"There is a fixed and pale composure upon the features, she seems sad and stricken down in spirit, yet the despair thus expressed is lightened by the patience of gentleness. Her head is bound with folds of white drapery, from which the yellow strings of her golden hair escape and fall about her neck. The moulding of her face is exquisitely delicate, the eyebrows are distinct and arched, the lips have that permanent meaning of imagination and sensibility which suffering has not repressed and which it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. Her forehead is large and clear, her eyes, which we are told were remarkable for their vivacity, are swollen with weeping and lustreless, but beautifully tender and serene. In the whole mien there are simplicity and dignity which, united with her exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow, are inexpressibly pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have been one of those rare persons in whom energy and gentleness dwell together without destroying one another; her nature was simple and profound. The crimes and miseries in which she was an actor and a sufferer are as the mask and the mantle in which circumstances clothed her for her impersonation in the scene of the world."
"There is a fixed and pale composure upon the features, she seems sad and stricken down in spirit, yet the despair thus expressed is lightened by the patience of gentleness. Her head is bound with folds of white drapery, from which the yellow strings of her golden hair escape and fall about her neck. The moulding of her face is exquisitely delicate, the eyebrows are distinct and arched, the lips have that permanent meaning of imagination and sensibility which suffering has not repressed and which it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. Her forehead is large and clear, her eyes, which we are told were remarkable for their vivacity, are swollen with weeping and lustreless, but beautifully tender and serene. In the whole mien there are simplicity and dignity which, united with her exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow, are inexpressibly pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have been one of those rare persons in whom energy and gentleness dwell together without destroying one another; her nature was simple and profound. The crimes and miseries in which she was an actor and a sufferer are as the mask and the mantle in which circumstances clothed her for her impersonation in the scene of the world."
To-day, the story is still an oft-told tale in Rome, the portrait ofla Cenciis known by all, and all feel pity for her sad fate. However great her crime may have been, it should be taken into account that it was only after "long and vain attempts to escape from what she considered a perpetual contamination, both of mind and body,"—as Shelley puts it,—that she plotted the murder for which she was beheaded; so great was the provocation, that all can pity if pardon be withheld.
The corrupt condition of life in the convents throughout Italy at this time is not a matter of mere conjecture, for the facts are known in many cases and are of such a nature as almost to pass belief. One reason for this state of affairs is to be found in the character of the women who composed these conventual orders. It is natural to think of them as holy maidens of deep religious instincts, who had taken the veil to satisfy some spiritual necessity of their being; unfortunately, the picture is untrue. In many of these convents, and particularly in those where vice was known to flourish, the membership was largely recruited from the ranks of the nobility, it being the custom to send unmarried, unmarriageable, and unmanageable daughters to the shelter of a cloister, simply to get them out of the way. Women who had transgressed, to their own disgrace, the commonly accepted social laws, whether married or unmarried, found ready protection here; a professed nun was under the care of the Church and had nothing to fear from the state, and this fact was not unknown. To show how clearly this condition was understood at the time, it is interesting to note that when the scandal concerning the convent of Santa Chiara was first made public, an easy-going priest, who had acted as a go-between in many of these intrigues of the cloister, said that he could not see why people in general should create so much confusion about it, as these were only "affairs of the gentlefolk [cosi di gentilhuomini]"!
The public disgrace of Santa Chiara was due to the evil ways of one of its members, Sister Umilia, a woman who had had some experience in worldly things before she turned her back upon them. Her name was Lucrezia Malpigli, and, as a young girl, she had loved and desired to marry Massimiliano Arnolfini; but her parents objected, and she was affianced to the three Buonvisi brothers in consecutive order before she finally found a husband, the two older brothers dying each time before the wedding ceremony. After her marriage, to her misfortune, she met, at Lucca, Arnolfini, the man whom she had loved as a girl at Ferrara, and it soon appeared that the old love was not dead. Within a short time her husband was stabbed, by Arnolfini's bravo, as he was returning with her from the church, and rumors were at once afloat implicating her in the murder. Guilty or not, she was frightened, and before four days had passed she had taken refuge in the convent of Santa Chiara. Safe from all pursuit, she endowed the convent most liberally, cut her hair, and became the Sister Umilia, who was described as a "young woman, tall and pale, dressed in a nun's habit, with a crown upon her head." For thirteen years little was heard of her, and then a telltale rope ladder hanging from the convent wall led to disclosures of a most revolting nature. It was discovered that the supposedly pious nuns were profligates, the convent was a veritable den of iniquity, and Sister Umilia was found to have several lovers who were disputing her favors. Poisons had been sent to her by a young nobleman, Tommaso Samminiati, that she might dispose of a certain Sister Calidonia, who had become repentant and was threatening to reveal the secrets of their life; and the poisons were so deadly, so the letter ran, that when once Calidonia had swallowed a certain white powder, "if the devil does not help her, she will pass from this life in half a night's time, and without the slightest sign of violence." Penalties were inflicted upon all of these offending nuns, and Umilia was imprisoned for nine years before she was restored to liberty and allowed to wear again the convent dress.
However black this picture may appear, it is passing fair when compared with the career of the notorious Lady of Monza. Virginia Maria de Leyva was a lady of noble birth who had entered the convent of Santa Margherita, at Monza, where she had taken the veil, being induced to take this step because her cousin had in some way deprived her of her inheritance, and without a dowry she had not found marriage easy. In the convent, because she was well born and well connected, she became a person of much influence and received many callers. Adjoining the convent was the residence of young Gianpaolo Osio, a reckless, amorous dare-devil, who wasbeau comme le jour, as the French fairy tales say. So much of the story having been told, it is not difficult to guess what is to come. It was a case of love at first sight, and Osio was aided in his conquest by a number of the older and more corrupt nuns and several other people about the convent, not excepting the father confessor, who wrote some of Osio's love letters and seemed to smile upon the affair and wish it all success. Virginia yielded, as might have been expected under such circumstances; and the amour ran along smoothly for several years, until Virginia and Osio, with the help of four obliging nuns, felt constrained to take the life of a disgruntled serving-maid who was threatening to reveal all to Monsignor Barca, the inspector of the convent, at the time of his approaching visit. When once the deed was done, the corpse was dismembered for purposes of better concealment; but suspicion was aroused by this sudden disappearance of the maid, and Osio took Virginia from the place, to shield her as much as possible. Next, he offered to help her two most active accomplices, Ottavia and Benedetta, to escape and seek refuge in a Bergamasque convent, where they would be safe; but on the way thither he treacherously assaulted them and left them both for dead. One crime rarely covers up another, however; the facts soon came to light, and all concerned were fitly punished. Virginia was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment in the convent of Santa Valeria, at Milan; and there she remained for many years, in a dark cell, until she was finally given better quarters through the interposition of Cardinal Borromeo, who had been impressed by her growing reputation for sanctity. How old she grew to be, deponent saith not, but she must have lived for many years, as the following description will attest: "a bent old woman, tall of stature, dried and fleshless, but venerable in her aspect, whom no one could believe to have been once a charming and immodest beauty."
What an awful century it was! Vice and corruption in all quarters, the pope an acknowledged sinner, the nobility tainted, and even the holy daughters of the Church virgins in name only! And this was the century in which the most beautiful Madonnas were painted!
The tales of crime and sensuality which fill the annals of the sixteenth century are so repulsive that it is with a feeling of relief that we turn our attention to other pictures of the same time which are altogether pleasing in their outlines. The court of the Duke of Urbino is the most conspicuous example of this better side of life, and his talented and accomplished wife, Elizabetta Gonzaga, a daughter of the reigning house of Mantua, presided over a literary salon which was thronged with all the wit and wisdom of the land. Urbino was but a rocky, desolate bit of mountainous country, not more than forty miles square, in the Marches of Ancona, on a spur of the Tuscan Apennines, about twenty miles from the Adriatic and not far from historic Rimini, but here was a most splendid principality with a glittering court. Federigo, Count of Montefeltro, had been created Duke of Urbino by Pope Sixtus IV. in 1474, and he it was who laid the foundations for that prosperous state which at his death passed into the hands of his son Guidobaldo, the husband of Elizabetta. Federigo's immense wealth was not gained by burdening his subjects with heavy taxes, but rather from the money which he was able to earn as a military leader, for he was a noble soldier of fortune. Vespasiano tells us, with regard to his military science, that he was excelled by no general of his time, and his good faith was never questioned. He was also a man of singularly religious nature, and no morning passed without his hearing mass upon his knees. In his lifetime he served no less than three pontiffs, two kings of Naples, and two dukes of Milan; the republic of Florence and several Italian leagues had appointed him their general in the field, and in this long life of warfare the sums of money paid him for his services were immense. Dennistoun relates that in the year 1453 "his war-pay from Alfonso of Naples exceeded eight thousand ducats a month, and for many years he had from him and his son an annual peace-pension of six thousand ducats in the name of past services. At the close of his life, when general of the Italian league, he drew, in war, one hundred and sixty-five thousand ducats of annual stipend, forty-five thousand being his own share." With this wealth he caused his desert-like domain to rejoice and blossom as the rose. His magnificent fortified palace was most elaborately decorated with rare marbles and priceless carvings, frescos, panel pictures, tapestries, tarsia work, stucco reliefs, and works of art of all kinds; here, according to his biographer Muzio, he maintained a suite so numerous and distinguished as to rival that of any royal household. So famed indeed did Urbino become, that all the chivalry of Italy crowded the palace to learn manners and the art of war from its courteous duke.
Further details are furnished by Vespasiano, who says that "his household, which consisted of five hundred mouths entertained at his own cost, was governed less like a company of soldiers than a strict religious community. There was no gaming or swearing, but the men conversed with the utmost sobriety." It is interesting to know that among his court officers were included forty-five counts of the duchy and of other states, seventeen gentlemen, five secretaries, four teachers of grammar, logic, and philosophy, fourteen clerks in public offices, five architects and engineers, five readers during meals, and four transcribers of manuscripts. Federigo had ever shown himself a liberal and enlightened monarch, and he had early acquired a solid culture which enabled him, when he grew to manhood, to bestow his patronage in an intelligent manner. Scholars and artists were clustered about him in great numbers; Urbino was widely known as the Italian Athens, and as one of the foremost centres of art and literature in all Europe, when Elizabetta Gonzaga was wedded to Guidobaldo and became the chatelaine of the palace. The young duke and his wife began their life together under the most auspicious circumstances. From what his tutor, Odasio of Padua, says about his boyhood, it is evident that if he were alive to-day he could easily obtain one of the Cecil Rhodes Oxford fellowships, for we are told that he cared only for study and for manly sports, and that he was of an upright character. His memory was so retentive that he could repeat whole books, word for word, after many years, and in more ways than one he had displayed a wonderful precocity. Elizabetta, too, had been given a most liberal and careful education, and her ready intelligence was equalled only by her careful tact and her perfectsavoir faire. Indeed, on account of her many attainments, personal charm, and her refining influence, which was far-reaching, she may be likened to that celebrated Frenchwoman Catherine de Vivonne, Madame de Rambouillet, whose hôtel was, a century later, such a rendezvous for the gentler spirits of France in that hurly-burly period which followed the religious wars. Endowed as she was by nature, it was by most fortuitous circumstance that she was called to preside over the court of Urbino, for at that time there was no other woman in Italy who was so fitted for such a distinguished position. It was in the last decade of thequattrocentothat Elizabetta was married, and she found clustered about her from the very start illustrious artists and men of letters. Melozzo da Forli and Giovanni Santi—Raphael's father—were there, and there the early youth of Raphael was spent; Jan van Eyck and Justus of Ghent, the great Flemish painters, were also there, and the palace was adorned with many monuments to their skill. Here it was that Piero della Francesca had written his celebrated work on the science of perspective, Francesco di Giorgio hisTrattato d'Architettura, and Giovanni Santi his poetical account of the artists of his time; and here it was in the first days of the sixteenth century that Elizabetta was the centre of a group which was all sweetness and light when compared with the prevailing habits of life.
In this circle were to be found, among others, Bernardo Bibbiena, the patron of Berni, of whom Raphael has left us a portrait which is now in the Pitti Palace; Giuliano de' Medici, whose marble statue by Michael Angelo may still be seen in San Lorenzo at Florence; Cardinal Pietro Bembo, who had in his youth fallen a victim to the charms of Lucrezia Borgia when she first went to Ferrara; Emilia Pia, the wife of Antonio da Montefeltro, who is described as "a lady of so lively wit and judgment, that she seems to govern the whole company"; and last, but far from least, Baldassare Castiglione, that model courtier and fine wit, who has left a picture of Urbino in his celebrated bookIl Cortegiano, which was long known in Italy asIl Libro d'Oro. This volume is an elaborate discussion of the question, What constitutes a perfect courtier; and it was for a long time a most comprehensive and final compendium, handbook, and guide for all who wished to perfect themselves in courtly grace. What interests us most in the book, however, is the fact that Castiglione has put this discussion of polite manners into the form of a conversation which he supposes to have taken place in the drawing room of the Countess of Urbino, that being the most likely spot in all Europe for such a discussion at such a time, for Guidobaldo's court was "confessedly the purest and most elevated in all Italy." Castiglione was one of Elizabetta's most ardent admirers, and he says of her that no one "approached but was immediately affected with secret pleasure, and it seemed as if her presence had some powerful majesty, for surely never were stricter ties of love and cordial friendship between brothers than with us."
Count Guidobaldo early became a cripple and an invalid, too ardent devotion to books and to athletic pursuits at the same time having undermined a constitution that was never strong; therefore, it was his custom to retire for the night at an early hour; but it was in the evening that the countess held court, and then were gathered together, for many years, all the brightest minds of Italy, who felt the charm of her presence and the value of her stimulating personality. Urbino was a school of good manners, as Naples had been in the days of Queen Joanna; it was the first great literary salon in modern history, and, presided over by a woman who was a veritablegrande dame de société, its influence was by no means confined to a narrow sphere. Even in far-away England, Urbino was known and appreciated; and Henry VII., to show his esteem for its ruler, conferred the Order of the Garter upon Guidobaldo. In acknowledgment of this favor, Castiglione was sent to the English court to bear the thanks of his lord, and with him he took as a present Raphael'sSaint George and the Dragon, which, by the way, was taken from England when Cromwell ordered the sale of the art treasures of Charles I., and may now be seen at the Louvre. The old Count Federigo had made all this refined magnificence possible, it is true, and Guidobaldo had been in every way a worthy successor to his father, though lacking his rugged strength; but to Guidobaldo's wife, the gracious and wise Elizabetta Gonzaga, belongs the credit for having kept Urbino up to a high standard—an achievement of which few, if any, other women of her time were capable. There was needed a person who combined worldly knowledge with education and a sane, decent philosophy of life, and Guidobaldo's wife was that person.
Veronica Gambara deserves a place among the good and illustrious women of this time; and though she occupied a position far less conspicuous than that of the Countess of Urbino, she was still a person of reputation and importance. Born in the year 1485, her "fortunate parents," as Zamboni calls them, gave her a most careful and thorough education, and as a young woman she was noted for her poetic gifts, which were of a high order. At the age of twenty-five she married Ghiberto, Count of Correggio, and their union was one of true sympathy and deep attachment, such as was rarely seen then, when themariage de convenancewas more in vogue, perhaps, than it is in these later days in Paris. Nine happy years they spent together, and two sons were born to them; then Ghiberto died, leaving Veronica in such grief that she fell ill and hovered a long time between life and death. In one of her poems she relates that it was the fear that she might not meet her beloved husband in Paradise which prevented her from dying with him. She had work to do, however, as her husband, in sign of his great confidence in her, had made her his sole executrix and given into her care the government of Correggio. Veronica had always possessed a lively imagination, and now in her grief her sorrow was shown to the world in a most extravagant way. She wore the heaviest and blackest mourning obtainable; her apartments, furnished henceforth with the bare necessities of life, were tapestried in black; and black was the hue of her livery, her carriages, and her horses. To further proclaim to all the world her love for the departed, she had painted over the door of her chamber the couplet which Virgil has ascribed to Dido:
"Ille meos, primus qui me sibi junxit, amoresAbstulit: ille habeat secum servetque sepulchro!"
"Ille meos, primus qui me sibi junxit, amoresAbstulit: ille habeat secum servetque sepulchro!"
[He who first linked me to himself hath borne away my affection: may he possess it still and retain it in his grave!]
As to her personal appearance, Veronica was not beautiful in face, as her features were irregular; but it was said of her in her early womanhood that if her face had equalled her form she would have been one of the most beautiful women of her time. She was high-strung, enthusiastic, and passionate, but she possessed a character and an intelligence which enabled her to hold herself in check; she was a most devoted wife and entirely domestic in her disposition. Her poetry is addressed chiefly to her husband, and she never tires of extolling his many virtues. His eyes, in particular, seem to have been especially beautiful in her sight, as she devotes no less than six sonnets and a madrigal to a description of their charms, calling themocchi stellante, and telling of their power in most fervid terms. We cannot, however, consider her as a woman who was wholly concerned with her own small affairs, as her letters show her to have been in communication with the most illustrious literary men and women of all Italy, including Ariosto, Bembo, Sannazzaro, and Vittoria Colonna. Though her literary baggage was not extensive, the few sonnets she has left have a strength, simplicity, and sincerity which were rare among the poets of her time. Her best poem was one addressed to the rival sovereigns, the Emperor Charles V., and the brilliant Francis I. of France; in it she pleads with them to give peace to Italy and join their forces, so as to drive back from the shores of Europe the host of the infidels. Her death occurred in the year 1550, and then, Mrs. Jameson tells us in somewhat ambiguous phrase, "she was buried by her husband." A little reflection will clear away the doubt, however, and make clear the fact that she was laid to rest beside the husband for whom she had buried herself in black for so many years.
No woman more completely devoted herself to her husband's memory, by means of her enduring verse, or deserves a higher place in the annals of conjugal poetry, than Vittoria Colonna; such laurel wreaths did she put upon the brow of her spouse, the Marquis of Pescara, that Ariosto was tempted to say, in substance, that if Alexander had envied Achilles the fame he had acquired in the songs of Homer, how much more would he have envied Pescara those strains wherein his gifted wife had exalted his fame above that of all contemporary heroes! Vittoria came from most illustrious families, as her father was the Grand Constable Fabrizio Colonna and her mother was Anna di Montefeltro, daughter of Federigo, the first great Duke of Urbino. At the early age of four, fate joined Vittoria in an infant marriage to the young Count d'Avalo, who was of her own age, and who later, as the Marquis of Pescara, really became her husband. When Vittoria was but a young girl, her beauty and her wonderful talents, added to her high station, made her conspicuous among her countrywomen, and her hand was often sought in marriage even by reigning princes. Both the Duke of Savoy and the Duke of Braganza desired to marry her, and the pope was even persuaded to plead their cause; but all to no avail, as she had long considered her future settled and had no desire to change it. At the age of seventeen they celebrated their wedding, and their life together, which began with that moment, was never marred by a single discordant note.
The first four years of their married life were spent on the island of Ischia, where Pescara had a villa and a small estate, and there they lived in an idyllic happiness which has almost become proverbial. The young husband was not so studiously inclined as was his gifted wife, but he was a manly fellow, much given to athletic pursuits, and with a decided taste for a military career, and Vittoria was loved by him in a most tender and noble fashion. They were denied the happiness of children, and the young wife expresses her sorrow over this fact in her twenty-second sonnet; but she consoles herself by adding: "since it is not given to me to be the mother of sons who shall inherit their father's glory, at least may I be able, by uniting my name with his in verse, to become the mother of his great deeds and lofty fame." After their long honeymoon had come to an end, Pescara was moved to return to the world, or rather to enter it for the first time as a man, and he entered the imperial army. At the age of twenty-one, as a general of cavalry, he took part in the battle of Ravenna, where he was made a prisoner of war. After a year's detention, however, he was allowed to return to his post, and then followed campaigning in various parts of the peninsula. Vittoria, during all these days of absence, had remained quietly in their island home at Ischia, where she devoted her time to the composition of those sonnets in honor of her husband's glorious deeds which have since brought her such lasting reputation. In token of her fidelity and her general attitude toward the world and society at this time, Vittoria had adopted as her device a small Cupid within the circlet of a twisted snake, and under it was the significant motto:Quem peperit virtus prudentia servet amorem[Discretion shall guard the love which virtue inspired]. The soldier-husband came for a hasty visit to Ischia whenever distances and the varying fortunes of war made it possible; but his stays were brief, and he always wore in his wife's eyes that romantic halo which it was but natural that a poetic woman should throw about the head of a young and brilliant general whose handsome features and noble carriage made him none the less attractive, and who happened at the same time to be her husband.
After a somewhat short but notable career as a soldier, Pescara was given entire command of the imperial armies, and he it was who directed the fortunes of the day during that memorable battle of Pavia when King Francis I. of France was captured, and when the illustrious French knight "without fear and without reproach," the Chevalier Bayard, made that remark which has long since become historic,Tout est perdu fors l'honneur. That battle won, and with such credit to himself, Pescara was loaded with praise and rewards, and, as is often the case under such circumstances, he was subjected to some temptations. His power had become so great, and his military skill was considered so remarkable, that efforts were made to entice him from the imperial service; he was actually offered the crown of the kingdom of Naples in case he would be willing to renounce his allegiance to Charles V. The offer tempted him, and he hesitated for a moment, writing to his wife to ascertain her opinion on the subject. It is clear that he wavered in his duty, but his excuse to Vittoria was that he longed to see her on a throne which she could grace indeed. She, however, without a moment's hesitation, wrote to him to remain faithful to his sovereign, saying, in a letter cited by Giambattista Rota: "I do not desire to be the wife of a king, but rather of that great captain who, by means of his valor in war and his nobility of soul in time of peace, has been able to conquer the greatest monarchs." Pescara, obedient to his wife's desire, immediately began to free himself from the temptations which had been besetting his path, but he had gone so far upon this dangerous road that he was able to turn aside from it only after his hitherto untarnished honor had been sullied. The criticism which he received at this time made him melancholy, and, weakened by wounds received at the battle of Pavia, which now broke out again, he soon came to his end at Milan, at the age of thirty-five. Though she was for a long time stunned by her grief, Vittoria finally accepted her sorrow with some degree of calmness.
Back she then went to Ischia, where they had passed those earlier days together, and there, for seven years almost without interruption, she spent her time thinking of the dead lord of Pescara, and extolling him in her verse. Still young and beautiful, it was but natural that her grief might be controlled in time and that she might again find happiness in married life. Distinguished princes pleaded with her in vain, and even her brothers urged her to this course, which, under the circumstances, they considered entirely within the bounds of propriety; but to them all she gave the calm assurance that her noble husband, though dead to others, was still alive for her and constantly in her thoughts. After the first period of her grief had passed, she found herself much drawn toward spiritual and religious thoughts, and then it was that her poetry became devotional in tone and sacred subjects were now her only inspiration. Roscoe mentions the fact that she was at this time suspected of sympathizing in secret with the reformed doctrines in religion which were then making such headway in the North and playing such havoc with the papal interests, but there seems little ground for this suspicion beyond the fact that her devotion to the things of the spirit and her somewhat austere ideas in regard to manners and morals were in that day so unusual as to call forth comment. This sacred verse was published in a volume entitledRime spirituali, and Guingené is authority for the statement that no other author before Vittoria Colonna had ever published a volume of poetry devoted exclusively to religious themes.
Her most faithful friend and admirer in all her long widowhood of twenty-two years was the great artist, sculptor, and painter, Michael Angelo, who never failed to treat her with the tenderest courtesy and respect. No other woman had ever touched his heart, and she gave him suggestion and inspiration for much of his work. After those first seven years of loneliness at Ischia, Vittoria spent much time in the convents of Orvieto and Viterbo, and later she lived in the greatest seclusion at Rome; there it was that death overtook her. Wherever she went, Michael Angelo's thoughtfulness followed her out, and in those last moments at Rome he was with her, faithful to the end. He was the kindly, rugged master-genius of his time, an intellectual giant, and she was a woman of rare devotion and purity of soul; and the real Platonic affection which seems to have possessed them, in that age of license and scepticism, is touching and impressive. What this friendship meant to him, the poet has expressed in the following sonnet addressed to Vittoria, which is here given in Wordsworth's matchless translation:
"Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;For if of our affections none find gracein sight of Heaven, then, wherefore had God madeThe world which we inhabit? Better pleaLove cannot have than that in loving theeGlory to that eternal peace is paid,Who such divinity to thee impartsAs hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.His hope is treacherous only whose love diesWith beauty, which is varying every hour:But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the powerOf outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,That breathes on earth the air of Paradise."
"Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;For if of our affections none find gracein sight of Heaven, then, wherefore had God madeThe world which we inhabit? Better pleaLove cannot have than that in loving theeGlory to that eternal peace is paid,Who such divinity to thee impartsAs hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.His hope is treacherous only whose love diesWith beauty, which is varying every hour:But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the powerOf outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,That breathes on earth the air of Paradise."
The ducal court at Ferrara became, in the latter half of the sixteenth century, the centre of much intellectual life and brilliancy; generous patronage was extended to the arts and to literature, and here gathered together a company which rivalled in splendor the court of Urbino in the days of the Countess Elizabetta. The duke, Alfonso II., son of that unfortunate Renée, daughter of Louis XII. of France, who had been kept in an Italian prison for twelve long years because of her suspected sympathy with the reformed doctrines, came of a long line of princes who had in the past given liberally to the cause of learning. During his reign, which covers the period from 1559 to 1597, the social side of court life in his dukedom came into special prominence. The two sisters of Alfonso—Lucrezia and Leonora—presided over this court, and to it came, from time to time, many of the most beautiful women of Italy. Tarquinia Moeza was there, a woman of beauty and of rare poetic gifts; Lucrezia Bendidio, beautiful and accomplished, and having constantly about her a most admiring throng of poets and literati; and later came the two acknowledged beauties of the day, Leonora di Sanvitali, Countess of Scandiano, and her no less charming mother-in-law, Barbara, Countess of Sala. Among the men of this company, suffice it to mention the name of the poet Guarini, whose fame has become enduring on account of his charming and idyllic drama,Il pastor fido, for he it is who seems to embody that sprightliness of wit which gave to Ferrara at that time its gladsome reputation.
To this court there came, for the first time, in the year 1565, young Torquato Tasso, poet and courtier, scholar and gentleman, and already the author of a published narrative poem, theRinaldo, which caused him to be hailed as the most promising poet of his generation when he was but in his eighteenth year. Bernardo Tasso, the poet's father, was likewise a poet and a professional courtier of some distinction, and varying fortunes had taken him to Urbino, where the son Torquato grew up, surrounded by all the evidences of refinement and culture. He had been favored by nature with a tall and commanding figure, and his good looks had already caused more than one gentle heart to flutter, when, at the age of twenty-one, with his father's consent and approval, he entered the service of the Cardinal Luigi d'Este, and became at once a conspicuous figure in court circles. Almost instantly the youth, filled as he was with most romantic ideas and readily susceptible to the power of woman's beauty, fell a captive to the charms of the Princess Leonora d'Este, who, though some ten years his senior, seemed to embody all the graces and to completely satisfy the ideal which up to this time he had been able to see only with his mind's eye. Leonora had already been sought in marriage by many titled suitors, but she had invariably turned a deaf ear to such proposals, never finding one who could please her fancy or who promised comfort in her loneliness. For she was lonely in that court, as she seems to have dwelt in a sort of spiritual isolation most of the time; there was always a melancholy air about her, which had no doubt been induced in large measure by her mother's sad fate. For Tasso to love her was most natural; but they both knew that such a love could be but hopeless, and it cannot be said that she encouraged him in any covert manner or that he made open profession of his passion. It is true that he makes her the subject of many of his poems, wherein he lauds her to the skies, but this is no more than was expected of a court poet; he did the same for other ladies, but in all that was dedicated to her charms there seems to shine forth a truer light of real affection than is found in all the others. What words of affection, if any, passed between them can never be known; but it seems that there must have been some sort of tacit consent to his silent adoration, and Tasso tells in a madrigal, perhaps in proof of this, that once, when he had asked her pardon for having put his arm upon her own in the eagerness of conversation, she replied, with gentleness: "You offended, not by putting your arm there, but by taking it away!"
For twelve years Tasso remained at Ferrara, constantly writing sonnets and short poems of all descriptions, which were most often addressed to Leonora, but at the same time he was busily working upon that longer poem in epic form, descriptive of the First Crusade, theGerusalemme liberata, wherein he puts a new feeling into Italian poetry, which had been expressed before by Ariosto in his amatory verse, but which cannot be found to any great extent in his more pretentious work, theOrlando Furioso. This new feeling was real sentiment, and not sentimentality, and it denotes the growing conception of the worth and dignity of womanhood which we have already discovered in the poetry of Michael Angelo. Allowing for the infinite contradictions possible in human nature, it may be that these men of the same time, who so coolly killed their wives and sisters for acts of infidelity, were touched in some dim way with the same feeling, to which, alas! they gave but sorry expression, if the surmise be true.
The constant excitement of the court and his unending literary labors commenced to tell upon the poet in 1575, when his health began to fail and he grew irritable and restless, became subject to delusions, fancied that he had been denounced by the Inquisition, and was in daily terror of being poisoned. Then it was said that the poet was mad, and there are some who have whispered that it was his unrequited love for the Princess Leonora which brought about this calamity. However that may be, the climax was reached in the year 1577, when Tasso, in the presence of Lucrezia d'Este,—who was then Duchess of Urbino,—drew a knife upon one of his servants. For this he was arrested, but soon after was given his liberty on condition that he should go to a Franciscan monastery and give himself that rest and attention which his failing health demanded. Here, however, he was beset with the idea that the duke sought to take his life, and he fled in disguise to his sister, who was then living at Sorrento. Various explanations have been given for this sudden flight, and some biographers have insinuated that the duke had discovered some hidden intrigue between his sister Leonora and Tasso which had caused the latter to fear for his safety. This supposition cannot be accepted as true, however, for if the duke had known or had even strongly suspected such a thing he would have promptly put the poet to death without compunction, and such a course of action would have been entirely justified by the public sentiment of the time. And if this supposition were true, is it probable that Tasso would have been allowed to return to Ferrara in a short time, as he did? Now, begins a confused life, and the poet comes and goes, moved by a strange restlessness, never happy away from Ferrara, yet never caring to stay there long. Finally, on one occasion he thought himself so neglected at his return that he made a most violent scene, and became so bitter and incoherent in his complaints that he was pronounced insane and imprisoned by order of the duke. There he remained for seven years, and the most of that time he was in a well-lighted and well-furnished room, where he was allowed to receive visitors and devote himself to literary work whenever he so desired. At the end of this time, in which Tasso himself speaks of his mental disorder, he went to Mantua, where he had been invited by the Prince Vincenzo Gonzaga; there he spent a few pleasant months; but he soon grew discontented, the roaming fit came upon him again, and after a number of years of pitiful endeavor he finally died, in 1595, at the convent of Saint Onofrio.
It does not seem just to blame the Princess Leonora d'Este for the sad fate which befell Tasso, as so many have done, for there is no proof of any unkindness on her part. That he loved her there can be but little doubt, but hardly to the verge of madness, as he wrote love sonnets to other ladies at the same time; the truth seems to be that he became mentally unbalanced as the result of the precocious development of his powers, which made a man of him while yet a boy and developed in him an intensity of feeling which made his candle of life burn fiercely, but for a short time only. His end was but the natural consequence of the beginning, and whether Leonora helped or hindered in the final result, it matters not, for she was blameless. She died in the second year of Tasso's imprisonment, sad at heart as she had ever been, never deeply touched by the poet's constant praises, and to the end a victim to that melancholy mood which had come upon her in childhood.
The transition from the sixteenth to the seventeenth century in Italy was marked by no sudden changes of any kind. The whole country was thoroughly prostrate and under the control of the empire; a national spirit did not exist, and the people seemed content to slumber on without opposing in any way the tyranny of their foreign masters. The glory of the Italian Renaissance had been sung in all the countries of Europe; in every nook and corner of the continent, Italian painters and sculptors, princes and poets, artists and artisans of all kinds, had stimulated this new birth of the world; but this mission accomplished, Italy seemed to find little more to do, and for lack of an ideal her sons and daughters wasted their time in the pursuit of idle things. It was the natural reaction after an age of unusual force and brilliancy. In the shadow of the great achievements of the sixteenth century in all lines of human activity, the seventeenth, lost in admiration, could imagine no surer way to equal attainment than to imitate what had gone before. Literature became stilted and full of mannerisms and underwent a process of refinement which left it without strength or vigor, and society in general seemed more concerned with form and ceremony than with the deeper things of the spirit.
Countless examples are on record to show the petty jealousies which were agitating the public mind at this time, and the number of quarrels and arguments which had their origin in most trivial causes passes belief. Rank and position were of the utmost consequence, and questions of precedence in public functions were far more eagerly discussed than were questions of national policy. Naples, under the control of Spanish princes, was particularly noted for such exhibitions of undignified behavior. On one occasion, during a solemn church ceremony, the military governor of the city left the cathedral in a great rage because he had noticed that a small footstool had been placed for the archbishop, while nothing of the kind had been provided for his own comfort. At the death of a certain princess, the royal commissioners delayed the funeral because it was claimed that she had used arms and insignia of nobility above her true rank, and was not entitled, therefore, to the brilliant obsequies which were being planned by the members of her family. The body was finally put in a vault and left unburied until the matter had been passed upon by the heraldry experts in Madrid! During the funeral services which were being held in honor of the Queen of Spain, the archbishop desired footstools placed for all the bishops present, but the vicegerent opposed this innovation, and the ceremony was finally suspended because they could come to no agreement. The cities of Cremona and Pavia were in litigation for eighty-two years over the question as to which should have precedence over the other in public functions where representatives of the two places happened to be together; finally, the Milanese Senate, to which the question was submitted, "after careful examination and mature deliberation, decided that it had nothing to decide." Another example of this small-mindedness is shown in the case of the General Giovanni Serbelloni, who, while fighting in the Valteline in 1625, was unwilling to open a despatch which had been sent to him, because he had not been addressed by all his titles. It is a pleasure to add that as a result of this action he was left in ignorance as to the approach of the enemy and the next day suffered a severe defeat.
Rome was the seat of much splendor and display—an inevitable state of affairs when the fact is taken into consideration that the city was filled with legates and embassies, all anxious to wait upon his holiness the pope and gain some special privilege or concession. At this time the cardinals, too, were not mere ecclesiastics, but rather men of great wealth and power; often they became prime ministers in their several countries,—as Richelieu, for example,—and the great and influential houses of Savoy, Este, Gonzaga, Farnese, Barberini, and many others, always possessed one or more of them who vied in magnificence with the pope himself. And all this helped to make the Eternal City the scene of much brilliancy. The papal court was the natural centre of all this animation, and many a stately procession wended its way to the Vatican. On one occasion, the Duke of Parma, wishing to compliment a newly elected pope, sent as his representative the Count of San Secondo, who went to his solemn interview followed by a long procession of one hundred and fifty carriages, and appeared before the pontiff with eighteen distinguished prelates in his train. This mad passion for display led to so many evils of all kinds that Urban VIII. prohibited "indecent garments" for both men and women. In the interests of public morality, it was further decreed that women were not to take music lessons from men, and nuns were allowed no other professors than their own companions. Public singing, distinct from religious ceremonies, was a novelty at this time, and women with the gift of song were paid most liberally for their services. Venice was the city most noted for its festivals and carnivals, and here these women were given most generous treatment.
In Florence, as in all the rest of Italy, Spain was taken as "the glass of fashion, the mould of form" for the first part of the century, but the splendor of the court of Louis Quatorze soon caused French fashions to reign supreme. Then, as now, brides were accustomed to dress in white, while married women were given a wide latitude in their choice of colors. At first, widows wore a dress distinctive not only in color but in cut, yet eventually they were to be distinguished by only a small head-dress of black crape. Young women were much given to curling their hair, and at the same time it was the fashion to wear upon the forehead a cluster of blond curls, apetite perruque, which, in the words of an old chronicler, Rinuccini, "is very unbecoming to those whose hair happens to be of another color." From the same authority is derived the following information concerning the women belonging to the under crust of society: "Prostitutes, formerly, all wore an apparent sign which revealed their infamous profession; it was a yellow ribbon fastened to the strings of the hats, which were then in fashion; when hats went out of style, the yellow ribbon was worn in the hair, and if the women were ever found without it they were severely punished. Finally, on payment of a certain tax, they were allowed to go without the ribbon, and then they were to be distinguished by their impudence only." In Florence, women of this class were especially noted for their beauty, and there it was customary to compel them all to live within a certain district.
In the average Florentine household it had been the custom to have three women servants,—a cook, a second girl, and amatrona. This third servant was better educated than the others, and it was her duty, outside of the house, to keep her mistress company, whether she rode in her carriage or went about on foot. At home, she did the sewing and the mending, and generally dressed her mistress and combed her hair. For this work thematronareceived a salary of six or seven dollars a month, and it seems to have been usual for her employers to arrange a good marriage for her after several years of service, giving her at that time from one hundred to one hundred and fifty crowns as a dowry. Later in the century, thematronadoes not seem to have been so common, and many women went alone in their carriages, while on foot they were accompanied by a manservant in livery. The wealthier ladies of the nobility, however, were accompanied in their conveyances by adonzella, and on the street and in all public places by an elderly and dignified manservant, dressed in black, who was known as thecavaliere. The fashion with regard to this male protector became so widespread that the women of the middle class were in the habit of hiring the services of some such individual for their occasional use on fête days and whenever they went to mass. The further development of this custom and its effect upon public morals in the following century will be discussed on another page.
Busy with all-absorbing questions of dress, etiquette, and domestic management, it does not appear that the women of the seventeenth century in Italy took any great share in public events, although one Italian woman at least, leaving the country of her birth, was placed by fate upon a royal throne. Henry IV. of France, about the year 1600, was hard pressed for the payment of certain debts by Ferdinand I., Grand Duke of Tuscany, as the Medici were still the bankers of Europe, and the French king was owing more than a million louis d'or; but the whole matter was settled in a satisfactory way when Henry gave definite promises to pay within a dozen years. To maintain his credit in the meantime, and to facilitate the payment of the money, the one-time King of Navarre demanded in marriage Marie de' Medici, the niece of the grand duke; it is needless to say that the request was speedily granted, for the pride and ambition of this rich Tuscan family were unlimited, and the memory of that other daughter of the house of Medici, Catherine, who had been Queen of France and mother of three French kings, was still fresh in the minds of all. The wedding ceremony was performed in great splendor, at Florence, Henry sending a proxy to represent him at that time; and then the young bride set out for France, followed by a glittering retinue, and bearing, as her dowry, six hundred thousand crowns of gold. Arriving at Leghorn, they took ship for Marseilles, and then began a triumphal march across the country, cities vying with each other in doing her honor. Cantu tells us that at Avignon, which was still a city under the temporal sway of the pope, Marie was placed in a chariot drawn by two elephants, and given an escort of two thousand cavaliers. There were seven triumphal arches and seven theatres; for it was the proud boast of the residents of Avignon that everything went by sevens in their city, as there were seven palaces, seven parishes, seven old convents, seven monasteries, seven hospitals, seven colleges, and seven gates in the city wall! Several addresses of welcome were delivered in the presence of the young queen, though in this instance the number was hardly seven, poems were read, and she received a number of gold medals bearing her profile upon one side and the city's coat of arms upon the other. Henry had left Paris to come to meet his bride, and it was at Lyons that the royal pair saw each other for the first time. It cannot be said that this first interview was warmly enthusiastic, for the king found her far less beautiful than the portrait which had been sent to him, and he soon came to the sad conclusion that she was too fat, had staring eyes and bad manners, and was very stubborn.
After the birth of a son and heir, who later became Louis XIII., the king neglected his wife to such an extent that she felt little sorrow at the time of his assassination. Then it was, as queen-regent, that Marie for the first time entered actively into political life; but her ability in this sphere of action was only moderate, and she was soon the centre of much quarrel and contention, wherein the unyielding feudal nobility and the Protestants figured largely as disturbing causes. In the midst of these troublous times, the queen had an invaluable assistant in the person of Eleanora Galigaï, her foster-sister, whose husband, Concino Concini, a Florentine, had come to France in the suite of Marie, and had subsequently risen to a position of influence in the court. Eventually, he became the Maréchal d'Ancre, and his wife was spoken of asla Maréchaleorla Galigaï, for so great was the extent of Eleanora's control over the queen that she was one of the most conspicuous women in all Europe at that time. Gradually, she was criticised on account of the way in which she used her power, and it was alleged that she was overmuch in the company of divers magicians and astrologers who had been brought from Italy, and that the black art alone was responsible for her success. These accusations finally aroused such public hostility that, after a trial which was a travesty upon justice, Eleanora was soon condemned to death, on the charge of having unduly influenced the queen by means of magic philters. Eleanora went to her death bravely, saying with dignity to her accusers: "The philter which I have used is the influence which every strong mind possesses, naturally, over every weaker one."
Not long after this Florentine queen of France was playing her part in public affairs, all Europe was surprised by another woman, whose actions were without parallel and whose case seems to be the opposite of the one just cited. Marie de' Medici left Italy to become a queen, and now a queen is seen to abdicate that she may go to Rome to live. Christine, Queen of Sweden, a most enlightened woman and the daughter of the great Gustavus Adolphus who had brought about the triumph of the Protestant arms in Germany, relinquished her royal robes in the year 1654, announced her conversion to Catholicism, and finally went to Rome, where she ended her days. She was given a veritable ovation on her arrival there, as may well be imagined, for the Church rarely made so distinguished a convert, and Christine, in acknowledgment of this attention, presented her crown and sceptre as a votive offering to the church of the Santa Casa at Loretto. At Rome she lived in one of the most beautiful palaces in the city, and there divided her time between study and amusements. Through it all she was never able to forget the fact that she had been a queen, and many examples might be given of her haughty demeanor in the presence of those who were unwilling to do her bidding. Before leaving Sweden, Christine had tried to gather a circle of learned men about her at Stockholm, and the great French philosopher Descartes spent some months in her palace. Later, when in Paris, on her way to Italy, a special session of the French Academy had been held in her honor, and all of the literary men of France went out to the palace at Fontainebleau while she was domiciled there, to do her honor. Once in Rome, it was her immediate desire to become the centre of a literary coterie, and to that end she was most generous in her gifts to artists and men of letters. Her intelligence and her liberality soon gave her great influence, and before long she was able to organize an Academy in due form under her own roof. She was for many years a most conspicuous figure in Roman society, and at the time of her death, in 1689, Filicaïa, a poet of some local reputation, declared that her kingdom comprised "all those who thought, all those who acted, and all those who were endowed with intelligence."
In this seventeenth century, as in the one before, parents were continually compelling their children and especially their daughters to enter upon a religious career, and many of them were forced to this course in spite of their protestations. Cantu tells of the case of Archangela Tarabotti, who was compelled to enter the convent of Saint Anne at Venice, though all her interests and all her ways were worldly in the extreme. To the convent she went, however, at the age of thirteen, because she was proving a difficult child to control, and there she was left to grind her teeth in impotent rage. In common with many other young girls of her time, she had never been taught to read or write, as the benefit of such accomplishments was not appreciated in any general way—at least so far as women were concerned; but, once within the convent walls, from sheer ennui, Archangela began to study most assiduously, and finally published a number of books which present an interesting description and criticism of existing manners and customs in so far as they had to do with women and their attitude toward conventual institutions. Having entered upon this life under protest, her first books were written in a wild, passionate style, and it was her purpose to make public the violence of which she had been a victim, and to prove, by copious references to authorities both sacred and profane, that women should be allowed entire liberty in their choice of a career. Incidentally, she cursed most thoroughly the fathers who compelled their daughters to take the veil in spite of their expressed unwillingness. Perhaps the most important of these protests, which was given an Elzevir edition in 1654, was entitledInnocence Deceived, or The Tyranny of Parents. This special edition was dedicated to God, and bore the epigraph: "Compulsory devotion is not agreeable to God!" Another of these books was entitledThe Hell of Convent Life, and these titles are certainly enough to show that she set about her task of religious—or, rather, social—reform with a most fervid, though somewhat bitter, zeal. Naturally, these open criticisms caused a great scandal in ecclesiastical circles, and many vigorous attempts were made to reconcile the recalcitrant nun and induce her to modify her views. Finally, moved by the pious exhortations of the patriarch, Federigo Cornaro, she became somewhat resigned to her fate. Then it was said of her that "she abandoned the pomp of fine garments, which had possessed so great a charm for her," and the records show that the last years of her life were spent in an endeavor to atone for the extravagances of her youthful conduct. A number of devout books were produced by her during this time, and among them the following curious titles may be noticed:The Paved Road to HeavenandThe Purgatory of Unhappily Married Women.
A somewhat similar case of petty tyranny, and one which was soon the talk of all Europe, is the pathetic story of Roberto Acciaïuoli and Elizabetta Marmoraï. These two young people loved each other in spite of the fact that Elizabetta was the wife of Giulio Berardi; when the latter died, everyone supposed that the lovers would marry, and such was their intention, but they found an unexpected obstacle in their path, for Roberto's uncle, the Cardinal Acciaïuoli, had other views on the subject. It was his desire that his nephew should contract a marriage with some wealthy Roman family whose influence might aid him to become pope. The young man refused to further this project in any way, and insisted upon marrying the woman of his choice; the cardinal, in despair, had to fall back upon the assistance of his ruling prince, Cosmo II., Grand Duke of Tuscany. Cosmo, unwilling to offend this prelate who might some day become the head of the Church, took action in his behalf and ordered that Elizabetta should be confined in a Florentine convent. Thereupon Roberto fled to Mantua, and, after having married her by letter, publicly proclaimed his act and demanded that his wife be delivered up to him. The best lawyers in Lombardy now declared the marriage a valid one, but in Florence the steps taken were considered merely as the equivalent of a public betrothal. So the matter stood for a time, until the pope died and the ambitious cardinal presented himself as a candidate for the pontiff's chair. Then the outraged nephew sent to each one of the papal electors a detailed account of what had taken place, with the result that his uncle's candidacy was a complete failure. Cosmo, moved somewhat by public opinion, which was all upon the side of the lovers, ordered Elizabetta to be released from her captivity, whereupon she joined her husband in Venice, that she might share his exile. They were not allowed to remain there for a long time in peace, however, as Cosmo, smarting under the lash of popular disapproval, decided to make an effort to get them within his power again, that he might wreak his vengeance upon them. Accordingly, he demanded that the Venetian republic should deliver them up, charging that they had been guilty of gross disrespect toward him, their sovereign. Hearing of this requisition, Roberto and Elizabetta, disguised as monks, fled to Germany, but were recognized at Trent and taken back to Tuscany. Acciaïuoli was then deprived of all his property and imprisoned for life in the fortress of Volterra, and his wife was threatened with the same treatment if she persisted in maintaining the validity of the marriage. Worn by all this trouble and persecution, Elizabetta weakened, failed to show the courage which might be expected from the heroine of such a dramatic story, and preferred to live alone for the rest of her days than to spend her life in prison with her devoted husband.
The eighteenth century found Italy still under the control of foreign rulers, and the national spirit was still unborn; public morals seem to have degenerated rather than improved, and then, as always, the women were no better than the men desired them to be. Details of the life of this period are extremely difficult to obtain, as the social aspects of Italian life from the decline of the Renaissance to the Napoleonic era have been quite generally neglected by historians; the information which is obtainable must be derived in large measure from books and letters on Italian travel, written for the most part by foreigners. One of the most interesting volumes of this kind was written by a Mrs. Piozzi, the English wife of an Italian, who had unusual opportunities for a close observation of social conditions; several of the following paragraphs are based upon her experiences.
The most striking thing in the social life of this time is the domestic arrangement whereby every married woman was supposed to have at her beck and call, in addition to her husband, another cavalier, who was known as acicisbeoand was the natural successor of the Florentinecavalierebefore mentioned. Cicisbeism has been much criticised and much discussed as to its bearing upon public morals, and many opposite opinions have been expressed with regard to it. The Countess Martinengo Cesaresco, who is a most careful and able student of Italian life, has the following to say upon the subject: "He [thecicisbeo] was frequently a humble relative—in every family were cadets too poor to marry, as they could not work for their living, or too sincere to become priests, to whom cavalier service secured a dinner, at any rate, if they wanted one. It was the custom to go to the theatre every evening—the box at the opera was an integral part of the household arrangements, a continuation of the salon—only it could not be reached without an escort. The chaperon did not exist, because a woman, no matter how old, was no escort for another woman, nor could she herself dispense with an attendant of the other sex. A dowager of sixty and a bride of sixteen had equally to stay at home if there was not a man to accompany them. The cavalier's service was particularly in request at the theatre, but he was more or less on duty whenever his lady left her house for any purpose, with the doubtful exception of going to church. No husband outside a honeymoon could be expected to perform all these functions: he, therefore, appointed or agreed upon the appointment of somebody else to act as his substitute. This was, in nine cases out of ten, the eminently unromantic cavalier servitude of fact. The high-flown, complimentary language, the profound bowing and hand-kissing of the period, combined to mystify strangers as to its real significance. Sometimes, when there was really a lover in the question, thecavalier serventemust have been a serious impediment; he was alwaysLà planté ... à contrecarrer un pauvre tiers, in the words of the witty Président de Brosses, who, though he did not wholly credit the assurances he received as to the invariable innocence of the institution, was yet far from passing on it the sweeping judgment arrived at by most foreigners. There is no doubt that habit and opportunity did, now and then, prove too strong for the two individuals thrown so constantly together. 'Juxtaposition is great,' as Clough says in hisAmours de Voyage; but that such lapses represented the rule rather than the exception is not borne out either by reason or record."
Mrs. Piozzi is somewhat dubious in regard to this condition of affairs and is hardly disposed to take the charitable view which has just been given, but the general trend of more enlightened comment seems to agree with the Countess Cesaresco. In Sheridan'sSchool for Scandaloccur the following lines, which convey the same idea: