All was bustle and the hurry of preparation in the Villa Rovera.
Leonora's two young maids had as much trouble in packing up her
wardrobe as a modern lady's maid in arranging her bridal wardrobe,
though, be it said, if a lady's apparel in those days was richer, it
was not quite so multitudinous as the wardrobe of a modern lady. But
these two young maids were not destined to be her only attendants; for
the old count, thinking, as he had expressed it, that the Signor
Ramiro d'Orco must be mad to entrust the escort of his lovely daughter
to so young a cavalier as Lorenzo Visconti, had engaged a respectable
and elderly lady, who had served for many years in his own household,
to give dignity and gravity to the train of his young relation.
Many and particular were the instructions which he gave in private
conclave to the ancient Signora Mariana; and faithfully did she
promise to obey all his injunctions, and keep up the utmost decorum
and propriety of demeanour by the way.
But alas! there is no faith to be put in old women, especially those
of the grade and condition of life which was filled by Mariana. They
are all at heart duennas, and, strange to say, generally, however hard
and cold their exteriors, feel a sympathy with the tenderness and
warmth of youth. The old lady smiled as she left the old man; and
perhaps she judged rightly that thus to restrain the actions and keep
close supervision on the conduct of a young lady and a young lord upon
a long journey through a distracted country was a task so much above
her powers that it would be better not to attempt it. "I shall have
enough to do to take care of my old bones upon a rough trotting horse
during the day, and to rest them during the night, without minding
other people's affairs," she said. "Besides, the Signor Lorenzo is a
nice, honourable young man, and would do nothing that is wrong, I am
sure; and the signora is quite discreet, and moreover, proud, which is
better."
Leonora and Lorenzo were full of joy and anticipation. Perhaps never
in history was a long journey over rough roads, through a wild
country, with the prospect of but poor accommodation anywhere but in
the large cities, contemplated with so much wild joy. Fancy was like a
bird escaped from its cage, and it soared over the future on expanded
wings--soared high and sang.
Every now and then, it is true, a feeling of she knew not what awe or
dread came over Leonora's heart--a sensation as if of some danger--a
fear of the very wideness of her range, of her perfect freedom from
all control--a consciousness that she was a woman and was weak, and
very much in love. But it soon passed away when she thought of
Lorenzo's high and chivalrous spirit; and then she gave herself up to
hope and joy again.
Poor Blanche Marie was the only one to be pitied, and she was very
sad. Even the thought that she was loved--that the timid dream of her
youth's dawning twilight was already verified, could not console her.
She was losing her loved companion, her bright cousin, and her lover
all at once. For the loss of the two first, indeed, she had in some
degree to blame herself; for, with girlish enthusiasm, she had
resolved, from the moment she heard that Lorenzo was about to return
to Italy, that he should fall in love with Leonora, and she rejoiced
that all had gone according to her plans, but she would rather have
had them remain at the Villa Rovera, and make love there beside her.
Then, as to De Vitry, she would not have withheld him from the field
of fame for the world; but she would rather have had the lists where
glory was to be gained, at the back of the garden than far away at the
end of Italy. Sometimes she asked herself if she really loved him--if
she were not too young to know what love was; but then the pain she
felt at the thought of his leaving her for months, perhaps for years,
convinced her little heart that there was something in it which had
never been there before.
Thus waned the day of the king's halt at the villa gates, and the
morning came, when Lorenzo and his train, now amounting to twenty
lances and some forty inferior soldiers, were to depart. Besides
these, however, were Leonora's servants, male and female, Lorenzo's
personal attendants, horses and mules and pannieris, and a
baggage-wagon, with six silver-grey oxen to draw it. Moreover, with
the baggage-wagon were six foot soldiers, armed with hand-guns, then a
new invention, for the manufacture of which, as I think I have
mentioned before, Milan had become famous. It made altogether a grand
cavalcade, occupying so much of the road while the party waited for
their young leader and the fair lady he was to escort, that the
peasant carts could hardly get past on their way to supply the market
of Pavia with all the luxuries which the King of France's arrival in
the city had brought into demand.
Much and sage advice had to be given by the old Count of Rovera both
to Lorenzo and Leonora; and long was their leave-taking with poor
Blanche Marie; but, in some sort it was fortunate it was so; for,
before all was over, the Seigneur de Vitry appeared among them,
exclaiming, in his usually gay tone, though there was a certain degree
of shadow on his brow, "To horse! to horse, Visconti! You are to have
a longer march than you contemplated. It has been decided by the king
that seven miles is too short a ride for a young cavalier like you;
and you are to march straight by Pavia, and act as an advance party on
the way to Naples."
"But where am I to halt?" asked the young cavalier; "remember, Signeur
de Vitry, that it is long since I quitted this land, and I know not
the distances."
"All that is arranged," answered De Vitry--"arranged upon the very
best judgment and authority, that of a man who knows not the worthy
count regent, but who knows the country well. At Belgiojoso, just
seven miles beyond Pavia, you will find the route-card, as far as
Bologna, with every day's march laid down, in the hands of the king's
harbinger, old St. Pierre, who goes with you, with twenty lances more,
to mark out the royal quarters. But, remember, you command the whole
party, and the king relies upon your fidelity and discretion. From
each station you will march forward at eight in the morning, unless
contrary orders from the court reach you earlier. If you should obtain
information of any hostile movements in the front, you will send back
intelligence, unless you meet with an enemy, in which case you will
fall back upon the van."
"Without fighting?" asked Lorenzo.
"Why, methinks," said De Vitry, with a gay glance at Leonora, "that,
considering that you have some non-combatants of your party, the less
you fight the better till they are safely bestowed in the rear. But
you must use your own discretion in that matter. It would not do to
see a French pennon retreat before a handful. But you must be
careful."
"I will, depend upon it, on the signora's account," answered Lorenzo.
"'Tis a good guarantee," said De Vitry; "but does the king know she
goes with you?--Well, well, do not colour and look perplexed; I will
arrange all that for you, only you must tell me what tale I am to
relate to his majesty. Am I to say aught about hasty marriages and a
Signora Visconti? or that the days of knight errantry have been fully
revived by you and De Terrail, and that you are escorting a distressed
demoiselle to a place of safety?"
Though Leonora blushed deeply, Bianca Maria laughed gaily. "Why, you
might have heard all about it yesterday, my lord," she said, "had you
waited till Leonora opened her letter from her father, or till Lorenzo
came back. It is by his command she goes--at his request my cousin
escorts her. But you were in such a hurry to leave us, you would stay
for nothing."
"I stayed till I had got all I wanted for the time," replied the good
soldier, "though I may want more by and by."
It was now Marie's turn to blush; but Lorenzo came to her aid, saying,
"I had hoped to ask the king's permission to-day at Pavia. I could not
ask it yesterday, for his majesty was gone ere I received Signor
Ramiro's letter."
"Well, let it pass," said De Vitry. "I give leave for the present, and
the king will not call the lady back when you are forward on the
march, I think."
"But, Seigneur de Vitry," said Leonora, "I fear truly we shall lose
our way, for neither Lorenzo nor I know a step beyond Pavia, and all
these soldiers are French I imagine."
"Have you not the renowned Antonio with you?" said De Vitry, gaily;
"trust to him--trust to him; but never doubt him or ask if he is sure
of the road, or he will let you run into a broken bridge and a swollen
river. But get you to horse as speedily as may be. Where is my lord
the count?"
"I am going to take leave of him," said Leonora, "and will show you
the way."
"One moment, my lord," said Lorenzo, leading his commander a little
aside; "tell me, I beg, why I am not suffered to halt in Pavia. There
must be something more than you have said."
"Why, I believe it is simply this," answered De Vitry, after a
moment's thought; "the good count regent is making a new road to
Milan. He has already prepared to remove all the big rocks in the way;
and the king thinks, and I think too, that he might judge it expedient
to sweep away even the pebbles. The name of Visconti is not pleasant
to him, Lorenzo--there are many druggists' shops in Pavia: so ask no
more questions, my good friend, but mount and away. God speed you on
your march and in your love. Well for you that you took the dark-eyed
cousin. If you had chosen the other I would have cut your throat."
No need to pause longer on the parting; no need to follow them on that
day's march, for it was without incident. It seemed very short too, to
the young lovers, although the distance was greater than had been
expected--all distances are. The seven miles from the villa to Pavia
and the seven miles from Pavia to Belgiojoso stretched themselves into
full sixteen miles, which is contrary to all rules of arithmetic, but
still it is an invariable result. The day was charming. It was like
youth: it might have been too warm but for certain clouds which
shadowed the sky from time to time, and tempered the ardour of the
sun. The heavy-armed horses suffered a little: but at length the
pretty village--for it deserved not the name of town--which has since
given a famous name to a beautiful, high-spirited, but unfortunate
lady, appeared before them about four o'clock in the afternoon. Old
St. Pierre, the king's harbinger, had been there for some hours with
his twenty lances; the quarters were all marked out, and everything
prepared.
"As the king must occupy his own lodging first, my lord," he said, "I
cannot give you the best inn; but here is a very pretty little place
at the edge of the village, where they seem good people, and I
reserved that for you. I did not expect, indeed, so many ladies," he
continued, looking towards Leonora and her maids, "but I dare say they
can all be accommodated. Come and see."
Lorenzo rode on, with the old gentleman, who was on foot, walking by
the side of his horse and talking all the time. The little inn to
which he led them is, I dare say, there still. It certainly was so
some twenty years ago--much changed, doubtless, from what it was then,
but still with somewhat of the antique about it. There were vines over
both sides of the house, and the rooms to the back looked over the
gardens, and small, richly cultivated fields that surrounded the
place. The leaves of the vines were turning somewhat yellow, and many
a cluster had been already plucked from the bough; but Leonora
pronounced it charming, and Lorenzo thought so too. Happy had they
both been if Fate had never placed them in higher abodes. Oh, those
pinnacles; they are dangerous resting-places.
Let us pass over an hour or two. The men had been dispersed to their
quarters and the proper guard set; a light meal had been taken, and
the country wine tasted; the maids had found lodging, and were amusing
themselves in various ways, with which neither the writer nor the
reader has aught to do; Signora Mariana, like a discreet dame, was
dosing in an upper chamber, and Lorenzo and Leonora were seated
together in the little saloon at the back of the house, with the
foliage trailing over the window and its verandah, and a small but
neat garden stretching out down a little slope. They were alone
together; the dream was realised; and what if they gave way to young,
passionate love as far as honour and virtue permitted. His arm was
round her; the first kiss had been given and repeated; the beautiful
head rested on his bosom, and heart had been poured into heart in the
words which only passion can dictate and youth supply. Ah! they were
very beautiful and very happy! and the attitude into which they had
cast themselves was such as painters might copy, but not the most
graceful fancy could imagine. It was full of love, and confidence, and
nature.
As they sat, they were somewhat startled for a moment by the sound of
a lute played apparently in the garden; but it was not very near, and
the tones were so rich and full, the skill of the player so exquisite,
that instead of alarming the timidity of young love, they only added
to "the loving languor which is not repose" which before possessed
them.
After listening for a moment, and gazing forth through the open
window, they resumed their previous attitude, and continued their
conversation.
Leonora's beautiful head again lay on Lorenzo's bosom, with her look
turned upward to his face, while he gazed down into her eyes--those
wells of living light--with his head bowed over her, as if the next
moment his lips would stoop for a kiss: and now and then a grave
earnest look would come upon their faces, while the words came
sometimes thick and fast, sometimes ceased altogether, in the
intensity of happiness and feeling.
What made Lorenzo look suddenly up at the end of about a quarter of an
hour, he himself could not tell; but the moment he turned his eyes to
the window he started and laid his hand upon his sword. But then a
voice of extraordinary melody exclaimed, "Do not move! for Heaven's
sake, do not move! Alas! you have lost it; you can never assume that
pose again; but, thank Heaven, I can remember it, with what I have
already done."
The man who spoke was a remarkably handsome man of about forty-four or
five years of age, with a countenance of wonderful sweetness. He was
dressed in a black velvet coat, with a small cap of the same material
on his head, and a little feather in it. His seat was a large stone
in the garden just before the window, and on his knee rested a
curious-looking instrument, which seemed the model of a horse's head
cut in silver and ivory. Upon it was stretched a small scrap of paper,
on which he still went on, tracing something with a pencil.
"This, sir, is hardly right," said Lorenzo, advancing to a door
leading direct into the garden, which, like the window, was wide open.
"You intrude upon our privacy somewhat boldly;" but the next instant
he exclaimed, in a voice of delight, as he gazed over their strange
visitor's shoulder, "Good heaven! how beautiful! Leonora! Leonora!
Come hither and see yourself depicted better than Venetian mirror ever
reflected that loved face and form."
"And you too, Lorenzo! and you too!" exclaimed Leonora. "Oh! it is
perfect!"
The artist looked up and smiled with one of those beaming smiles which
seem to find their way direct to the heart, as if an angel looked into
it. "It is like you both," he said; "but it was the attitude I sought,
and you started up before I had completed the sketch. Yet I can
remember it. My mind, from long habit, is like a note-book, in which
every beautiful thing I behold is written down as soon as seen. Look
how I will add in a moment all that is wanting," and he proceeded with
rapid pencil to add the arm of Lorenzo cast round Leonora's waist, and
her arm resting on her lap, with her hand clasped in her lover's.
The colour came in the beautiful girl's cheek, but without remarking
it the artist said:
"Was it not so?"
"Even so, I fear," murmured Leonora.
"You must let me have this drawing," said Lorenzo; "you can put no
higher value on it than I will be right glad to pay. It will be to me
a memorial of one of the happiest days of my life, and of her I love
better than life."
"Nay, I would not part with it for any payment," said the other; "but,
having done as you said just now--intruded on your privacy--I will pay
for the intrusion by sketching for each of you, the portrait of the
other, and that without price. But let us come into the saloon, and
call for lights; it is getting somewhat dark. Will you, young
gentleman, take my lute, while I put up the sketch and my pencils."
"Is this then a lute?" asked Lorenzo, taking the horse's head in ivory
and silver. "Oh! I see; here is a finger-board, and the strings are
fastened to the lower jaw. I never saw a lute like this."
"Probably not," the other answered; "it is my own design and
workmanship."
"Then was it you whom we heard playing, just now?" asked Leonora. "The
music was divine."
"It might be so," answered the artist gaily, "for Cupid was very
near--though I knew not of the god's neighbourhood--and it is the
nature of all godlike beings to cast their influence far around them,
and raise common things toward divinity. He is a mighty deity that
Cupid, and, when worshipped purely, has precious gifts for the sons of
men. You two are very young," he continued, thoughtfully, "and
doubtless noble."
"We are young," answered Lorenzo, "and noble as far as blood is
concerned. Noble in a better sense I trust we are likewise. Here is
one, at least, who is, and what may be wanting in myself my love for
her shall give."
"'Tis one of the precious gifts I talked of," answered the artist,
moving to the house, and entering the little saloon; "a high and pure
love ennobles him who feels it; and well, young gentleman, have you
distinguished between two nobilities. Yet, constituted as this world
is--nay, not only as this world, but as man himself is--there must
always be a factitious nobility, which, in the eyes of the world, will
rise above the other. The notion of anything like equality ever
existing among men is a dream of human vanity, contrary to all
experience, and to the manifest will of God. The only reason why men
ever entertained it is that the lower intellects feel their
selfishness wounded at acknowledging they are inferior. Now, as the
lower intellects predominate immensely in point of numbers, and all
their vanities combine to pull down those superior to their own level,
you will always find democratic republics attempted in those countries
where there is no great predominance of intellect in any, or that
predominance is confined to a very few. If there be one intellect
vastly superior to any others, the constitution of the state will soon
become a monarchy; if there be more than one or two greatly above the
rest, you will have an aristocracy, and the natural order, as far as I
have seen in the world, will be the monarch representing the highest
intellect and most powerful will; an aristocracy representing those
next in mental powers; and below them the plebeians, representing the
great mass of stupidity and ignorance which exist in this world--the
weak, the vicious, the thoughtless, the idle, the brutal, the
barbarous. Granted that these several classes will not long justly
represent the reality; but still the order is the natural order, and
men strive against it in vain. We have seen these democratic republics
tried over and over again in this our Italy, producing misery and
disorder during their existence, and all tending to the same
consummation."
"But how is equality among men contrary to the will of God!" asked
Lorenzo; "the incarnate Son of God himself seems to have preached such
a doctrine."
"I humbly think you are mistaken," answered the artist. "On the
contrary, he always inculcated submission to our superiors. But you
ask how is it contrary to the manifest will of God? I reply, not only
by the difference of mere worldly advantages which he has bestowed
upon various men, for that might depend upon a false and mistaken
scheme of society, but by the difference of mental and spiritual
powers which he himself has ordained and bestowed, without any
intervention of man or of man's will. Take one of the many idiots, or
half idiots, who sit upon the steps of St. John at Rome, and place him
by the side of the late Lorenzo de Medici. Take them as mere infants,
and try to educate them alike nay, give the highest culture to the
idiot, the lowest to Lorenzo, what would be the result? The one would
tower above the other with his gigantic mind, the other would remain
an intellectual pigmy; the one would be a prince of thought, the other
a plebeian. Here is an inequality decreed by God himself; and although
I have taken an extreme case, you will find the same rule pervade all
minds and all natures. No man has the same capabilities. Every gift is
unequally apportioned; and the same Almighty Being who gives to one
man wealth and to another poverty, to one man the stature of a hero,
to another the height of a dwarf, has decreed that inequality of
station against which the vanity of multitudes struggles in vain. I
myself am a plebeian, you are nobles, yet I would not alter the order
of society if I could. But let us change the topic; or, while this
sweet half light still lingers in the west, I will play upon my
favourite lute again, and let you hear some verses which flow somewhat
with the current of our thoughts."
For a moment he leaned his cheek against the instrument, struck a few
chords, put the strings in perfect tune, and then, with the skill of a
great musician, drew forth harmonies such as were seldom heard in
those days. A minute or two after, his voice, far sweeter than any
sounds which could be brought from the lute, joined in, and he sang
some irregular verses, which he seemed to improvise.
SONG.
"Let him who cannot what he will,
Will only what he can.
'Tis surely Folly's plan,
By willing more, to compass his own will.
Then wise the man who can himself retrain
To will within his power; he ne'er shall will in vain.
"Yet many a joy and many woe,
From knowing or not knowing what to will,
In sweet and bitter drops distil,
For from ourselves our fate does mostly flow.
Fair skies to him who steers his bark aright,
And keeps the pole-star--duty--ever in his sight.
"He who takes all, is rarely blessed;
The sweetest things turn soonest sour,
When we abuse our power.
Oft have I wept for joys too soon possessed.
What lessons, then, from these light verses flow?
That which we ought to do, and what we ought to know."