"Who is that man?" asked Lorenzo Visconti in a low tone, while Leonora
stood before the stranger, silent and, as it were, subdued.
"That is her father, Ramiro d'Orco," answered Bianca Maria; "he has
just returned from Romagna, I suppose; he has not been here for a
year, and I heard he was there."
"Her father!" exclaimed the youth; "and is it so a child meets a
father? Oh God! had I a parent living who came back from a long
absence, how I should spring to receive his first caress! how the
first tone of his voice--the first sound of his footstep, would move
the whole blood within me. I do believe the very proximity of his
spirit would make my whole frame thrill, and I should know that he was
present before one of my senses assured me of the fact. My father! oh,
my father! could you rejoin your son, should I meet you as a stranger,
or bow before you as a ruler?"
"It is not her fault, Lorenzo," said her cousin, eagerly, zealous in
her friend's cause; "I do not know how to tell you what he is,
Lorenzo. He is hard, yet not tyrannical; cold, yet not without
affection. There is no tenderness in him, yet he loves her better than
aught else on earth, except, I have heard my grandfather say, except
ambition. He is liberal to her, allowing her all she wants or wishes,
except, indeed, his tenderness and care. You and I are both orphans,
Lorenzo, and perhaps we let our fancy lead us to picture exaggerated
joy in the love and affection of parents."
"I love him not, Bianca," answered the young man, with a slight
shudder; "there is something in his look which seems to chill the
blood in one's heart. I can see in that gaze which he bends upon her,
why it is her arms are not thrown round his neck, why her lips are not
pressed to his, why words of love and affection are not poured forth
upon her father when she meets him after a long absence. She is his
child, but he is not a father to her--perhaps a tyrant."
"Oh, no, no!" answered the young girl; "he loves her--indeed he does,
and he does not tyrannize over her. But whether it is that there is a
natural coldness in his manner, or that he affects a certain Roman
hardness, I cannot tell; he only shows his love in indulging her in
everything she desires, without a tender look or tender word, such as
most fond fathers bestow upon a well-loved child."
"And such a child!" said Lorenzo, musing. "Well, it is strange,
Bianca; perhaps he may love her truly, and more than many fathers whom
I have seen in France fondle their children as if their whole soul was
wrapped up in them, and then sacrifice their happiness to the merest
caprice--perhaps it may be so, and yet I do not like his looks. I
cannot like him. See how he gazes at us now! It is the gaze of a
serpent, cold, and hard, and stony. Who was her mother? She can have
gained no part of her nature from him."
"Oh, no," cried the young girl, feeling all that he felt, though
unwilling to allow it; "she is like him in nothing, except, indeed,
the forehead and the shape of her face. Her mother was almost as
beautiful as she is. I remember well; it is not three years since she
died. She was a great heiress in the Ghiaradda. All she had was on her
marriage secured by the forms of law to herself and her children, and
they say he strove almost cruelly to make her give it up to him. After
her death he obtained possession of it, but not entirely for himself.
It was decided that he should possess it till Leonora married, making
suitable provision for her maintenance, but that, when she married,
the great estates at Castellano should go to her and her husband. My
grandfather, who was her mother's uncle, took much interest in the
matter, and for a time he and Signor d'Orco were at bitter enmity; but
when the case was decided, and it was found that Leonora's father
assigned her more for her portion than the law would have demanded, my
grandfather became convinced that he had striven only for what he
conceived a right, and became reconciled to him. Indeed, he is quite
liberal in all things concerning her; allows her the revenue of a
princess, and is himself a man of small expense; but it seems
his is an unbending nature. He lets her do what she wills in most
things--seldom thwarts her; but when he speaks his own will, there is
no appeal from it--neither to his heart nor his mind. I can often
persuade my grandfather, though he is quick and hasty, as you know,
and sometimes convince him, but it is of no use to try to do either
with Ramiro d'Orco."
Lorenzo fancied he comprehended, at least in a degree, the character
which, in her youthful way, she strove to depict; but yet there was
something in the look of Leonora's father which left a dark,
unpleasant impression upon his mind. There are faces that we love not,
but which afford no apparent reason for the antipathy they produce.
There is often even beauty which we cannot admire--grace which affords
no pleasure. There is, perhaps, nothing more graceful upon earth than
the gliding of a snake, never for a moment quitting what the great
moral painter called "the line of beauty." There is nothing more rich
and resplendent than his jewelled skin, and yet how few men can gaze
upon the most gorgeous of that reptile race without a shuddering
sensation of its enmity to man? Can it be that in the breast of the
reasoning human creature, God, for a farther security than mere
intellect against a being that is likely to injure, implants an
instinct of approaching danger which no fairness of form, no
engagingness of manner can at first compensate? It may be so. At all
events, I have seen instances where something very like it was
apparent. And yet, with time, the impression wears away; the spirit
has spoken once its word of warning; if that word is not enough, it
never speaks again. The snake has the power of fascinating the bird
which, in the beginning, strove to escape from him; and we forget the
monitor which told us our danger.
In an hour from that time Lorenzo was sitting at the same table with
Ramiro d'Orco, listening well pleased to searching and deep views of
the state of Italy, expressed, not indeed with eloquence, for he was
not an eloquent man, but with a force and point he had seldom heard
equalled.
It would not be easy to give his words, for, even were they recorded,
they would lose their strength in the translation; but the substance
we know, and it would give a very different picture of Italy in that
day from any that can be drawn at present. We see it not alone dimmed
by the distance of time, but in a haze of our own prejudices. We may
gather, perhaps, the great results; but we can, I believe, in no
degree divine the motives, and most of the details are lost. Read the
history of any one single man in those days, as portrayed by modern
writers, and compare one author with another. Take for instance that
of Lorenzo de Medici, as carefully drawn by Roscoe, or brightly
sketched by Sismondi. What can be more different? The facts, indeed,
are the same, but how opposite are all the inferences. In both we have
the dry bones of the man, but the form of the muscle, and the hue of
the complexion are entirely at variance. Writers who undertake to
represent the things of a past age are like a painter required to
furnish portraits of persons long dead. Tradition may give them some
guidance as to the general outline, but the features and the colouring
will be their own.
It is therefore with the great facts of the state of Italy at that
time that I will deal, as nearly in the view of Ramiro d'Orco as I
can; but it must be remembered that his view also was not without its
mistiness. If we cannot see early on account of the remoteness of the
objects which we contemplate, his vision also was indistinct, obscured
by the prejudices of class, interest, party, hope, apprehension, and
above all, ambition. He painted the condition of Italy only as Ramiro
d'Orco believed it to be. How much even of that belief was to be
ascribed to his own desires and objects, who can say?
Lombardy, the great northern portion of Italy, indeed, had ever been
isolated from the rest in manners and habits of thought. Italians the
Lombards certainly were; but the characteristics of the northern
conquerors predominated in that portion of the peninsula. Except at
Genoa and in Venice, republicanism in no shape had taken any deep
root. From very early times, although the voice of the people had
occasionally proclaimed a republic here and there, the babe was
strangled ere it got strength, even by those that gave it birth. The
epoch of democratic independence in Lombardy lasted barely a century
and a half. No republic flourished long north of the River Po, except
those I have named, and even the two which took some glory from the
name little deserved it. Less real liberty was known in Venice than
perhaps existed under the most grinding tyranny of a single man; and
Genoa, in her most palmy days, was a prey to aristocratic factions,
which soon made the people but slaves to princes. But it must not be
supposed that nothing was obtained in return: a more chivalrous and
warlike spirit existed in that division of Italy than in the central
portion. It was not so early refined, but it was not so speedily
softened. Corrupt it might be, and indeed was, to even a fearful
degree; but it was the corruption of the hard and the daring, rather
than of the weak and effeminate. Men poisoned, and slew, and tortured
each other, and the minds of all became so familiar with blood and
horror, that much was endured before resistance to oppression was
excited; but conspiracies were generally successful in their primary
object, because the conspirators were bold and resolute. A tyrant
might fall only to give place to another tyrant, but still he fell;
and you rarely saw in Lombardy such weakness as was displayed in the
enterprise of the Pazzi.
Men in the north fought openly in the field for counties, and
marquisates, and dukedoms; but there was little finesse or diplomatic
skill displayed except by Venice. There was cunning, indeed, but it
was always exercised to gain some military advantage. The ambition of
that part of the land was warlike, not peaceful. It was not luxury,
and ease, and graceful enjoyment that was desired in combination with
power, but it was splendour, and pomp, and domination. Weak tyrants
were sure to fall; merely cruel ones generally retained their power;
and cunning ones were frequently successful; but it was only by
wielding the sword, either by their own hands or those of others.
At the time in which Ramiro d'Orco spoke, every vestige of liberty was
extinct in Lombardy. The Visconti, and after them the Sforzi, in
Milan; the house of Della Scala, and after them the Visconti, in
Verona; the Gonzagas in Mantua; the D'Estes in Ferrara; the Carraras
in Padua; the Bentivogli in Bologna, and a hundred other princely
houses, had attained power by both policy and the sword, and Genoa had
passed frequently from anarchy to subjection, and subjection to
anarchy. But the great military school of Alberic de Barbiano had
raised up a vigorous and healthy spirit in the people, which, had it
lasted, would have secured to both Romagna and Lombardy strength to
resist foreign enemies, even if it could not control intestine
divisions. But the great company of St. George, founded by Barbiano,
was succeeded by two others, who, though they possessed all the energy
of their predecessors, and were led by men of very superior abilities,
were merely the companies of adventurous soldiers known as the
Bracceschi and Sforzeschi. Their swords were at the command of those
who could pay them best, and their leaders were men who sought to
found dynasties upon military success. In this object Braccio de
Montana failed. He was mortally wounded at Aquila in 1424, and his
formidable band gradually dispersed, after having passed under the
command of several others. Though Sforza perished in passing the
Pescara ere he attained the power at which he aimed, the object was
accomplished by his son Francesco, who established himself in the
ducal throne of Milan.
Thus, at the time when Ramiro d'Orco spoke, in 1494, the whole of
Lombardy was under the domination of various princes, commonly and not
unjustly called tyrants; but the chivalrous spirit of the people was
by no means extinct; and even the course of the arts showed the
tendency of the popular mind. It is true, Milan itself was more famous
for the manufacture and even the invention of arms than for the fine
arts, but in the pictures of that country during this and the
preceding centuries saints and martyrs, angels and demons, are
frequently represented in knightly harness, and in some it would be
difficult to distinguish the messenger of peace from one of the
terrible legionaries of the great companies.
It seemed, indeed, as if Lombardy had returned to its normal feudal
notions, in which chivalry was inseparably attached to monarchy and
aristocracy.
The central states of Italy clung to republican forms of government
long after they had been extinguished in the north; but it was
republicanism founded upon wealth, not upon purity of character or
simplicity of manners--no, nor upon real patriotism. A celebrated
writer of late days has spoken of "the virtue of Florence" in this
very century. Let us see how that virtue was depicted by the best
judges of the times of which he, at this late day, speaks. "I never
imagined," said Piero de Medici, father of Lorenzo, on his death-bed,
addressing the chief citizens of Florence, "that times would come when
the conduct of my friends would force me to esteem and long for the
society of my enemies, and wish that I had been defeated instead of
victorious." He then went on to reproach them with their vices and
their crimes. "You rob your neighbours of their wealth," he said, "you
sell justice, you evade the law, you oppress the weak, and exalt the
insolent. There are not, throughout all Italy, so many and such
dreadful examples of violence and avarice as in this city."
Again Machiavelli describes the youth of Florence as having become
"more dissolute than ever, more extravagant in dress, feasting and
other licentiousness," and says that, "being without employment they
wasted their time and means on gaming and women, their principal care
being how to appear splendid in apparel, and obtain a crafty
shrewdness in discourse." Nor can I look upon the persevering efforts
of that republic to subjugate all the neighbouring cities as a proof
of virtue or of love of liberty.
Their military virtues seem to have been upon a par with their
domestic qualities. Their battles were fought by hired mercenaries,
and where the Florentine forces did appear in the field, they
apparently merited the reproach which Machiavelli casts upon the
military in general of the central and southern portions of Italy. In
describing the campaign of 1467, he says, "A few slight skirmishes
took place, but in accordance with the custom of the time, neither of
them acted on the offensive, besieged any town, or gave the other any
opportunity of coming to a general battle; but each kept within its
tents, and they conducted themselves with the most remarkable
pusillanimity." Indeed, his description of all the battles in which
none of the great condottieri were engaged, is merely ludicrous.
Moreover, the political virtues of the people seem, at this time at
least, not to have surpassed those of the heart and mind. Florence had
the name of a republic, but its government was in reality an
oligarchy. There is a consciousness in man that persons whose time is
devoted to daily labour have not those opportunities of mental
culture, and that leisure for deep thought, which alone can fit men
for the task of leading and governing. However strong may be
democratic sentiment, however jealously tenacious of the name of
equality citizens may be, there is, in the natural course of all
communities, a tendency to produce an aristocracy. In the warring
elements of a political chaos, the first efforts of order are to
resolve the people into classes--nay, into castes. The hatred of
hereditary authority generally directs these efforts to elevate riches
to the highest place. The wealthy, in whom one sort of pre-eminence is
already obvious, are not so obnoxious at first sight as those who have
no real source of influence but the intangible one of birth; and thus
from republics, founded frequently upon purely democratic principles,
generally rises the most hateful and debasing of all aristocracies,
the aristocracy of wealth. This had long been the case with Florence
at the time I speak of: wealth was nobility, and that nobility was
rapidly tending toward monarchy. Lorenzo de Medici had exercised until
his death, in April, 1492, an anomalous sovereignty, denied the
character of prince of a monarchical state, and yet divested of the
restraints of a magistrate of a free people. He was addressed by all
public bodies and all private persons as "Most Magnificent Lord," and
swayed the destinies of the country, influenced the character of the
people, and deeply affected the fate of all Italy, without any legal
right or actual station. His was solely a monarchy of influence, and,
though even Cromwell felt the necessity of giving to his power the
sanction of a name, Lorenzo ruled his countrymen till his death in the
character of a citizen.
The south of Italy had in the mean time passed through several phases,
and the monarchical element had long predominated in its government.
The only question was to whom it should belong. Foreign families
struggled for the often contested throne; and Italians then only drew
their swords or raised their voices in favour of one or another
usurper. The destinies of the north and the south were sealed; and in
Tuscany no wide field was offered for ambition. A man might raise
himself to a certain degree by subservience to some powerful prince,
but he must continue to serve that prince, or he fell, and would never
aspire to independent domination where hereditary power was recognised
by the people, and lay at the foundation of all acknowledged
authority. It was alone in central Italy, and especially in Romagna
and in the States of the Church--where a principle antagonistic to all
hereditary claims existed in the very nature of the Papal power--that
any adventurer could hope, either by his individual genius or courage,
or by services rendered to those who already held authority, to raise
himself to independent rule, or to that station which was only
attached to a superior by the thin and nearly worn-out thread of
feudal tenure.
"Those who would find fortune," said Ramiro d'Orco, "such fortune as
Francesco Sforza conquered and the Medici attained must seek it at
Rome. There is the field, the only field still open to the bold
spirit, the strong, unwavering heart, the keen and clear-seeing
mind--there is the table on which the boldest player is sure to win
the most. With every change of the papacy, new combinations, and,
consequently, new opportunities must arise, and, thanks to the wise
policy of the College of Cardinals, those changes must be frequent. A
man there may, as elsewhere, be required to serve in order at length
to command; but if he do not obtain power at length, it is his fault
or Fortune's, and in either case he must abide the consequences. Good
night, Signor Rovera."