Of scarcely less interest than Isabella d’Este is her sister Beatrice,
the fresh, dark-eyed, dark-haired, gay, and laughing girl who went
to Milan at fifteen as the bride of Lodovico Sforza, and died before
she was twenty-two, after condensing the experiences of a lifetime
in a few short years. This court has left the record of much sin and
many tragedies, and it furnished some great princesses to the smaller
and less imposing ones, but its literary glory was not so conspicuous
as its splendor and its crimes. A court that numbered Bramante and
Leonardo da Vinci among its stars, however, is not to be passed
lightly. These colossal men were not easy to command, and prince as
well as princess often appealed to them in vain. It is not likely that
they gave much precious time to courtly pleasures, as the first order
of genius thrives better in solitude or the sympathetic companionship
of the few, though Leonardo was much sought after for his personal
accomplishments. But the inspiration of an intelligent woman has more
to do with the results of genius than an unthinking and altogether
material world is apt to imagine. The Duchess Beatrice was the moving
spirit at Milan when its greatest artists were creating the monuments
that were to be its lasting glory. Under her critical eye, too, the
architects, painters, sculptors, and decorators made the church and
cloisters of Certosa things of imperishable beauty, happily unconscious
that they were building and carving the tomb of the little lady who was
so gracious and so appreciative.
These artistic tastes, which she shared with her sister, were inherited
from her mother, and they were fostered in the court of her grandfather
at Naples, where she spent her childhood. At Ferrara she was a trifle
overshadowed by the more gifted and beautiful Isabella, but she still
lived in a stimulating atmosphere. From a worldly point of view it
was a brilliant prospect that opened before the young girl when she
went away from classical Ferrara as the child-wife of a man she had
never seen. On the personal side the clouds were dark, but that inner
realm in which lies happiness or misery was never considered. The
formidable Lodovico was certainly not good, but he had the cultivated
tastes of his time, and magnificent projects, into which the small
but clever duchess entered with enthusiasm. With grace, generosity,
a fine intellect, and a singularly brave and vigorous character, she
captivated at once the heart of the blasé prince, who had been none
too well pleased with the policy of her coming. No one loved better
the pageants, tournaments, and amusements of her age. No one rode more
fearlessly, hunted with more zest, or danced with more pleasure. She
pursued everything with the ardor of youth and a happy temperament. But
her careful training had not been in vain. This fifteen-year-old wife
reserved her leisure hours for serious things. She had a fine literary
as well as artistic taste, and filled her cabinet with rare and costly
books. It is common enough to collect costly books which are never
read, but not so common for pleasure-loving girls to take delight in
the masters of literature. Even in our enlightened day they are apt
to prefer novels, and usually very poor ones. Doubtless the Duchess
Beatrice had learned advisers, but she knew how to select them, which
is in itself a talent. There were many men of letters about the court,
and some of them read to her while she was busy with her needle, just
as others used to do in the old days at Ferrara. They did not read the
last romance, but great poems, sometimes the “Divine Comedy,” sometimes
Petrarch, sometimes later verses, or histories. The grand Lodovico
often stole in to listen, and gave thoughtful attention, especially to
the greater master. Perhaps he recalled those happy moments in his sad
captivity when the only thing he asked was a copy of Dante to while
away the long and lonely hours in a French prison.
In the quiet summer days, among the groves and fountains of Vigevano or
Pavia, when the dripping of the water and the rustling of the leaves
made a sweet accompaniment for the strains of the orchestra that
floated away past the tree-tops and lost themselves in the upper air,
we find her listening to an animated discussion between Bramante and
Gaspari Visconti on the relative merits of Dante and Petrarch, with her
own sympathies on the side of the more spiritual poet. It was this same
Visconti who said that the talents and virtues of the discriminating
duchess surpassed those of the greatest women of antiquity. Giuliano
de’ Medici also speaks of her as a woman of “wonderful parts.” Poets,
artists, and singers flocked to her for patronage and recognition from
many countries, sure of a generous sympathy.
Nor were her tastes and abilities limited to things gay, artistic, and
literary. She had a clear head and a facile talent. When scarcely more
than eighteen her husband sent her on a diplomatic mission to Venice,
where she spoke with grace and dignity before the doge and seigniory
on a matter of politics. No one questioned her modesty in doing so, and
every one praised her wise and tactful eloquence. She confesses to a
little tremulous apprehension, but writes in a naïve and artless way of
her cordial reception by the councilors, also of the magnificent fêtes
given in her honor.
In the troubled days of Milan, when the aspiring Lodovico proved weak
and faint-hearted, it was his brave little wife who went with him to
the camp, reconciled the differences among the officers, and inspired
the soldiers with her own courage and enthusiasm. In the final crisis,
at this time, it was still the young and fearless woman who took prompt
measures to defend the city after her husband had fled and left her to
bear all the burdens alone. It is not a question here whether he was
right or wrong. The morals of politics were worse then, if possible,
than they are now, and he had at least a powerful following. On a
matter of public policy it is clear enough that she could not lead a
party in opposition to him. What she thought we do not know, though her
courage and her swift resources showed the quality of the woman.
Many were the sad hours this inconstant husband gave her, but when she
was gone in the freshness of her innocent youth, he put himself and
everything about him in sable, refused to be comforted, and mourned
her the rest of his life. In spite of his wandering fancies, which
she had the spirit to curb, he said that he loved her better than
himself,--which, if true, was saying a great deal,--and that she had
been his adored companion no less in the cares of State than in his
hours of ease. That she shared his cruelties is not supposable from
anything we know of her character, but it is certain that he owed to
her taste and counsel much of his reputation as an enlightened ruler
who crowned his city with the glories of art.
With her loss his star began to wane. “When the Duchess Beatrice died,
everything fell into ruin. The court, which had been a paradise of joy,
became a dark and gloomy inferno; poets and artists were forced to seek
another place.” So writes a man of letters, in the last days of the
fifteenth century, of a woman of twenty-one who had tried to make the
richest and worst court in Italy a home for literature, art, and all
that makes for the intellectual good of the race.