All was bustle and the hurry of preparation in the Villa Rovera. Leonora's two young maids had as much trouble in packing up her wardrobe as a modern lady's maid in arranging her bridal wardrobe, though, be it said, if a lady's apparel in those days was richer, it was not quite so multitudinous as the wardrobe of a modern lady. But these two young maids were not destined to be her only attendants; for the old count, thinking, as he had expressed it, that the Signor Ramiro d'Orco must be mad to entrust the escort of his lovely daughter to so young a cavalier as Lorenzo Visconti, had engaged a respectable and elderly lady, who had served for many years in his own household, to give dignity and gravity to the train of his young relation.
Many and particular were the instructions which he gave in private conclave to the ancient Signora Mariana; and faithfully did she promise to obey all his injunctions, and keep up the utmost decorum and propriety of demeanour by the way.
But alas! there is no faith to be put in old women, especially those of the grade and condition of life which was filled by Mariana. They are all at heart duennas, and, strange to say, generally, however hard and cold their exteriors, feel a sympathy with the tenderness and warmth of youth. The old lady smiled as she left the old man; and perhaps she judged rightly that thus to restrain the actions and keep close supervision on the conduct of a young lady and a young lord upon a long journey through a distracted country was a task so much above her powers that it would be better not to attempt it. "I shall have enough to do to take care of my old bones upon a rough trotting horse during the day, and to rest them during the night, without minding other people's affairs," she said. "Besides, the Signor Lorenzo is a nice, honourable young man, and would do nothing that is wrong, I am sure; and the signora is quite discreet, and moreover, proud, which is better."
Leonora and Lorenzo were full of joy and anticipation. Perhaps never in history was a long journey over rough roads, through a wild country, with the prospect of but poor accommodation anywhere but in the large cities, contemplated with so much wild joy. Fancy was like a bird escaped from its cage, and it soared over the future on expanded wings--soared high and sang.
Every now and then, it is true, a feeling of she knew not what awe or dread came over Leonora's heart--a sensation as if of some danger--a fear of the very wideness of her range, of her perfect freedom from all control--a consciousness that she was a woman and was weak, and very much in love. But it soon passed away when she thought of Lorenzo's high and chivalrous spirit; and then she gave herself up to hope and joy again.
Poor Blanche Marie was the only one to be pitied, and she was very sad. Even the thought that she was loved--that the timid dream of her youth's dawning twilight was already verified, could not console her. She was losing her loved companion, her bright cousin, and her lover all at once. For the loss of the two first, indeed, she had in some degree to blame herself; for, with girlish enthusiasm, she had resolved, from the moment she heard that Lorenzo was about to return to Italy, that he should fall in love with Leonora, and she rejoiced that all had gone according to her plans, but she would rather have had them remain at the Villa Rovera, and make love there beside her. Then, as to De Vitry, she would not have withheld him from the field of fame for the world; but she would rather have had the lists where glory was to be gained, at the back of the garden than far away at the end of Italy. Sometimes she asked herself if she really loved him--if she were not too young to know what love was; but then the pain she felt at the thought of his leaving her for months, perhaps for years, convinced her little heart that there was something in it which had never been there before.
Thus waned the day of the king's halt at the villa gates, and the morning came, when Lorenzo and his train, now amounting to twenty lances and some forty inferior soldiers, were to depart. Besides these, however, were Leonora's servants, male and female, Lorenzo's personal attendants, horses and mules and pannieris, and a baggage-wagon, with six silver-grey oxen to draw it. Moreover, with the baggage-wagon were six foot soldiers, armed with hand-guns, then a new invention, for the manufacture of which, as I think I have mentioned before, Milan had become famous. It made altogether a grand cavalcade, occupying so much of the road while the party waited for their young leader and the fair lady he was to escort, that the peasant carts could hardly get past on their way to supply the market of Pavia with all the luxuries which the King of France's arrival in the city had brought into demand.
Much and sage advice had to be given by the old Count of Rovera both to Lorenzo and Leonora; and long was their leave-taking with poor Blanche Marie; but, in some sort it was fortunate it was so; for, before all was over, the Seigneur de Vitry appeared among them, exclaiming, in his usually gay tone, though there was a certain degree of shadow on his brow, "To horse! to horse, Visconti! You are to have a longer march than you contemplated. It has been decided by the king that seven miles is too short a ride for a young cavalier like you; and you are to march straight by Pavia, and act as an advance party on the way to Naples."
"But where am I to halt?" asked the young cavalier; "remember, Signeur de Vitry, that it is long since I quitted this land, and I know not the distances."
"All that is arranged," answered De Vitry--"arranged upon the very best judgment and authority, that of a man who knows not the worthy count regent, but who knows the country well. At Belgiojoso, just seven miles beyond Pavia, you will find the route-card, as far as Bologna, with every day's march laid down, in the hands of the king's harbinger, old St. Pierre, who goes with you, with twenty lances more, to mark out the royal quarters. But, remember, you command the whole party, and the king relies upon your fidelity and discretion. From each station you will march forward at eight in the morning, unless contrary orders from the court reach you earlier. If you should obtain information of any hostile movements in the front, you will send back intelligence, unless you meet with an enemy, in which case you will fall back upon the van."
"Without fighting?" asked Lorenzo.
"Why, methinks," said De Vitry, with a gay glance at Leonora, "that, considering that you have some non-combatants of your party, the less you fight the better till they are safely bestowed in the rear. But you must use your own discretion in that matter. It would not do to see a French pennon retreat before a handful. But you must be careful."
"I will, depend upon it, on the signora's account," answered Lorenzo.
"'Tis a good guarantee," said De Vitry; "but does the king know she goes with you?--Well, well, do not colour and look perplexed; I will arrange all that for you, only you must tell me what tale I am to relate to his majesty. Am I to say aught about hasty marriages and a Signora Visconti? or that the days of knight errantry have been fully revived by you and De Terrail, and that you are escorting a distressed demoiselle to a place of safety?"
Though Leonora blushed deeply, Bianca Maria laughed gaily. "Why, you might have heard all about it yesterday, my lord," she said, "had you waited till Leonora opened her letter from her father, or till Lorenzo came back. It is by his command she goes--at his request my cousin escorts her. But you were in such a hurry to leave us, you would stay for nothing."
"I stayed till I had got all I wanted for the time," replied the good soldier, "though I may want more by and by."
It was now Marie's turn to blush; but Lorenzo came to her aid, saying, "I had hoped to ask the king's permission to-day at Pavia. I could not ask it yesterday, for his majesty was gone ere I received Signor Ramiro's letter."
"Well, let it pass," said De Vitry. "I give leave for the present, and the king will not call the lady back when you are forward on the march, I think."
"But, Seigneur de Vitry," said Leonora, "I fear truly we shall lose our way, for neither Lorenzo nor I know a step beyond Pavia, and all these soldiers are French I imagine."
"Have you not the renowned Antonio with you?" said De Vitry, gaily; "trust to him--trust to him; but never doubt him or ask if he is sure of the road, or he will let you run into a broken bridge and a swollen river. But get you to horse as speedily as may be. Where is my lord the count?"
"I am going to take leave of him," said Leonora, "and will show you the way."
"One moment, my lord," said Lorenzo, leading his commander a little aside; "tell me, I beg, why I am not suffered to halt in Pavia. There must be something more than you have said."
"Why, I believe it is simply this," answered De Vitry, after a moment's thought; "the good count regent is making a new road to Milan. He has already prepared to remove all the big rocks in the way; and the king thinks, and I think too, that he might judge it expedient to sweep away even the pebbles. The name of Visconti is not pleasant to him, Lorenzo--there are many druggists' shops in Pavia: so ask no more questions, my good friend, but mount and away. God speed you on your march and in your love. Well for you that you took the dark-eyed cousin. If you had chosen the other I would have cut your throat."
No need to pause longer on the parting; no need to follow them on that day's march, for it was without incident. It seemed very short too, to the young lovers, although the distance was greater than had been expected--all distances are. The seven miles from the villa to Pavia and the seven miles from Pavia to Belgiojoso stretched themselves into full sixteen miles, which is contrary to all rules of arithmetic, but still it is an invariable result. The day was charming. It was like youth: it might have been too warm but for certain clouds which shadowed the sky from time to time, and tempered the ardour of the sun. The heavy-armed horses suffered a little: but at length the pretty village--for it deserved not the name of town--which has since given a famous name to a beautiful, high-spirited, but unfortunate lady, appeared before them about four o'clock in the afternoon. Old St. Pierre, the king's harbinger, had been there for some hours with his twenty lances; the quarters were all marked out, and everything prepared.
"As the king must occupy his own lodging first, my lord," he said, "I cannot give you the best inn; but here is a very pretty little place at the edge of the village, where they seem good people, and I reserved that for you. I did not expect, indeed, so many ladies," he continued, looking towards Leonora and her maids, "but I dare say they can all be accommodated. Come and see."
Lorenzo rode on, with the old gentleman, who was on foot, walking by the side of his horse and talking all the time. The little inn to which he led them is, I dare say, there still. It certainly was so some twenty years ago--much changed, doubtless, from what it was then, but still with somewhat of the antique about it. There were vines over both sides of the house, and the rooms to the back looked over the gardens, and small, richly cultivated fields that surrounded the place. The leaves of the vines were turning somewhat yellow, and many a cluster had been already plucked from the bough; but Leonora pronounced it charming, and Lorenzo thought so too. Happy had they both been if Fate had never placed them in higher abodes. Oh, those pinnacles; they are dangerous resting-places.
Let us pass over an hour or two. The men had been dispersed to their quarters and the proper guard set; a light meal had been taken, and the country wine tasted; the maids had found lodging, and were amusing themselves in various ways, with which neither the writer nor the reader has aught to do; Signora Mariana, like a discreet dame, was dosing in an upper chamber, and Lorenzo and Leonora were seated together in the little saloon at the back of the house, with the foliage trailing over the window and its verandah, and a small but neat garden stretching out down a little slope. They were alone together; the dream was realised; and what if they gave way to young, passionate love as far as honour and virtue permitted. His arm was round her; the first kiss had been given and repeated; the beautiful head rested on his bosom, and heart had been poured into heart in the words which only passion can dictate and youth supply. Ah! they were very beautiful and very happy! and the attitude into which they had cast themselves was such as painters might copy, but not the most graceful fancy could imagine. It was full of love, and confidence, and nature.
As they sat, they were somewhat startled for a moment by the sound of a lute played apparently in the garden; but it was not very near, and the tones were so rich and full, the skill of the player so exquisite, that instead of alarming the timidity of young love, they only added to "the loving languor which is not repose" which before possessed them.
After listening for a moment, and gazing forth through the open window, they resumed their previous attitude, and continued their conversation.
Leonora's beautiful head again lay on Lorenzo's bosom, with her look turned upward to his face, while he gazed down into her eyes--those wells of living light--with his head bowed over her, as if the next moment his lips would stoop for a kiss: and now and then a grave earnest look would come upon their faces, while the words came sometimes thick and fast, sometimes ceased altogether, in the intensity of happiness and feeling.
What made Lorenzo look suddenly up at the end of about a quarter of an hour, he himself could not tell; but the moment he turned his eyes to the window he started and laid his hand upon his sword. But then a voice of extraordinary melody exclaimed, "Do not move! for Heaven's sake, do not move! Alas! you have lost it; you can never assume that pose again; but, thank Heaven, I can remember it, with what I have already done."
The man who spoke was a remarkably handsome man of about forty-four or five years of age, with a countenance of wonderful sweetness. He was dressed in a black velvet coat, with a small cap of the same material on his head, and a little feather in it. His seat was a large stone in the garden just before the window, and on his knee rested a curious-looking instrument, which seemed the model of a horse's head cut in silver and ivory. Upon it was stretched a small scrap of paper, on which he still went on, tracing something with a pencil.
"This, sir, is hardly right," said Lorenzo, advancing to a door leading direct into the garden, which, like the window, was wide open. "You intrude upon our privacy somewhat boldly;" but the next instant he exclaimed, in a voice of delight, as he gazed over their strange visitor's shoulder, "Good heaven! how beautiful! Leonora! Leonora! Come hither and see yourself depicted better than Venetian mirror ever reflected that loved face and form."
"And you too, Lorenzo! and you too!" exclaimed Leonora. "Oh! it is perfect!"
The artist looked up and smiled with one of those beaming smiles which seem to find their way direct to the heart, as if an angel looked into it. "It is like you both," he said; "but it was the attitude I sought, and you started up before I had completed the sketch. Yet I can remember it. My mind, from long habit, is like a note-book, in which every beautiful thing I behold is written down as soon as seen. Look how I will add in a moment all that is wanting," and he proceeded with rapid pencil to add the arm of Lorenzo cast round Leonora's waist, and her arm resting on her lap, with her hand clasped in her lover's.
The colour came in the beautiful girl's cheek, but without remarking it the artist said:
"Was it not so?"
"Even so, I fear," murmured Leonora.
"You must let me have this drawing," said Lorenzo; "you can put no higher value on it than I will be right glad to pay. It will be to me a memorial of one of the happiest days of my life, and of her I love better than life."
"Nay, I would not part with it for any payment," said the other; "but, having done as you said just now--intruded on your privacy--I will pay for the intrusion by sketching for each of you, the portrait of the other, and that without price. But let us come into the saloon, and call for lights; it is getting somewhat dark. Will you, young gentleman, take my lute, while I put up the sketch and my pencils."
"Is this then a lute?" asked Lorenzo, taking the horse's head in ivory and silver. "Oh! I see; here is a finger-board, and the strings are fastened to the lower jaw. I never saw a lute like this."
"Probably not," the other answered; "it is my own design and workmanship."
"Then was it you whom we heard playing, just now?" asked Leonora. "The music was divine."
"It might be so," answered the artist gaily, "for Cupid was very near--though I knew not of the god's neighbourhood--and it is the nature of all godlike beings to cast their influence far around them, and raise common things toward divinity. He is a mighty deity that Cupid, and, when worshipped purely, has precious gifts for the sons of men. You two are very young," he continued, thoughtfully, "and doubtless noble."
"We are young," answered Lorenzo, "and noble as far as blood is concerned. Noble in a better sense I trust we are likewise. Here is one, at least, who is, and what may be wanting in myself my love for her shall give."
"'Tis one of the precious gifts I talked of," answered the artist, moving to the house, and entering the little saloon; "a high and pure love ennobles him who feels it; and well, young gentleman, have you distinguished between two nobilities. Yet, constituted as this world is--nay, not only as this world, but as man himself is--there must always be a factitious nobility, which, in the eyes of the world, will rise above the other. The notion of anything like equality ever existing among men is a dream of human vanity, contrary to all experience, and to the manifest will of God. The only reason why men ever entertained it is that the lower intellects feel their selfishness wounded at acknowledging they are inferior. Now, as the lower intellects predominate immensely in point of numbers, and all their vanities combine to pull down those superior to their own level, you will always find democratic republics attempted in those countries where there is no great predominance of intellect in any, or that predominance is confined to a very few. If there be one intellect vastly superior to any others, the constitution of the state will soon become a monarchy; if there be more than one or two greatly above the rest, you will have an aristocracy, and the natural order, as far as I have seen in the world, will be the monarch representing the highest intellect and most powerful will; an aristocracy representing those next in mental powers; and below them the plebeians, representing the great mass of stupidity and ignorance which exist in this world--the weak, the vicious, the thoughtless, the idle, the brutal, the barbarous. Granted that these several classes will not long justly represent the reality; but still the order is the natural order, and men strive against it in vain. We have seen these democratic republics tried over and over again in this our Italy, producing misery and disorder during their existence, and all tending to the same consummation."
"But how is equality among men contrary to the will of God!" asked Lorenzo; "the incarnate Son of God himself seems to have preached such a doctrine."
"I humbly think you are mistaken," answered the artist. "On the contrary, he always inculcated submission to our superiors. But you ask how is it contrary to the manifest will of God? I reply, not only by the difference of mere worldly advantages which he has bestowed upon various men, for that might depend upon a false and mistaken scheme of society, but by the difference of mental and spiritual powers which he himself has ordained and bestowed, without any intervention of man or of man's will. Take one of the many idiots, or half idiots, who sit upon the steps of St. John at Rome, and place him by the side of the late Lorenzo de Medici. Take them as mere infants, and try to educate them alike nay, give the highest culture to the idiot, the lowest to Lorenzo, what would be the result? The one would tower above the other with his gigantic mind, the other would remain an intellectual pigmy; the one would be a prince of thought, the other a plebeian. Here is an inequality decreed by God himself; and although I have taken an extreme case, you will find the same rule pervade all minds and all natures. No man has the same capabilities. Every gift is unequally apportioned; and the same Almighty Being who gives to one man wealth and to another poverty, to one man the stature of a hero, to another the height of a dwarf, has decreed that inequality of station against which the vanity of multitudes struggles in vain. I myself am a plebeian, you are nobles, yet I would not alter the order of society if I could. But let us change the topic; or, while this sweet half light still lingers in the west, I will play upon my favourite lute again, and let you hear some verses which flow somewhat with the current of our thoughts."
For a moment he leaned his cheek against the instrument, struck a few chords, put the strings in perfect tune, and then, with the skill of a great musician, drew forth harmonies such as were seldom heard in those days. A minute or two after, his voice, far sweeter than any sounds which could be brought from the lute, joined in, and he sang some irregular verses, which he seemed to improvise.
SONG."Let him who cannot what he will,Will only what he can.'Tis surely Folly's plan,By willing more, to compass his own will.Then wise the man who can himself retrainTo will within his power; he ne'er shall will in vain."Yet many a joy and many woe,From knowing or not knowing what to will,In sweet and bitter drops distil,For from ourselves our fate does mostly flow.Fair skies to him who steers his bark aright,And keeps the pole-star--duty--ever in his sight."He who takes all, is rarely blessed;The sweetest things turn soonest sour,When we abuse our power.Oft have I wept for joys too soon possessed.What lessons, then, from these light verses flow?That which we ought to do, and what we ought to know."
"Bring lights," said Lorenzo to a girl who appeared as the song concluded; and he sighed as if some sweet dream had been broken and passed away. "Oh! music--music such as that is indeed divine."
"Ay," answered the singer "music is divine and so is poetry--so sculpture, painting, architecture. Every art, every science that raises man from his primitive brutality has a portion of divinity about it; for it elevates toward the Creator. Christ has said, 'Be ye perfect, even as your Father which is in Heaven is perfect;' and though we cannot reach perfection, we may strain for it.
"Nor, as some have supposed, do the arts render effeminate. They may soften the manners, as the old Roman says, but not the character. On the contrary, all that tends to exercise tends to strengthen. It is idleness, it is luxury which enfeebles. Athens in her highest pride of art was in her highest pride of power, and her artists learned by the pencil or the chisel to put on the buckler and to grasp the sword. And what does the combination of art and science do? What has it done, and what will it not do?"
He gazed up for a moment like one inspired, and then added, "God knows, for in extent and majesty the results are beyond even our dreams. But I ever see the times afar when the yet undeveloped powers of man and nature shall work miracles--when mountains shall be moved or forced from side to side to smooth the path of our race, and bring nation closer to nation--when the very elements shall become subservient to the will of man, and when the energies of his nature, directed by science, shall no longer be squandered in war and bloodshed, but shall render war impossible, and bloodshed, under whatever name, a crime.
"Oh peace, how beautiful art thou! Oh goodness, how wide and comprehensive ought to be thy reign! Angel of love, thou art the seraphim nearest to the throne of God! So help me Heaven, I would not kill the smallest bird that flutters from spray to spray, nor tread upon a beetle in my path!"
There was something so exquisitely sweet in his voice, so sublime in his look, so marvellously graceful in his manner, that the two young lovers, while they gazed and listened, could almost have fancied him the angel of love whom he apostrophized. They sat silent when he paused, listening eagerly for more; but when he began to speak again, all was changed except that captivating power which seemed to command the assent or overrule the judgment of all who heard him. His mood was now changed, and nothing could be more light and playful than his talk, till the door was opened and another mood came over him.
"Ah, Catarina," he said to the girl who tardily brought in the lights, "if the world waits upon you for illumination, we shall have another dark age upon us. Now see what it is: this little candle in a moment brings out of obscurity a thousand things which would not be discerned before. Thus it is in this world, Catarina; we grope our twilight way among things unseen till comes some light of science, and we find ourselves surrounded by multitudes of beautiful things we could not before discern. Do you understand me, Catarina?"
"No, signor," answered the girl, opening her great black eyes, "but I love to hear you speak, even when I know not what you are speaking of."
"How can she understand such things?" asked Leonora. "Probably she has never been out of the village."
"And she is wise not to go," answered the stranger. "What would she gain by going, to what she might lose? Do you love the cultivation of flowers, sweet lady? If so, you will know that there be some which love the shade and will not bear transplanting. That poor girl, right happy here, with youth, and health, and a sufficiency of all things, might be very miserable in a wider scene. Oh no, God's will is best. We should never pray for anything but grace and peace, I cannot but think that prayers--importunate, short-sighted prayers--are sometimes granted in chastisement. There is one eye alone which sees the consequence; of all things. There may be poison in a cup of nectar; but you cannot so well conceal the venom in a draught of pure water from the well. Let the poor girl stay here. Now sit you still, and I will draw you both, one for the other; but talk at will; I would not have you dull and silent. Any bungler can draw the body. I want to sketch the spirit likewise. Eyes, nose, and mouth are easily drawn; the heart and the soul require a better pencil. Ay, now you are smiling again. You were all too grave just now."
"But your discourse has been very serious," replied Lorenzo. "Some things might well puzzle, some sadden us."
"'Tis well," said the artist gravely, "to prompt thought, and I sought to do it. You two were dreaming when first I saw you. I have but awakened you. I know not your names nor your history; but you are both very young; and when the Jove-born goddess took on bodily the part of Mentor, she knew that youth and inexperience require an almost superhuman monitor. I can give no such counsels, but every man can bring a little cool water where he sees a fire. Ah! lady, would I had my colours here to catch that rosy blush before it flies."
"Fie! fie!" she answered, "or you will make me fly also. You cannot suppose that either Lorenzo or I would wish or do aught that is wrong. Your admonitions were cast away upon us, for we needed them not."
"God knows," said the artist, laughing, "but neither you nor I, young lady. Your speech is not Florentine, but his is: how comes that? Is he carrying home a bride?"
"The difference of our speech is soon explained," said Lorenzo, "though we are both of the same land. But she has ever lived in Lombardy. I have travelled far and wide, but my youth was all spent in Florence. I came there when I was very young, and remained till the death of Lorenzo de Medici, whose godson I am."
"Then you are Lorenzo Visconti," said the artist; "but who is this?" and he pointed toward Leonora with the end of his pencil.
"You divine," answered the young man without noticing his question; "are you skilled in the black art among all your other learning, signor?"
"I am really skilled in very little," replied their companion. "In a life neither very long nor very short, but one of much labour and much study, I have never produced one work--nay, done one thing with which I was wholly satisfied. The man who places his estimate of excellence very high may surpass his contemporaries, and yet fall far short of his own conceptions. Hereafter men may speak of me well or ill, as they please. If ill, their censure will not hurt me: if well, their faintest applause will go beyond my own. As to the black art, Signor Lorenzo, the blackest arts are not those of the magician; yet many things seem magical which are very simple. Lorenzo de Medici had but one Lombard godson; and I remember you well, now, when you were a little boy in Florence. The only marvel is that I ever forgot you. But you have not introduced me to this lady."
"Nay, I know not whom to introduce," answered the young man.
"Ah! you have entangled me in my own net," said the artist. "Well it is right you should both know who it is gives counsels unsought, and teaches lessons perhaps unneeded. A good many years ago there lived in Florence a poor gentleman named Ser Pietro da Vinci. His means were small, but he had great capacity, though he turned it to but little account. His taste for art was great, however, and he frequented the houses of the best painters and sculptors in Italy.
"Well, he had a son, a wild, fitful boy, who studied everything, attempted much, and perfected little. He plunged into arithmetic, mathematics, geometry, and used to find a good deal of fun in puzzling his masters with hard questions. Again, he would work untaught in clay, and make heads of children and of laughing women; and again he would sing his own rude verses to the lute, or sketch the figures and faces of all who came near him.
"This was all when he was very young--a mere boy, indeed; but among his father's friends was the well-known Andrea Verrocchio, the great painter; and in his bottega was soon found the boy, studying hard, and only now and then giving way to his wild moods by darting away from his painting, sometimes to some sister art, sometimes to something directly opposite. He drew plans for houses, churches, fortresses; he devised instruments of war, projected canals, laid out new roads, sung to his lute, danced at the village festivals, studied medicine and anatomy.
"But his fancies and designs went beyond the common notions of the day; men treated them as whims impossible of execution, projects beyond the strength of man to complete. His drawings, and his paintings, and his sculpture, however, they admired, patted him on the head, and called him the young genius.
"At length he was set to paint part of a picture which his master had commenced, and the result was that Verrocchio threw away his pallet, declaring he would never paint more, as he had been excelled by a boy. That boy went on to win money and fame till people began to call him Maestro, and the wild little boy became Maestro Leonardo da Vinci, who, some say, is a great painter. By that name, Signor Lorenzo, you may introduce me to the lady, for my sketches are now finished."
The love for art in Italy at that time approached adoration: the name of Leonardo da Vinci was famous from the foot of the Alps to the Straits of Messina, and Leonora took the great painter's hand and kissed it with as much veneration as if he had been her patron saint.
"Ah! and so this is the fair Signora d'Orco?" said Leonardo. "Now I understand it all. You are travelling to join your father. I met with him at Bologna as I passed."
"How, long ago was that, Maestro Leonardo?" asked Leonora, with some surprise.
"It was some days since," replied the painter, "and he must be in Rome by this time."
The lovers looked inquiringly into each other's faces, and after a moment's thought, Lorenzo said:
"We expected to overtake him at Bologna. His letters led us to believe we should find him there; but doubtless he has left directions for our guidance."
"Perhaps so," replied Leonardo, in a somewhat sombre and doubtful tone; "but, if you do not find such directions, what will you do?"
"We can but go on, I suppose," answered Leonora; "Lorenzo must march with the French army, which directs its course to Rome, and I cannot be left without some one to protect me."
The painter shook his head gravely.
"Far better, my child," he said, "that you should remain in Bologna. The ways are dangerous; Rome is no fit place for you. Besides, your father has gone thither, I am told, on affairs of much importance, and you would be but a burden to him. He goes, they told me, to hold a conference with Cardinal Cæsar Borgia, who seeks a man of great skill and resolution to hold in check the somewhat turbulent and discontented inhabitants of the territories in Romagna, bestowed upon him by his father, Pope Alexander. Go not after him to Rome, but by his express desire. I will give you a letter to the Abbess Manzuoli, in Bologna, who will be a mother to you for the time you have to stay."
"All must be decided by my father's will," replied Leonora; "but I thank you much, Signor da Vinci, for the promised letter, which cannot but be of service to me in case of need."
"Well, then," replied the great painter, changing his tone, "come round here, and look over my shoulder. Here are the two portraits. 'Did you ever see two uglier people? Is he not frightful, Signora Leonora? and as to her face and figure, they are, of course, hideous, Lorenzo."
Leonora took the rapid sketch, which represented Lorenzo with a drawn sword in one hand and a banner in the other, looking up to a cloudy sky, through which broke a brighter gleam of light, gazed at it a moment with what may well be called ecstasy, and then placed it in the scarf which covered her bosom, while he pressed his lips upon the other paper in silent delight.
"You need not do that, Lorenzo," said the painter, with a quiet smile; "your lips will soil my picture--my picture will soil your lips. There are others near where the paint will not come off, for they are limned by a hand divine. But are you both satisfied?"
"Oh, yes," exclaimed Leonora, joyfully; but Lorenzo answered at once, "No, unless you will promise me, Signor da Vinci, to paint me a portrait of her, as you can only paint, I cannot be satisfied."
"When she is your wife," answered Leonardo, "you have but to write to me that Mona Leonora Visconti will sit, and be I at the distance of two hundred leagues, I will come. But now, I will hie me to the little chamber they have given me, and write the letter I spoke of, and then return. Perchance the lady may have retired ere then, but I shall find you here, Lorenzo. Is it not so?"
"Assuredly," replied the young man; "I have to visit the guards, and see that all is rightly disposed in the town; but I will not go till you return."
I will not follow the indiscreet example of Leonardo, and try to sketch them as they sat alone after his departure. Indeed, it were not an easy task. They were very happy, and happiness is like the chameleon, ever changing its hues. An hour and a half, or a moment; for such it seemed to them, had passed when old Mona Mariana, on whose discreet and reasonable forbearance be a benediction, put her head into the room, and said, in a sleepy tone:
"Is it not time for rest, dear lady?"
"You seem to think so Mariana, for you are half asleep already."
"Ah, young hearts! young hearts!" said the old lady, who had slept for several hours; "they have thoughts enough to keep them waking, and strength to bear it. Old people have only to pray and sleep. But, indeed, you had better come to rest; we have all to rise betimes."
After a word or two more, Leonora parted from her lover, and soon seeking her bed, lay down and dreamed, but not asleep.
As if the painter had heard her light foot on the stairs, she had not been gone a minute when Leonardo appeared. He took Lorenzo's hand eagerly in his, and said, in a low, earnest tone:
"Let her not go to Rome, I beseech you, young gentleman--let her not go to Rome."
"And why are you so eager she should not go there?" asked Lorenzo, somewhat surprised, and even alarmed by his new friend's manner. "Is there any danger?"
"Every danger," answered Da Vinci.
"Why?"
"For a thousand reasons, but they are difficult to explain. Yet stay; I remember rapping a fellow student's knuckles to prevent his putting his profane hand on a bunch of beautiful grapes, all covered with their vineyard bloom, when I was about to paint them. This young lovely girl--this Signora d'Orco, is like one of those grapes, rich in the bloom of innocence. There is the sweet fruit within--there is, or is to come the ardent wine of love and passion, but the bloom is there still. Oh, let it not be brushed away too soon, Lorenzo! Now listen: Rome is a place of horror and vice. In the chair of the Apostle sits the incarnation of every sin and crime. The example is too widely, too eagerly followed by people ever ready to learn. The very air is pollution. The very ground in foul. Would you take her into a pest-house? But more, still more--nay, what shall I say? How shall I say it? Her father--her very father has been gained by the foulest of the foul offspring of Borgia. Ramiro d'Orco is now the bosom counsellor of Cæsar, who, in a shorter space of time than it took his great namesake to make himself master of the Roman State, has accumulated more vices,--committed more crimes, than any man now living, or that ever lived."
"But how have they gained him? Why have they sought him?" asked Lorenzo. "He is himself wealthy; his daughter is more so. They cannot approach him by mercenary means: and then, why should they seek a man who has no political power?"
"A tale long to tell, an intrigue difficult to explain," replied Da Vinci. "I can show you why and how, in a few words indeed; but if you must seek proofs of what I say, you may have to buy them dearly. Listen then to them, Lorenzo Visconti. Men seek that which they have not. Money might not tempt Ramiro d'Orco. The prospect of that political power which he does not possess has tempted him. They have promised him what I may well call prefectal power in one half of Romagna, and he has yielded. What would he not sacrifice for that? His own honour--perhaps his child's. Thus your first question is answered. Thus they have approached and gained him.
"Now to your second question, Why they have sought him? The first motive was to control, or, rather to restrain and mollify the bitterest and now most powerful enemy of the house of Borgia. Do you know that he is nearly related to the family of Rovera? that he is not only first cousin, but schoolfellow and playmate of that famous cardinal, Julian de Rovera, whose enmity to Alexander and to Cæsar is so strong that, were it at the peril of his own life and the disorder of all Christendom, he would attempt to hurl the present pontiff from his seat, and has already branded the head of the Church with all the infamies that can disgrace a man, much more a priest--ambition, avarice, fraud, heresy, adultery, murder?
"With him, who now journeys with the King of France, Alexander and his bastard hope to negotiate, and to mollify him through the intercession of Ramiro d'Orco, the only one on earth who has influence worth consideration with the stern Cardinal Julian. This is why they seek him. There are many other motives, but this is enough. Take her not to Rome, young man. Listen to the counsel of one who can have no object but your good and hers. If you do not listen, you are responsible for all the results."
"I fear not that anything can make her aught but what she is," replied Lorenzo, with all the proud enthusiasm of young love. "Better, nobler she cannot be, and as the foulest breath cannot sully the diamond, so can no foul atmosphere tarnish her purity."
A faint smile fluttered for a single instant round the lips of Da Vinci; but he resumed his serious aspect instantly--nay, his countenance was more grave and stern than before.
"Doubtless," he said, "doubtless; for they who study much the human face, learn to read it as a book; and hers is a beautiful page--clear, and pure, and bright. But there are arts, young man, you know not of--drugs of terrible power, which lull the spirit into a sleep like that of death, and leave the body impotent for resistance or defence. Nay, violence itself--coarse, brutal violence, may be dreaded in a place--"
"They dare not!" exclaimed Lorenzo, fiercely, "they dare not!"
"What dare not a Borgia do?" asked Leonardo. "When they have set at nought every tie, moral and religious--when they have made crime their pastime, vice their solace, poison and murder their means--provoked to the utmost, without a fear, the wrath of man and the vengeance of God--what dare not the Borgias do? And what could be your vengeance, that they should fear it?"
"But her father," said Lorenzo, "her father!"
An expression almost sublime came upon the great painter's countenance, and he answered, in a tone of stern warning.
"Trust not to her father. His God is not our God! There are things so abhorrent to the first pure, honest principles which Nature has planted in the hearts of the young, that it is too dreadful a task to open innocent eyes to their existence. But mark me, Lorenzo Visconti, there have been men who have sold their children for money. Ambition is a still fiercer passion than avarice. I have done. My task is performed, and I may say no more than this: take her not to Rome: let her not set foot in it, if you can prevent it."
"I will not--no, I will not," replied the young man, thoughtfully. "I will prevent it--nay, it might be wise to acquire a right to prevent it."
"Never do a wrong to attain what you judge right," answered Da Vinci. "And now good-night. You have your posts to look to; a calm walk beneath the moon, with thought for your companion, will do you good."
Lorenzo pressed his hand and they parted.