I have heard it said that the world is weary of the picturesque in
writing, tired of landscape painters, eager only for the tale or for
the characters--the pepper and salt of fiction. So be it. But yet
there is something in a scene--in the place, in the very spot where
any great events are enacted, which gives not only an identity, but a
harmony to the narrative of these events. Imola, with its old castle
and its sombre walls, now repaired and strengthened by the care of
Ramiro d'Orco, lay, like the hard and rugged stone of the peach, in
the centre of more sweet and beautiful things.
That was the age of villa building in Italy, and, as I have shown in a
previous part of this work, some of the noblest architects that the
world ever produced had already appeared, and produced specimens of a
new and characteristic style, unsurpassed by any other efforts. Imola
was surrounded by villas, but there was one more costly and extensive
than any of the rest, which hung upon the hill-side, with gardens, and
terraces, and fountains round about. The villa now belonged to Ramiro
d'Orco, and thither he would often retire, after the labours of the
day were over, to walk, solitary and thoughtful, as was his wont,
under the great stone-pines which lined the avenue.
It was the favourite home of Leonora; for, though she was so much
changed in every habit, if not in every thought, there was one
exception--she still loved to sit beneath the trees or upon a terrace,
whence she could see over a wide landscape. She no longer sought
absolute solitude, it is true; she suffered herself not to be plunged
into those deep fits of thought, which had been her only comfort
during Lorenzo's long absence at Naples. Usually she had one of her
maids with her, well-educated girls, who could converse, though not
very profoundly; and their light talk, though it did not always wean
her mind from the subjects on which it was bent, just sufficed to
ripple the too still waters of meditation.
She was thus seated one afternoon, just in the beginning of the
autumn, in an angle of the gardens, whence she could see on all sides
around but one, with a girl named Carlotta at her feet. If there be
aught on earth which deserves the name of divine, it is the weather in
some parts of Italy when the summer has lost its full heat, and the
autumn knows nothing yet of wintry chill, when the grape is just
beginning to grow purple, and the cheek of the fig looks warm. Such
was that day, and it would seem that the balmy influence of the air
and the brightness of the scene had their influence upon poor Leonora,
bringing back some of the gaiety and sportiveness of other years.
"So, foolish Carlotta," said her mistress, "you must needs go down to
the dusty town this morning--to see your lover, I warrant, and arrange
for this wedding I have heard of."
Carlotta blushed and smiled, and said "Ay;" and her mistress gave her
a tap upon the cheek, exclaiming--
"Out upon you, silly girl! can you not be content without making
yourself a slave?"
"It is woman's nature, lady," replied the girl; "we all like to be
slaves to those we love. I do believe that there is no woman who does
not wish to marry; and do you know, lady, that people wonder that you
have never given your hand to any one."
"I!" exclaimed Leonora, with a start, and an expression almost of pain
upon her face; "I marry any one! I wish to marry any one! to be the
passive plaything of a rude boor--to be sported with at his will and
pleasure--to have the sanctity of my chamber invaded by a coarse man!
When I think of it, I cannot but marvel that any woman, with the
feelings of a woman, can so degrade herself."
"The feelings of the woman prompt her, lady," said Carlotta; "but, do
you know, I saw a man at Mother Agostina's--that is, my Bernardino's
aunt--a courier just returned from France, and he told me that all the
people there say that you are married."
"More likely to be buried, my Carlotta," replied Leonora; "but what
have the people of France to do with me?"
"Why, they seem to have a great deal to do with Italy now," rejoined
the girl. "Since the pope's son has been to the place they call
Chinon, and has been made Duke of Valentinois by the new King of
France, that monarch seems to be as much pope in Rome as the Holy
Father himself. Have you not heard, lady, that a whole crowd of
Frenchmen--lords and knights, and such like--are coming over with some
chosen troops to help Alexander and the new duke to make up a great
duchy here in Italy for him who used to be a cardinal, and who is now
a soldier?"
"No, I have heard nothing of it," replied Leonora; "doubtless my
father has, if the gossip be true."
"Oh! it is quite true, lady," replied the girl; "all was in
preparation when Giacomo came away, and, besides, at the King of
France's desire, the pope has made one of these young lords Prefect of
Romagna. But he is Italian by birth, they say, and a cousin of the
King of France, and brings his beautiful young wife with him."
Leonora rose from her seat and gazed into the girl's eyes for a moment
in silence, with a look that almost frightened poor Carlotta. "Did you
hear his name?" she asked, at length.
"It was Lorenzo something," replied the girl; "Visconti, I think."
Leonora turned away abruptly, and with a quick step climbed the hill,
entered the villa, and sought her own apartments. She passed through
the ante-room, and through that where her maids sat embroidering,
without speaking a word, and entering her own chamber, cast herself
down upon her bed and wept.
"Fool! fool! fool that I am!" she cried, at length, starting up. "I
thought I had torn it out by the roots; but it is there still."
She drew the dagger, in its sheath of velvet and gold, from her bosom,
gazed at it for a moment and murmured,
"Only this, or what this gives, can root it out; but no, no, I am not
mad. This will all pass away. I will conquer it now--even now. I may
have to see him again! Then I will look upon him now, as he was when I
believed him faithful and true, as he was when he seemed all that was
noble and just," and, opening a drawer in the table, she took forth a
small, beautiful gilded frame, in the centre of which appeared the
sketch of Lorenzo which had been drawn by Leonardo da Vinci. "Ah!
picture," she said, gazing at it, "how often hast thou been my comfort
and solace in other hours--ay, even to the last; for who could gaze
upon that noble face and think the soul so base! Lorenzo! Lorenzo! you
have made my misery! Pray God that you have not made your own too.
What has become of good Leonardo's auguries? what of his dream, that
by the features you could read the spirit? But it matters not. I will
steel myself to meet you, should you come--to gaze upon this fair wife
you have preferred to Leonora, and who, men say, is so light, and so
unworthy of the man I thought you. Perhaps she may suit you better
than I should have done; for God knows she cannot be more fickle than
you are. Yes, the momentary madness is passing away. I shall soon be
myself again, and will play my part to the end, let it be what it
may."
"Madam, a cavalier below desires to see you," said a servant, opening
the door abruptly. Leonora started with a look almost of terror, for
her mind was so full of one object that she thought the stranger could
be no other than Lorenzo; but the servant went on: "He says his name
is Leonardo da Vinci, and that you know him."
"This is strange," said Leonora to herself; and then turning to the
man she added, "take him to my own saloon, and see that he and his
servants be well cared for. I will be down in a few moments."
She washed away the marks of tears from her eyes, brushed smooth her
hair, and then descended the short flight of steps which led as a
private way from her chamber to the gorgeous room below, which was
known and held sacred as her own saloon. She found the great painter
standing in the midst, and gazing at some fine pictures which
ornamented the walls.
"Welcome, signor," she said--"most welcome to Imola. No other house
must be your home while you are here than this, or my father's palace
in the citadel."
"Your pardon, bright lady," said Leonardo, gazing at her, "my home is
ever an inn, and I cannot sacrifice my liberty even to you."
"You are wise, maestro," answered Leonora, somewhat gravely. "No man
should sacrifice his liberty to a woman, nor any woman to a man. It is
a new creed I have got, but I think it is a good one."
"Old creeds are best," replied Leonardo, seriously. "We can advance
from one to another, as we can mount the steps of a temple to the holy
of holies, but each step must be founded upon that which went before,
and each must rest upon truth."
"Alas! where shall we find truth?" asked Leonora; and then she added,
in a melancholy but sweet tone, "Let us not approach painful subjects,
my good friend. We cannot meet without thinking of them. If we speak
of them we shall think of them still more. I know that truth is in my
own heart--where else I know not."
"Perhaps where you least think," replied the painter; "but you are
right, lady. Could it do any good, I might speak even of the most
painful things; but where the irrevocable seal is fixed it is vain to
explain--vain to regret. You are as beautiful as ever, I see, but with
that change which change of thought and feeling brings. I have come to
paint your picture; and I can paint it now better than I could when we
last met."
"Indeed! How so?" asked Leonora.
"Because it is easier to paint matter than spirit--angel or demon, as
the case may be--which, transfusing itself through the whole frame,
breathes from the face and animates every movement. Again, at other
times, it leaves the human tenement vacant, or sits retired in a
corner of the heart, pondering the bitterness of life. Mere animal
life then acts and carries us through the business of existence; but
the sentient, feeling soul is dead or entranced, and pervades not the
face or limbs with that varying beauty which is so difficult for the
painter to seize and to transfer. I can paint you better now than
formerly; and the painting to the common eye will be more beautiful,
but to mine and to the poet's there may be a lack of something--of
that expression of soul which the features require for harmony--and
yet it is not entirely wanting. When you first came in, there was a
rigidity about your look, as if you mastered some emotion. Now there
is more light, as if there were emotion still. You must have suffered
agitation lately. Forgive me. I am a rough, plain-spoken man, too apt
to give counsel where it is not sought, and to note feelings people
would wish concealed."
"You see too deeply and too well," replied Leonora; "but still I say,
maestro, let us not converse on such things. The past is dead. The
present, alas! has no life in it for me. Emotion is the most transient
of all things with me. Like a stone dropped by a boy into a still
lake, it may go deep but ripples the surface only for a moment, and
all is still again. If you wish my portrait, take it; but let not our
thoughts be saddened while the work is beneath your hand by memories
of other days, when happiness gave that spirit to my face which, as
you judge rightly, has departed for ever. Let us talk of art, of
science--what you will, in short; for I have studied much since last
we met, and can encounter you with more knowledge, but not less
humility; but let us speak no more of buried feelings, the very ghosts
of which bring fear and anguish with them."
"Alas! that it should be so, sweet lady," replied Leonardo; "but, sad
as may be your fate, there may be others, seemingly more happy, who
are more miserable still.
"Nay, I am not miserable," she answered; but then, recollecting the
keen insight of the man she spoke to, she paused and added, "If I am,
'tis but in fits. As an old wound, I am told, long healed, will smart
with a change of weather, so at times my heart will ache when
something comes to weaken it. But enough of this, maestro. Look at
those pictures on the wall. Those three are by one hand, and that the
hand of a youth. Are they not beautiful?"
"Nay, they are sublime," replied Leonardo. "Who is the painter? He
will one day be one of the mighty men of his day."
"His name is Buonaroti Simoni," replied Leonora, "I brought them with
me from Florence. My father has two more, which he will show you."
She thus changed the subject to one of colder interest; but when
Leonardo left her, some of his words lingered in her mind, and brought
back to her thoughts things which had better been forgotten.
"'Perhaps I might find truth where I least thought,'" said Leonora to
herself. "Those were his words. What can he mean? 'There may be those,
seemingly more happy, who are more miserable still.' There is
something beneath all this; but it is vain--vain--all vain. I will
think of it no more;" and yet she thought.