The Ambush
In a hot and dusty part of eighteenth century Italy, where the summer would drape itself like a blanket over the town, and creep its heated fingers into every corner and crevice, it behoved you to build, if you could afford it, a house with long dark corridors and few windows.
This left you with cool places to sit in. One of these darkened rooms, in an ornate but fading palace, was the favourite sitting place of Ginevra.
Ginevra was fifteen. Her childhood had been bittersweet - her poor mother had breathed her last even as she gave new life, and her father was a busy, wealthy man who had little time for the child.
Ginevra had been unruled and unruly, taking her ease as she pleased, playing and running in the corridors. Always insatiably curious, she had even been caught trying to climb trees or ride horses. These were totally unsuitable activities for girls of her class and time. And her father knew it.
Custom was, in those days, for girls to be married off at fifteen, and it was with no little relief to her father that Ginevra was to be no different.
Betrothed to her childhood friend, Francesco, her marriage was settled. She would move to Francesco's mansion, on the other side of town. This was a prospect her father both dreaded and anticipated in almost equal measure.
The morning of the wedding arrived.
Dressed in her finest emerald colours, with gold braids, pearls and a coronet, Ginevra was excited for this new chapter of her life.
The time came for the ceremony - but there was no sign of the bride.
The palace was searched, and then the town and surrounding countryside, all to no avail. Nobody knew anything, had seen anything, had heard anything.
Francesco knew he'd been jilted. Angry and confused, he left the palace for his own mansion, and inconsolable, after a few weeks, he joined the Army. He lost his life in battle just a month later.
Ginevra's father grew old before his time, and soon enough, he too faded from life.
Fifty years passed.
The palace, always slightly dilapidated, now eased into disrepute. Unloved and unattended by the inheritors, it eventually came on the market.
New owners took it on, and investigated their property. It came complete with cracked old portraits and creaking furniture, as well as a fair share of woodworm.
As they cleared the rooms and corridors, they came at last to move an old oak wardrobe. As they did so, the now rotten door fell from its hinges.
A pearl - some gold braid - and a skeleton all fell to the floor.
Ginevra, wanting to play one last childish game with Francesco, had hidden in the wardrobe for him to find her - and had been ambushed by the old and faulty spring lock of the door.
If you don't already know it, and would like to read the original Ginevra poem, by Samuel Rogers, I can recommend you do so!
The Ambush
In a hot and dusty part of eighteenth century Italy, where the summer would drape itself like a blanket over the town, and creep its heated fingers into every corner and crevice, it behoved you to build, if you could afford it, a house with long dark corridors and few windows.
This left you with cool places to sit in. One of these darkened rooms, in an ornate but fading palace, was the favourite sitting place of Ginevra.
Ginevra was fifteen. Her childhood had been bittersweet - her poor mother had breathed her last even as she gave new life, and her father was a busy, wealthy man who had little time for the child.
Ginevra had been unruled and unruly, taking her ease as she pleased, playing and running in the corridors. Always insatiably curious, she had even been caught trying to climb trees or ride horses. These were totally unsuitable activities for girls of her class and time. And her father knew it.
Custom was, in those days, for girls to be married off at fifteen, and it was with no little relief to her father that Ginevra was to be no different.
Betrothed to her childhood friend, Francesco, her marriage was settled. She would move to Francesco's mansion, on the other side of town. This was a prospect her father both dreaded and anticipated in almost equal measure.
The morning of the wedding arrived.
Dressed in her finest emerald colours, with gold braids, pearls and a coronet, Ginevra was excited for this new chapter of her life.
The time came for the ceremony - but there was no sign of the bride.
The palace was searched, and then the town and surrounding countryside, all to no avail. Nobody knew anything, had seen anything, had heard anything.
Francesco knew he'd been jilted. Angry and confused, he left the palace for his own mansion, and inconsolable, after a few weeks, he joined the Army. He lost his life in battle just a month later.
Ginevra's father grew old before his time, and soon enough, he too faded from life.
Fifty years passed.
The palace, always slightly dilapidated, now eased into disrepute. Unloved and unattended by the inheritors, it eventually came on the market.
New owners took it on, and investigated their property. It came complete with cracked old portraits and creaking furniture, as well as a fair share of woodworm.
As they cleared the rooms and corridors, they came at last to move an old oak wardrobe. As they did so, the now rotten door fell from its hinges.
A pearl - some gold braid - and a skeleton all fell to the floor.
Ginevra, wanting to play one last childish game with Francesco, had hidden in the wardrobe for him to find her - and had been ambushed by the old and faulty spring lock of the door.
If you don't already know it, and would like to read the original Ginevra poem, by Samuel Rogers, I can recommend you do so!