They held a tournament in the courtyard of the villa; quite a concourse
thronged the painted lists. Ippolita, a miracle of rose and gold, in a
white gauzy robe, her hair crowned with daisies, was Queen of Love and
Beauty, fanned by ladies in red. Del Dardo tilted with Vittore
Marzipane, Gottardo de' Brancacci with Giacomo Fèo, a young lion from
the Romagna. Messer Meleagro very nearly fell off his horse. They were
all in gilt armour, their steeds blazoned with peacocks; but there was
no dust, for the ground had been wetted with rosewater; no bones were
broken and no blood drawn. The gallants of the Quattrocento could not
abide what gave the salt to their grandfathers' feasts. They had other
ways of deciding issues which appeared satisfactory; and when at the end
the conquering champion went down on his two knees before the throne,
when Ippolita, with deprecating hands and downcast eyes rose timidly to
crown him, the silver trumpets pealed as shatteringly as ever over a
blood-fray, and the company cried aloud to the witnessing sky, "Evviva
Ippolita bella!" They could have done no more for a sheaf of broken
necks.
This was a great day; but at the close of it its glorious Occasion
locked herself into her chamber with breathless care, and sat tearful by
the window, with crisping hands and heaving bosom, watchful of the happy
idlers she could see afar off in the broad green Prato. Under the
shimmering trees there walked mothers, whose children dragged at their
skirts to make them look; handfasted lovers were there; a lad teased a
lass; a girl hunched her shoulder to provoke more teasing. An old priest
paused with a finger in his breviary to smile upon a heap of ragged
urchins tumbling in the dust. The air breathed benevolence, the peace of
afternoon, the end of toil. Round about, so still and easeful after the
day's labour, were the white houses, green-shuttered, half hidden in the
trees, the minarets, the domes, the coursing swallows: over them the
golden haze of afternoon, a sky yellowing at the edge, beams of dusty
sunlight coming slantwise, broad pools of shadow; further still, the far
purple shoulders of the hills. Ah, those velvet-sided, blue-bathing,
bird-haunted, wind-kissed hills!
But what was that? The jangle of little bells--the goatherds were going
out of the city! This poor prisoner then, this watched and weary beauty,
whispered to herself of her despair. "Oh, Madonna, Madonna, Madonna,"
she fretted, "let me go!"
As by miracle they announced a visitor: one Annina, a girl of the town.
Would her Majesty see her?
Ah, Heaven! but her Majesty would! In came, staring and breathing hard,
a brown-eyed girl with a shawl over her head, below it a blue stuff
gown, below all a pair of sturdy bare legs. "Corpaccio! that's a lady;
that's never my 'Polita," she stammered when she saw the white silk
wonder of the room, the jewels in her neck, the chains of gold, the
bosom.
"Oh, Annina! Annina! it is, it is your poor Ippolita," panted the
beauty, and fell into the red arms of her friend.
"Sakes! dear sakes! Thou'lt spoil thy glory, my lovely dear," cried the
other; "but there then, but there then, there's nothing to wail about.
Tell me the trouble, tell thy good Nannina!" So she petted her, like a
mother her child.
Donna Euforbia stood confused, but dutiful ever. "Has her Majesty any
further commands?"
"Grazie, grazie," said her kissing Majesty, "niente!" and so was left
alone with all that she held true in Padua.
"Oh, come, Nannina, come and sit with me; come to the window--let us
have the air." She led her there. "O lasso!" said she then, and sighed;
"how good it is to see thee, child!"
Before the other could let out a "Madonna!" she began her plaint. "They
give me no rest, Nannina, no rest at all. Day long, night long, they are
at their postures. I am dressed, undressed, put to bed, taken out, fed,
watered, like a pet dog. They put me in a bath, they do my hair out
every day: to get me up in the morning according to their fancies is an
hour and a half's work for three ladies. Figure it!"
"Christian souls!" cried Nannina, "what's the meaning of this? A bath?
What, water."
"Full to the brim with water, on the faith of a Catholic. Of course, if
this continues I must die."
"Oh, sicuro, sicurissimo!" she agreed. "This is very serious, Ippolita.
Eh, let me feel you. Are you ever dry, my poor child?"
"Dry to the touch, Nannina, dry to the touch. But it is within my body I
fear it. I must be sodden, dearest."
"Send for a priest, Ippolita, that is the only chance. But, remember,
when they have washed you, they put clothes upon you like these. Ah, but
it is worth a girl's while to have silk upon her, and these chains, and
these pearls. Corpaccio! there is no Madonna in Padua with such stones
as these, nor any bishop either, upon my faith!"
Ippolita shook her beautiful head. "They are not worth the price of all
that smelling water," she complained. "Try it, Nannina, before you
speak. Seriously, I am very unhappy. Let me tell you something."
"Well?"
"No--come nearer. I'll whisper."
The two heads were very close together. Nannina's eyes became a
study--attention, suspicion, justified prophecy, hopefulness; then
saucerfuls of sheer surprise to smother every other emotion.
"Ma! Impossibile! And they have never--?"
"Never so much as a finger."
"But what? Are they--? Don't they--?"
Ippolita shrugged, pouting. "Chi lo sa? I tell you, Nannina, I shall go
mad in this place."
"And why not?" cried the other, with a snort. "You have examples enough
about you, my conscience! What is all their singing and stuff about?"
"I think it is about me, Nannina."
"And their disputing?"
"It is about me."
"And the rhymes?"
"They are about me."
"And you have never--?"
"Never, never, never!"
"What, not in the garden even?"
"No, never, I tell you. Only my hand."
"Your hand--pouf! The nightingales sing there, I suppose."
"All night."
"And there is moonlight?"
"Floods of moonlight."
"Dio! Dio santissimo!" cried Nannina, striking her friend on the knee,
"you must be out of this, Ippolita! This is unwholesome: I like not the
smell of this. Faugh, fungus! Mawkish! I will see your father this very
night."