than Ludovico's. Like Cæsar Borgia, he had much of the magnificent
adventurer in his blood, and though he never cut the figure in Italy
that Cæsar Borgia did, he was in many ways the more interesting of the
two. Cæsar Borgia outshines him easily as a schemer, as a fighter, as
a man nothing stopped and nothing staggered; but Cæsar Borgia was
known as a being more eager to conquer towns than to govern them, and
Il Moro was above all admirable at the head of a state. His politics
were over-cunning, but as a ruler of Milan he went consistently for
improvement and for more humanity than was customary. In personal
charm he must have run the Borgia close. All those who knew him
intimately liked him. There was dignity of presence and an eloquent
habit of speech. Leonardo da Vinci could not be reckoned an easy man
to satisfy, but he lived for sixteen years contentedly under the
patronage of Ludovico. Ludovico's ambitions did not drive him at the
same furious pace as the other's, and he worked for a city and the
future along with and in the interval of his own deep plots. A
contemporary writer, Cagnola, says of him that he improved to an
extraordinary degree the town of Milan, by enlarging and embellishing
the streets and squares, and by the erection of many fine buildings,
the fronts of which were decorated with frescoes. He did the same at
Pavia, until both towns, previously hideous and filthy, were scarcely
recognizable. Corio adduces further evidence in his favour by saying
that every man of culture and learning, wherever he could be found,
was enticed by Ludovico to Milan, and in some flowery phrases writes
that all that was sweetest in music and finest in art and literature
was to be found in the court of Il Moro.
This, put in plainer language, was very nearly true. Ludovico had a
passion for having great men as company. His library, too, was famous.
He collected books in France, Italy, and Germany. He had manuscripts
printed, copied, illuminated wherever he could find them. In
connection with this library, besides, a pleasant trait in his
character comes out. He allowed scholars to borrow his books for
purposes of study, and even gave facilities to them for using his
library. The universities of both Milan and Pavia were saved by his
energy, and his attitude towards education was always generous and
impersonal.
To a man so full of temperament Beatrice's own nature was very much in
tune, and after the disposal of Cecilia Gallerani there came to her
the really good time of her life. It seems more than probable, in
fact, that Ludovico had already grown fond of the round-faced girl
with the audacious expression and the inexhaustible vitality of ways.
Some of her earlier escapades were like a schoolboy's home for the
holidays, but Ludovico referred to them invariably with a touch of
pride. He wrote on one occasion to Isabella that his wife, the Duchess
of Milan, and their suites, had, at Beatrice's instigation, been
dressing up in Turkish costumes. These dresses, also under Beatrice's
impetuous influence, were finished in one night's labour. She herself
sewed vigorously with the rest, and Ludovico wrote that upon the
duchess expressing surprise at her energy, replied that she could do
nothing without flinging her whole soul into it. That was like
Beatrice; she had no impulses that were not glowing, tremendous,
whole-hearted. Some of her nonsense at this time, nevertheless, was
not so pleasing, though Ludovico does not appear to have realized its
naughtiness. He wrote on another occasion, and still with an air of
pride, that one of her amusements in the country was to ride races
with the ladies of her suite, when she would gallop full speed behind
some of them in the hope of making them tumble off their excited
horses.
Of Beatrice's pluck many instances are given, but at this time,
undoubtedly, she was a little drunk with youth and happiness. Trotti
wrote to Ferrara of a wrestling match between her and Isabella of
Milan, in which Beatrice succeeded in throwing Isabella down. And the
tirelessness of the creature came out also in a letter of her own to
Isabella of Mantua, in which she told her sister how every day after
their dinner she played ball with some of her courtiers. In the same
letter there is another assurance that she was really happy, not only
because she was young and vigorous, but because her heart was
satisfied, for she mentions, as if it brimmed over spontaneously from
a joy still fresh enough to be marvelled at, how tender her husband
was to her. She added a pretty and affectionate touch by mentioning a
bed of garlic which she had planted on purpose for her sister when she
should come to stay with them, garlic being evidently a flavouring of
which Isabella was extremely fond.
Beatrice's statement of Ludovico's affectionate habits is largely
corroborated. Once, when she was ill, Trotti reported to Ferrara that
Ludovico left her bedside neither night nor day, but spent his entire
time trying to soothe and distract her.
As far as Beatrice was concerned, this illness could not consequently
have been entirely lamentable. It is in the nature of women not to
begrudge the price paid for visible assurances of being beloved, and
to Beatrice Ludovico had soon become the integral requirement of life.
Some time after this the real duchess, Isabella, gave birth to a son.
At last Giangaleazzo was not only duke, but possessed an heir to come
after him. This child destroyed the Regent's prospects. Giangaleazzo,
weak as well as foolish, had not the making of old bones in him. Until
now the able and popular Regent stood with an easy grace, one day to
be persuaded to step into his nephew's shoes. Isabella's son put
girders to her house, and thrust Ludovico's future back to that of
simple service, gilded and honourable, but yet, after all, merely
service to the house of which he was not head. For Beatrice and
Ludovico, moreover, this new-born infant tinged the situation either
with flat mediocrity or with a new and secret ugliness. No change
showed, however, upon the surface. Public rejoicings took place to
celebrate the birth of an heir, and life then fell back into its
customary habits. There is a picture of these days given many years
after by Beatrice's secretary, the _elegantissimo_ Calmeta, as he was
called at the time. He wrote that her court was filled with men of
distinction, all of whom were expected to use their talents for her
intellectual pleasure. When she had nothing else to do, a secretary
read Dante or some minor poet out loud to her, on which occasions
Ludovico would more often than not come and listen with her.
Calmeta mentions some of the men who made Beatrice's court remarkable,
but the greatest of all, Leonardo da Vinci, is not included. From what
it is possible to ascertain, Leonardo came very little into Beatrice's
private existence. His life was enclosed by what Walter Pater calls
"curiosity and the desire of beauty," and the passion for humanity was
very slightly developed in him. He believed in solitude, and, in a
limited and cordial fashion, indulged in it.
In reference to his coming to Milan, Pater, referring to the facts
given by Vasari, says, "He came not as an artist at all, or careful of
the fame of one; but as a player on the harp, a strange harp of silver
of his own construction, shaped in some curious likeness to a horse's
skull. The capricious spirit of Ludovico was susceptible also to the
power of music, and Leonardo's nature had a kind of spell in it.
Fascination is always the word descriptive of him."
Leonardo's letter to Ludovico about his coming to Milan is written in
a very different mood, and, read in the light of his fame, is wholly
humorous. He says, "Having, most illustrious lord, seen and pondered
over the experiments of all those who pass as masters in the art of
constructing engines of war, and finding that their inventions are not
one whit different from those already in use, I venture to ask for an
opportunity of acquainting your excellency with some of my secrets.
"Firstly, I can build bridges, which are light and strong and easy to
carry, so as to enable one to pursue and rout the enemy; also others
of a stouter make, which, while resisting fire and assault, are easily
taken to pieces and placed in position. I can also burn and destroy
those of the enemy.
"Secondly, in times of siege I can cut off the water supply from the
trenches, and make pontoons and scaling ladders and other contrivances
of a like nature."
Seven other paragraphs follow, explaining contrivances for ensuring
success in warfare by land or sea. It was only at the end of the tenth
that he touched upon less military matters. Then he wrote: "In times
of peace, I believe that I could please you as completely as any one,
both in the designing of public and private buildings, and in making
aqueducts. In addition, I can undertake sculpture in marble, bronze,
or clay. In painting I am as competent as any one else, whoever he may
be. Moreover, I would execute the commission of the bronze horse, and
so give immortal fame and honour to the glorious memory of your father
and the illustrious house of Sforza."
Leonardo had painted Cecilia Gallerani for Ludovico before the time of
Beatrice's arrival, but, as far as one knows, never painted Beatrice.
Mrs. Cartwright suggests, and the opinion has been repeated elsewhere,
that the reason for this sprang from Beatrice's jealousy of the
beautiful woman who had preceded her. But this is not in keeping with
her nature. Beatrice loved all beautiful pictures, and was far too
intuitive not to know that if any one could give her portrait beauty,
Leonardo was that man. Whatever strangeness exhaled from within he
would have drawn upon the surface. That he should never have painted
her is extraordinary, but, at the same time, it is absolutely certain
that he would never have felt any inclination to. Leonardo did not
care for any woman's face that could look happy and be satisfied with
that mere possession. And the Regent's wife had no withholdings in her
expression, and no subtleties, save perhaps the subtlety of audacity
and laughter.
* * * * *
Presently Beatrice gave birth to a son, and whatever sinister thoughts
had ebbed and flowed in Ludovico's brain before, now became permanent
and concrete. Beatrice's confinement was in itself the first open
threat at Isabella. The arrangements for the child's arrival were a
menace in their unfitness. A queen's son could not have been received
into the world with more elaborate ceremony. The layette and cradle
were exhibited to ambassadors as if a future monarch were being waited
for. The cradle was of gold, its coverlet of cloth of gold. With no
restraint as to cost, three rooms had been decorated--one for the
mother, one for the child, and one for the presents, which poured in
every hour. The boy was no sooner born than public rejoicings were
ordered. Bells were rung for six days, processions were held,
prisoners for debt were released, and ambassadors, councillors, and
all important officials entered to congratulate the slender girl in
her magnificent bed, with its mulberry and gold coloured hangings.
At the court of Giangaleazzo meanwhile Isabella must have felt as if
bitterness stifled her--bitterness and the sick despair of any
creature conscious suddenly that it is trapped. Everybody remembered
that when the real heir to the duchy had been born two years before,
there had been less extravagance and formality than for the entry of
the Regent's infant. And when a week later Isabella also went to bed
and brought a second child into the world, the torture of the body
must have been little in comparison to the torture of the mind that
knew its children already marked out for disinheritance. Even her
confinement became a convenience to Ludovico, who was able to inform
the ambassadors that the rejoicings were for a double joy, though the
statement was not made with any intention to deceive. The thin end of
the wedge had been driven in, and Ludovico desired men to grow
prepared and seasoned for what would one day be thrust upon them as an
accomplished policy.
When both duchesses had recovered, ceremonies of thanksgiving were
organized. They drove together in wonderful clothes and as part of a
gorgeous procession to the church of St. Maria della Grazie. Beatrice
may have uttered some light gratitude as she knelt, but to Isabella
the day must have been a burning anguish, wearying to the very fibre
of her nature. She and Beatrice sat side by side, and their dresses
were almost equally extravagant. The public only saw two bejewelled
and magnificent figures, but one of the two women already hated the
other, with a heart swollen by the wrongs she did not dare to utter.
From this day forward Isabella's life is ill to think of; for
Ludovico's plans were soon no longer secret. The King of the Romans
was to marry his niece--Giangaleazzo's sister--and to receive with her
an immense dowry. In return he was to give Ludovico the investiture of
Milan. On paper this change of dukes did not read as a flagrant
usurpation. Giangaleazzo had been cleverly thrust into the position of
sinner. It was seemingly abruptly discovered that he had no right to
the dukedom at all without the consent of Maximilian. The Viscontis
held it in fief from the empire. When they died it should have passed
back into the keeping of Germany. The duchy belonged to the emperor,
and the Sforzas holding it on their own authority made them nothing
less than adventurers. Il Moro, confirmed as duke by the King of the
Romans, would possess the duchy upon legal and unimpeachable grounds,
and have only dispossessed therefore a creature without any rights to
hold it at any time, and incapable into the bargain.
Isabella fought with an impassioned fury for her child and her
position. It was brave, heart-rending, and useless. Giangaleazzo could
not be made even to understand Ludovico's treachery. In a fit of
temper he could beat his wife, as a child strikes what offends it. But
he could not grasp any more than a child that a person, who had never
given it an unkind word, should nevertheless intend to do it evil.
Sometimes driven beyond control, Isabella would fix the story of
Ludovico's coming usurpation into his wandering attention. For a
moment her burning phrases stimulated some dim perception. But
presently Ludovico and the boy would meet, and Giangaleazzo, in
reality bewildered and helpless without the support of this capable,
pleasant relative he had leant on since infancy, would blurt out all
his wife's accusations and come back to her soothed into the implicit
faith of before. Not a soul that would, had the capacity to help her,
whilst the crowd had gone over to the light-hearted, triumphant
duchess who was stepping remorselessly into her place.
Of all the women of the Renaissance there are none more piteous and
more innocently forlorn than this girl Isabella, married to the futile
son of a madman and pitted against the unrighteous cravings of a
Ludovico. He and Beatrice between them made her life a nightmare, but
they never abased her courage. The letter to her father, given by
Corio as hers, but generally looked upon as worded by the historian,
shows the noble fierceness that ran through her body. In burning
phrases she laid bare the unjust misery of her position. Giangaleazzo
was of age, and should have succeeded some time back to the duchy of
his father. But so far was this from being the case that even the bare
necessities of existence were doled out to them by Ludovico, who not
only enjoyed all political power, but who kept them practically both
helpless and unbefriended. The bitter hurt she endured through
Beatrice came out in the mention of the latter's son and the royal
honours paid to him at birth, while she and her children were treated
as of no importance. In truth she added--and there is something so
hot, so passionately and recklessly sincere in the whole letter that
it is difficult to believe that anybody but Isabella herself wrote
it--they remained at the palace in actual risk of their lives, the
deadly envy of Ludovico aching to make her a widow. But her letter,
for all its despair and anger, was imbued with an unbreakable spirit.
When she had laid bare the danger, the loneliness, and humiliation of
her position, explaining that she lacked even one soul she dared speak
openly to, since all her attendants were provided by Ludovico, she
closed with a brave and defiant statement that in spite of everything
her courage still endured unshaken.
Beatrice, it is true, does not show bravely in this one matter. True,
from the worldly standpoint of the time, it was not as ugly as it
seems to-day. Position during the Renaissance was legitimately to
those indomitable enough to seize it. But the private intuitions of
the heart do not alter greatly at any period, and in these Beatrice
was not by nature deficient. She had strong affections and abundant
fundamental graces of temperament--laughter, courage, insight,
whole-heartedness, multiplicity of talents. But during the first years
of her married life she had too many happinesses at once. There was
nothing in her life to quicken the spiritual qualities, nor to foster
the more delicate undergrowths of character--pity, compassion, the
living sense of other sorrows. She lived too quickly, and there was no
time for conscience to hurt her. That she could be tender there are
little incidents to bear witness. Her motherhood, for instance, was
both charming and childlike. She wrote to her mother, in sending the
baby's portrait, that though it was only a week since the picture had
been painted, the baby was already bigger, but that she dared not send
his exact height because everybody told her that if she measured him
he would never grow properly.
The innocent foolishness of this disarms harsh judgment. And in
judging Beatrice's relations to Isabella of Milan there is no need to
deduce a bad disposition from one bad action. No individuality stands
clear from some occasional unworthinesses. In this one matter Beatrice
was inexcusable, heartless, driven by nothing but an unjust ambition.
But in others she was charming, affectionate, thoughtful, and
moreover, under circumstances of colossal temptations and a great deal
too much wealth, she remained a devoted wife, a faithful friend, and a
woman capable in the end of a sorrow deep enough, practically, to kill
her. In addition, it was harder for Beatrice than for most people to
be really very saintly. She had too much of everything--vitality,
intelligence, charm of person--and the call of life in consequence
became too loud and too insistent. It is partly because of this that
one loves her. For she had enough grace to be lovable, but not enough
to be above the need of a regretful compassion and understanding. It
is, of course, possible to be extraordinarily robust--to feel life
_sing_ in one's body through sheer physical well-being--and yet be all
aflame in spirit also. But it is certain that when for a woman
considerable personal fascination is added, this extreme vitality
makes it much harder to retain only a sweet and limpid thinking. Each
actual moment becomes too engrossing and sufficient.
There is, of course, no use in denying that from the time Ludovico was
immersed in disreputable politics, Beatrice knew a great deal about
them. To help, in fact, in their fulfilment she was herself presently
sent as envoy to Venice. The Venetians were reluctant to fit in with
Il Moro's intentions, and it was realized at Milan that what may be
lost by argument may be won by unuttered persuasion. In any case, a
pretty woman, all gaiety, tact, and responsiveness, could only be a
pleasant incident for a party of elderly gentlemen. So Beatrice, with
all the clothes that most became her, went to Venice, where she set
the teeth of the women on edge with the wicked excess of her personal
splendour. But though the feminine society of Venice did not love her,
Beatrice knew that her business was with men, and that to fascinate,
therefore, she must give out the charm the eye perceives immediately.
During her visit she wrote long letters to her husband, telling him
everything save the information not wise to trust on paper. She even
gave a description of the clothes she wore on each occasion. The fact
is interesting, because nothing could constitute a clearer revelation
of the closeness of their married relationship. Only when a husband
and wife are on the tenderest terms of comradeship does a man care to
hear what his wife wears, and even then he must possess what might be
called the talent for domesticity.
The wedding of Bianca, sister of Giangaleazzo, became the next step in
Ludovico's policy. It was during the pageants organized to show the
greatness of the match that the Duchess Isabella made her last brave
show in public. She knew exactly what lay at the back of the marriage,
but maintained to the end the fine endurance of good breeding. Through
all the ceremonies that preceded Bianca's departure into Germany,
Isabella outwardly bore herself as any tranquil-hearted woman, who
was the first lady of Milan, should do. Later on, some at least of the
anguish surging within was to overflow in a sudden torrent. But in
public nothing broke her wonderful composure. Not until Charles VIII.
came to see her privately did her accumulated sorrows openly express
themselves.
Previously to this Louis XII., then Duke of Orleans, had been sent
into Italy, to discuss plans with Ludovico. Nobody thought much then
of the man who was later to destroy Il Moro. A contemporary wrote
sneeringly that his head was too small to hold much in the way of
brains, and that Ludovico would find it easy enough to outwit him.
Charles followed, when Beatrice and her court journeyed from Milan to
Asti in order to fascinate and amuse him. Beatrice even danced for his
pleasure, and she was an exquisite dancer. As a result Charles
metaphorically fell at her pretty feet, which was only natural,
considering that her appearance must have been gay and young
enough--in a dress of vivid green and with a bewildering blaze of
jewels--to have fascinated anybody.
Coming after a duchess all radiance and light-heartedness, Isabella,
on the other hand, empty of everything but desolation, could only
appear a disagreeable interlude. Giangaleazzo was already ill at
Pavia when Charles VIII. crossed into Italy, but after Ludovico and
Beatrice had done everything possible to amuse the French king, he
passed on to the town of Pavia. Here the real duke lay in bed, and it
was Isabella who received the king and Ludovico at the entrance to the
Castello, dramatically beautiful in her forlorn observance of social
obligations. Commines gives a detailed account of Isabella's sudden
outcry against the downfall being prepared for her house. In this
account he says that the king told him that he would like to have
warned Giangaleazzo had he not feared the consequences with Ludovico.
Commines adds that, disregarding the Duke of Bari's presence, Isabella
threw herself on her knees before the French king, and piteously
besought him to have pity on her father and brother, in answer to
which, the situation being a very awkward one for him, he could only
beg her to think of her husband and herself, she being still so young
and lovely a woman.
That Charles pitied these two, as lambs lying in the paws of a wolf,
is very clear from Commines' statement.