It was early in the month of September. The grapes were already purple with the draughts of sunshine which they had drunk in through a long, ardent summer, and the trees had already begun to display "the sear and yellow leaf"--early, early, like those who exhaust in life's young day all the allotted pleasures of man's little space. The autumn had fallen upon them soon. Yet it was a lovely scene, as you gazed from one of those little monticules which stud the Lombard plains. There is something in the descent from the mountains into Italy which seems to anticipate the land--not so much in its physical as in its moral features; a softness, a gentleness, a gracefulness which is all its own, while round about, unseen, but felt in every breeze, is the dark, pestilential swamp, gloomy and despairing, or else a brighter but more treacherous land, fair to the eye, but destructive to vitality, which lures but to destroy. One easily conceives the character of a large portion of the people of the middle ages in Italy from the aspect of the land. But it is of the people of the middle ages only. One can hardly derive any notion of the ancient Roman from the characteristics of the country till one plunges into the Campagna, where the stern, hard features of the scenery seem to represent that force which, alas! has passed away.
And yet it was a lovely scene, and a moment of sweet and calm enjoyment, as three young people sat together on the lower step of a terrace near Vigevano, with a fountain gushing and murmuring some twenty feet above, and a beautiful garden filled with mulberry-trees and vines, and some oranges, not very luxuriant, but diffusing a pleasant but languid odour round. The eye wandered over the shrubs and trees to the lands watered by the Ticino on its way to Pavia; and beyond, in the evening light, long lines of undulating country were marked out in the deep blue tints peculiar to the distant scenery of Italy. The terrace, below which the three were seated, was long and wide, and rising therefrom, near the centre, was one face of a villa, built in a style of which few specimens remain. The taste and genius of Palladio had not yet given to the villa-architecture of Lombardy that lightness and grace which formed the characteristic of a new style of art. There was something, at that time, in every country-house of Italy of the heavy, massive repulsiveness of the old castello. But yet the dawn of a better epoch was apparent, in the works of Andrea Palladio's great master, Trissino; and in the very villa of which I speak, though here and there a strong, tall tower was apparent, and the basement story contained stone enough to have built a score of modern houses, much ornament of a light and graceful character had been lavished upon the whole building, as if to conceal that it was constructed for defence as well as enjoyment. Indeed, as is generally the case, there was a certain harmony between the times and state of society and the constructions of the period. The Italian smiled, and revelled, and feasted, and called in music, and song, and poetry, to cover over the dangers, and the griefs, and the terrors of every day; and the palace in the city, or the villa in the country, was often as richly decorated as if its massy inner walls were never intended to preserve the life and fortune of its owner from the hands of rude assailants, nor its halls ever to witness deeds of horror and cruelty within their dark recesses.
It was, indeed, an evening and a scene such as Lorenzo Visconti had described as fitted for the telling of his own history. All was still and quiet around; the leaves of the vines hardly moved with the light air, the glow of the western sky faded off into deep purple as the eye was raised from the horizon to the zenith; no moving object--no, not a floating cloud, could be seen on any side; and the murmur of the fountain seemed to add to, rather than detract from, the stillness. The three young people--I need not tell the reader who they were---had ranged themselves as their nature or their temporary feelings prompted. On the lowest step Bianca Maria had placed herself, looking up with her sweet confiding eyes towards the young companion whom she almost idolized. On the step above was her cousin Lorenzo; and on a step above them both, but leaning with her elbow on her knee, and her cheek resting on her hand, a little to the right of Lorenzo and the left of Bianca, was Leonora d'Orco, with her dark eyes bent down, drinking in the words of the young soldier.
It was a group such as Bronzino might have delighted to paint; for not only were there those colours in it which all Italians love, and all Italian artists take pleasure in blending and harmonizing--the deep browns, which characterise the complexion of their country, with the rarer and exceptional fairness sometimes found among them---the flowing flaxen hair of the North, and its rich crimsons, but in the dress of the three also there were those strong contrasts of harmonious hues, if I may use what may seem at first sight (but only at first sight) a contradiction in terms--the rich red, and the deep green, and the yellow touching upon brown, and the pale blue. How charming, how satisfactory was the art of those old painters in reproducing on the canvas the combinations which nature produces every day. And yet Art, following Nature in its infinite variety, has shown us, in the works of Murillo and some other Spanish artists, that perfect harmony of colouring can afford as much pleasure as harmonized contrasts, and that in painting also there may be Mozarts as well as Beethovens.
The evening light fell beautifully upon that young group, as they sat there on the steps of the terrace, and, just glancing round the angle of an old ruined building of Roman date in the gardens below, touched gently and sweetly upon the brow and eyes of Bianca Maria, lighted up the face of Lorenzo, and shone full upon the whole figure of Leonora, as she gazed down upon the speaker.
"I must go back far into the times past," he said; "I dare say you are well aware that the Viscontis once reigned as lords and dukes of Milan. Do not suppose, Leonora, that I am about to put forth any claim to that rich inheritance; for, though nearly allied to the ruling race, my branch of the family were already separated from the parent stem when the imperial bull was issued which conferred sovereignty on the branch that ended with Filippo Maria. That bull limited the succession strictly, and we had and have no claim. At the death of Filippo, the Milanese found still one spark of ancient spirit, and they declared themselves a republic. But republics have in them, unhappily, no seeds of durability. There is not strength and virtue enough in man to give them permanence. Rude nations may be strong and resolute enough to maintain such institutions in their youth; but art and luxury soften, and in softening enfeeble, so that men learn to love ease more than independence, pleasure better than freedom. A new dynasty was destined soon to succeed the old. The Viscontis were noble, of high race and long descent, connected with every sovereign house of Europe. But the son of a peasant was to gather their inheritance and wear their coronet.
"There was a man born at Cotignola, in Romagna, named Sforza Attendolo, of very humble birth, but prodigious strength of body and extraordinary military genius. Famine drove him to seek food in the trade of war. He joined one of the great companies, rose by the force of genius and courage, and in the end became one of the two most famous condottieri in Italy. After a career of almost unexampled glory and success, he was drowned in swimming the Pescara, but his son Francesco succeeded to his command, and to more than his inheritance of military fame. He was, indeed, a great man; and so powerful did he become, that Filippo Maria Visconti promised him---to the illegitimate son of a Romagnese peasant--the hand of his only daughter to secure his services in his many wars. He hesitated long, it is true, to fulfil a promise which he felt to be degrading, but he was compelled to submit at length. With the aid of Francesco Sforza he was a great prince--without him he was nothing; and when he died, old and blind, he left his people to struggle against the man whom he had aided to raise, but upon whom his own fate had very often depended. Francesco was noble at heart, though ambitious. His enemies he often treated with unexampled generosity, forbearance, and even kindness. He showed that he feared no man, by freeing the most powerful and most skilful of his captive enemies; but he pursued his course steadily toward dominion, not altogether unstained by deceit and falsehood, but without cruelty or tyranny. Sore pressed by famine, and with his armies beneath their walls, the Milanese, who recognised his high qualities, though they feared his dominion, threw open their gates to him, and renounced their liberty at the feet of a new duke in February, 1450. The Viscontis had nothing to complain of. The reigning branch was extinct; the rest were not named in the imperial bull, and they, with their fellow-citizens, submitted calmly of the rule of the greatest man then living in Italy. Nor had they cause to regret the act during the life of Francesco Sforza. He ruled the land justly and moderately, maintained his own renown to the last, and showed none of the jealousy of a tyrant towards those whose birth, or fortune, or talents might have made them formidable rivals. He was wise to conciliate affection in support of power. His good reign of sixteen years did more to enslave the Milanese people than the iron heel of any despot could have done; but there were not wanting those among his children to take cruel advantage of that which his virtues had accomplished. He died about thirty years ago, and to him succeeded his eldest son, the monster Galeazzo. From that hour the iron yoke pressed upon the neck of the Milanese. The new duke had less ambition than his father, and inherited none of his talents; but he had a genius for cruelty, and an energy in crime unequalled even by Eccelino. Those whom he seemed most to favour and who least feared the tyrant's blow, were always those on whom it fell most heavily and most suddenly; and they furnished, when they little expected it, fresh victims for the torture, or for some new and unheard-of kind of death. His luxury and his licentiousness passed all bounds; no family was safe; no lady's honour was unassailed or uncalumniated; violence was resorted to when corruption did not succeed; in each day he comprised the crimes of a Tarquin and the ferocity of a Nero. There were, however, three noble hearts in Milan, and they fancied there were many more. They dreamed that some public spirit still lingered among their countrymen--at least enough, when delivered from actual fear of the tyrant, to seize the opportunity and regain their liberty. When there is no law, men must execute justice as they can; and those three resolved to put Galeazzo to death--a mild punishment for a life of crime. Their names were Olgiati, Lampugnani, and Carlo Visconti. All had suffered from the tyrant. Olgiati's sister had fallen a victim to his violence. Lampugnani's wife was another. My mother only escaped by death. But it was not vengeance that moved the patriots. They had only suffered what others had suffered. The evils of the country had become intolerable; they were all the work of one man; and the three determined to deprive him of the power to inflict more. They looked upon their undertaking not only as a great and glorious enterprise, but as a religious duty, and they prepared themselves for its execution with prayer and fasting, and the most solemn sacrament of the Church. Many difficulties intervened. Either the consciousness that his tyranny and crimes had become intolerable, or one of those strange presentiments of coming fate which have affected many men as the hour of their destiny drew nigh, rendered Galeazzo less accessible, more suspicious and retired than before. He seldom came forth from his palace, was no longer seen on occasions of public ceremony, or in fêtes and festivals. There was, indeed, one day when he could hardly fail to show himself, and that was on St. Stephen's day--a day when, by immemorial custom, every one honours the first martyr by attending mass at the great church. That day they fixed upon for the execution of their design, and each was early in the church, with a dagger hidden in the sleeve of his gown. The world has called it a sacrilege; but they looked upon it as a holy and a righteous deed, sanctified by the justice of the cause, that the most sacred place could not be polluted by it.
"In the mean time Galeazzo seemed to feel that the day and hour of retribution had arrived. He would fain have avoided it; he sought to have mass performed in the palace; he applied to a chaplain--to the Bishop of Como--but in all instances slight obstacles presented themselves, and in the end he determined to go to the Cathedral. One touch of human tenderness and feeling, the first for many a day, broke from him. He sent for his two children, took leave of them tenderly, and embraced them again and again. He then went forth; but the conspirators awaited him in the church; and hardly had he entered when three daggers were plunged into his breast and back. Each struck a second blow; and the monster who had inflicted torture, and death, and disgrace upon so many innocent fellow-creatures sank to the pavement, exclaiming, 'Sancta Maria!'
"The three then rushed towards the street to call the people to arms; but Lampugnani stumbled, catching his feet in the long trains of the women who were already kneeling in the nave. As he fell he was killed by a Moor, one of Galeazzo's base retainers. My father was killed where he stood, and Olgiato escaped into the street only to find the people, on whom he trusted either dead to all sense of patriotism and justice, or stupified and surprised. Not a sword was drawn--not a hand was raised in answer to his cry, 'To arms!' and torture and the death of a criminal once more closed the career of a patriot.
"I was an infant at that time, but in the days of Galeazzo Sforza infants were not spared, and the nurse who had me in her arms hurried forth, carrying me with her, ere the gates of the city could be closed, or the followers of the duke came to search and pillage our house. She took refuge in a neighbouring village, whence we were not long after carried to Florence, where the noble Lorenzo de Medici, after whom I had been baptized, received me as his child, and when he felt death approaching, sent me to the court of France to finish my education among my relatives there."
"And was this Prince Ludovic the son of Galeazzo?" asked Leonora, as soon as he had paused.
"Oh no--his younger brother," replied Lorenzo. "He holds the son in durance, and the son's wife, on the pretence of guardianship, though both are of full age; but, if I be not mistaken, the day of their deliverance is near at hand, for I have heard the king say he will certainly see them, and learn whether they are not fitted to rule their own duchy without the interference of so dangerous a relation."
"God grant the king may be in time," said Bianca Maria; "for it is said the young duke is very sick, and people say he has poison in all he eats."
"Hush! hush!" cried Leonora, anxiously. "Long confinement and wearing care are enough to make him sick, Bianca, without a grain of poison. No one can die now-a-days without people saying he is poisoned. 'Tis a sad tale, indeed, you tell, Lorenzo, and I have often heard our sweet Princess of Ferrara say that Galeazzo was a bad man; but Ludovic surely is not cruel. He has pardoned many a man, I have heard, who had been condemned by the tribunals."
A somewhat bitter smile came upon the lips of Lorenzo Visconti, but he merely replied, "The good and innocent always think others good and innocent till bitter experience teaches them the contrary."
Perhaps he might have added more, but the sound of footsteps on the terrace above caught his ear, and he and Leonora at once turned to see who approached. The steps were slow and deliberate, and were not directed toward the spot where the young people sat; but they instantly checked further conversation on the subjects previously discussed, while from time to time each of the three gave a glance toward two gentlemen who had just appeared upon the terrace. The one was a man somewhat advanced in years, though not exactly what might be called an old man. His hair and beard were very gray, it is true, but his frame was not bent, and his step was still firm and stately. He was richly dressed, and wore a large, heavy sword, of a somewhat antique fashion. Lorenzo asked no questions concerning him, for he knew him already as the grandfather of his young cousin, Bianca Maria. The other was a younger man, dressed in black velvet, except where the arms were seen from under the long hanging sleeves of his upper garment, showing part of an under coat of cloth of silver. He was tall and thin, and his face would have deserved the name of handsome had it not been that the eyes, which were fine in themselves, and overshadowed by strongly-marked eyebrows, were too close together, and had a slight obliquity inward. It was not what could be absolutely called a squint, but it gave a sinister expression to his countenance, which was not relieved by a habit of keeping his teeth and lips closely compressed, as if holding a rigid guard over what the tongue might be inclined to utter.
They took their way to the extreme end of the terrace, and then walked back till they came on a line with the spot where the three young people sat, still silent, for there is a freemasonry in youth that loves not to have even its most trifling secrets laid bare to other eyes, or its most innocent councils broken in upon.
There the two gentlemen paused, and the younger seemed to end some conversation which had been passing between them by saying, "I know not much, Signor Rovera, of the history or views of other times, or for what men lived and strove for in those days; but I do know, and pretty well, the history of my own times, and the rules by which we have to guide ourselves in them. If we have not ourselves power, we must serve those who have power; and while we keep ourselves from what you would call an evil will on our own part, we must not be over nice in executing the will of those above us. Theirs is the deed, and theirs the responsibility. The race of Sforza is not, methinks, a higher or a better race than the race of Borgia. Both are peasants compared to you or me, but the Borgias are rising, and destined to rise high above us both; the Sforzas have risen, and are about to fall, or I mistake the signs of the times. Men may play with a kitten more safely than with a lion; and when Ludovico called this King of France into Italy, he put his head in the wild beast's mouth."
"Ah, that that were all!" exclaimed the old Count of Rovera. "I should little care to see that wild beast close his heavy jaws upon the skull of his inviter, if that would satisfy him; but Italy--what is to become of Italy?"
"God knows," answered the other drily. "She has taken so little care of her children, that, good faith! they must take care of themselves and let her do the same, my noble cousin. We are both too old to lose much by her fall, and neither of us young enough to hope to see her rise. Phoenixes are rare in these days, Signor Count. There," he continued, pointing to the little group upon the steps, "there are the only things that are likely to spring up, except corn, and mulberry-trees, and such vegetables. Why, how the girl has grown already! She is well-nigh a woman. She will need a husband soon, and then baby-clothes, and so forth. I must speak with her. Leonora! Leonora!"
At the sound of his voice, Leonora, who had been sitting with her head bent down and her eyes fixed upon the marble at her feet, sprang up like a startled deer, and ran up the steps toward him; but when within a step, she paused, and bent before him without speaking.
"Who is that man?" asked Lorenzo Visconti in a low tone, while Leonora stood before the stranger, silent and, as it were, subdued.
"That is her father, Ramiro d'Orco," answered Bianca Maria; "he has just returned from Romagna, I suppose; he has not been here for a year, and I heard he was there."
"Her father!" exclaimed the youth; "and is it so a child meets a father? Oh God! had I a parent living who came back from a long absence, how I should spring to receive his first caress! how the first tone of his voice--the first sound of his footstep, would move the whole blood within me. I do believe the very proximity of his spirit would make my whole frame thrill, and I should know that he was present before one of my senses assured me of the fact. My father! oh, my father! could you rejoin your son, should I meet you as a stranger, or bow before you as a ruler?"
"It is not her fault, Lorenzo," said her cousin, eagerly, zealous in her friend's cause; "I do not know how to tell you what he is, Lorenzo. He is hard, yet not tyrannical; cold, yet not without affection. There is no tenderness in him, yet he loves her better than aught else on earth, except, I have heard my grandfather say, except ambition. He is liberal to her, allowing her all she wants or wishes, except, indeed, his tenderness and care. You and I are both orphans, Lorenzo, and perhaps we let our fancy lead us to picture exaggerated joy in the love and affection of parents."
"I love him not, Bianca," answered the young man, with a slight shudder; "there is something in his look which seems to chill the blood in one's heart. I can see in that gaze which he bends upon her, why it is her arms are not thrown round his neck, why her lips are not pressed to his, why words of love and affection are not poured forth upon her father when she meets him after a long absence. She is his child, but he is not a father to her--perhaps a tyrant."
"Oh, no, no!" answered the young girl; "he loves her--indeed he does, and he does not tyrannize over her. But whether it is that there is a natural coldness in his manner, or that he affects a certain Roman hardness, I cannot tell; he only shows his love in indulging her in everything she desires, without a tender look or tender word, such as most fond fathers bestow upon a well-loved child."
"And such a child!" said Lorenzo, musing. "Well, it is strange, Bianca; perhaps he may love her truly, and more than many fathers whom I have seen in France fondle their children as if their whole soul was wrapped up in them, and then sacrifice their happiness to the merest caprice--perhaps it may be so, and yet I do not like his looks. I cannot like him. See how he gazes at us now! It is the gaze of a serpent, cold, and hard, and stony. Who was her mother? She can have gained no part of her nature from him."
"Oh, no," cried the young girl, feeling all that he felt, though unwilling to allow it; "she is like him in nothing, except, indeed, the forehead and the shape of her face. Her mother was almost as beautiful as she is. I remember well; it is not three years since she died. She was a great heiress in the Ghiaradda. All she had was on her marriage secured by the forms of law to herself and her children, and they say he strove almost cruelly to make her give it up to him. After her death he obtained possession of it, but not entirely for himself. It was decided that he should possess it till Leonora married, making suitable provision for her maintenance, but that, when she married, the great estates at Castellano should go to her and her husband. My grandfather, who was her mother's uncle, took much interest in the matter, and for a time he and Signor d'Orco were at bitter enmity; but when the case was decided, and it was found that Leonora's father assigned her more for her portion than the law would have demanded, my grandfather became convinced that he had striven only for what he conceived a right, and became reconciled to him. Indeed, he is quite liberal in all things concerning her; allows her the revenue of a princess, and is himself a man of small expense; but it seems his is an unbending nature. He lets her do what she wills in most things--seldom thwarts her; but when he speaks his own will, there is no appeal from it--neither to his heart nor his mind. I can often persuade my grandfather, though he is quick and hasty, as you know, and sometimes convince him, but it is of no use to try to do either with Ramiro d'Orco."
Lorenzo fancied he comprehended, at least in a degree, the character which, in her youthful way, she strove to depict; but yet there was something in the look of Leonora's father which left a dark, unpleasant impression upon his mind. There are faces that we love not, but which afford no apparent reason for the antipathy they produce. There is often even beauty which we cannot admire--grace which affords no pleasure. There is, perhaps, nothing more graceful upon earth than the gliding of a snake, never for a moment quitting what the great moral painter called "the line of beauty." There is nothing more rich and resplendent than his jewelled skin, and yet how few men can gaze upon the most gorgeous of that reptile race without a shuddering sensation of its enmity to man? Can it be that in the breast of the reasoning human creature, God, for a farther security than mere intellect against a being that is likely to injure, implants an instinct of approaching danger which no fairness of form, no engagingness of manner can at first compensate? It may be so. At all events, I have seen instances where something very like it was apparent. And yet, with time, the impression wears away; the spirit has spoken once its word of warning; if that word is not enough, it never speaks again. The snake has the power of fascinating the bird which, in the beginning, strove to escape from him; and we forget the monitor which told us our danger.
In an hour from that time Lorenzo was sitting at the same table with Ramiro d'Orco, listening well pleased to searching and deep views of the state of Italy, expressed, not indeed with eloquence, for he was not an eloquent man, but with a force and point he had seldom heard equalled.
It would not be easy to give his words, for, even were they recorded, they would lose their strength in the translation; but the substance we know, and it would give a very different picture of Italy in that day from any that can be drawn at present. We see it not alone dimmed by the distance of time, but in a haze of our own prejudices. We may gather, perhaps, the great results; but we can, I believe, in no degree divine the motives, and most of the details are lost. Read the history of any one single man in those days, as portrayed by modern writers, and compare one author with another. Take for instance that of Lorenzo de Medici, as carefully drawn by Roscoe, or brightly sketched by Sismondi. What can be more different? The facts, indeed, are the same, but how opposite are all the inferences. In both we have the dry bones of the man, but the form of the muscle, and the hue of the complexion are entirely at variance. Writers who undertake to represent the things of a past age are like a painter required to furnish portraits of persons long dead. Tradition may give them some guidance as to the general outline, but the features and the colouring will be their own.
It is therefore with the great facts of the state of Italy at that time that I will deal, as nearly in the view of Ramiro d'Orco as I can; but it must be remembered that his view also was not without its mistiness. If we cannot see early on account of the remoteness of the objects which we contemplate, his vision also was indistinct, obscured by the prejudices of class, interest, party, hope, apprehension, and above all, ambition. He painted the condition of Italy only as Ramiro d'Orco believed it to be. How much even of that belief was to be ascribed to his own desires and objects, who can say?
Lombardy, the great northern portion of Italy, indeed, had ever been isolated from the rest in manners and habits of thought. Italians the Lombards certainly were; but the characteristics of the northern conquerors predominated in that portion of the peninsula. Except at Genoa and in Venice, republicanism in no shape had taken any deep root. From very early times, although the voice of the people had occasionally proclaimed a republic here and there, the babe was strangled ere it got strength, even by those that gave it birth. The epoch of democratic independence in Lombardy lasted barely a century and a half. No republic flourished long north of the River Po, except those I have named, and even the two which took some glory from the name little deserved it. Less real liberty was known in Venice than perhaps existed under the most grinding tyranny of a single man; and Genoa, in her most palmy days, was a prey to aristocratic factions, which soon made the people but slaves to princes. But it must not be supposed that nothing was obtained in return: a more chivalrous and warlike spirit existed in that division of Italy than in the central portion. It was not so early refined, but it was not so speedily softened. Corrupt it might be, and indeed was, to even a fearful degree; but it was the corruption of the hard and the daring, rather than of the weak and effeminate. Men poisoned, and slew, and tortured each other, and the minds of all became so familiar with blood and horror, that much was endured before resistance to oppression was excited; but conspiracies were generally successful in their primary object, because the conspirators were bold and resolute. A tyrant might fall only to give place to another tyrant, but still he fell; and you rarely saw in Lombardy such weakness as was displayed in the enterprise of the Pazzi.
Men in the north fought openly in the field for counties, and marquisates, and dukedoms; but there was little finesse or diplomatic skill displayed except by Venice. There was cunning, indeed, but it was always exercised to gain some military advantage. The ambition of that part of the land was warlike, not peaceful. It was not luxury, and ease, and graceful enjoyment that was desired in combination with power, but it was splendour, and pomp, and domination. Weak tyrants were sure to fall; merely cruel ones generally retained their power; and cunning ones were frequently successful; but it was only by wielding the sword, either by their own hands or those of others.
At the time in which Ramiro d'Orco spoke, every vestige of liberty was extinct in Lombardy. The Visconti, and after them the Sforzi, in Milan; the house of Della Scala, and after them the Visconti, in Verona; the Gonzagas in Mantua; the D'Estes in Ferrara; the Carraras in Padua; the Bentivogli in Bologna, and a hundred other princely houses, had attained power by both policy and the sword, and Genoa had passed frequently from anarchy to subjection, and subjection to anarchy. But the great military school of Alberic de Barbiano had raised up a vigorous and healthy spirit in the people, which, had it lasted, would have secured to both Romagna and Lombardy strength to resist foreign enemies, even if it could not control intestine divisions. But the great company of St. George, founded by Barbiano, was succeeded by two others, who, though they possessed all the energy of their predecessors, and were led by men of very superior abilities, were merely the companies of adventurous soldiers known as the Bracceschi and Sforzeschi. Their swords were at the command of those who could pay them best, and their leaders were men who sought to found dynasties upon military success. In this object Braccio de Montana failed. He was mortally wounded at Aquila in 1424, and his formidable band gradually dispersed, after having passed under the command of several others. Though Sforza perished in passing the Pescara ere he attained the power at which he aimed, the object was accomplished by his son Francesco, who established himself in the ducal throne of Milan.
Thus, at the time when Ramiro d'Orco spoke, in 1494, the whole of Lombardy was under the domination of various princes, commonly and not unjustly called tyrants; but the chivalrous spirit of the people was by no means extinct; and even the course of the arts showed the tendency of the popular mind. It is true, Milan itself was more famous for the manufacture and even the invention of arms than for the fine arts, but in the pictures of that country during this and the preceding centuries saints and martyrs, angels and demons, are frequently represented in knightly harness, and in some it would be difficult to distinguish the messenger of peace from one of the terrible legionaries of the great companies.
It seemed, indeed, as if Lombardy had returned to its normal feudal notions, in which chivalry was inseparably attached to monarchy and aristocracy.
The central states of Italy clung to republican forms of government long after they had been extinguished in the north; but it was republicanism founded upon wealth, not upon purity of character or simplicity of manners--no, nor upon real patriotism. A celebrated writer of late days has spoken of "the virtue of Florence" in this very century. Let us see how that virtue was depicted by the best judges of the times of which he, at this late day, speaks. "I never imagined," said Piero de Medici, father of Lorenzo, on his death-bed, addressing the chief citizens of Florence, "that times would come when the conduct of my friends would force me to esteem and long for the society of my enemies, and wish that I had been defeated instead of victorious." He then went on to reproach them with their vices and their crimes. "You rob your neighbours of their wealth," he said, "you sell justice, you evade the law, you oppress the weak, and exalt the insolent. There are not, throughout all Italy, so many and such dreadful examples of violence and avarice as in this city."
Again Machiavelli describes the youth of Florence as having become "more dissolute than ever, more extravagant in dress, feasting and other licentiousness," and says that, "being without employment they wasted their time and means on gaming and women, their principal care being how to appear splendid in apparel, and obtain a crafty shrewdness in discourse." Nor can I look upon the persevering efforts of that republic to subjugate all the neighbouring cities as a proof of virtue or of love of liberty.
Their military virtues seem to have been upon a par with their domestic qualities. Their battles were fought by hired mercenaries, and where the Florentine forces did appear in the field, they apparently merited the reproach which Machiavelli casts upon the military in general of the central and southern portions of Italy. In describing the campaign of 1467, he says, "A few slight skirmishes took place, but in accordance with the custom of the time, neither of them acted on the offensive, besieged any town, or gave the other any opportunity of coming to a general battle; but each kept within its tents, and they conducted themselves with the most remarkable pusillanimity." Indeed, his description of all the battles in which none of the great condottieri were engaged, is merely ludicrous. Moreover, the political virtues of the people seem, at this time at least, not to have surpassed those of the heart and mind. Florence had the name of a republic, but its government was in reality an oligarchy. There is a consciousness in man that persons whose time is devoted to daily labour have not those opportunities of mental culture, and that leisure for deep thought, which alone can fit men for the task of leading and governing. However strong may be democratic sentiment, however jealously tenacious of the name of equality citizens may be, there is, in the natural course of all communities, a tendency to produce an aristocracy. In the warring elements of a political chaos, the first efforts of order are to resolve the people into classes--nay, into castes. The hatred of hereditary authority generally directs these efforts to elevate riches to the highest place. The wealthy, in whom one sort of pre-eminence is already obvious, are not so obnoxious at first sight as those who have no real source of influence but the intangible one of birth; and thus from republics, founded frequently upon purely democratic principles, generally rises the most hateful and debasing of all aristocracies, the aristocracy of wealth. This had long been the case with Florence at the time I speak of: wealth was nobility, and that nobility was rapidly tending toward monarchy. Lorenzo de Medici had exercised until his death, in April, 1492, an anomalous sovereignty, denied the character of prince of a monarchical state, and yet divested of the restraints of a magistrate of a free people. He was addressed by all public bodies and all private persons as "Most Magnificent Lord," and swayed the destinies of the country, influenced the character of the people, and deeply affected the fate of all Italy, without any legal right or actual station. His was solely a monarchy of influence, and, though even Cromwell felt the necessity of giving to his power the sanction of a name, Lorenzo ruled his countrymen till his death in the character of a citizen.
The south of Italy had in the mean time passed through several phases, and the monarchical element had long predominated in its government. The only question was to whom it should belong. Foreign families struggled for the often contested throne; and Italians then only drew their swords or raised their voices in favour of one or another usurper. The destinies of the north and the south were sealed; and in Tuscany no wide field was offered for ambition. A man might raise himself to a certain degree by subservience to some powerful prince, but he must continue to serve that prince, or he fell, and would never aspire to independent domination where hereditary power was recognised by the people, and lay at the foundation of all acknowledged authority. It was alone in central Italy, and especially in Romagna and in the States of the Church--where a principle antagonistic to all hereditary claims existed in the very nature of the Papal power--that any adventurer could hope, either by his individual genius or courage, or by services rendered to those who already held authority, to raise himself to independent rule, or to that station which was only attached to a superior by the thin and nearly worn-out thread of feudal tenure.
"Those who would find fortune," said Ramiro d'Orco, "such fortune as Francesco Sforza conquered and the Medici attained must seek it at Rome. There is the field, the only field still open to the bold spirit, the strong, unwavering heart, the keen and clear-seeing mind--there is the table on which the boldest player is sure to win the most. With every change of the papacy, new combinations, and, consequently, new opportunities must arise, and, thanks to the wise policy of the College of Cardinals, those changes must be frequent. A man there may, as elsewhere, be required to serve in order at length to command; but if he do not obtain power at length, it is his fault or Fortune's, and in either case he must abide the consequences. Good night, Signor Rovera."
"What is it, dear girl?--Let me think?" said Leonora to her young cousin. They sat in a small ante-room between their sleeping chambers, which gave entrance from the corridor to each.
"And what would you think of, Leonora?" asked Bianca, laughing wickedly.
Leonora gazed from the window, whence was seen the garden below bathed in moonlight, with faint glimpses of the distant country, and the sparkle of the rays upon the fountain whose voice came murmuring up. She did not answer, but continued silent, with her cheek resting on her hand, and her arm upon the sill of the window.
"I know right well whom you are thinking of," said Bianca, bending down her head so as to gaze upon the beautiful face.
"Not you," said Leonora; "I am thinking of my father; and how strange it is that he who loves me well, I know, should show his love so little."
"Can you think of two things at once, Leonora?" asked her cousin, "for I know one thing you are thinking of, and you tell me of another. You are thinking of Lorenzo Visconti; and how strange it is that you, who love him well, have not the heart to own it to yourself."
"Go, go, you are a silly child," answered Leonora, "you cannot know what love is, nor I either, except love for your parents or your kinsfolk. I think not of Lorenzo Visconti; he is a comely youth, and pleasant in his conversation; but he will go hence in a day, forget me in another, and I him before the third evening comes. You want to make me fall in love with him, but I tell you, Blanche, you will tire me of him."
"Faith, I do not want you to love him," replied Bianca, "for I am half in love with him myself, and can't spare him--only, you know, there is one obstacle."
"Well, well, go and sleep over it," replied Leonora, "then rise to-morrow, and whisper gently in his ear that, if he will but wait a year or two--this loving land and warm climate notwithstanding--he can wed the beautiful heiress of the house of Rovera, and--but what obstacle do you talk of, Blanche?"
"The Church! the Church!" replied the other girl; "we are full cousins, you know, Leonora--within the forbidden degrees. My mother's eldest sister was his mother."
"But a poor obstacle," answered Leonora; "one of the two bags of the Church is always open to take in gold, and the other to let out dispensations."
"Yes: but somehow I can never look on him as aught else but a cousin," replied Bianca--"a sort of brother. As such I love him well; but as I said, I am only half in love with him---a fraternal love, which is a half love, I suppose. I do not know much about it; but I do not judge I could let him kiss me so coolly if I loved him any better. Bless my poor heart, Leonora, we were boy and girl together when we were in Florence, and were we to marry, I should always think him playfellow instead of husband. But I'll to bed and sleep; I have nothing to keep me awake. You go to bed and sleep, if you can. I know you, Leonora."
"No, you do not," murmured her cousin; "but I shall sit up and look at the moonlight for a time."
"And wish that the nightingale had not ceased to sing true-love ditties," replied Bianca gaily. "Well, good night. Leave the doors open, that I may hear if you sigh about Lorenzo in your sleep."
Bianca, or, as the French called her, Blanche Marie, then left her gaily, and with a light heart was soon asleep. Leonora d'Orco sat quite still by the window, and gazed forth. All was still and tranquil. The air was clear and soft, and yet there seemed a sort of haze--a haze of brightness over the landscape. Have you never remarked, reader, especially in southern climates, that the moon sometimes pours forth her pale rays in such profusion that it seems as if a mist of light spread over the scene? So was it at that moment; and though the nightingale, as Blanche Marie had said, no longer trilled his summer song, yet every now and then a note or two from his sweet voice burst upon the ear--a song, begun as if in memory, and broken off as if in despair. The time of love was past, and he could sing no more; but the remembrance of happy days woke up under the warm autumn splendour, and a few short plaintive notes came welling from the fountains of regret.
Of what was the young maiden thinking? What feelings woke up in her bosom under that bright moon?
What harmonious chord vibrated in her bosom to the broken tones of the solitary songster of the night?
Gaze down into a deep, deep well, reader, and if you gaze long enough, you will catch an uncertain gleam of light, you know not whence, glistening upon the surface of waters below you; but you cannot fathom those waters with the eye, nor see aught that they cover; and so it is with the heart of woman to those who would scan it from a distance. If you would know what is beneath, plunge down into its depths, torch in hand; you may perish, but you will know all that can be known of that most deep, mysterious thing.
At length there was the sound of a light footstep on the terrace beneath, and Leonora started and listened. The foot that produced the sound was still distant, and she quietly glided through the open door into her cousin's chamber. Blanche Marie was already sleeping peacefully, the light covering hardly veiling the contour of the young beautiful limbs, the hair already escaped from the net intended to restrain it, and the white uncovered arm cast negligently under the warm, rosy cheek. Her breathing was soft, and low, and even, and the half-open lips showed the pearly teeth between.
"How beautiful she is!" murmured Leonora; "and how sweet and gentle she looks! So looked Psyche;" and with a noiseless step she left the room, and closed the door behind her.
She took her seat near the window again, behind the rich deep moulding, as if she would see without being seen; but the lighted taper on the table cast her shadow across without her knowing it; and there she sat, and once more listened. The step was very, very near now, and the next instant it stopped beneath the window. Then came a silent pause for a moment, and Leonora's heart beat.
"Bianca," said the voice of Lorenzo, "is that you, dear cousin?"
Leonora was strongly tempted to say yes, but yet she felt ashamed of the positive falsehood, and, with a sort of compromise with conscience, she answered, almost in a whisper:
"Hush! speak low."
"Which is Leonora's chamber?" asked the voice again.
"Why?" demanded the young girl, in the same low tone, but with strange sensations in her bosom.
"I wish to sing to her," answered the youth, "and to tell her all I dared not tell this evening. I am ordered to Pavia early to-morrow, dear cousin, and must leave you to plead my cause, but I would fain say one word for myself first."
Oh, how Leonora's heart beat.
"Then it is not Bianca," she murmured to herself; "it is not Bianca. The next room on your right," she answered, still speaking low; but suddenly there came upon her a feeling of shame for the deception, and she added, "What is it you would say, Lorenzo? Leonora is here; Bianca has been sleeping for an hour. But don't sing, and speak low. Signor Rovera's apartments are close by."
But Lorenzo would not heed the warning; and though he did not raise his voice to its full power, he sang, in a sweet, low tone, a little canzonetta, which had much currency some few years before in Florence: