewoman who was given in marriage on that day, the custom of the city being that friends should bear her company when she sat down for the first time at table in the house of her husband.  Therefore I, as was my friend’s pleasure, resolved to stay with him and do honour to those ladies and gentlemen.

But soon I began to feel faint and a throbbing at my left side, which soon took possession of my whole body. I remember that I covertly leaned my back onto a painting that ran round the walls of that house, and being fearful lest my trembling should be discerned by them, I lifted my eyes to look on those gentlemen. I first perceived among them the excellent Matthew. And when I noticed him, all my senses were overpowered by the great Lordship that Amor obtained, finding myself so near to that most gracious being, until nothing but the spirits of sight remained to me.

Many of his friends, having discerned my confusion, began to wonder and together with Matthew, kept whispering about me and mocking me. Whereupon my friend, who did not know what to believe, took me by the hands, and drawing me forth from among them, asked what ailed me. Then, having first held me at quiet for a space until my perceptions came back to me, I answered to my friend: “Surely I have now set my feet on that point of life, beyond which he must not pass who would return.”

Afterwards, leaving my friend, I went back to the room where I had wept before; and again weeping and ashamed, said to myself: “If this sir only knew of my condition I do not think that he would thus mock me; nay, I am sure that he must feel some pity.” I downed two glasses of fine, red wine and went back to the great hall where the guests started gathering: it seemed that something was about to happen. I was very surprised when the bride and groom stated that another happy event would soon take place.

I stood dumbfounded as Matthew stepped in front, holding the hand of a girl, who I knew to be the daughter of a rich banker in Florence. He announced his intention of marrying said lady in three months, news which floored me so greatly that I had to cling to a piece of furniture. He didn’t look particularly pleased, but his father’s self-content expression explained it all: it was an arranged marriage. Absolutely disheartening, but then I remembered I was also promised by my father to a girl named Gemma whom I’d never met before and wouldn’t until I reach my twenty-fifth year. The whole problematic situation caused me such an insufferable migraine that I headed home, shedding tears for the last beam of hope that was lost in the darkness of our world’s mentality.

* * * * *

After those events, I stayed locked in the house, pretending to be studying an important and difficult matter, but in fact thinking about the new situation, of which I failed to become its master. I became possessed with a strong conception which almost never left me.

I asked myself this: “Seeing that you come into such scorn by the companionship of this sir, why do you insist on beholding him? If he should ask you this thing, what answer could you make to him?”

To this, another very humble thought said in reply: “If I were master of all my faculties, I would tell him that as soon as I imagine his marvellous beauty, I am possessed by the desire to behold him. The strength of this desire is so great that it kills and destroys in my memory all those things that might oppose it. Therefore, the great anguish I have endured thereby is yet not enough to restrain me from seeking to behold him.”

This is the explanation for the grief I caused myself when I waited to see the carriage with the “happy” married couple passing the main street. Among the cheerful people clapping and screaming their wishes, I stood stock-still, listening to my heart lamenting, wishing that I could at least shed a tear or two. But I just stood there, a lonely face among smiles, a melancholic figure in the middle of the celebration. If someone looked at me, they might have thought that I was happy, maybe even envy my happiness. They would have deemed my eyes to be shiny and my thought to be clear and free.

They didn’t notice, oh no they didn’t, that tears were burning in my shining eyes as I was scurrying home. We, people, are odd creatures: our eyes are crying while our lips are laughing. Our whole life is a lie; we’re crying even while laughing!

* * * * *

Matthew came at last into such favour with all women, that when he passed anywhere, folk ran to behold him. This was a deep joy to me. He went along crowned and clothed with humility, showing no hint of pride in all that he heard and saw. When he had gone by, it was said of many: “This is not a man, but one of the beautiful angels of Heaven,” and there were some that said: “This is surely a miracle; blessed be the Lord, who has power to work thus marvellously .” I say, in truth, that he showed himself so gentle and so full of all perfection that he bred in those who looked upon him a soothing quiet beyond any speech; nobody could look upon him without sighing immediately.

However, months and years passed and it seemed to me that something changed in those blue eyes of Matthew Bellamy. Some said that the sparkle of youth was extinguished by the marriage which brought him only suffering, but if it were true, he definitely bore it with dignity. To me, it seemed as if the flower of his life slowly started withering, as if somebody forgot to nurture him with the water of happiness. How I wished to touch my lips against his petals and whisper encouraging words, but I could only do so in my poems, and consequently, I wrote them as well as I could.

Three years after Matthew’s marriage, a terrible epidemic broke out in Florence and attacked almost every second citizen. I was no exception. My body became afflicted with a painful infirmity whereby I suffered in bitter anguish for many days, which at last brought me to such weakness that I could no longer move. I remember that on the ninth day, overcome with intolerable pain, a thought came into my mind concerning my sir. But when it had a little nourished this thought, my mind returned to its brooding over my enfeebled body. Then perceiving how frail a thing life is, the matter seemed to me so pitiful that I could not choose but weep, and weeping, I said within myself: “Certainly it must sometime come to pass that the very gentle Matthew will die.” Then, feeling bewildered, I closed my eyes and my brain began to be in toil as the brain of one frantic, and to have such imaginations as here follows.

At first, it seemed to me that I saw certain faces of women with their hair loosened, who called out to me: “You shall surely die,” after which other terrible and unknown appearances said to me: “You are dead.” At length, as my fantasy kept wandering, I didn’t know where I was and I beheld a throng of dishevelled ladies sad beyond all description, who kept going hither and thither weeping. Then the sun went out, so that the stars showed themselves, and they were of such a colour that I knew they must be weeping. It seemed to me that the birds fell out of the sky and that there were great earthquakes.

With that, while I wondered in my trance and was filled with a grievous fear, I conceived that a certain friend came to me and said: “Have you not heard? He that was your excellent sir has been taken out of life.”

Then I began to weep very piteously and not only in my imagination, but also with my eyes, which were wet with tears. I seemed to look towards Heaven and to behold a multitude of angels who were returning upwards and singing together gloriously.

Then my heart that was so filled with emotion that Amor said to me: “It is true that our sir lies dead,” and it seemed to me that I went to look upon the body in which that blessed and most noble spirit had had its abiding place. So strong was this idle imagining that I could see my sir in death, whose head certain ladies seemed to be covering with a white veil. I came to such agony at the sight of him that I cried out upon Death, saying: “Now come to me and be not bitter against me any longer. Come now to me who greatly desires you: can’t you see that I’m wearing your colour already? Why didn’t you take me instead of him?!”

After this most gracious creature had departed from among us, the whole city came to be, as it were, widowed and deprived of all dignity. Then I, left mourning in this desolate city, alone with my illness and negative thoughts, was reminded about the pact my father made with a gentleman: that I should take to wife his daughter, Gemma, at the age of twenty-five. I always knew that I had no chance with Matthew, but I felt it as a sin to “love” somebody else. I only accepted it for the sake of my family’s good renown; Gemma was a neat girl, but she was a stranger to me.

From the second that I felt Matthew’s leaving, I decided to write a masterpiece which would preserve his memory. Ten years after his death I felt capable enough to write it with my best and most beauteous words. Guiltiness, like a ghost, haunted me every day because I spent most of my time in my room, working and leaving Gemma and the children alone. I know she deserved a better husband and the children a better father, but I couldn’t give them what I should have because my heart was taken together with Matthew.

Sadly, my life was divided in two parts: the first one when my sir was still among us and the second one when he watched over me from above. I know he did so because he was the one to guide my hand that held the pen. He was whispering me the divine words and in those moments I sensed as if a bit of my old self came back to my hollow, worldly shell. Each word I put down cost me a day of my remaining life and by the time I finished the masterpiece, I was ready to step to the other world, whichever it would be. I told myself that even if I was to be delivered to hell, it couldn’t be worse than my life without Matthew.

As a last placation to my wife, I decided to erase all the evidence that could lead her to my love for Matthew and changed it to something, that if revealed, would make her feel less embarrassed. I used Matthew’s sister, Beatrice, again as a screen. This journal is the only thing that knows my deepest secret and I have everything planned for it never to be found.

When I will feel weak enough for Death to come after me, I will ask for only one more hour to go to Matthew’s grave and bury the journal there, to be close to my sir’s holy bones. I will let my tears fall on the black soil, as I did so many times in stealth, place a last kiss to his tombstone and trudge home. Then, then I will be ready to leave this faux, infernal world and wait for Matthew to give me his hand and guide me to a place where stars no longer weep for separated soul mates.