CHAPTER IV.
It was early in the month of September. The grapes were already purplewith the draughts of sunshine which they had drunk in through a long,ardent summer, and the trees had already begun to display "the searand yellow leaf"--early, early, like those who exhaust in life's youngday all the allotted pleasures of man's little space. The autumn hadfallen upon them soon. Yet it was a lovely scene, as you gazed fromone of those little monticules which stud the Lombard plains. There issomething in the descent from the mountains into Italy which seems toanticipate the land--not so much in its physical as in its moralfeatures; a softness, a gentleness, a gracefulness which is all itsown, while round about, unseen, but felt in every breeze, is the dark,pestilential swamp, gloomy and despairing, or else a brighter but moretreacherous land, fair to the eye, but destructive to vitality, whichlures but to destroy. One easily conceives the character of a largeportion of the people of the middle ages in Italy from the aspect ofthe land. But it is of the people of the middle ages only. One canhardly derive any notion of the ancient Roman from the characteristicsof the country till one plunges into the Campagna, where the stern,hard features of the scenery seem to represent that force which, alas!has passed away.
And yet it was a lovely scene, and a moment of sweet and calmenjoyment, as three young people sat together on the lower step of aterrace near Vigevano, with a fountain gushing and murmuring sometwenty feet above, and a beautiful garden filled with mulberry-treesand vines, and some oranges, not very luxuriant, but diffusing apleasant but languid odour round. The eye wandered over the shrubs andtrees to the lands watered by the Ticino on its way to Pavia; andbeyond, in the evening light, long lines of undulating country weremarked out in the deep blue tints peculiar to the distant scenery ofItaly. The terrace, below which the three were seated, was long andwide, and rising therefrom, near the centre, was one face of a villa,built in a style of which few specimens remain. The taste and geniusof Palladio had not yet given to the villa-architecture of Lombardythat lightness and grace which formed the characteristic of anew style of art. There was something, at that time, in everycountry-house of Italy of the heavy, massive repulsiveness of the oldcastello. But yet the dawn of a better epoch was apparent, in theworks of Andrea Palladio's great master, Trissino; and in the veryvilla of which I speak, though here and there a strong, tall tower wasapparent, and the basement story contained stone enough to have builta score of modern houses, much ornament of a light and gracefulcharacter had been lavished upon the whole building, as if to concealthat it was constructed for defence as well as enjoyment. Indeed, asis generally the case, there was a certain harmony between the timesand state of society and the constructions of the period. The Italiansmiled, and revelled, and feasted, and called in music, and song, andpoetry, to cover over the dangers, and the griefs, and the terrors ofevery day; and the palace in the city, or the villa in the country,was often as richly decorated as if its massy inner walls were neverintended to preserve the life and fortune of its owner from the handsof rude assailants, nor its halls ever to witness deeds of horror andcruelty within their dark recesses.
It was, indeed, an evening and a scene such as Lorenzo Visconti haddescribed as fitted for the telling of his own history. All was stilland quiet around; the leaves of the vines hardly moved with the lightair, the glow of the western sky faded off into deep purple as the eyewas raised from the horizon to the zenith; no moving object--no, not afloating cloud, could be seen on any side; and the murmur of thefountain seemed to add to, rather than detract from, the stillness.The three young people--I need not tell the reader who they were---hadranged themselves as their nature or their temporary feelingsprompted. On the lowest step Bianca Maria had placed herself, lookingup with her sweet confiding eyes towards the young companion whom shealmost idolized. On the step above was her cousin Lorenzo; and on astep above them both, but leaning with her elbow on her knee, and hercheek resting on her hand, a little to the right of Lorenzo and theleft of Bianca, was Leonora d'Orco, with her dark eyes bent down,drinking in the words of the young soldier.
It was a group such as Bronzino might have delighted to paint; for notonly were there those colours in it which all Italians love, and allItalian artists take pleasure in blending and harmonizing--the deepbrowns, which characterise the complexion of their country, with therarer and exceptional fairness sometimes found among them---theflowing flaxen hair of the North, and its rich crimsons, but in thedress of the three also there were those strong contrasts ofharmonious hues, if I may use what may seem at first sight (but onlyat first sight) a contradiction in terms--the rich red, and the deepgreen, and the yellow touching upon brown, and the pale blue. Howcharming, how satisfactory was the art of those old painters inreproducing on the canvas the combinations which nature produces everyday. And yet Art, following Nature in its infinite variety, has shownus, in the works of Murillo and some other Spanish artists, thatperfect harmony of colouring can afford as much pleasure as harmonizedcontrasts, and that in painting also there may be Mozarts as well asBeethovens.
The evening light fell beautifully upon that young group, as they satthere on the steps of the terrace, and, just glancing round the angleof an old ruined building of Roman date in the gardens below, touchedgently and sweetly upon the brow and eyes of Bianca Maria, lighted upthe face of Lorenzo, and shone full upon the whole figure of Leonora,as she gazed down upon the speaker.
"I must go back far into the times past," he said; "I dare say you arewell aware that the Viscontis once reigned as lords and dukes ofMilan. Do not suppose, Leonora, that I am about to put forth any claimto that rich inheritance; for, though nearly allied to the rulingrace, my branch of the family were already separated from the parentstem when the imperial bull was issued which conferred sovereignty onthe branch that ended with Filippo Maria. That bull limited thesuccession strictly, and we had and have no claim. At the death ofFilippo, the Milanese found still one spark of ancient spirit, andthey declared themselves a republic. But republics have in them,unhappily, no seeds of durability. There is not strength and virtueenough in man to give them permanence. Rude nations may be strong andresolute enough to maintain such institutions in their youth; but artand luxury soften, and in softening enfeeble, so that men learn tolove ease more than independence, pleasure better than freedom. A newdynasty was destined soon to succeed the old. The Viscontis werenoble, of high race and long descent, connected with every sovereignhouse of Europe. But the son of a peasant was to gather theirinheritance and wear their coronet.
"There was a man born at Cotignola, in Romagna, named SforzaAttendolo, of very humble birth, but prodigious strength of body andextraordinary military genius. Famine drove him to seek food in thetrade of war. He joined one of the great companies, rose by the forceof genius and courage, and in the end became one of the two mostfamous condottieri in Italy. After a career of almost unexampled gloryand success, he was drowned in swimming the Pescara, but his sonFrancesco succeeded to his command, and to more than his inheritanceof military fame. He was, indeed, a great man; and so powerful did hebecome, that Filippo Maria Visconti promised him---to the illegitimateson of a Romagnese peasant--the hand of his only daughter to securehis services in his many wars. He hesitated long, it is true, tofulfil a promise which he felt to be degrading, but he was compelledto submit at length. With the aid of Francesco Sforza he was a greatprince--without him he was nothing; and when he died, old and blind,he left his people to struggle against the man whom he had aided toraise, but upon whom his own fate had very often depended. Francescowas noble at heart, though ambitious. His enemies he often treatedwith unexampled generosity, forbearance, and even kindness. He showedthat he feared no man, by freeing the most powerful and most skilfulof his captive enemies; but he pursued his course steadily towarddominion, not altogether unstained by deceit and falsehood, butwithout cruelty or tyranny. Sore pressed by famine, and with hisarmies beneath their walls, the Milanese, who recognised his highqualities, though they feared his dominion, threw open th
eir gates tohim, and renounced their liberty at the feet of a new duke inFebruary, 1450. The Viscontis had nothing to complain of. The reigningbranch was extinct; the rest were not named in the imperial bull, andthey, with their fellow-citizens, submitted calmly of the rule of thegreatest man then living in Italy. Nor had they cause to regret theact during the life of Francesco Sforza. He ruled the land justly andmoderately, maintained his own renown to the last, and showed none ofthe jealousy of a tyrant towards those whose birth, or fortune, ortalents might have made them formidable rivals. He was wise toconciliate affection in support of power. His good reign of sixteenyears did more to enslave the Milanese people than the iron heel ofany despot could have done; but there were not wanting those among hischildren to take cruel advantage of that which his virtues hadaccomplished. He died about thirty years ago, and to him succeeded hiseldest son, the monster Galeazzo. From that hour the iron yoke pressedupon the neck of the Milanese. The new duke had less ambition than hisfather, and inherited none of his talents; but he had a genius forcruelty, and an energy in crime unequalled even by Eccelino. Thosewhom he seemed most to favour and who least feared the tyrant's blow,were always those on whom it fell most heavily and most suddenly; andthey furnished, when they little expected it, fresh victims for thetorture, or for some new and unheard-of kind of death. His luxury andhis licentiousness passed all bounds; no family was safe; no lady'shonour was unassailed or uncalumniated; violence was resorted to whencorruption did not succeed; in each day he comprised the crimes of aTarquin and the ferocity of a Nero. There were, however, three noblehearts in Milan, and they fancied there were many more. They dreamedthat some public spirit still lingered among their countrymen--atleast enough, when delivered from actual fear of the tyrant, to seizethe opportunity and regain their liberty. When there is no law, menmust execute justice as they can; and those three resolved to putGaleazzo to death--a mild punishment for a life of crime. Their nameswere Olgiati, Lampugnani, and Carlo Visconti. All had suffered fromthe tyrant. Olgiati's sister had fallen a victim to his violence.Lampugnani's wife was another. My mother only escaped by death. But itwas not vengeance that moved the patriots. They had only suffered whatothers had suffered. The evils of the country had become intolerable;they were all the work of one man; and the three determined to deprivehim of the power to inflict more. They looked upon their undertakingnot only as a great and glorious enterprise, but as a religious duty,and they prepared themselves for its execution with prayer andfasting, and the most solemn sacrament of the Church. Manydifficulties intervened. Either the consciousness that his tyranny andcrimes had become intolerable, or one of those strange presentimentsof coming fate which have affected many men as the hour of theirdestiny drew nigh, rendered Galeazzo less accessible, more suspiciousand retired than before. He seldom came forth from his palace, was nolonger seen on occasions of public ceremony, or in f?tes andfestivals. There was, indeed, one day when he could hardly fail toshow himself, and that was on St. Stephen's day--a day when, byimmemorial custom, every one honours the first martyr by attendingmass at the great church. That day they fixed upon for the executionof their design, and each was early in the church, with a daggerhidden in the sleeve of his gown. The world has called it a sacrilege;but they looked upon it as a holy and a righteous deed, sanctified bythe justice of the cause, that the most sacred place could not bepolluted by it.
"In the mean time Galeazzo seemed to feel that the day and hour ofretribution had arrived. He would fain have avoided it; he sought tohave mass performed in the palace; he applied to a chaplain--to theBishop of Como--but in all instances slight obstacles presentedthemselves, and in the end he determined to go to the Cathedral. Onetouch of human tenderness and feeling, the first for many a day, brokefrom him. He sent for his two children, took leave of them tenderly,and embraced them again and again. He then went forth; but theconspirators awaited him in the church; and hardly had he entered whenthree daggers were plunged into his breast and back. Each struck asecond blow; and the monster who had inflicted torture, and death, anddisgrace upon so many innocent fellow-creatures sank to the pavement,exclaiming, 'Sancta Maria!'
"The three then rushed towards the street to call the people to arms;but Lampugnani stumbled, catching his feet in the long trains of thewomen who were already kneeling in the nave. As he fell he was killedby a Moor, one of Galeazzo's base retainers. My father was killedwhere he stood, and Olgiato escaped into the street only to find thepeople, on whom he trusted either dead to all sense of patriotism andjustice, or stupified and surprised. Not a sword was drawn--not a handwas raised in answer to his cry, 'To arms!' and torture and the deathof a criminal once more closed the career of a patriot.
"I was an infant at that time, but in the days of Galeazzo Sforzainfants were not spared, and the nurse who had me in her arms hurriedforth, carrying me with her, ere the gates of the city could beclosed, or the followers of the duke came to search and pillage ourhouse. She took refuge in a neighbouring village, whence we were notlong after carried to Florence, where the noble Lorenzo de Medici,after whom I had been baptized, received me as his child, and when hefelt death approaching, sent me to the court of France to finish myeducation among my relatives there."
"And was this Prince Ludovic the son of Galeazzo?" asked Leonora, assoon as he had paused.
"Oh no--his younger brother," replied Lorenzo. "He holds the son indurance, and the son's wife, on the pretence of guardianship, thoughboth are of full age; but, if I be not mistaken, the day of theirdeliverance is near at hand, for I have heard the king say he willcertainly see them, and learn whether they are not fitted to ruletheir own duchy without the interference of so dangerous a relation."
"God grant the king may be in time," said Bianca Maria; "for it issaid the young duke is very sick, and people say he has poison in allhe eats."
"Hush! hush!" cried Leonora, anxiously. "Long confinement and wearingcare are enough to make him sick, Bianca, without a grain of poison.No one can die now-a-days without people saying he is poisoned. 'Tis asad tale, indeed, you tell, Lorenzo, and I have often heard our sweetPrincess of Ferrara say that Galeazzo was a bad man; but Ludovicsurely is not cruel. He has pardoned many a man, I have heard, who hadbeen condemned by the tribunals."
A somewhat bitter smile came upon the lips of Lorenzo Visconti, but hemerely replied, "The good and innocent always think others good andinnocent till bitter experience teaches them the contrary."
Perhaps he might have added more, but the sound of footsteps on theterrace above caught his ear, and he and Leonora at once turned to seewho approached. The steps were slow and deliberate, and were notdirected toward the spot where the young people sat; but theyinstantly checked further conversation on the subjects previouslydiscussed, while from time to time each of the three gave a glancetoward two gentlemen who had just appeared upon the terrace. The onewas a man somewhat advanced in years, though not exactly what might becalled an old man. His hair and beard were very gray, it is true, buthis frame was not bent, and his step was still firm and stately. Hewas richly dressed, and wore a large, heavy sword, of a somewhatantique fashion. Lorenzo asked no questions concerning him, for heknew him already as the grandfather of his young cousin, Bianca Maria.The other was a younger man, dressed in black velvet, except where thearms were seen from under the long hanging sleeves of his uppergarment, showing part of an under coat of cloth of silver. He was talland thin, and his face would have deserved the name of handsome had itnot been that the eyes, which were fine in themselves, andovershadowed by strongly-marked eyebrows, were too close together, andhad a slight obliquity inward. It was not what could be absolutelycalled a squint, but it gave a sinister expression to his countenance,which was not relieved by a habit of keeping his teeth and lipsclosely compressed, as if holding a rigid guard over what the tonguemight be inclined to utter.
They took their way to the extreme end of the terrace, and then walkedback till they came on a line with the spot where the three youngpeople sat, still silent, for there is
a freemasonry in youth thatloves not to have even its most trifling secrets laid bare to othereyes, or its most innocent councils broken in upon.
There the two gentlemen paused, and the younger seemed to end someconversation which had been passing between them by saying, "I knownot much, Signor Rovera, of the history or views of other times, orfor what men lived and strove for in those days; but I do know, andpretty well, the history of my own times, and the rules by which wehave to guide ourselves in them. If we have not ourselves power, wemust serve those who have power; and while we keep ourselves from whatyou would call an evil will on our own part, we must not be over nicein executing the will of those above us. Theirs is the deed, andtheirs the responsibility. The race of Sforza is not, methinks, ahigher or a better race than the race of Borgia. Both are peasantscompared to you or me, but the Borgias are rising, and destined torise high above us both; the Sforzas have risen, and are about tofall, or I mistake the signs of the times. Men may play with a kittenmore safely than with a lion; and when Ludovico called this King ofFrance into Italy, he put his head in the wild beast's mouth."
"Ah, that that were all!" exclaimed the old Count of Rovera. "I shouldlittle care to see that wild beast close his heavy jaws upon the skullof his inviter, if that would satisfy him; but Italy--what is tobecome of Italy?"
"God knows," answered the other drily. "She has taken so little careof her children, that, good faith! they must take care of themselvesand let her do the same, my noble cousin. We are both too old to losemuch by her fall, and neither of us young enough to hope to see herrise. Phoenixes are rare in these days, Signor Count. There," hecontinued, pointing to the little group upon the steps, "there arethe only things that are likely to spring up, except corn, andmulberry-trees, and such vegetables. Why, how the girl has grownalready! She is well-nigh a woman. She will need a husband soon, andthen baby-clothes, and so forth. I must speak with her. Leonora!Leonora!"
At the sound of his voice, Leonora, who had been sitting with her headbent down and her eyes fixed upon the marble at her feet, sprang uplike a startled deer, and ran up the steps toward him; but when withina step, she paused, and bent before him without speaking.
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