THE DUCHESS'S STORY.
Giulia di Gonzaga, daughter of the Duke of Sabbionetta, was born
somewhere about the beginning of the sixteenth century. She was one of a
numerous and beautiful family, and, from her earliest infancy, the
darling of all hearts. There must have been something charming about the
dear little girl whose "vezzi e grazie," even from her cradle, were so
extolled by dry annalists,[6] and whose riper graces were sung by
Ariosto, Bernardo Tasso, Molza, Gandolfo Porrino, Claudio Tolomei, and
all the noted poets of the day. A child who, from the nursery, kisses,
sugar-plums, and petting could not spoil, her sweetness equally bore the
test when promoted to the school-room, where, without any apparent
trouble to herself, she outstripped her elder sisters, Paola, Ippolita,
and Eleanora, in their studies, though they were none of them considered
deficient. Enough, if not too much, praise was bestowed on the skill
with which her pretty hands touched the lute and guided the embroidery
needle. Children are quick to hear their own encomiums, though uttered
under the breath.
[6] "Imperrochè le fu natura tanto de' suoi doni benefice, e
cosi di vezzi e di grazie la ricolmo, che gli atti suoi e le sue
parole, accompagnate ognora da modesta vivacità e condite di un
lepor soavissimo, legavano dolcemente a lei gli animi di
ciascuno."--Ireneo Affo.
She had scarcely grown to her full height, and left off being sent early
to bed, when she was given in marriage to Vespasiano Colonna, Duke of
Trajetto. He was forty, and crippled with the rheumatism, yet her
parents thought it a suitable match. They told her he was good,
generous, and indulgent, and so he proved. She liked him. She liked
pleasing him, and tending him, and receiving his pleasant praises and
smiles. He had a daughter by a former marriage, rather younger than
herself, and he wished them to be friends; but Isabella was of a colder
nature than Giulia. The Duke had a singular feeling towards his little
bride. She was so good, so pure, that he shrank from her being
contaminated by the pernicious influence of Italian society, such as it
was in the sixteenth century, and resolved to seclude her from it as
much as he could in the retirement which his infirm health rendered so
grateful. But he did more than this, for he resolved that her mind
should receive the highest culture, and thus possess resources in itself
which should make retirement happy. And as he was a man of good parts
and delightful conversation, affectionate, indulgent, and quietly
humorous, it is not at all surprising, I think, that he captivated this
young girl, and made her really love him.
This rendered more than tolerable her attendance on him as a nurse. He
would not let her do anything really painful or wearisome, took care
that she should have plenty of open-air exercise, and won her admiration
of his patience and cheerfulness during his tedious decline.
When he died, in the year 1528, he left Giulia mistress of all his
possessions in the Campagna, the Abruzzi, and the kingdom of Naples, and
guardian of Isabella, whom he designed for the wife of Ippolito de'
Medici, nephew of Pope Clement the Seventh.
Giulia soon felt the want of a male protector, for two of the Duke's
kinsmen, Ascanio di Colonna and Napoleone Orsini, laid claim to the
estates. The Pope substantiated her right to them, and the Emperor
Charles the Fifth, then a young man of eight-and-twenty, commissioned
her brother, Don Luigi, to put her in possession. Luigi, who was a
brilliant soldier, paid his sister a hasty visit at Fondi; and before
he left it, he and Isabella exchanged secret vows of affection.
When Ippolito de' Medici, with youth, good looks, and noble bearing to
recommend him, was sent by the Pope to woo and win Isabella, he found
the Duchess much more attractive; and when she remarked one day on
something strange in his conduct, he spoke out at once, and said--
"Giulia, I care nothing for _her_--and I cannot but care for _you_!"
Thereon the Duchess was much offended, and said she should write to the
Pope. Ippolito very stoutly refused to own himself at all wrong.
Giulia's widowhood, he averred, had been long enough for the world to
suppose that her hand might be sued for. The Pope would be well pleased
to see him win the daughter, but infinitely more so at his obtaining the
mother. Giulia very indignantly replied that no Pope on earth had, or
should have, power to make her marry again, against her will. She was a
free agent; she respected and cherished the memory of her dear Duke too
much ever to give him a successor. The amaranth was her chosen emblem,
and "_Non moritura_" her motto.
Ippolito here ventured to murmur something about disparity of years,
which she instantly checked as the height of disrespect; and he then
said all that could be said by a very clever man, really and deeply, and
honestly in love; but the more he said, the less Giulia minded him, for
the idea had possessed itself of her mind that he might not have found
her so pre-eminently attractive but for the thirteen thousand ducats
which her good Duke had added to her dowry of four thousand immediately
after their marriage. Besides, she was extremely sensitive to the
opinion of "everybody," and she pictured what "everybody" could say,
if, after inviting Ippolito to her castle as the suitor of her
step-daughter, she were to marry him herself. Moreover, she did not like
the Medici; they were wonderfully clever, but they were not good. _Volti
sciolti, pensieri stretti_--she would rather not trust her happiness to
any one of them. Or to _any_ one. Why should not she continue, free and
happy as she was?
So Ippolito found her impenetrable to the most insinuating words and
melting tones; and as she found him equally impracticable on the subject
of being faithful, as she called it, to Isabella, though he denied
having pledged any faith to her at all, Giulia told him very plainly she
wished he would end his visit; which he, much hurt, said he would do.
And his farewell bow was as stiff and stately as if he were an
unsuccessful envoy to a warlike sovereign; and he went away without any
leave-taking of Isabella.
Thereon, the Duchess, much fluttered and embarrassed, went to tell
Isabella that Ippolito was gone; and Isabella, in her cold, dry way,
said:
"Why?"
Then the Duchess said he had been talking very uncomfortably and
unintelligibly: he seemed hardly inclined to fulfil his engagement. Then
Isabella said:
"He need not trouble himself. I made no engagement with _him_."
Then the Duchess said:
"My dear Isabella! what _can_ you be thinking of?"
"I am thinking," says Isabella, after a pause, "of Rodomonte."
"_Possibile? che gioja!_" cried the Duchess, embracing her.
Rodomonte was the pet name of Giulia's younger brother Luigi, already
spoken of. If Isabella were inclined to marry him, her portion would be
a famous thing for him. The only question was, would the Pope consent?
The Pope consented when he found Isabella would not have Ippolito at any
rate, and when he learnt that Ippolito had good hope of securing the
Duchess. So Luigi and Isabella were married, and Luigi was mortally
wounded the following year in endeavouring to recover one of his
sister's castles; and died recommending his widow and infant son to her
care. Isabella afterwards married the Prince of Sulmona.
Ippolito now changed his tactics. When the Duchess had received him as
the future husband of her step-daughter, she, not imagining their
positions could be misunderstood, addressed him by his Christian name.
Whereon he, not to be behindhand, and seeing that they were nearly of an
age, immediately called her Giulia, and persisted in doing so in spite
of hints and rebuking looks. Now that he had been charged with
"disrespect," he resolved to try what the utmost deference could do; so
he sent her a translation he had made (extremely well, too), of the
second book of the Æneid, with the following dedication prefixed:
"Because that it often happens that one's woes are soothed by matching
them with those that are greater, I, not finding for my pain any other
remedy, have turned my mind to the burning of Troy; and, measuring my
own wretchedness with that, have satisfied myself beyond doubt that no
evil happened within its walls which I myself have not felt in the
depths of my heart; the which, seeking in some degree to ease by
thinking on Troy, I have thereby been enabled to understand. I therefore
send you this, that it may give you a truer picture of my grief than my
sighs, my tears, my pallid cheeks could ever impart."
The obdurate Giulia was not to be melted. She was more impenetrable than
ever; and with good reason; having heard of a street fight in Rome, in
which Ippolito had killed a man. It is true Ippolito said he had not
meant it--he only meant to hurt him, and teach a lesson to a troublesome
fellow. However that may be, the man _was dead_, and Ippolito was under
a cloud for a while, till it blew over, according to the fashion of the
times, and he could come out again with only the taint of justifiable
homicide. He was a good deal quieted. He did not know what to do with
himself, nor did the Pope (a very bad old man) know what to do with him
or for him, since he would not or could not make his fortune by
marriage. There was the mixture of fame and infamy in his lineage which
pertained to but too many of the Medici, and he had not a penny that the
Pope did not give him; so the only opening for him was in the Church. He
gave him the Cardinal's hat.
A handsome, comfortable-looking cardinal was Ippolito, with very little
token of care feeding on his damask cheek. You may see him, any time you
like, in the National Gallery--there he is, pen in hand, at a table
covered with a Persian carpet, having just signed a deed, apparently, to
which Sebastian, the famous Venetian painter, has affixed the leaden
seals, in virtue of his office as keeper of the Papal signet--whence his
cognomen, _Del Piombo_. Note them: they are noteworthy men. Sebastian
has put himself foremost; the Cardinal in the background. But the
Cardinal takes it easily; he has a jolly, good-tempered face, black
eyes, an aquiline nose, and black hair.
His relations with Giulia were a good deal altered by the cardinalate.
She need no longer fear him as a suitor; she hoped his entering the
Church was a sign of a changed heart; she revered his holy office, and
gradually identified him with it. Once or twice, when affairs drew her
to the Eternal City, she saw him take part in the grand pageantry; and
when she heard Kyrie Eleison rolling and swelling through nave and
aisle, and Veni Creator breathed like the whispers of angels in
soul-subduing softness, and the Pope himself intoning the Te Deum,--her
unsophisticated mind was deeply impressed; for Giulia was still, and all
her life, as guileless as a little child; and herein, no doubt, lay the
unexplained and unexplainable attraction about her. She was glad
Ippolito had put an insuperable barrier between her and himself, because
now she could enjoy his really delightful society, when they met,
without alloy.
But they did not meet very often; and it was a good thing they did not,
for Ippolito loved her as dearly as ever. It was a good thing they did
not meet often, and yet it was a good thing they met sometimes, and that
her influence continued to be felt by him, for it was the only good
influence he had! Poor Ippolito, with all his sins, was much better
than those who constantly surrounded him. The nearer from church, the
farther from God, was awfully true of the Papal court; and if he sought
refuge from men in books, as he continually did, they were the books of
heathens, none the less anti-Christian and poisonous for being in Greek.
While the very ground seemed sinking under him, and all trust and hope
in himself and others perishing, there came the news that Giulia was in
danger, and had fled to the mountains to escape Barbarossa. Instantly
his better nature awoke, and he flew to her succour.