Although Mary consoled herself by repeating that all these fine phrases were addressed to the divine essence of Emilia and not a very pretty girl with black eyes and black tresses, yet, at the same time, it was vexing to see Shelley writing with such enthusiasm. Happily, he was so engrossed by the ardour of composition that he had no time to go and see the poem’s heroine. And while her platonic lover multiplied his aërial metaphors, Emilia received from the Count, her father, a cynical message. He had found a husband who would take her without a penny, and he requested her to let him know whether she accepted. The gentleman in question, a certain Biondi, was not attractive, and he inhabited a distant castle, surrounded by swamps. Emilia had never seen him, nor was she to see him before the wedding-day. Such Turkish customs were supremely disgusting, yet what could she do? The Elfin king, married to a very real Mary, could not, evidently, free her from her dungeon. Were she to marry Biondi, this might be perhaps the beginning of a happier life. And if she didn’t like the man, she would meet others she might like, for _cavalieri sirventi_ are to be found even in the midst of a swamp. Shelley had not finished his poem before he learnt that Emilia was married. * * * Six months later Mary wrote to a friend: “Emilia has married Biondi; we hear that she leads him and his mother—to use a vulgarism—a devil of a life. The conclusion of our friendship, _à la Italiana_, puts me in mind of a nursery rhyme which runs thus: ‘As I was going down Cranbourne Lane, Cranbourne Lane was dirty, And there I met a pretty maid Who dropt to me a curtsy. I gave her cakes, I gave her wine, I gave her sugar-candy; But oh! the little naughty girl, She asked me for some brandy.’ “Now turn ‘Cranbourne Lane’ into Pisan acquaintances, which I am sure are dirty enough, and ‘brandy’ into the wherewithal to buy brandy, and you have the whole story of Shelley’s Italian Platonics.” And Shelley added: “I cannot look at my poem! The person whom it celebrates was a cloud instead of a Juno. . . . I think one is always in love with something or other; the error—and I confess it is not easy for spirits cased in flesh and blood to avoid it—consists in seeking in a mortal image the likeness of what is, perhaps, eternal.” CHAPTER XXIX THE CAVALIER’ SIRVENTE