It was early in the month of September. The grapes were already purple
with the draughts of sunshine which they had drunk in through a long,
ardent summer, and the trees had already begun to display "the sear
and yellow leaf"--early, early, like those who exhaust in life's young
day all the allotted pleasures of man's little space. The autumn had
fallen upon them soon. Yet it was a lovely scene, as you gazed from
one of those little monticules which stud the Lombard plains. There is
something in the descent from the mountains into Italy which seems to
anticipate the land--not so much in its physical as in its moral
features; a softness, a gentleness, a gracefulness which is all its
own, while round about, unseen, but felt in every breeze, is the dark,
pestilential swamp, gloomy and despairing, or else a brighter but more
treacherous land, fair to the eye, but destructive to vitality, which
lures but to destroy. One easily conceives the character of a large
portion of the people of the middle ages in Italy from the aspect of
the land. But it is of the people of the middle ages only. One can
hardly derive any notion of the ancient Roman from the characteristics
of 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 calm
enjoyment, as three young people sat together on the lower step of a
terrace near Vigevano, with a fountain gushing and murmuring some
twenty feet above, and a beautiful garden filled with mulberry-trees
and vines, and some oranges, not very luxuriant, but diffusing a
pleasant but languid odour round. The eye wandered over the shrubs and
trees to the lands watered by the Ticino on its way to Pavia; and
beyond, in the evening light, long lines of undulating country were
marked out in the deep blue tints peculiar to the distant scenery of
Italy. The terrace, below which the three were seated, was long and
wide, and rising therefrom, near the centre, was one face of a villa,
built in a style of which few specimens remain. The taste and genius
of Palladio had not yet given to the villa-architecture of Lombardy
that lightness and grace which formed the characteristic of a
new style of art. There was something, at that time, in every
country-house of Italy of the heavy, massive repulsiveness of the old
castello. But yet the dawn of a better epoch was apparent, in the
works of Andrea Palladio's great master, Trissino; and in the very
villa of which I speak, though here and there a strong, tall tower was
apparent, and the basement story contained stone enough to have built
a score of modern houses, much ornament of a light and graceful
character had been lavished upon the whole building, as if to conceal
that it was constructed for defence as well as enjoyment. Indeed, as
is generally the case, there was a certain harmony between the times
and state of society and the constructions of the period. The Italian
smiled, and revelled, and feasted, and called in music, and song, and
poetry, to cover over the dangers, and the griefs, and the terrors of
every 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 never
intended to preserve the life and fortune of its owner from the hands
of rude assailants, nor its halls ever to witness deeds of horror and
cruelty within their dark recesses.
It was, indeed, an evening and a scene such as Lorenzo Visconti had
described as fitted for the telling of his own history. All was still
and quiet around; the leaves of the vines hardly moved with the light
air, the glow of the western sky faded off into deep purple as the eye
was raised from the horizon to the zenith; no moving object--no, not a
floating cloud, could be seen on any side; and the murmur of the
fountain seemed to add to, rather than detract from, the stillness.
The three young people--I need not tell the reader who they were---had
ranged themselves as their nature or their temporary feelings
prompted. On the lowest step Bianca Maria had placed herself, looking
up with her sweet confiding eyes towards the young companion whom she
almost idolized. On the step above was her cousin Lorenzo; and on a
step above them both, but leaning with her elbow on her knee, and her
cheek resting on her hand, a little to the right of Lorenzo and the
left 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 not
only were there those colours in it which all Italians love, and all
Italian artists take pleasure in blending and harmonizing--the deep
browns, which characterise the complexion of their country, with the
rarer and exceptional fairness sometimes found among them---the
flowing flaxen hair of the North, and its rich crimsons, but in the
dress of the three also there were those strong contrasts of
harmonious hues, if I may use what may seem at first sight (but only
at first sight) a contradiction in terms--the rich red, and the deep
green, and the yellow touching upon brown, and the pale blue. How
charming, how satisfactory was the art of those old painters in
reproducing on the canvas the combinations which nature produces every
day. And yet Art, following Nature in its infinite variety, has shown
us, in the works of Murillo and some other Spanish artists, that
perfect harmony of colouring can afford as much pleasure as harmonized
contrasts, and that in painting also there may be Mozarts as well as
Beethovens.
The evening light fell beautifully upon that young group, as they sat
there on the steps of the terrace, and, just glancing round the angle
of an old ruined building of Roman date in the gardens below, touched
gently and sweetly upon the brow and eyes of Bianca Maria, lighted up
the 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 are
well aware that the Viscontis once reigned as lords and dukes of
Milan. Do not suppose, Leonora, that I am about to put forth any claim
to that rich inheritance; for, though nearly allied to the ruling
race, my branch of the family were already separated from the parent
stem when the imperial bull was issued which conferred sovereignty on
the branch that ended with Filippo Maria. That bull limited the
succession strictly, and we had and have no claim. At the death of
Filippo, the Milanese found still one spark of ancient spirit, and
they declared themselves a republic. But republics have in them,
unhappily, no seeds of durability. There is not strength and virtue
enough in man to give them permanence. Rude nations may be strong and
resolute enough to maintain such institutions in their youth; but art
and luxury soften, and in softening enfeeble, so that men learn to
love ease more than independence, pleasure better than freedom. A new
dynasty was destined soon to succeed the old. The Viscontis were
noble, of high race and long descent, connected with every sovereign
house of Europe. But the son of a peasant was to gather their
inheritance and wear their coronet.
"There was a man born at Cotignola, in Romagna, named Sforza
Attendolo, of very humble birth, but prodigious strength of body and
extraordinary military genius. Famine drove him to seek food in the
trade of war. He joined one of the great companies, rose by the force
of genius and courage, and in the end became one of the two most
famous condottieri in Italy. After a career of almost unexampled glory
and success, he was drowned in swimming the Pescara, but his son
Francesco succeeded to his command, and to more than his inheritance
of military fame. He was, indeed, a great man; and so powerful did he
become, that Filippo Maria Visconti promised him---to the illegitimate
son of a Romagnese peasant--the hand of his only daughter to secure
his services in his many wars. He hesitated long, it is true, to
fulfil a promise which he felt to be degrading, but he was compelled
to submit at length. With the aid of Francesco Sforza he was a great
prince--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 to
raise, but upon whom his own fate had very often depended. Francesco
was noble at heart, though ambitious. His enemies he often treated
with unexampled generosity, forbearance, and even kindness. He showed
that he feared no man, by freeing the most powerful and most skilful
of his captive enemies; but he pursued his course steadily toward
dominion, not altogether unstained by deceit and falsehood, but
without cruelty or tyranny. Sore pressed by famine, and with his
armies beneath their walls, the Milanese, who recognised his high
qualities, though they feared his dominion, threw open their gates to
him, and renounced their liberty at the feet of a new duke in
February, 1450. The Viscontis had nothing to complain of. The reigning
branch was extinct; the rest were not named in the imperial bull, and
they, with their fellow-citizens, submitted calmly of the rule of the
greatest man then living in Italy. Nor had they cause to regret the
act during the life of Francesco Sforza. He ruled the land justly and
moderately, maintained his own renown to the last, and showed none of
the jealousy of a tyrant towards those whose birth, or fortune, or
talents might have made them formidable rivals. He was wise to
conciliate affection in support of power. His good reign of sixteen
years did more to enslave the Milanese people than the iron heel of
any despot could have done; but there were not wanting those among his
children to take cruel advantage of that which his virtues had
accomplished. He died about thirty years ago, and to him succeeded his
eldest son, the monster Galeazzo. From that hour the iron yoke pressed
upon the neck of the Milanese. The new duke had less ambition than his
father, and inherited none of his talents; but he had a genius for
cruelty, and an energy in crime unequalled even by Eccelino. Those
whom 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; and
they furnished, when they little expected it, fresh victims for the
torture, or for some new and unheard-of kind of death. His luxury and
his licentiousness passed all bounds; no family was safe; no lady's
honour was unassailed or uncalumniated; violence was resorted to when
corruption did not succeed; in each day he comprised the crimes of a
Tarquin and the ferocity of a Nero. There were, however, three noble
hearts in Milan, and they fancied there were many more. They dreamed
that some public spirit still lingered among their countrymen--at
least enough, when delivered from actual fear of the tyrant, to seize
the opportunity and regain their liberty. When there is no law, men
must execute justice as they can; and those three resolved to put
Galeazzo to death--a mild punishment for a life of crime. Their names
were Olgiati, Lampugnani, and Carlo Visconti. All had suffered from
the tyrant. Olgiati's sister had fallen a victim to his violence.
Lampugnani's wife was another. My mother only escaped by death. But it
was not vengeance that moved the patriots. They had only suffered what
others had suffered. The evils of the country had become intolerable;
they were all the work of one man; and the three determined to deprive
him of the power to inflict more. They looked upon their undertaking
not only as a great and glorious enterprise, but as a religious duty,
and they prepared themselves for its execution with prayer and
fasting, and the most solemn sacrament of the Church. Many
difficulties intervened. Either the consciousness that his tyranny and
crimes had become intolerable, or one of those strange presentiments
of coming fate which have affected many men as the hour of their
destiny drew nigh, rendered Galeazzo less accessible, more suspicious
and retired than before. He seldom came forth from his palace, was no
longer seen on occasions of public ceremony, or in fêtes and
festivals. There was, indeed, one day when he could hardly fail to
show himself, and that was on St. Stephen's day--a day when, by
immemorial custom, every one honours the first martyr by attending
mass at the great church. That day they fixed upon for the execution
of their design, and each was early in the church, with a dagger
hidden 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 by
the justice of the cause, that the most sacred place could not be
polluted by it.
"In the mean time Galeazzo seemed to feel that the day and hour of
retribution had arrived. He would fain have avoided it; he sought to
have mass performed in the palace; he applied to a chaplain--to the
Bishop of Como--but in all instances slight obstacles presented
themselves, and in the end he determined to go to the Cathedral. One
touch of human tenderness and feeling, the first for many a day, broke
from him. He sent for his two children, took leave of them tenderly,
and embraced them again and again. He then went forth; but the
conspirators awaited him in the church; and hardly had he entered when
three daggers were plunged into his breast and back. Each struck a
second blow; and the monster who had inflicted torture, and death, and
disgrace 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 the
women who were already kneeling in the nave. As he fell he was killed
by a Moor, one of Galeazzo's base retainers. My father was killed
where he stood, and Olgiato escaped into the street only to find the
people, on whom he trusted either dead to all sense of patriotism and
justice, or stupified and surprised. Not a sword was drawn--not a hand
was raised in answer to his cry, 'To arms!' and torture and the death
of a criminal once more closed the career of a patriot.
"I was an infant at that time, but in the days of Galeazzo Sforza
infants were not spared, and the nurse who had me in her arms hurried
forth, carrying me with her, ere the gates of the city could be
closed, or the followers of the duke came to search and pillage our
house. She took refuge in a neighbouring village, whence we were not
long after carried to Florence, where the noble Lorenzo de Medici,
after whom I had been baptized, received me as his child, and when he
felt death approaching, sent me to the court of France to finish my
education among my relatives there."
"And was this Prince Ludovic the son of Galeazzo?" asked Leonora, as
soon as he had paused.
"Oh no--his younger brother," replied Lorenzo. "He holds the son in
durance, and the son's wife, on the pretence of guardianship, though
both are of full age; but, if I be not mistaken, the day of their
deliverance is near at hand, for I have heard the king say he will
certainly see them, and learn whether they are not fitted to rule
their own duchy without the interference of so dangerous a relation."
"God grant the king may be in time," said Bianca Maria; "for it is
said the young duke is very sick, and people say he has poison in all
he eats."
"Hush! hush!" cried Leonora, anxiously. "Long confinement and wearing
care 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 a
sad tale, indeed, you tell, Lorenzo, and I have often heard our sweet
Princess of Ferrara say that Galeazzo was a bad man; but Ludovic
surely is not cruel. He has pardoned many a man, I have heard, who had
been condemned by the tribunals."
A somewhat bitter smile came upon the lips of Lorenzo Visconti, but he
merely replied, "The good and innocent always think others good and
innocent till bitter experience teaches them the contrary."
Perhaps he might have added more, but the sound of footsteps on the
terrace above caught his ear, and he and Leonora at once turned to see
who approached. The steps were slow and deliberate, and were not
directed toward the spot where the young people sat; but they
instantly checked further conversation on the subjects previously
discussed, while from time to time each of the three gave a glance
toward two gentlemen who had just appeared upon the terrace. The one
was a man somewhat advanced in years, though not exactly what might be
called an old man. His hair and beard were very gray, it is true, but
his frame was not bent, and his step was still firm and stately. He
was richly dressed, and wore a large, heavy sword, of a somewhat
antique fashion. Lorenzo asked no questions concerning him, for he
knew him already as the grandfather of his young cousin, Bianca Maria.
The other was a younger man, dressed in black velvet, except where the
arms were seen from under the long hanging sleeves of his upper
garment, showing part of an under coat of cloth of silver. He was tall
and thin, and his face would have deserved the name of handsome had it
not been that the eyes, which were fine in themselves, and
overshadowed by strongly-marked eyebrows, were too close together, and
had a slight obliquity inward. It was not what could be absolutely
called a squint, but it gave a sinister expression to his countenance,
which was not relieved by a habit of keeping his teeth and lips
closely compressed, as if holding a rigid guard over what the tongue
might be inclined to utter.
They took their way to the extreme end of the terrace, and then walked
back till they came on a line with the spot where the three young
people sat, still silent, for there is a freemasonry in youth that
loves not to have even its most trifling secrets laid bare to other
eyes, or its most innocent councils broken in upon.
There the two gentlemen paused, and the younger seemed to end some
conversation which had been passing between them by saying, "I know
not much, Signor Rovera, of the history or views of other times, or
for what men lived and strove for in those days; but I do know, and
pretty well, the history of my own times, and the rules by which we
have to guide ourselves in them. If we have not ourselves power, we
must serve those who have power; and while we keep ourselves from what
you would call an evil will on our own part, we must not be over nice
in executing the will of those above us. Theirs is the deed, and
theirs the responsibility. The race of Sforza is not, methinks, a
higher or a better race than the race of Borgia. Both are peasants
compared to you or me, but the Borgias are rising, and destined to
rise high above us both; the Sforzas have risen, and are about to
fall, or I mistake the signs of the times. Men may play with a kitten
more safely than with a lion; and when Ludovico called this King of
France into Italy, he put his head in the wild beast's mouth."
"Ah, that that were all!" exclaimed the old Count of Rovera. "I should
little care to see that wild beast close his heavy jaws upon the skull
of his inviter, if that would satisfy him; but Italy--what is to
become of Italy?"
"God knows," answered the other drily. "She has taken so little care
of her children, that, good faith! they must take care of themselves
and let her do the same, my noble cousin. We are both too old to lose
much by her fall, and neither of us young enough to hope to see her
rise. Phoenixes are rare in these days, Signor Count. There," he
continued, pointing to the little group upon the steps, "there are
the only things that are likely to spring up, except corn, and
mulberry-trees, and such vegetables. Why, how the girl has grown
already! She is well-nigh a woman. She will need a husband soon, and
then 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 head
bent down and her eyes fixed upon the marble at her feet, sprang up
like a startled deer, and ran up the steps toward him; but when within
a step, she paused, and bent before him without speaking.