General conversation between the two courts of France and Milan was
somewhat difficult; for, to say sooth, there were many there who could
not speak the language of their neighbours, or spoke it very
imperfectly. But Frenchmen, and Italians likewise, are famous for
delivering themselves from such difficulties. They talk with a happy
carelessness of whether they are understood or not, and eke out the
defect of language with a sign or gesture. But there were some, there
present, to whom both tongues were familiar; and while the King of
France sat beneath the trees with Lodovico Sforza and his lovely wife,
one of the youths who had followed him might be seen at the other side
of the little grove, stretched easily on the ground between two young
girls who had accompanied the princess, and with one of whom, at
least, his acquaintance seemed of early date.
The young man was tall, well formed, and handsome; and he looked older
than he really was, for he had not yet seen more than eighteen
summers. The two girls were younger still, neither having reached the
age of fifteen years. Both gave promise of exceeding beauty--otherwise
perhaps they would have been excluded from the gay train of the
princess; but, though womanhood ripens earlier under Italian skies
than in colder climates, they were still evidently in girlhood, and,
what was more rare, they had apparently preserved all the freshness
and innocent frankness of their age.
One called the young man "Cousin Lorenzo," and teased him gaily with
criticisms of his dress and appearance; vowed he had promised to bring
back a beard from France, and yet he had not even a moustache;
declared that she abominated the hair cut short before and hanging
down behind after the French mode, and assumed that the large sleeves
of his surcoat must be made to carry provisions in, not only for
himself, but for all his company. She was the younger of the two, and
probably not yet fourteen years of age; and though there was a world
of merriment in her sparkling blue eyes, and a gay, bright smile kept
playing lightly round her lips, yet it would have been a hard critic
who could, in her, have discovered any of that coquetry from which
even her age is not exempt. On the contrary, she seemed to strive to
direct her cousin's admiration to her fair companion, who, in her
eyes, was the most beautiful and perfect creature in the universe;
and, in truth, there was many a one in after days who thought so to
his cost.
Very different in personal appearance was she from her younger
companion: tall for her age, and of that light, slender form which, in
early youth, often promises the rich, flowing contour at an after
period, which Guido loved, and even Raphael and Julio Romano did not
undervalue. She was dark in complexion, too--that is to say, her hair
was black as a raven's wing; and her full, almond-shaped eyes, with
the lashes that shaded them, and the arched eyebrows above were dark
as the hair. But yet there was something that softened all. Either it
was the flowing of the lines into each other, or the happy blending of
the tints, but nothing in the face or form was sharp or too defined.
The skin was clear, and soft, and bright--so far dark, indeed, as to
harmonize with the hair and eyes; but through the slight olive tint of
southern climes shone the clear, warm rose of health; and, over all,
youth and dawning womanhood shed their thousand inexpressible graces,
like the winged loves which, in one of Albano's pictures, flutter
round the Goddess of Beauty. She was gay, too--gay even as her
bright-eyed companion at times; but it was with sudden fits and
starts; and every now and then would intervene lapses of thought, as
if she were questioning with herself of things beyond her knowledge.
It is not rare to find that a thoughtful youth ripens into a
passionate maturity. Her dress was one common at that day, we find, in
the court of Ferrara; but it had not long been the mode in any part of
Italy; and to the eyes of the young Lorenzo, who had been nearly two
years absent from his native country, it seemed strange and hardly
decent. It consisted of a robe somewhat like that of the princess,
except that the ground of the cloth of gold, instead of green, was of
a pale delicate rose colour. The sleeves, in the young girl's case,
fitted tight to the rounded arms, but the front of each, from the
shoulder nearly to the wrist, was cut open, showing the chemise of
snowy lawn, except where, every two or three inches, a small jewel, in
the form of a button, gathered the edges of the cloth of gold
together. The robe in front also was thrown back from the neck and
bosom, which was only shaded by the profuse curls of jetty hair.
Instead of the small hat, with its plume of feathers, worn by the wife
of the regent, a veil of rich black lace, fastened at the back of the
head with a jewelled pin, thence to the shoulders; and round her waist
was a knotted cord of gold, the tassels of which, strangely twisted
and contorted, fell almost to her feet.
Such was the appearance of Leonora d'Orco at the age of fourteen, or
very little more. Of that which is beyond appearance I may have
occasion to speak hereafter.
Facts may seem trite, which nevertheless must be said in explanation
of the character he depicts by any one who writes the history of
another. We lose the key of a cabinet, nearly new, perhaps, and we
send to a vender of old iron to see if we cannot find one to fit it.
We select one and then another for trial, and find at length a key
which seems to conform to the shape of the keyhole. Would any one
object to its trial because it is old and rust-worn? Well, it is old;
it may have served in a hundred locks before, for aught we know; but
it fits, and opens, and shuts this lock, and that is all we have to do
with it.
It has often been said, and was frequently insisted upon by Goethe,
that each human being is a different being at each period of his age
from that which he was at an anterior period. The very substance of
the body, say the physiologists, is entirely changed in every seven
years. What of the mind? Do cares, and sorrows, and experience, and
joys, and hopes, and fruitions, effect no change in it? God forbid! If
we believe the mind immortal, and not subject, like the body, to death
and resurrection, still greater must be the changes; for its state
must be progressive towards evil or towards good. Expansion certainly
comes with knowledge; every day has its lesson, its reproof, its
encouragement; and the very development or decay of the mortal frame
affects the tenant within--hardens, strengthens, elevates, instructs;
or, entenders, enfeebles, depresses, depraves. Suffice it here to say,
that perhaps no one ever in life experienced greater changes of
thought, feeling, character, than Leonora d'Orco, as the winged
moments flew over her head. And yet the indestructible essence was the
same; every essential element remained; it was but the combinations
that were modified. A few years later, had you asked her if she had
ever felt such sensations, or thought such thoughts as she felt and
thought now, she would instantly have said "No;" but one moment's
lifting of the veil which hides the pictures of the past would have
shown her that she had felt, had thought such things; one moment's
scrutiny of her own heart would have shown her that, in another form,
she felt them, thought them still.
But let us regard her only in the present. See how her eye sparkles,
how her lip wreaths itself in smiles, and how the joyous laugh breaks
forth clear, and sweet, and musical, finding expression not only in
its own melodious tones, but in every feature--aye, and even in the
colour that rises in a gay bashfulness, and spreads suddenly over
cheek and brow, as if a ray of morning sunshine had found its way
through the green branches and lighted up her face. And then all is
still again--still, and quiet, and thoughtful--and her eyes bend down
and the long lashes kiss her cheek--and the rose has faded away--and
the clear skin is paler than before, till something from one or the
other of her gay companions awakens merriment again, and then she
changes once more with the sudden change of mountain skies.
But see! they are talking of more serious matters now.
"Not enter Milan!" cries Leonora; "not enter beautiful Milan! Signor
Lorenzo, how is that? Have you lost all love and pride in your own
fair country?"
"I must not enter Milan," he answered with a sigh; "but if I might,
Leonora, I could not."
"But why--why?" she asked eagerly; "are you one of the exiles? Oh, if
that is so, the princess loves me well, and besides, when you come
with the King of France, a guest of Count Ludovic, the past must be
forgotten in the present, and you be welcomed too. Oh, do not say you
will not come."
She spoke eagerly, and then cast down her eyes, for his met hers with
a look too full of admiration to be mistaken.
"Do not ask him--do not ask him," said sweet Bianca Maria di Rovera;
"he is going to my grandfather's villa till the king marches on. That
is already settled, Leonora."
"And you never told me, when your grandfather engaged us to go there
too," said Leonora; "but how will the King of France be pleased?"
"He has given permission," answered Lorenzo; "he understands well that
the son of Carlo Visconti could only enter Milan in one manner."
The young girl bent her head, and only answered, in a low tone, "I
would fain hear more. It seems to me a strange arrangement."
"You shall hear all, at some other time and place, Signora Leonora,"
replied Lorenzo: "every minute I expect the trumpets to sound to
horse; and my tale, which is a sad one, should have some quiet spot
for the telling, and evening skies, and few listeners near."
The listeners, indeed, were, or might be, too many in a place where
all was suspicion and much was danger. Every instant some one was
passing near them--either one of the pastoral gentry who had waited
for the meeting of the two courts, or some one from the suites of the
two princes.
The latter part of the lad's reply seemed at once to awaken Leonora to
the necessity of caution. Her younger companion, indeed, who seemed
ignorant of her cousin's early history, pressed him with girlish
eagerness to tell all then and there; but the other, who even then
knew more of Italian life--not without an effort, yet with much
delicacy of judgment and feeling--directed their conversation into
other channels, and soon brought back the gaiety and the sparkle which
at that time was cultivated almost as an art by the higher classes of
Italy. Speedily thought, and sentiment, and mood followed the course
of even such light things as words: serious topics and dark
remembrances, and even present dangers and discomforts, were
forgotten;--and, as if in order to give relief to the lights in the
future of life some dark shades were needed--the young three there
gathered appeared to find in the faint allusion made to more painful
things an accession of gaiety and enjoyment. The strangeness of first
acquaintance was cast away between the two who had never met before.
Bianca Maria, or Blanche Marie, as the French would have termed her,
forgot how long a time had passed since she had seen her cousin, and
all for the time was once more joy and light-hearted merriment. The
same spirit _seemed_ to pervade the whole party there assembled. It is
hard to say _seemed_, for any eye that gazed upon that scene would
have boldly concluded that all was peace and joy.
Oh, false word! Oh, false seeming! There was doubt, and fear, and
malevolence, and treachery there in many a heart; and of all the
groups into which those two gay courts had separated themselves,
perhaps reality, and enjoyment, and careless mirth were more truly to
be found among those three young people, who, forgetful of courtly
ceremony, had taken their seats beneath the trees on the west of the
knoll, with their backs turned toward the royal and princely
personages present. They, at least, knew how to enjoy the hour; and
there let us leave them, with the benediction and applause of Lorenzo
the Magnificent upon them:
"Quant' e bella giovinezza
Che si fugge tuttavia
Chi vuol esser lietto, sia
Di doman non c'e certezza."