Exposition The castle of Gesualdo is not the most intimidating castle you have ever seen. It does, however, sit atop the highest hill in the…
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Exposition The castle of Gesualdo is not the most intimidating castle you have ever seen. It does, however, sit atop the highest hill in the…
The castle of Gesualdo is not the most intimidating castle you have ever seen. It does, however, sit atop the highest hill in the area, all two stories of it, and provides a commanding view of the small town nestled below of the same name. That name, Gesualdo, is the family name, a name stretching back for centuries, always rooted in this place - this hill, this castle, this town, this family.
It had been a long and dusty journey, but Emmanuel Gesualdo felt a tinge of childhood excitement now that he could see his final destination. He peeked through the carriage curtains and could not help but smile when he saw the castle again. He had been estranged from his father for many years - since his mother’s death. He never felt like he had been able to handle his father’s mood swings, his self-centeredness, his - let’s call them eccentricities. But now he had a reason to come home. He had left this castle as a boy, but was now returning as a man. The question was, would his father treat him like one?
Emmanuel examined, as best he could from a moving carriage, the state of the exterior walls of the castle that he stood to inherit someday. His father was only 41, so it could still be decades before he died - but his health had always been problematic. The best doctors in Naples had failed to ameliorate his father's trouble breathing, and all the leeches in the world apparently could not balance out his ill humors. It was now rumoured that his father employed servants specifically to beat him daily, and was an avid fan of self-mortification through flagellation. No one dared tell him directly, but he had overheard it whispered in the halls - and other rumours were worse. None of this really bothered Emmanuel - he had his life to lead, and his father had his. God would judge his father’s soul. Emmanuel and Carlo had found they operated best at a safe distance. And Emmanuel’s life was the business that brought him home.
The carriage pulled through the gate into the cobblestone castle courtyard. The horses exhaled and sputtered - even they knew they were home. The carriage door was opened for him.
“Bardotti!” Emmanuel exclaimed, truly happy to recognize a familiar face. Bardotti meant “errand-boy,” and it was a long-running joke to call this man a score of years older than his father an errand-boy - but Bardotti had been in the family service for at least forty years now. A more loyal family servant one could not have hoped to find. Emmanuel had known Bardotti his entire life - Bardotti had witnessed his birth.
“Don Gesualdo - welcome home!” said Bardotti, a huge smile on his weathered face. He then bowed low.
“I couldn’t imagine this place without you, Bardotti,” said Emmanuel, taking a moment to survey his childhood home. “It's smaller than I remember it, though,” he confessed.
A voice called out from above. “Emmanuel! My son is home!” Carlo, his father, descended the stairs - a gesture he did not do for every guest. His second wife, Eleanora, came down too.
“Welcome home, Emmanuel.” Her greeting was formal but not without warmth. “Come.” She smiled and grabbed both of his hands. “You must be famished after your journey. Dinner has been prepared. You must eat!” She was a woman of noble birth forced into an arranged marriage - but she was also an Italian mother.
“So the Camerata is now up to eight musicians!” Carlo boasted over the clinking of silverware. They each ate with a valet in fine livery standing behind them, an ostentatious display of wealth that Emmanual always found annoying. Emmanuel was perfectly capable of lifting the cover off his own plate, thank you very much. But his father always insisted on an impossibly large retinue. It was only one visible manifestation of the enormity of his ego.
Emmanuel raised an eyebrow, suitably impressed. “Francesco still here?”
His father shook his head. “He took leave to sing in some new productions in Mantua and Florence.”
“Oh that's right, he's singing opera!” Emmanuel had actually followed his father’s servant’s career with some interest.
“A modern fad that will soon pass, I suspect,” said Carlo.
“I remember listening to him sing - he was one of the finest tenors in Italy!”
“Still is.” Carlo wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I think he'll come back.”
“You still composing?” Emmanuel asked.
Carlo was pleased his son took this much interest in his favourite pastime. “My largest work ever - probably what I'll be remembered for.”
“What is it?” Emmanuel enquired.
Carlo's eyes flashed wildly. “The Reponsoria. A cycle of 27 motets, 9 for each day of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Saturday.”
“Languishing in the crucifixion, not commemorating the resurrection I see. All pain, no joy.”
“And you, astute as ever. You obviously got your intelligence from me.” Emmanuel did not rise to the bait of defending his mother’s honor. “So what really brings you home?” Carlo pressed.
Emmanuel wiped his mouth before responding. “I'm getting married.”
The statement hung in the air for a long time. Eleanora looked at her husband, knowing better than to interrupt.
Carlo was irritated. It was never hard to tell. “Just like that? No asking permission, no--”
“I don't need your permission, Father,” said Emmanuel assertively.
“Well, do we get to meet her? What family is she from?”
“Her name is Polissena…” Emmanuel’s voice trailed off.
“Yes...? Speak up!” His father had never been known for his patience.
Emmanuel sighed. Time to just say it - this was what he came here to do. “Furstemberg. Her name is Polissena Furstemberg.” The cannon exploded just as Emmanuel predicted it would..
“A German?!” Carlo was almost speechless. “You cannot marry a German, Emmanuel! The Germans are barbarians - they have no music, no wine, no culture…” It was like the Italians had still not forgiven them for sacking Rome. Then a new look of horror came across his face. “God help us - is she - Protestant?” His spittle disseminated disdain.
“See, this is why I'm not asking permission. I knew I wouldn't get your approval so I'm not asking for it!” The fight was unfolding as expected.
“Emmanuel, calm down…” Eleanora tried unsuccessfully to mediate.
“I will not calm down! If I only learned one thing from my father it's ‘do as you please,’ and I will damn well marry whom I please!” Emmanuel shouted.
“Well, do we at least get to meet her?” Eleanora asked reasonably.
His father practically exploded. “NO?!” It was not a word he was often told, governing the largest estate in Italy, overseeing dominions that ranged from the Adriatic to almost Rome itself - the ankle, toe, and heel of the boot. His father was the Prince of Venosa, and no one on earth outranked him except the Pope.
“I'm not bringing her here for your approval. We're not living here before or afterwards.” Emmanuel knew this conversation would not go over well.
“This is the family home! Your family seat!” Carlo protested.
“I will live where I please,” Emmanuel asserted.
“Emmanuel, be reasonable…” Carlo implored.
“That’s good advice coming from the man who murdered my mother.” And there it was. The reason they would never get along - and the reason Emmanuel had left in the first place. And everyone at the table knew that it was true.
Seventeen years ago, in October of 1590, Carlo Gesualdo committed the scandal of Naples when he murdered his wife Maria - Emmanuel’s mother - and her lover when he caught them in bed together. Emmanuel was four at the time, sleeping in the next room. He had heard everything - gunshots from the arquebus, the slashing of halberds, Fabrizio’s screams as their blades entered his body, his mother’s plea to be allowed to confess. He could recall those sounds at will - and unwillingly. He still had nightmares.
There had been an official inquiry, of course. The Master of the Grand Court of Naples himself had determined that Carlo was completely within his rights, because Maria and her lover Fabrizio had been caught in the act. In flagrante delicto. Case closed. Except that Emmanuel’s mother was murdered - and he would be raised by her murderer. His father.
That statement silenced the room. Carlo fumed but didn't say anything.
Eleanora tried to break the cold ice. “When is the wedding?”
“Next week. In Bohemia,” Emmanuel answered.
His father couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Bohemia! You expect us to drop everything to cross the Alps next week?!”
“I do not. You're not invited.”
Eleanora looked with alarm at her husband. Carlo, for once in his life, was
It was all the servants behind them could do to not react. Castles were very poor places to keep secrets.
Emmanuel departed the next morning, the start of a long journey to his
fiance’s homeland, where they would be married. He gave his father a formal bow, kissed his father’s wife’s hand, and gave Bardotti a hug - and was off.
“He does this to spite me!” Carlo fumed as Emmanuel’s carriage pulled out of the courtyard. “A German! She's probably Lutheran! Argh…” He walked away in disgust. Another of his incessant bouts of infernal coughing chose that moment to attack. Eleanora tried to comfort him, but he brushed her off.
Happily for Carlo, the estrangement with his son was not permanent. When Emmanuel returned two years later, there was a partial reconciliation. He travelled home with his new wife - and brought a peace offering as well.
Emmanuel debarked from the carriage excitedly, and he - not Bardotti - assisted a not-unattractive woman to the ground. Eleanora estimated she had recently seen 30, perhaps. But Carlo was more interested in the bundle she carried in her arms.
“Father, I have some introductions to make,” Emmanuel commenced. “I'd like you to meet my wife, Polissena.”
His father was polite and courteous. “Welcome to Gesualdo, my lady.”
“And this, father, is your grandson.”
There is no better way to win the heart of your father than to introduce him to his grandchild. There in his son’s wife’s arms lay the future of his house, and his family. His heir.
Awed, humbled, he gestured with his arms as he approached. “May I?” he inquired of the mother.
“Of course…” she said, and handed him his grandson. His future.
An infant's face embodies pure innocence - and instantly reminded Carlo of how long it had been since he had been in love. Eleanora crowded too.
“He has your eyes!” he exclaimed to his son. “Look at him!”
“He’s so precious!” Eleanora agreed. “What's his name?”
Emmanuel looked his father in the eye before answering. “Carlo,” he said.
Carlo was again speechless - humbled and overwhelmed with gratitude. Carlo kissed the baby's forehead and handed the child back to his mother.
“We'll set up a crib in your apartments. Tonight, we celebrate! My prodigal son has returned! I've ordered your favorite dish - and tomorrow, I've commanded there will be a festival in your honor! Jousting and an archery contest - Il Palio dell'Alabarda! Come, we eat!”
Carlo put his arm around his son and led him to the dining room, where a feast awaited them that was fit for a prince.
Unfortunately, their joy was short-lived. Baby Carlo died just months later, despite the best medical care available. The doctor shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry.”
Polissena collapsed, sobbing. No amount of comfort from Eleanora or
anyone could assuage the grief of a bereaved mother.
Emmanuel was grieving too, and didn’t know how to be of comfort to his wife. He sought comfort in his favorite pastime growing up, riding, whipping the horse into a frenzy as he raced down the road. He returned reluctantly, before the sun set, and sought solace in the new chapel that Carlo had built adjacent to the castle. He had never been inside it before.
The painting that Carlo had commissioned for its centerpiece towered 5 meters over the altar, dominating the space. Entitled Il Perdono di Gesualdo (The Forgiveness of Gesualdo), it is an intimidating Last Judgement in the same style as Michangelo’s in the Sistine Chapel, completed a century ago. Balducci had painted a masterpiece to Carlo’s very precise specifications.
At the pinnacle sits Christ in judgement, accompanied by the archangel Michael and the Virgin Mary. Completing the top “heavenly” half are four more saints: Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Domenic, Saint Catherine of Sienna, and Mary Magdalene - three saints from Italian history, and four Saints who had had their encounters with the devil and prevailed. The winged child in the middle, ascending from Purgatory, is not a random cherub but Carlo’s (and Eleanora’s) son Alfonsino, who died at age three.
Carlo had himself painted into the picture, in the Pietistic tradition of placing penitents at Christ’s feet. His uncle, Cardinal Borromeo - who had since been beautified - places his right arm on his nephew’s shoulder. Eleanora appears across from him. The Virgin Mother points at Carlo with her right hand, interceding for Carlo on his behalf. And Christ lifts his right hand, indicating forgiveness. But the most audacious inclusion in the image was a male and a female, languishing in flames at the bottom - Carlo’s first wife Maria and her lover Fabrizio, who died in a state of sin and were thus condemned to hell for eternity.
Carlo was kneeling alone before his painting, pleading for the soul of his grandson, when Emmanuel arrived at the chapel door. He cleared his throat.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt,” Emmanuel apologized.
Carlo looked back and stood up. “It's fine. You need to be here too.” It was then that Emmanuel noticed the painting.
“That’s new,” he said, walking over for a closer look.
“Yes, it was just installed last month. I believe it to be Balducci’s finest work.”
But Emmanuel was more interested in the content than the artist. “This is you. And your Uncle Borromeo. Rather bland portrait of Eleanora though, don't you think?”
“She hates it,” Carlo confessed. “We're fighting over whether or not Balducci has to redo it--”
“So this is Alfonsino between you, ascending?” Emmanuel was eleven when his half-brother had died, he remembered it well. Carlo had no response.
“And that makes this my mother? You've consigned my mother to hell!” Emmanuel tasted bile. Only his father could be this audacious, this self-centered. The sheer hubris enraged him. “How dare you! You can't just paint yourself into heaven you know--”
“The painting wasn't for you,” Carlo protested meekly. “It was for me. I needed this.”
“Don't you see? Everything you do is for you. Your whole life is about yourself and your selfish desires. The only person you ever think about is yourself.”
Then Carlo did something that Emmanual did not expect: Carlo dropped to his knees. His posture mimicked his pose in the painting behind him.
“Emmanuel, I have made mistakes in my life and I have paid for them. I have done you wrong and I regret it. I acted foolishly for what I thought was my family honor, but I have regretted those acts every single day since. I cannot go back and change that day but I wish I could. All I can do is entreat you not to leave me. I killed your mother and I beg your pardon. For the sake of an old man's soul - forgive me?”
Emmanuel stared down at his father - but a lifetime of coldness would not easily be wiped away. He slowly shook his head in disgust and walked out. Carlo collapsed to the floor, crushed by the weight of a lifetime of mistakes, broken.
Emmanuel would never speak to his father again.
Il Perdono wasn’t the only painting Gesualdo had commissioned - just the only painting to include his portrait. Two years later, Carlo stood before his newest acquisition: Mars Chastising Cupid. It represented the other part of Gesualdo’s life, one that did not exist in opposition to, but in tension with, his relationship with the church. The mythological title wasn’t the only reason this painting would never see the inside of the chapel, it was even more so for its content. In dramatic color Mars, draped in angry red, flogs the bare ass of Cupid in punishment.
He and Eleanora rarely spoke anymore. She often travelled to see her brother in Modena, up north, and would be gone for months at a time. And whenever she was gone, Castelvietro shared his bed.
Carlo had met Castelvietro, the son of a wine-merchant, as he was travelling around plying his wares - but it wasn’t his wine that Carlo was interested in, even if his family did supply his cellar with one of his finer Tuscan vintages. Castelvietro entered and embraced Carlo from behind.
“My prince,” he said. Muscular, dashing, with eyes that flashed intelligence - the boy was Adonis incarnate. Carlo smiled and grabbed his hand. Then Castelvietro noticed the painting.
“Wow!” was all he said.
“Isn't it amazing?” Carlo gushed. “Cupid Chastised. Mars is beating Cupid for causing his affair with Venus. The painter, Manfredi, is about your age, I believe.” That would be 24, give or take.
“I could never do that though,” Castelvietro was humbled.
“With training and practice? Sure you can,” Carlo encouraged. “You're getting good at the whip.” That made Castelvietro laugh. His laugh was infectious - so sincere and resonant that it sent shivers of pleasure down to your toes.
“It's amazing what the painter did with light--”
“It certainly is. Manfredi was a student of Caravaggio - that explains that influence,” Carlo agreed. “Notice Mars is in red, signifying anger. Venus’ breast is exposed, and Cupid’s backside - these body parts wouldn't have to be bare, or that fact highlighted by putting them in the light, but they are. This is definitely sexual.”
“It looks like Cupid's enjoying it though,” Castelvietro observed.
“What makes you say that?”
“That is a face of pleasure, not pain.”
“Hard to tell the difference sometimes…”
“Look, he's not trying to get away. Oh and look, his wrist is limp.” Castelvietro pointed and laughed - that deep laugh again. Carlo looked closer.
“You're right! It's fascinating how everyone sees something different in the same painting. I was told this symbolized the eternal struggle between love and war--”
“Look at his ass though. You can't tell if it’s a male or female--”
Carlo raises an eyebrow. “What difference does it make?” he said coyly. “Especially if you're blindfolded like that.” Carlo grinned deviously. “Let's try that this time.”
They both removed their shirts. Castelvietro selected a smaller flogger from the trunk to start. Carlo grabbed a blindfold, but watched Castelvietro take his shirt off before putting it on.
Carlo loved me, but he also loved other people - I was OK with that, because he was open about that from the start, and he was all I had. Let’s just say he sure wasn’t the only married nobleman in Italy having sex with men, I can assure you! Carlo was a man of many contradictions - he liked boys, he liked girls. Most obviously, he killed his wife for adultery when he was guilty of that himself. He was above the world - the rules didn't apply to him. I think that freedom was what I admired most about him. He wasn’t constrained by the laws of the Church, or this world, or by money, or by society.
Carlo was concerned with his musical legacy, so he had a printing press relocated to his castle. There’s a grand total of three printing presses in all of Italy, and he has one of them moved into his house. He was surely the first composer in music history to be able to afford his own printing press.
No one could say no to Carlo Gesualdo. He did whatever he wanted and whomever he wanted. Most of us are trapped in this life, but he had escaped.
But his chronic illness continued to get progressively worse. How could anyone say his breathing difficulties weren't caused by his asthma? Eleanora claimed it was from excessive flogging, but I assure you I never did it without him requesting it. I didn't kill him. Some suggested Eleanora poisoned him, but there was no proof of that - and Carlo was sick enough on his own. No - I think he pursued his demons so hard it eventually killed him. He enjoyed life to its limit. And the gods themselves envied his success.
Behold, A Pale Horse
I’m good at riding, I have always ridden. If I could, I would ride so fast that my horse and I would fly, like Pegasus. And I would be Icarus, flying to escape Crete, dying from hubris. There is no escape from this labyrinth. My father is half-man, half-bull, and kills everyone around him.
I ride to escape - but I have never escaped, therefore I am not good at riding. Maybe if I ride still harder. Still I ride.
I ride into the setting sun. I ride to the horizon, an escape which perpetually eludes. Ahead the road meets the sky where the sun sits on the horizon. I ride a road into the sun. I am Icarus. I fly too close.
Icarus secretly wanted to die, because death, too, is an escape. We fear what lies beyond our comfort zones, what we don’t know. Death is the ultimate escape. It is only in that death we truly escape the confines of our lives.
The sun sets. There is no one on the road. I was Icarus. I flew too close.
Carlo was perpetually ill - but he never recovered from Emmanuel’s death.
Emmanuel was his only surviving son. Emmanuel was his heir, the future of his family name. Emmanuel was his life.
Emmanuel still wasn’t speaking to him. Emmanuel would now never speak to him again.
Carlo heard the news - and never composed another note. It was as if his soul died with his son.
Polissena was eight and a half months pregnant when her husband died in August of 1613. Carlo hung on until the birth of Emmanuel’s child. If it was a boy, there would be someone to carry on the family name. There was hope…
Polissena gave birth three weeks after Emmanuel’s death.
It was a girl.
Emmanuel’s widow and daughter would both marry in time. The Gesualdo line would die with him. He was the last of his family name. How the mighty had fallen! It matters not if you fall from the sky, Gesualdo, or Gilboa. How the love of Castelvietro had surpassed the love of women.
It was the end, and everyone knew it. Carlo requested Friar Capuuchio visit him in the chapel. Judgement loomed.
“Do you have any last requests?” asked the priest.
Carlo’s voice was gravel. “Yes,” he rasped. “Continue my efforts to obtain the relics of Cardinal Borromeo--”
“Saint Borromeo, now,” Pietro corrected.
“Uncle Carlo. My namesake.” Carlo barrelled on. “Now that he's been canonized, the painting achieves even more poignancy. And his family chapel is the proper resting place for them.” He pointed with his eyes up to the painting, where his uncle places a forgiving hand on his shoulder.
“I will,” Pietro promised. There was a brief silence. “Anything else?”
Carlo looked even more uncomfortable. “I have a son,” he confessed.
“Emmanuel. He just passed away.”
Carlo fought a fit of coughing. “No, another. Antonio. He's illegitimate.”
Pietro hated everything that term represented about stratified society. “Perhaps there will come a day when no child is ever labelled ‘illegitimate…’” But now was not the time for that conversation. Carlo continued.
“He won't inherit anything, but I left him some money in my will. Will you ensure that he gets it?”
They sat in silence for a long time. Pietro could hear every laboured breath Carlo took, and wondered how many more there would be. Finally--
“Would you like to receive the Last Rites?” Pietro asked.
Pietro pulled his chair closer and laid his hands on Carlo.
“May God through His infinite mercy, and through his precious blood shed on the cross, deign to forgive your sins, and take your soul up into the place of salvation.” Pietro named each saint pictured in the painting above him. “O Lord, we humbly beseech thee, asking in this the help of the most glorious Virgin Mary, Holy Mother, and the glorious apostles Saint Peter, Saint Paul, Saint Michael, Saint Domenico, Saint Carlo, Saint Mary Magdalene, Saint Catherine of Sienna, and Saint Francis of Assisi, all of whom we pray will deign to intercede for your servant, Carlo Gesualdo, who now makes his final confession before you.”
Carlo cleared his throat with difficulty. Every breath wheezes.
“I confess before God the Heavenly Father, Christ our Savior, The Holy Spirit, the Blessed Virgin Mary and all the Saints my infinite wickedness. I have sinned against Your divine precepts, but pray that through Your infinite grace my soul may be gathered unto eternal life.”
“Lord, hear us now as we pray, and grant unto us the grace you offer through Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, that you will raise us up on the last day in your favor. Amen.”
Pietro tapped Carlo’s shoulder and stood, ready to leave. “Are you coming?”
“I'd like to stay and pray a bit longer, I think.” Carlo replied.
“Very good, Sir. I will take my leave.” Pietro exited, closing the chapel door softly behind him. Carlo was left kneeling in the chapel, alone.
He quoted his own lyrics, from the eleventh composition in his fifth book of madrigals.
“I shall die, therefore, in silence.”
Carlo lay on the chapel floor, a rosary spilling from his right hand. Bardotti found him. When the doctor was unable to revive him, he was pronounced dead. His body was carried out of the chapel under Eleanora’s supervision.
They carried his body downstairs and laid it on a table in the middle of the cellar. Pietro Capuucio entered, crossed himself, and washed his hands. He stripped the clothes off Carlo's body, and washed his naked corpse. He covered Carlo with a white sheet, said a silent prayer for his soul, and departed.
A lead coffin lay closed against the wall. Bardotti returned and opened it,
revealing the body of Emmanuel inside. He had not yet been buried.
Carlo and Emmanuel were both laid to rest in the same coffin. The lid was closed. The lid was engraved with the family name: "Gesualdo."
The lead coffin was loaded onto a wagon, and taken to the Gesu Nuovo church in Naples. Two burly workers lowered the heavy casket as gently as possible by rope into a ready hole in the side-chapel of St. Ignatius of Loyola. They retrieved the ropes. They shoveled sand into the hole and levelled the top. A single black marble slab was lowered into place, covering the grave perfectly. The two workers finished cleaning the area, collected their tools, and left.
I am a widow now, I play the part. I dress in black and pretend to mourn. But you never loved me. Your death frees me to pursue my own happiness, such as is possible for women in this life.
The glory of Gesualdo is now over. It shall never become the cultural center you dreamed of. I'm returning to my brother's in Modena. I renounce my rights to the castle. Your son's widow doesn't want it either - she's returning to Bohemia, and taking her daughter with her. Their name is Gesualdo today, but both will marry in time - and then the Gesualdo name shall be no more. All that will remain is a lonely castle atop a hill dreaming of what could have been.
But that's how you spent your life isn't it? Dreaming of grandeur with your music. And drowning in remorse because you murdered the love of your life.
Yes, I knew you would never love me. You loved only your music. You couldn't even love yourself after what you had done. Once a murderer, always a murderer. No one cares what kind of music a murderer writes. You will soon be forgotten, a queer footnote in music history.
My peace comes from knowing that I was a better spouse to you than you were to me. Goodbye, Carlo. May God have mercy on your soul.
I kneel before my painting, my soul in humble submission to the void beyond. In the tenth madrigal of my fifth book I wrote “He who is departing this life now languishes, and the pain of death so afflicts him that he dies in agony.” The pain of death pales in comparison to the fear of death. Terror is agony. Death would have no fear if not for the judgement beyond it.
How can one possibly atone for a mistake that ruined so many lives? I composed sacred music, I built this chapel, I commissioned religious art. Not once did I feel like my debt was paid. I can never do enough to make my soul feel safe.
It’s so cold. I cough and the air claws as it leaves me. The terror never subsides. I’m so weak, I can’t even sit up. My vision goes black - when it returns, I’m kneeling on all fours. I can’t get up. I can’t call for help. I can’t breathe. I die, therefore, alone.
I try to lift my hands to the Blessed Virgin on the wall - but I can only achieve the level of the woman in hell: my first wife.
Ma. Donna. Maria. Please - forgive me.
Suspension - Resolution
Il Perdono di Gesualdo still hangs above the altar in the Chapel of Grace in Gesualdo, Italy, in silent testimony to the fate of Carlo Gesualdo's soul.
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